In December 2017, as I approached the final weeks of my pregnancy during grad school, I made a legal right turn on red. Almost immediately, I noticed the blue lights flashing behind me, and I braced myself for what I assumed would be a standard traffic stop. The officer asked for my license and registration, but then proceeded to interrogate me about my presence in the area. I explained that I was on my way to my internship, but he continued to question my intentions, seemingly skeptical about why someone with a license from a different city would be there.
In that moment, I felt the urge to respond with sarcasm, perhaps saying that cars were invented to travel from one place to another. If I had felt safe, I might have joked about his questioning, but standing alone on the roadside with my visibly large belly, I didn’t feel secure at all.
The situation escalated when he accused me of being in the area to buy drugs. I pointed to my prominent baby bump, hoping that would clarify things, but his response was chilling: “Pregnant people smoke crack all the time.” My anger boiled over. I’ve never done drugs; in fact, I don’t even drink. How could a person sworn to protect the community misjudge the situation so severely and harass a visibly pregnant woman?
He dismissed my words, seeing them merely as excuses. It was clear he believed I was there for illicit reasons, as if that stereotype was more believable than the idea that I was simply pursuing my education as a small-framed, articulate Black woman in a predominantly white neighborhood.
Despite knowing I had done nothing wrong, I was ultimately let go. Still, I can’t help but wonder if the result would have been the same without the dash cam recording.
As I drove to my internship, I noticed him following closely behind, waiting as I waddled into the building. Reflecting on the incident, I desperately sought alternative explanations for his behavior that didn’t involve race. I didn’t want it to be about race; none of us ever do. If it were something about my speech or driving, those were things I could change. But my race is something I cannot alter, leaving me searching for another answer.
A colleague, a kind woman named Patricia, rushed to confront the officer, her face flushed as she expressed her outrage. She told me that the officer’s behavior was due to my being Black. I took her words in but brushed them off, assuring her that I was okay. But I was not okay, and I felt an overwhelming sense of alienation in the country I was born into.
This experience isn’t new for me. Some days, I find the strength to speak up, while other times, it feels safer to remain silent. But it shouldn’t be this way. No one should have to compromise their safety based on how quiet they can be or how comfortable they can make others feel.
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Summary: My experience with racial profiling while visibly pregnant opened my eyes to the prejudice that persists in everyday interactions. While on my way to an internship, I was accused of drug-seeking behavior by an officer who seemed unable to see beyond his stereotypes. This incident left me feeling alienated and hurt in my own country, highlighting the ongoing challenges faced by individuals of color.