My untold story

I started reading Rebecca Solnit’s “Hope in the Dark” yesterday and it sparked something. A need to get this out. I am on page 93, where she describes some attributes of activist groups: ”non-hierarchical decision-making, decentralized organizing and deep community democracy (92).”

This and many other passages in this book have brought me here to this makeshift desk, in this broken home in Seattle, Washington, to write a story. This story is not singular, unique only in that it is mine; it is a story that is being replayed so many times in the same scenarios with the same players that I can no longer sit idly by and watch in despair.

Almost three years ago, I was living in Albuquerque, NM. I injured my shoulder and had just left my waitressing job. After an argument with my boyfriend, I packed up everything and left to Denver. I planned on seeing a friend and then figuring out what to do.

I had two iPhones that I planned to return to a retailer by the name of Sprint Corporation. I had receipts and was directed over the phone by personnel to return the phone to the Sprint store directly and not Apple.

Luckily, I was at a large shopping center in Littleton, just outside of Denver. There just so happened to be a Sprint store. I walked in, explained to the woman working there that I would like to return the telephones that were both in my name. She explained that she could not do that. I recounted my phone call with a Sprint employee just minutes earlier. She repeatedly declined to help me, ignored me and focused her attention on the 10 or so customers in line.

At this point, I began looking at phone cases, specifically the Otterbox cases, packaged separately according to size/color, etc. I had to remove several from the shelves to find the matching fronts and backs. The woman working there curtly walked over and spat at me, “You had better pick all of those up.” I told her I would.

After a few minutes, I became agitated. I asked people in the store if I could use their phone to make a call; to whom, I cannot recall. Everyone pretended they couldn’t see me and stared straight ahead, unflinching.

Then a rotund, slow security guard appeared and approached me, asking “What seems to be the matter here?” I tried to start explaining the situation, but before I could do so, two police officers walked up and took over.

They pulled me outside and sat me down on the curb and asked me what was happening. I tried to explain calmly, though at this point I was almost hysterical. Another patrol car arrived. They asked me where my car was; I told them, it’s over on the other side of the parking lot. They asked if they could search it; I told them yes. They kept asking if I had any Sprint merchandise in my car. I told them no. They rummaged through the trunk and back seats and found nothing.
I asked if I could smoke a cigarette; they said sure. I talked casually with them, about their past jobs, their names, etc. There were 4 of them, one was a Sergeant. Then, like a bolt of lightening, they told me I was under arrest. I almost shouted, “For WHAT?!” They handcuffed me and said for theft. My mind started to shoot in all directions. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t make sense of how they had come to this conclusion. I later found out, it was the “manager” (it was her first day) who had told them I was trying to steal merchandise.

After being handcuffed, they parked the SUV to get a report from the employee, whose name they changed for protection. I brought my arms to the front of my body to ease the strain on my shoulder. They threatened to hogtie me.

I tried to tell the Sergeant that I had done nothing wrong and that he was violating my rights and he looked right in my face with the utmost conviction and said “It’s not the first time.” I knew then that I would not be able to escape. No one was coming for me, no one even cared. I fought like a dog though, all the way up until they threw me into isolation.

I spent 21 days in Arapahoe County and was released on time served.

The details of my story are not that important. The most important thing is that this happened because I was an angry Black woman in public. I got upset, caused a scene and made some people feel uncomfortable. And I got arrested for it. I was to learn that my behavior was not tolerable, although no one was harmed, brandishing weapons or even verbally threatened.

I tried to go through the various avenues of help: I contacted ACLU, who started an investigation and later dropped it. I even reached out to the arresting Sergeant via phone and he told me that he had no jurisdiction in Denver Co. and he could do nothing.

Most friends and family distanced themselves from me and most are no longer in contact. I am certain this traumatic period sent me into a deep spiral. These days I get a lot of “I hope you are doing well!”s. I suppose I am, according to society’s definition.

The mistreatment of anyone by the police, and by the community at large is a dehumanizing, degrading and humiliating thing to endure. Although I resisted and fought, I sob when I think that I could have been Sandra Bland. I hope that by some roundabout way, me telling my story will let others know that yes, it happens and it must stop.