Invisible

The cop car slips down the street, lights rioting, pulls over to the curb a few blocks down, and two of New York's Finest get out, searching for something.

As I draw closer, I pass a black man, casually dressed, t-shirt, jeans, walking in the opposite direction. We're still a block or so away, and it's unlikely they've even seen him, but still he glances worriedly over his shoulder at the lit-up car and its cops.

The police pile back into their vehicle and speed off as I walk past, wearing my tie and white skin and entitlement, knowing they wouldn't have stopped me, frisked me, made me afraid, and not just because I hadn't done anything wrong.