The white cop quandary: Then and now

by David Benjamin

In July 1968, I was counselor for sixteen kids from Chicago at an art and music camp in East Troy, Wisconsin, operated by Hull House Association. One day, as the Chicago Police were mobilizing for war against Yippies and young people at the upcoming Democratic National Convention, I casually asked my 11-year-old campers, half of whom were black kids from the South and West Sides, a question about their experience with Mayor Richard J. Daley’s myrmidons in blue.

Years later, I included that conversation in a novel published last year under my imprint, Last Kid Books. My first-person protagonist is Franklin Roosevelt Cribbs, a white 18-year-old from Madison. Much of the novel, Summer of ’68, is pure fiction, but this conversation — including the profane vernacular that I failed all summer to curb — is an almost verbatim transcript of what my black campers told me about cops in black neighborhoods 52 years ago. 

As they say in France: “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

 

From Chapter 3, Summer of ’68:

The next morning at breakfast, I was still brooding. J.J. was beside me, trying to cheer me up. I suddenly said, “J.J. you ever been arrested?”

I meant it as sort of a joke. J.J. didn’t take it that way, because he had been arrested.

“Oh. Yeah,” he said matter-of-factly.

“No,” I said, thinking this skinny 11-year-old had misunderstood, “I mean, actually arrested — picked up by the police, taken to the station, put into a cell.”

“Yeah,” said J.J.

“Really?”

“Really.”

I leaned close to J.J. “What did you do?”

“Do?” J.J. looked puzzled.

“To get arrested?”

“Me? Nothin‘, man.”

“Well, you must’ve done something?” 

J.J. shook his head. “Shit, man.”

I looked down the breakfast table and had an idea. “Hey!” I shouted. Of course, every kid ignored me. Except Blum, who gave me the finger.

Three more shouts quieted my campers. “I want a show of hands,” I said. “How many of you guys have ever been arrested and taken into the police station?”

The kids all took on a by-now-familiar this-cat-is-nuts look. But I asked again and they went along with the gag. Seven hands went up: my six black kids and tiny, sweet Jesus Montoya. These little boys were eleven years old and they’d already been in police custody. 

J.J. smiled up at me. “Hey hey, you catchin‘ on, Cribbs?” he said.

As I cuffed J.J. on the ear, [James] Baldwin’s words about an “occupying force” came to mind. I said to J.J., “Okay, come on, Tell me about it.”

“About what?”

“What happened? How’d you get arrested?”

“Which time?” asked J.J.

I rolled my eyes. “Which time?” I said. “How many times’ve you been arrested.”

“I dunno. A few.”

“Okay, the last time. Where were you? What were you doing?”

“I was walkin‘ home from school, man.”

“And what did you do?”

“Do?”

“Well, you must’ve done something.”

“Somethin‘?”

“Yes, J.J. Something that drew the attention of the police. What did you do?”

“Aw, shit, man,” moaned J.J.

Andre Sykes, across the table, said, “The man don’t get it.”

“Well,” I retorted, “then help me get it.”

My black kids looked at one another. My white kids (except Blum) edged closer and watched in fascination.

Finally, Rondell McGhee broke in. “Listen, man. You don’t do nothin‘ to make the cops notice you. They just do, man.”

“They’re here. They’re there,” said Andre. “They’re watchin‘, man.”

“They’re waitin‘,” said Rondell.

“Yeah,” said Devo, joining the conversation.

“That’s right, man,” said J.J. “Look, Cribbs, I’m walkin‘ home, awright? It’s like, gettin‘ dark. I was late at school, awright? And this cop car rolls up behind me, and the cop yells at me, and so I stop and he says, ‘Where you goin‘?’ And I say, ‘Hey, I’m goin‘ home.’ And the cop says, ‘What the fuck you doin‘ out here?’ Jus‘ like that, awright? And I go, ‘I’m walkin‘, man.’ And the cop goes, ‘I don’t wanna hear no fuckin‘ lip from you, boy.’”

“Yeah,” said Rondell, “that’s how it goes, Cribbs. They got you there. Ya talk, you’re givin‘ ’em lip. Ya shut up, ya got somethin‘ t’hide.”

And ya can’t run, man,” said J.J.

“Oh, yeah, man,” said Andre. “You run, you can get killed.”

“You gotta stop,” said Rondell. “You gotta talk to ’em.”

“Are you scared?” I asked.

They all looked at one another, deciding whether they could admit their fear, to me, a white guy. Finally, J.J. said, “Yeah, I be scared, man.”

“Shit, yeah,” said Devo. The other black kids nodded, except Otha, who was probably too crazy to fear anything. Jesus’ eyes got a little bigger.

“Cops ask,” said J.J. “You answer, ’cause what else you gonna do, man? The fuckers got guns, awright? But don‘ matter what you answer. They get pissed off any ol‘ way.”

“Fuckin‘ A,” muttered Elvin Douglass.

“Yeah,” said Devo. “And then, these two pigs’re outa their cop car and they’re grabbin‘ ya, and they’re sayin‘, ‘Whaddya got in this bag, boy?’”

“Right,” said J.J. “And you say ‘books.’ And they say ‘bullshit,’ and the  next thing ya know, they cuff ya — ”

“With handcuffs?” I asked.

“Shit, man. What else?” said J.J.

“Jesus Christ!”

“And they push you into the back seat — ”

“And away we go,” said Rondell.

“Jesus,” I said again.

“Yeah, right. Away ya go,” said J.J. “And they keep ya down at the cop house ’til your old lady can come getcha.”

“Yeah, if they can find your old lady,” said Devo.

“Yeah,” said Elvin. “That’s if they even fuckin‘ try.”

“Yeah, man,” said J.J., slapping palms with Elvin. 

This led to a flurry of palm-slapping and arm-punching that spilled over into my white kids and ended up in a friendly tussle that I had to break up, because it was time to troop out of the dining hall and head for class. 

By and by, I found out that three of my black campers had spent at least one night, all night, in jail. But not one had ever been charged with an actual offense, or arraigned. They’d just been grabbed up, taken to jail and held there for doing nothing worse than being small and black in a city full of large, white, angry, heavily armed police.