I flashed back 10 minutes, mind traveling as I hustled up the sidewalk home. West End, Atlanta—no place for headphones, but I had my thoughts on full blast—“summer breeze … damn tonight feel just like the song/who was that girl with Alabama Ericka … Southern gurls…” Wait, why am I on the ground again?

I had a choice at Abernathy and West End Avenue. Make a left and cross under the tunnel: a dank, poorly-lit underpass known for being a haven for stick-up artists, rapists, and ne’er-do-wells. No, thank you.

So I went straight, walked another block, and crossed through the light rail station, past the bus line benches, and through the commuter lot.

It was late—the midnight freight train that passed through the West End was rumbling slowly by on its tracks, which were adjacent to the light rail station. A bit of adrenaline flowed—I liked jumping between cars, feeling like Jackie Chan, or a hobo on his way to Santa Fe. I wouldn’t do it while the cars were moving through— one false step and it was a wrap, and I knew that the train would stop—it did the same thing every night at this time. So, I waited.

Once the line of cars ground to a halt, I bolted forward; I had work to do. Climbing up between the cars was easy, there was always a ladder. I scrambled up and jumped down on the other side, mindful to listen for another train coming the other way, as the sound of the engines could hide the sound of a train headed in the opposite direction.

One block. All I needed to do was pass through the park and cross the street and I was home. I surveyed the park, and I could see that there were guys still out on the basketball court playing; I began jogging across the park when I heard, “Freeze.”

This was an area with plenty of police activity, so it wasn’t a surprise. “I said, Freeze! Hands above your head!” Yet, that wasn’t what made me stop. It was the distinct sound, a click of a gun safety, that gave me pause. I turned around, incredulous. He was standing near a streetlight—older, white, sheriffs hat perched on his head, gun in his right hand, flashlight in his left. The light went on, and he directed it at my eyes. “Put the bag down, hands above your head, and on the ground, face down!”

Why am I here? Face down, hands over my head, I catch the breeze carrying the aroma of ganja over from the basketball court barely 50 yards away. The court was quiet now—they were probably watching. I felt the weight of the gun through the wind it generated as he waved it above the back of my head. I could not believe that this cracker was patting me down. I didn’t have anything beyond a school ID for him, as he mumbled something about it being against the law to cross the tracks while there was a train on it. But he and I knew the stated premise was mere window dressing for a deeper, viler exchange of information.

I had watched my requisite 40,000 murders on TV by the time I’d reached 18, which was the average for an American, but here I was, 19, and I had never had a gun drawn on me. What was I doing on the ground?

The whirl of the subway train, the vibration of the freight engines, that breeze, usually so welcoming, now foreboding, carrying the sickness of oppression with a badge pinned to it. It was over in an instant, and I ran home, pulse racing and blood on fire. Fate had placed me in a life far away from the dangers of Soweto, or even the gunfire of Chicago, Philly, or Compton, but that evening, for the first time, I said, “Fuck the police” … and really meant it.