Surely by now you’ve heard the news. Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. — who TIME Magazine has named one of the most influential persons in the United States, and who is arguably the most cited black scholar on the planet — was recently arrested. This, after breaking into his own home, in Cambridge, Massachusetts when, upon returning from a trip to China, he discovered his front door damaged and jammed. A white woman, not recognizing this rather famous black man, naturally assumed he was a criminal rather than the full-time occupant of the residence, and so got a second woman to call police for her, and to report an attempted break-in underway. When they arrived, they arrested the resident of the home, Dr. Gates. The charge? Disorderly conduct. Which is what white people call it when a black man does the following: a) announces that he indeed lives in the residence where police have come to question him, after which point he offers the documentation to prove as such, and b) repeatedly and without success demands to know the name and badge number of the officer, when the officer seems to disbelieve that the black man actually lives there.

There are many things one could say at a time like this. I suppose I could trot out the data, ample as it is, to indicate the regularity with which police officers engage in racist misconduct, profiling, and generalized suspicion of people of color, who have, in truth, done nothing wrong. I could perhaps reference dozens of people of color I know, who have similar stories as that which Gates can now provide: stories suggesting massive and regular violations of black and brown dignity on the part of law enforcement. So too could I offer up the prodigious research as to the health consequences of these types of events: research that makes quite clear how the daily suspicion and ill regard with which so many folks of color are viewed takes a toll, a deadly one at that, on black and brown lives.

But for now I will do nothing of the sort. First, because I’ve done all of that before, and so there is little need or benefit to be had at this time from sheer redundancy. And secondly, because I think it is time for white folks, faced with yet another story like the one emanating today from Cambridge, to do something else. Something that will illustrate that aspect of inequality about which we are more than a little expert. Namely, we must tell our stories: stories about our beneficent and preferential treatment at the hands of the same cops who regularly view our brothers and sisters of color with contempt. Stories that make clear how racism in policing has not only a downside for the black and brown, but also includes an upside for us. Only by coming clean about the relatively positive and certainly better way in which cops have treated us can we ever hope to draw the kind of contrast that might begin to open up an honest dialogue on racism in the justice system. And only with that dialogue can we hope, as a nation, to take action on those disparities.

That said, I now present to you the following description of my life, as regards police encounters. It is presented as a play, in three acts. Without intermission. Because privilege never takes a break.

[ACT I, Scene I]

(The curtain opens to find a large group of white teenagers in Nashville, Tennessee. The scene is set in 1985, on an early fall evening. In the background there is music playing: alternately it can be easily identified as Van Halen, and the Thompson Twins. It is loud. Very loud. This is clearly a party, at the home of one of the high school students on stage.

The teens are drinking beer, which has been dispensed from one of several nearby kegs. To the back of stage right can be seen a group of 6 or 7 males, including TIM WISE, age 17, our lead character, smoking marijuana from a bong. They are laughing a lot.

From stage left a flashing blue light can be seen, as if from a police car. A siren quickly blares to get the attention of the partygoers. Suddenly two police officers enter stage left waving flashlights around the moderately lit stage. Although they are not particularly glad to see the officers, only a few of the youth attempt to hide their drinks. The pot-smokers put away the bong, seemingly paranoid about being detected).

OFFICER ONE:

Whose house is this?

FIRST WHITE TEEN:

It’s mine officer. I mean, it’s my parents’ house

OFFICER TWO:

Are your parents here?

FIRST WHITE TEEN:

No sir, they’re out of town for a few days

OFFICER ONE:

Mmm, hmm. Well, do they know you’re having this party?

FIRST WHITE TEEN:

Yeah, well, I mean, they knew I was going to have a party. Probably didn’t know it would be this big though.

OFFICER ONE:

See, that’s the problem. The music is disturbing your neighbors. You really need to keep it down .

FIRST WHITE TEEN:

Ok, will do officer.

(The first teen turns to a second teen who is standing near the controls of the stereo system and makes a motion for him to turn the volume down. The second teen does as instructed.

The first officer seems distracted. He sniffs the air, and screws up his face, as if indicating that he smells something, perhaps the pot smoke, hanging in the air)

OFFICER TWO:

That’s better. Now keep it down, and don’t let us get another call tonight

SEVERAL WHITE TEENS (in unison):

Yessir, we’ll keep it down. Thanks.

(The officers leave. The teens breathe a collective sigh of relief).

(Lights fade)

[ACT I, Scene II]

(The setting is a public walkway outside a music club and bar in Nashville. The sounds of Jason and the Scorchers, or perhaps Webb Wilder, can be heard coming from inside. On the sidewalk, three young white men are talking, clearly inebriated, and holding cups of beer. It is summer, 1987. Two of the young men are nineteen, while the other, TIM WISE, is about two months shy of his nineteenth birthday).

(From stage right comes a police officer. He walks up to the three young men).

OFFICER:

Hey fellas, ya know, you’re not supposed to have open containers on the sidewalk, right?

FIRST YOUNG WHITE MAN:

Oops, sorry about that officer.

(He dumps his beer in a nearby garbage can, followed by the others who do the same)

OFFICER:

Ya know, it’s gettin’ sorta’ late out here. I’m gonna need to see some I.D. Make sure you guys are old enough to drink those beers and to be out after curfew, which is in about three minutes.

(The young men hesitate for a moment, as if deciding what to do. Within a few seconds, they all produce identification for the officer. The officer looks at the identification of the first two young men and hands them back. He looks at TIM’s I.D. and smiles)

OFFICER:

You’re from Iowa, huh?

(TIM is not from Iowa. But his fake I.D. says he is) .

TIM:

Yep. My family and I moved here a few years ago.

OFFICER:

What a coincidence. Me too, from Des Moines. Small world. Ok guys, be good, and remember about the open containers.

(The OFFICER walks away)

ALL THREE (in unison):

Thanks officer.

SECOND YOUNG WHITE MAN:

(To Tim): Shit, that must be a good I.D. you got there, to fool a guy who’s actually from the same state.

TIM:

Nah, it sucks. I made it last week, and I’ve never even seen what an Iowa license looks like. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t look like this though. (TIM hands it off to the second young white man, who laughs).

SECOND YOUNG WHITE MAN:

Yeah, that does suck!.

TIM:

(turning to the first young white man)

What about yours? What did you show him?

FIRST YOUNG WHITE MAN:

Here, take a look. (He shows it to both TIM and the second young white man).

It’s real. Straight from the DMV! 100 percent legit.

TIM: (laughs)

Uh, yeah, it’s real. It’s really some dude who’s 30 and has a beard and doesn’t look a thing like you. You’re 19 and barely even have to shave.

FIRST YOUNG WHITE MAN:

Oh well. It worked didn’t it?

(Lights fade)

[ACT I, Scene III]

(The scene takes place in 1988. The stage is dark, except for a spotlight on center stage, which reveals a car, traveling down the highway at night. In the car are five people, four of them white. The car is driven by TIM WISE, age 19. The group, all of them members of the Tulane University debate team, is returning to New Orleans from a college debate tournament in San Antonio.

(Suddenly, behind them we see the flashing blue lights of a police car).

TIM:

Damn! I knew when I passed him he was gonna get me. Shit!

PASSENGER ONE:

How fast were you going?

TIM:

I dunno, like 75 or something. Shit! Goddamned Gonzales, Texas cops with nothing better to do. What a shithole. Remind me to never come back through here again.

(TIM pulls over. From the back of the stage, an officer appears and comes to TIM’s window. He rolls the window down and glances up at the officer.

OFFICER:

Where’s the fire, chief?

PASSENGER TWO (in backseat, laughing and speaking to PASSENGER THREE):

Did he just say, ‘Where’s the fire, chief?’ Is that like a mandatory cop phrase or something?

(The officer shines his flashlight in the back. The backseat passengers immediately grow quiet).

TIM:

Sorry officer. How fast was I going, anyway?

OFFICER:

I clocked you at 78 in a 65. (He pauses). Where y’all goin’ tonight?

TIM:

We’re headed back from a college debate tournament. Headed to New Orleans.

OFFICER:

Mmm, hmm. Can I see your license please?

TIM:

Sure.

(He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wallet. He appears to be having difficulty locating his license. He searches nervously for it).

Umm, I know it’s in here, but I just can’t seem to find it.

OFFICER:

Need a little help? (He shines his flashlight into the vehicle, at TIM’s wallet)

TIM:

Umm, yeah, I guess.

OFFICER:

Tell ya what, why don’t you step out of the car, and come back to the cruiser for a minute. I’ve gotta run a few simple checks on the car, and the light in my car’s better. I’m sure you’ll find it then.

TIM:

Oh, ok. (He gets out of the car and walks to the back of the stage with the officer).

(The center portion of the stage rotates 180 degrees, sending the vehicle with the debate team to the back of the stage, and bringing the police cruiser to the front. The dome light is on. Now we see TIM and the OFFICER in the vehicle. TIM is still frantically looking through his wallet. The OFFICER is on the police radio system, nodding his head and saying, “OK, yeah, OK” several times. He puts down the radio receiver and glances down at TIM’s wallet, as TIM continues to fumble with it in the passenger seat).

OFFICER:

Is that it? Isn’t that it, right there?

TIM: (looking alarmed and nervous)

Uh, no, no, that’s not it, that’s um, something else. That’s um, my student I.D. Damn, damn, I know it’s in here somewhere

OFFICER:

Are you sure that wasn’t it? I could have sworn that said “MAINE DRIVER LICENSE.” Can I see your wallet for a second?

TIM:

(Finally finds his license, his real license, not the fake Maine license to which the OFFICER had been referring)

Oh thank God, here it is! (He hands the license to the officer)

OFFICER:

Ok, great, this should just take a second or two more.

(The lights go dim, and the stage again rotates, revealing the car with the debaters. The officer is gone, and TIM is once again behind the steering wheel).

PASSENGER FOUR:

What the hell happened back there? That took forever!

TIM:

Man, you wouldn’t believe this shit. I couldn’t find my license, and then, when I was going through my wallet he saw my fake, and he was just about to grab the wallet from me when I finally found the real one. Jesus that was close. Guess I’m lucky to get away with just a $75 ticket.

PASSENGER THREE:

Yeah, especially since we’ve got weed in the car

TIM:

Oh yeah, shit, I forgot about that!

(Lights fade)

[ACT II, Scene I]

(The second act opens, revealing a group of Tulane University students. They are outside the Administration building at the school, in front of shabbily-constructed dwellings they have built, reminiscent of the homes in which millions of blacks lived in apartheid-era South Africa. It is spring, 1990. The students, including TIM WISE, now age 21, are protesting Tulane’s investments in companies that continue to operate in South Africa, and thereby prop up the white minority government. On the shanties are signs calling for Tulane to divest from South Africa).

(While the students are frozen on stage, the voice of a NARRATOR is heard)

NARRATOR:

Today, the New Orleans medical examiner released details in the beating death of Adolph Archie. It appears as though Archie, who police suspected of killing one of their own, died as a result of “homicide by police intervention.” An attorney for the family says Archie was beaten by dozens of uniformed officers, who drove the young black man around town for up to two hours, before fracturing every bone in his skull and dumping him at a nearby emergency room, where he died shortly thereafter. A spokesperson for the NOPD says he stands by his officers and notes that Archie had an extensive criminal record.

TIM (stands and walks over to a Tulane police officer, who is standing guard over the student protesters, downstage right)

(speaking to the officer)

Hey man, you know you really don’t have to stand here all day. I mean, I really don’t think anyone’s gonna mess with us, ya know?

OFFICER:

Yeah, I know, but we’re under explicit orders to protect you guys, round the clock. And anyway, we’re getting overtime, so it’s cool with me.

(Lights fade)

[ACT II, Scene II]

(As the scene opens we see TIM WISE, age 22, trying in vain to open the passenger door of a Toyota Tercel with a coat hanger. He has locked his keys inside, and is late to pick up his girlfriend–a college senior at Tulane–from her mid-day sociology class. It is 1991, before widespread use of cell phones, so he has no way to call her and let her know that he’s been delayed).

TIM:

Damn, this always works! What the hell is wrong with this thing? Why did I lock it in the first place? Shit!

(As TIM continues to struggle with the hanger and the door, several people pass by, none of them expressing any concern, or even barely noticing that he is attempting to break into the vehicle)

(From stage left we see flashing blue lights and hear the “woop” of the siren. Within a few seconds, an officer walks from offstage left and approaches TIM, who is still trying to open the door to the car with the coat hanger)

OFFICER:

What seems to be the problem?

TIM:

Ah, I locked my keys in the car, and I was supposed to be somewhere like five minutes ago. I’ve done it before, and I can always get in with a hanger but this time it’s not working.

OFFICER:

Nah, hangers aren’t the way to go. Hold on a second.

(He walks back to his car, just offstage, and immediately returns with a long flexible tool, a slimjim, with which to open it)

Now, watch this!

(The officer inserts the slimjim into the door, right at the window, and presses downward. After several attempts, the door still won’t open)

Damn, this one’s tough. Well, I guess we could break the window.

TIM:

No shit, don’t do that. This is my girlfriend’s car. Look, could you take me up to the school though, and then give us both a ride home? She’s got another key.

OFFICER:

No problem, be glad to. Hop in. But ya know, I say you still oughta’ break the damn window. It’d be fun. Then you could just tell her somebody broke into the car, and she wouldn’t ever know any better (The officer laughs).

(Lights fade)

[ACT II, Scene III]

(As the scene begins, we see a car driving down a New Orleans street. We are looking at the driver’s side of the car, as if it were driving from stage left to stage right. On the side of the car is a bumper sticker that reads “No Dukes,” a reference to neo-Nazi and perennial Louisiana political candidate, David Duke. The windows are heavily tinted. It is 1993, and the driver, TIM WISE, has just turned 25. After a few seconds, we see the flashing blue lights off to stage left. From inside the car we hear TIM)

TIM:

Gimme a break. I did not do ANYTHING!

(From offstage we hear a door slam, and we see an OFFICER enter from stage left. He approaches the vehicle with his left hand on his service revolver, which is holstered.)

(TIM rolls down his window as the OFFICER reaches the door)

OFFICER:

(seemingly surprised, as if shocked to see that the driver of the car is white, he then removes his hand from his gun)

Oh.

TIM: (defiantly)

Oh? Whatt’ya mean ‘Oh’? What is that supposed to mean? What’d I do?

OFFICER:

Um, license and registration please.

TIM:

What for? Why did you stop me? You know I didn’t do anything so why did you pull me over?

OFFICER:

License and registration please.

(TIM reaches for the glove box in his car, retrieving in the process his registration. He then pulls his wallet from his back pocket, and rips out his license).

TIM:

Here (he shoves the paperwork at the OFFICER). But seriously, why’d you stop me? What did I do?

OFFICER:

Wait here please.

(The OFFICER walks back to his car, glancing at TIM’s license plate as he goes. For about 30 seconds we hear the muffled sounds of the OFFICER and his partner talking, in tones that suggest they are frustrated and a bit unsure what to do. The OFFICER then returns to TIM’s vehicle)

OFFICER:

We stopped you because the tags on your plate expire in 1993.

TIM:

Right, 1993: December of 1993. As in, two months from now. This is October. Wanna try again?

OFFICER:

Well, we couldn’t be sure of the expiration month until we pulled you over to get a closer look.

TIM:

Are you kidding me? You can see the abbreviation DEC from like thirty feet.

OFFICER:

Well, we couldn’t.

TIM:

Whatever, fine, but now ya have, and now ya see that everything’s up to date so, I guess I can go now right?

OFFICER:

Well, not quite. One more thing. I just need to see proof of insurance.

TIM:

Hmm, well, ya know, that one just lapsed on me .

OFFICER:

There, ya see? So I did have a good reason to stop you after all.

TIM:

But you didn’t know about the insurance thing until you stopped me on some bullshit.

OFFICER:

Either way, you can’t drive legally in this state without up-to-date-insurance, so I’ve gotta write you a ticket for that one.

(He writes the ticket and hands it to TIM).

TIM: (sarcastically)

Thanks so much

OFFICER:

Hey, ya know what, don’t even worry about it. If it’s your first ticket, you can just let ’em know that down at the courthouse, and they’ll defer the fine. And then as long as you don’t get another ticket for a year, your record will be clean. So, nothing to worry about..

TIM:

Oh, Oh-kaaay.

OFFICER:

Have a great day

(Lights fade)

[ACT III, One and only scene]

(As the lights come up, we can see the interior of a small but pleasant home. It is the home of TIM WISE and his wife KRISTY CASON. TIM and KRISTY are both nervously looking out the window, which is to the back of stage right. They are looking across the street to the house of a neighbor in their Nashville neighborhood. It is 2005, and TIM and KRISTY are in their late 30s, with two children, ages 4 and 2).

TIM:

This is really pissing me off. These stupid-ass Hee-Haw bastards, selling their fuckin’ Oxy or whatever right across the street. Probably runnin’ a damned meth lab in the basement, too. We’ll be lucky if they don’t blow the whole damned neighborhood up with that shit.

KRISTY:

I’m not really worried about that. I’m just pissed that someone’s been trying to break into our house. I’m sure it’s one of their customers looking for money or something.

TIM:

Yeah well, we know it’s not that one customer. Ya know, the middle aged mom from out in the ‘burbs with the fancy Ensworth School sticker on her minivan. I’m pretty sure she’s got all the money she needs.

KRISTY:

Yeah, or else she’s selling sex for the drugs. Playing Nancy the Naughty Nurse with Justin and Dustin, our friendly neighborhood identical twin drug dealers.

TIM:

Meanwhile the black woman on the corner is out mowing her grass, trying to keep her property nice and neat, and we’ve got Huckleberry Speedball and his brother Jethro Blow-dean across the street screwing it up for everyone else. I’d like to video tape the contrast just to show to all the fuckers who’d expect the black folks in the neighborhood to be the ones slingin’ shit.

(There is a knock on the door)

KRISTY:

Oh good, the police are here

(She opens the door)

OFFICER:

Hello ma’am. You all called about some allegations of drug dealing across the street, and some attempted break-ins at your place?

The OFFICER, TIM and KRISTY talk, inaudibly, for about 20 seconds, at which point the lights dim. When they come back up, KRISTY is alone, talking on the phone to TIM, who is out of town for work. Suddenly, the screeching of tires can be heard as several police cars pull up across the street. Well over a dozen police can be seen and heard running towards the home lived in by the drug dealers, Justin and Dustin. Their guns are drawn. The sound of a door being kicked in is clearly audible

KRISTY:

Holy shit! Hold on, something’s going on across the street. Oh man, they’re raiding the drug house (pause) Yep, I mean, guns drawn, they’ve got the vests on, it’s like a whole SWAT unit or something (pause). Yeah, I’m serious. Wow, man, they really responded quickly didn’t they?

(Lights fade).

(Curtain falls).

And thus ends our little play. A not-so-gentle reminder that for some of us, our behavior doesn’t matter, our demeanor doesn’t matter, and our attitude doesn’t matter. For some of us, the presumption of innocence is a serious and living thing. For some of us, law enforcement responds forthwith to our concerns.

While for others, no matter how educated, how erudite, and how successful one may be, the label of suspect will be the one worn most prominently around their necks, tattooed on their foreheads, blinking like a shining neon light for all to see.

Welcome, dear audience, to post-racial America, where seats are half-price and the popcorn is free, but the show is just as good as always.

Tim Wise is the author of four books on race, including his latest, Between Barack and a Hard Place: Racism and White Denial in the Age of Obama (City Lights Books).