Do Not Call the Cops

“Mom!” Omar yelled, bursting through the front door. I heard the lower half of the heavy wooden dutch door hitting the door stop and the sound of the dogs’ toenails, frantic skittering on the hardwood floors. “Mom!” he yelled again. “What? I’m in the kitchen,” I yelled back, turning from the sink just as Kobe and Wally skidded around the corner. I watched Wally run into the door jamb and Kobe pile into him like a scene in a cartoon, Omar following close behind yelling, “Mom! I got the cops called on me!” 

“What the….What?” I sputtered, drying my hands on the dish towel. “What do you mean….?” 

“I got the cops called on me by an old white lady walking a chihuahua,” he said.

“What are you talking about? Where?”

“In the driveway.”

“The cops came here? Why?”

“I don’t know. The white lady looked at me weird when she walked by, she probably called them.”

“Why were you in the driveway?”

“Trying to blow off some steam. I was mad and I couldn’t get in my car and drive anywhere.”

Fifteen minutes earlier, I had looked up at my son, held out my hand, and demanded he turn his keys over. “If you can’t change the way you are speaking to me and in fact, change your attitude in general, then just give me the keys to the car.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll change,” he had pleaded.

“Too late. A bit of a lifestyle adjustment is on the menu for you today, Omar. Keys.”

I could see on his face that he was trying to accept his consequences. He had pursed his mouth and lowered his chin while a dark look descended on his face. I didn’t know where he was headed when he stormed out. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said. “Why would she call the cops?”

“Because I was punching the basketball hoop.”

I could picture it. This was the 20-year-old version of the temper tantrums that he’s had since coming to live with us at 15 months old. The first few weeks, baby Omar was quiet and then suddenly one day, he started having complete melt-downs for no apparent reason. And he was completely inconsolable. He would become unhappy with something and then the fit would take on a life of its own. Nothing worked, nothing helped, not hugging or holding or bribing or toys or juice. He thrashed and spit and wailed and tried to scratch our eyeballs out until our only recourse was to place him on the carpet in his bedroom and shut the door. He cried and screamed, rolling around in his own snot and tears. I checked on him every five minutes to see if he might be finished. For a half hour, I would assure myself that Omar’s little mind was just baffled, his heart just torn apart because his foster family, who had loved him dearly since birth, had left him with strangers. He didn’t know the meaning of “forever family.” I always saw his temper tantrums as his way of letting his feelings of grief and outrage and confusion out into the open. I thought it was kind of a good sign.

He continued a version of this all through childhood until year by year, he learned to control his feelings. But he still battles his anger and it still threatens to overtake him.

“So you were out in the driveway acting like a crazy person?”

“Yeah, I guess she thought I was mentally insane. Just because I was mad and yelling with my airpods in. And hitting the plants with a stick.”

I could feel myself getting angry. I was irritated with Omar, but I was starting to picture this whole scenario from the perspective of a watchful neighbor. Six foot tall black dude muttering to himself and kicking the basketball goal. He had scared someone. Granted, we’d had unstable homeless people making a ruckus in the neighborhood, but I was starting to wonder if the cops would have been brought in if this was a six foot tall white kid.

“How many cops were there? And what did they say?”

“Two. They said they got a noise complaint.”

“Oh, good Lord!” The call was definitely made by some good Samaritan like the neighbors on Nextdoor, the social media app for our neighborhood, the ones who threatened to spray with a garden hose anyone who walked by their yard without wearing a mask. The ones who posted “suspicious person walking on sidewalk,” or “two young Latino males taking pictures of people,” or “rude dog owners walk unleashed dogs.” I was starting to hate my neighbors. Bored, petty, paranoid people just looking for trouble and attention. I immediately had a fantasy of posting on the site, or making a sign for my yard that read:

DEAR RACIST NEIGHBORS:

A BLACK PERSON LIVES HERE.

IF YOU SEE A YOUNG BLACK MAN ON THIS PROPERTY, DO NOT CALL THE COPS. 

“What did the cops say then?” 

“They asked me what I was doing and I told them I got in a fight with my Mom and was trying to blow off some steam. The dogs were barking at the gate and they said what are your dogs names. I told them Kobe and Wally and they told me to have a nice day. They were really nice.”

“Well I’m sure they could see you weren’t a criminal. But, god, don’t have a temper tantrum in the driveway anymore. I’m sure you looked like a lunatic.”

“No, that old white lady was just weird.”

“How do you know it was her?” I asked.

“Because, I saw her look at me when she went by.”

Maybe that white lady is not a racist. Maybe this is just a Mama Bear issue. When you become a Mama Bear, you become hyper-alert to any danger to your baby bear’s safety and well-being. You become expert at sniffing out injustice. Since having Omar in my life, I’ve had the privilege of bearing witness. Others treat him differently or tell their kids that he’s different, or make a “funny” remark. I tried to hire a babysitter back in North Carolina who pretended she wasn’t home when I brought Omar with me to interview her. In kindergarten, the little neighbor girl told Omar her dad wouldn’t let her marry him because he was black. In his Christian high school, a classmate joked that Omar should go back to picking cotton. Of course, we addressed these situations as they occurred, but we can’t erase the damage.

Maybe Omar didn’t get the job bagging groceries because of his cubic zirconia earring and his dreadlocks. We’ll never know. Before I knew Omar, I thought racism was obvious. I expected it from some southern white folks, but it lives in people of other cultures and minority groups too. Even though a high percentage of people seem cool, the problem is that you can’t always detect the prejudice, so now I just assume it’s there. It’s just heartbreaking that I am helpless to protect my baby bear from it.

When Nick came into the kitchen carrying two bags of groceries, Kobe and Wally danced around his legs, barking wildly to announce his arrival. “Dad!” Omar yelled over the racket. “Dad! I got the cops called on me. They almost arrested me.”

“What the hell?” Nick looked at me and I shook my head and rolled my eyes. But I was heartened that Omar’s takeaway was an adventure story, while mine was a story of revenge. I’d be on the lookout for a weird old white lady walking a chihuahua.