We were several cars parked side by side on a newly built
cul-de-sac. We had planned to meet here for a party. We were a group of thirty
teenagers. We were all white. We had all parked our cars facing away from the
dead end and back toward the tree lined road we had just entered from. Most of
us were not eighteen yet, which was the legal drinking age at the time, but our
cars were loaded with coolers of beer. The road that we were on was part of a
new wave of development that had begun on the lake where we lived. Local
developers had begun buying land on or near the lake and building small
neighborhoods of a dozen or so houses. This one was a little larger with one
road splitting into three cul-de-sacs and would probably end up with about 30
or more houses. The roads were complete and even had curbing in place, but not
a single house was under construction yet. The closest homes were not visible
from where we were parked, but we knew they were just around the corner. We
knew lots of kids our age that lived in those houses, but no one had invited
them to join us.
Like us, these kids lived on the lake. They rode the same
school bus that we had ridden on before we got our driver’s licenses and our
own cars. We knew them and they knew us. Many of them were probably friends
with us, in that way that blacks and whites were in those days. Friends at
school. We did not visit their homes and they did not visit ours. We might see
each other after a football game at a pizza place, but they sat on one side and
we say on the other. It is so strange looking back at that now. For the most
part, there appeared to be no tension between our groups. We would joke with
each other. We were definitely classmates, but there were unspoken rules and
lines that were not to be crossed. And even though we were parked on a cul-de-sac
in their neighborhood, it would have been very unusual to see any of them at a
non-school sponsored gathering like this.
So, here we were. A bunch of white kids, mostly guys,
hanging out on a dead-end street after dark in a new development that was
encroaching into an area that had previously only been for African Americans.
Someone, with a major stereo system, had opened up their trunk and cranked up
Back in Black. There was only one way to listen to the iconic AC/DC album and
that was loud! I guess it never occurred
to us that we might be disturbing nearby residents. Being at the end of an
unlighted and undeveloped street created an illusion of isolation. And even though
we knew the nearby neighbors were there, it felt like no one lived close by. Or was it that we somehow felt that it did not
matter that people lived close by, because we were white, and they were not?
This question has haunted me for a long time. It haunts me, because I don’t
want to know the answer.
On that evening, I believe that my group of friends had
broken one of those unspoken rules between us and our black friends from
school. We were being loud and obnoxious on a street that was clearly a symbol
of things to come. A symbol of white privilege eating its way into their lives
and property from the edges. It was a sign of the unstoppable force of
gentrification that would eventually force them out of their family homes. And
here we were, oblivious in our own white privilege, using this street as if we
owned it.
“Alll Aboarrrrd! Hahahaha” screamed Ozzy over the
loudspeakers as we hooted and hollered and passed out beers. We owned the
night. We owned this street. We owned this lake and we were living it up.
For a few minutes.
Our stomachs dropped as someone yelled “Cops!” I looked back
toward the street entrance and saw six head lights and three spotlights side by
side and heading toward us. There was no way out. We were caught. Our own
hubris had not allowed us to see this predictable outcome. We were not in a town, but in the county. As
the headlights got closer, I could see it was the bright yellow cars driven by
the county police. The spotlights were blinding and I could not quite make out
just how many police had arrived and initially thought that all three cars were
the regular patrol cruisers.
The cops parked the cars and blocked us in. A few guys had hopped in their cars and
started them as if they were going to make a get-away. Not a chance. We were fish
is a barrel. I had a twelve pack of beer
in the floorboard of my car. There was no way to hide it or dispose of it
without being seen. The officers got out and began shouting instructions at us.
“Nobody move, stay where you are.” They were shining flashlights directly at
us. Their guns remained in their holsters. One cop came over to my car and shined
his flashlight into my car. He was trying to sound intimidating and said, “I
see you have some fire-water in there.” I said nothing, but the use of that
term for beer struck me as funny. Was he playing with us?
As my eyes adjusted to the lights, I could now clearly see
the police cars. One of them was the new Chevy Blazer that the cops known as The
Lake Patrol used to tow their police boat in and out of the water. I had worked at marinas on the lake for
years. I had gotten to know some of the officers that drove the boat. I wanted
that job one day. They wore shorts and just drove around in the boat all day. The
lake was pretty quiet in those days. It seemed like a dream job. I quickly scanned the area observing each
officer desperately trying to find one that I recognized. And there he was. The
boat Captain.
“Hey Harry!” I shouted. Harry looked up and at me. He
immediately broke into a smile. I will never forget the words that followed,
“Hey man! What are you doing down here?” His voice was cheerful. He was happy
to see me. He came jaunting over to me with his hand out for a shake. I shook
his hand. He then spoke in a soft voice to me and asked why we were there. I
told him the truth. We were looking for a private place to have a party. He
told me to hang tight a minute and walked over to another officer. They had a
short discussion.
Harry came back to me and said, “We had some complaints
about the noise from the neighbors. Y’all just need to find a different place
to take this party.” And that was it. They all got back in their police cars
and left. Suddenly, I was everyone’s hero. “Scott saved us.” They said. But I did
not feel like a savior. I felt like we
just got lucky. I felt like we unfairly got away with something because I knew
the right people. I was white and blonde headed. I worked at a job that gave me
access to the right people.
Today, as an adult, I know that things would have gone down
much differently had I been a black teen, with my black friends, parked on a dead
end adjacent to a white neighborhood. I would not have personally known the
police captain. And even if I had, he would not have seen me as a
non-threatening white kid with a bright future ahead of him. I could be the same person in every way
except skin color, but all he would have seen was a black kid breaking the law.
I have no doubt that, at the very least, arrests would have been made. And I
don’t want to even think about how it might have ended beyond that.
This story is only one tiny example of the white privilege
that I have been the beneficiary of. As white people, we are all heirs to the
legacy of slavery and Jim Crow. Let’s just admit it and let’s do everything we
can to speak up and out for equal justice for all.
