Recently returned from our Christmas break, I and a fellow classmate, Joe Scuderi, drove away from campus on our way to Centennial Park that housed a popular tourist attraction, a replica of the Parthenon. Upon our return, we were pulled over by a cop, who ordered us out of my classmate's car and made us assume the position to be frisked. Within minutes, he was joined by several other policemen who had exited their patrol cars that had come to a screeching halt. While we were being patted down, I indignantly asked to know why we were being treated this way. In fact, as I recall, stupid me found it kind of funny, knowing that we had not done anything wrong. My mood quickly changed when one of the officers began searching the car and found a hunting knife and pellet gun under the driver's seat. Joe, who was from Akron, OH, as far as he was concerned considered it no big deal to have either item in his car. I remember him calling the gun his "plinking gun," used primarily for sport and target practice. Being from New York City, and from what I had believed about southern cops, I was now more than a little nervous. My fear was realized as both of us were placed in separate patrol cars and whisked off to the local police station, which I was soon to learn was attached to the lock-up.

Once there, we were brought before some court officer, I never got to know his title, who sent us to be photographed and fingerprinted. Fortunately, Joe was allowed to make a call. Unfortunately, I had nobody to call, knowing that my family resources were meager and a long way away, virtually useless in this situation. Consequently, Joe was released and one of the arresting officers led me to an elevator. I remained indignant and still full of fight, complaining loudly as the elevator ascended. The cop, who towered over me, grabbed my pant's belt at the small of my back and gave it a vicious twist as he snarled a threat in my ear, insisting that if I didn't shut my mouth I'd be sorry. At that moment the elevator door opened and all I remember seeing was a wall of bars. The sight of those bars deflated me as if I was a balloon that had been pricked by a pin; any fight that had remained was gone.

I was led to, what I believed, was a large holding cell, which was occupied, what I guessed, was a sleeping drunk. My anger returned in spades, and like some crazed monkey, I leaped onto the bars and began shaking them violently. This brought a guard who threatened me and quieted me down. What followed seemed like the longest two hours of my young life. Serendipitously, Joe, "my partner in crime," happened to come from a well-connected Akron family, which I was about to learn. His father, a surgeon, happened to be the primary surgeon for the Akron police department.

You might be wondering what all this had to do with my taste of the black experience was all about. Allow me to set the stage: This happened during the first week of 1966. The year prior to that Nashville, TN had been desegregated, whereby my black schoolmates were now allowed to dine at the same restaurants, a privilege that Joe and I took for granted, both of us being white. Also during my first year at Meharry Medical College, primarily a black university, the students at Fisk University, an upscale black college, just across the road from Meharry, staged a protest that turned into a mini-riot. I don't believe that anyone was hurt in the fracas, but this might explain a bit about the racial turmoil of the time.

Back to my personal tale of woe. The following day, Joe and I had to attend court to answer the charges lodged against us. He for the weapons found in his car, me for obstruction (More accurately, I should have been charged for having a big mouth and demanding my rights, rather than the ludicrous charge of obstruction.). To set the scene: I'm standing to the left of Joe, to his right is our attorney, a young good-looking seemingly confident, and who to me, appeared to be well-connected in this court. I don't recall anything about our prosecutor.

The judge entered and we are were told to be seated. Filing in afterward, I recognize, several of our arresting officers. What really scared the crap out of me was the way the judge greeted them by their first name and as if they were his buddies. The words kangaroo court kept buzzing through my brain. Our attorney addressed the court and gave a brief speech concerning the unfortunate incident, which occurred as a result of mistaken identity. Having only met our attorney minutes before we had entered the courtroom, I finally learned that Joe and I had been mistaken for two men who drove a car similar to Joe's that also sported red license plates that just happened to be the same color as Joe's Ohio plates. Those two ner-do-wells had been pulling armed robberies in the area, and apparently, the police had mistaken us for them.

Problem solved, I thought and breathed a sigh of relief, which was abruptly cut short when the judge addressed Joe and me directly. (A bit of background here: Normally, I was the loud, fast-talking New Yorker while Joe was usually slow to respond and rarely ever spoke very much, and when he did it was, as far as I was concerned, rather slowly.) Back to the judge, who, in a friendly way and with a heavy southern drawl asked, "what school you all attend? By that time, I had been beaten and cowed by the system, so-much-so that I couldn't get the words out of my mouth, the best I could manage was to mumble, "mmm, mm." Joe, out of character, was quick on the trigger: "Meharry Medical College, sir."

And now came my moment of the black experience. The fix had been in. Apparently, my attorney had worked it out with the judge prior to the hearing, no harm no, foul, we'd walk. But, at the mention of Meharry, the look that passed between the judge and my attorney spoke volumes. It appeared that the deal was now off the table. However, our slick lawyer, quick on his feet, soothed the judge and promised that the matter would end there and then. I suspect that both the judge and our attorney knew that the police had broken several laws during the arrest, and being that we were students of a black university, the judge, by exonerating us, opened the police up to a variety of civil complaints. Consequently, to make it all go away, Joe and I were forced to promise the matter would end then and there. I had no problem doing that, I would have sold my first-born into slavery, had I one, just to walk away from it a free man.

Actually, all I got was a teeny-tiny taste of what it must be like to be a black man in America, and as far as I'm concerned it's something I never want to experience again. Being white, not even realizing my entitlement, I never needed to have the "talk" that so many black parents had and still are forced to have with their children, both boys and girls. My "talk" came as the valuable lesson I learned from that experience: even if a cop pisses you off, don't talk back, don't be a wise-ass, it could result in getting you into a world of trouble. From that time forward my sympathies lay with black people who might have been mistreated by the police, not because they spoke back or were wise-asses, but simply because of the color of their skin.

I'm ashamed to admit that it has taken me fifty years, and the killing of George Floyd and the outrageous actions of officer Derek Chauvin, one hand casually in his pocket, as he kneeled on Floyd's neck, apparently daring the bystanders to do something to stop him. That and the surrounding events that preceded and followed this travesty brought back the full realization and ramifications of what had happened to me on that fateful day so many years ago. In retrospect, I dread to think what would have happened had it been two of my black classmates that had been stopped the way we had been. Would they have made it to the precinct unscarred and unbeaten? Would have they made it back alive, especially if they had acted as indignantly and vocally as I had? Frankly, I'm almost certain they would not have dared acted so recklessly. Would have they escaped the elevator ride with only a twisted belt as I had? Doubtful. Would the judge have let the matter drop then and there with little more than our promise not to pursue the matter as he did Joe and me? I sincerely doubt it. I suspect like so many black men, their future would now be stained with a record of some criminal conviction no matter how minor the infraction might be recorded.

I admit that I never even considered how fortunate I have been to be born white in America. My white entitlement was something I took for granted. I liken it to breathing, an ability which we all take for granted until such time that ability is challenged or lost as if in the throes of a serious covid-19 infection or while drowning. Wake up white America! How much longer are we to be able to lack the ability to empathize with those systemically less fortunate than we are simply because of the color of their skin, be it black, brown, red, or yellow?

Hopefully, the criminally outrageous behavior of President Trump, his Republican enablers, and the present dark cloud we are living under has a silver lining, which at long last will bend the arc of our history toward the good and lead to a more just America when all men are truly created equal and treated as such regardless of their color, creed, gender, sexual orientation, or religion.