My White Privilege Moment.

Photo - Chicago Unheard

1990. I was 32. On a humid, grey, and gloomy afternoon, I was driving home from the office in my minivan. As I headed north on Linden Rd., I noted I was following a large, 1980s era luxury car. Sticking out of the Buick’s trunk was a shelving unit. It protruded about 3 feet from the trunk. The trunk lid was bouncing up and down on the carton, barely secured by a piece of string. No red flag was attached.

The speed limit was 45 mph. The vehicle in front of me was barely hitting 35. Through the rear view window of the Buick, I could see it was driven by an older man: grey-haired, stooped, peering forward through his windshield.

I was tired; I’d been up too early to make the long, harried drive into Detroit for an 8:00 am meeting, and then back to Flint for a full day at the office. 25, 35, 45, I didn’t care. I was tired and glad to be heading home for the weekend.

I was following at a safe distance for dry pavement. But in the last few minutes, it had started to drizzle. I failed to take that into account. For a wet suburban road, I was following too closely.

We approached Court St, a busy intersection. Our light was green. Halfway through the light, the Buick’s driver slammed on his brakes. I slammed on mine. I hit his shelving unit with my bumper. Our bumpers touched. No airbags were deployed. No radiator damage to me, no bumper, taillight, or shelving unit  damage to him.

We stopped and got out of our cars to inspect the scene. I apologized. After all, I rear-ended the guy.

He apologized. After all, he slammed on the brakes as he was proceeding through a green light. We stood there for a few minutes and stared at the vehicles. No harm, no foul, we decided. We shook hands.

Lights began flashing behind my van. A township police car had pulled up behind us. We were puzzled.

“I didn’t call the cops. Did you call the cops?”

“Nope, not me.”

A young officer walked up to us both.

“I was in the bank parking lot on the corner. I saw your incident, gentlemen.”

This was the era of “Wall Street,” the movie. Everyone in business wore starched shirts, immaculately pressed suits, power ties, mirror-polished shoes, and slicked back hair.

I was wearing a jet black trench coat over my starched blue on white tab-collared shirt. My grey pinstriped suit was just back from the cleaners. My tie was yellow with small greyhound racing dogs on it. My shoes, had I been wearing a skirt, would’ve allowed you to see my drawers. My hair was a helmet of brown and grey, made immobile by copious amounts of industrial strength hair gel on my scalp.

The other gentleman? Jeans and a flannel shirt. He was neat and clean. I’d have put his age around 70.

The young officer looked at me.

“Would you get me your license, insurance, and registration, please, sir?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

I handed him the paperwork.

“What happened?” he asked.

I told him. I’d been following too closely in the rain, we were going 10 under the limit, the other fellow hit his brakes midway through the intersection.

“Do you agree?” he asked the other fellow.

“I do, sir. I thought I saw someone running the red light.”

“Sir,” he said to me, “please, return to your vehicle. I’ll be right with you.”

The cop looked at the other gentleman.

“Get in the back of my car.”

The cop walked over to the cruiser, opened the back door, and motioned for the man to get in the vehicle. The gentleman walked slowly to the cruiser.

The cop ran my info, walked back to my vehicle after a few minutes, and handed me my papers.

“You’re free to go, sir.”

“What about him?” I asked. “He didn’t do anything really wrong. I mean, yeah, he slammed on the brakes, but I was too close, nobody got hurt, no damage to the cars…”

“You’re free to go, sir.”

“But…”

“Now, sir.”

“Thank-you, officer.”

Two questions for you -

What color was the officer?

And what color was the other driver?