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[https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2020/jun/04/vallejo-police-kill-unarmed-man-california]
Das Land ist sowas von krank!
Hier auch ein Bericht von Eric Lang, einem recht bekannten Designer von Brettspielen mit seinen Erfahrungen des Minneapolis PD.
I love Minneapolis, having visited about a dozen times over the course of my career. In those times I made so many great lifelong friends, become intimately familiar with the city, and enjoyed some of my best life experiences, professional and otherwise.
I've also had five direct interactions with the Minneapolis police, ranging from highly unpleasant to heart-stopping. I'm going to share three of them.
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**CW: hate speech, potential violence**
Encounter One:
Walking down Hennepin Avenue one summer afternoon, I encountered two officers outside my then-favourite spicy fried chicken place. They appeared to be playing some complex rock-paper-scissors variant, and curiosity got the best of me.
"What are you looking at?" demanded one, making me aware that I was staring. His body language was quite hostile, and I withdrew inward immediately. "Nothing" I replied.
"Move on," he said, and I did. I started toward the chicken place, but they were in between me and it, so I changed my mind, turned around.
"Hey (name forgotten)," said one to the other as walked away. "What's the worst thing about a couple of niggers in a Honda getting hit by a truck?" (pause) "You could fit more!" (belly laughter)
I picked up the pace and got the hell out of there.
—
Encounter Two:
I was on a semi-regular walk from the FFG office to the Rosedale mall (about 15 minutes by foot, in an admittedly non-pedestrian friendly area. No sidewalks)
Walking on the left side as I always do, to keep eyes on incoming traffic, I was interrupted by a honk from a Roseville police car. "Hey!" the driving officer called from his open window. I cautiously crossed the street to approach the car.
"What are you doing out here?"
"Heading to the mall”
“Why are you walking?”
“I don’t drive.”
After an awkward beat: “Where are you from?”
I didn’t expect the question, stuttering: “Guelph. Erm, Ontario. Uh, Canada”
“From Canada?” He eyed me. “You were born there?”
“Um, yes?”�
Another uncomfortable pause. “Let’s see your ID”
I showed him my birth certificate (in lieu of a driver’s license which I did not have)
He struggled with the foreign document. “It says Montreal. You said you were born in Canada.”
“Um I was. Montreal is Canada.” A beat. “It’s in Quebec, to the north.”
He clearly wasn’t a fan of my tone, and gave me the most epic stare down I can remember.
Afterward, he grunted. “You’re on the wrong side of the road. Move on.” And they drove off.
What didn’t register to me at the time was that there were at least three other people within sight, walking the same road toward the mall. Nobody else had this encounter.
—
Encounter Three:
After a long springtime walk through Roseville’s incredible lake area, I returned to the FFG office (a warehouse at the time) to meet my friend (who I was staying with) to get a ride home. Of course, as often happens, I totally zoned out on the walk and returned far too late. The sun was setting, and my friend’s car was not in the parking lot.
Foolishly, I walked up to the front door, tried it several times. Locked. Stared into the window to see if any lights were on, then walked to a side window to look inside.
I didn’t hear the police car approaching until the car door slammed.
“Step away from the window” commanded the officer…hand on his holster.
In my life I’d never encountered anything like this. I froze, instantly nauseous.
“What are you doing here?”
“I um, my friend was supposed to give me a ride.” I think I said that; it was probably less coherent.
“Open your backpack”
Now, anyone who knows me understands that I don’t have the best motor control at the best of times. I can only imagine how jerky I appeared in attempt to get the backpack off my shoulder.
Somewhere during this act, I made a move that put them off. The second officer squared his legs and I heard his holster button snap open.
Right then, I was convinced I was going to die. And I shit myself, dropping the backpack.
Somehow, and don’t ask me how, my fucked up helpless body language must have helped de-escalate the situation, and no guns were drawn. Their hands never left their holsters, however. They patted me down, officer two rummaged through my bag, took my passport, asked me a series of questions I don’t remember, and I answered with words I cannot recall.
“Pretty stupid to be lurking around private property looking like that” he said after I calmed down a bit. I generally wore all black in those days, which I assumed was his point.
“Yes sir” I answered. And after some other exchanges I do not remember, they let me go, following me for about ten minutes (of the 45 minute walk to my friends place) before peeling away.
——
I told very few friends about these encounters, assuming for many years that I was just acting reckless and shouldn’t be walking around alone, or find a way to dress less suspiciously.
Minneapolis, I love you. And you have a problem. You need help.
What can we do?