Many years ago, I wrote a
book called Race and Morality. In
it, I told a story about when I was a cabdriver in New York City. Although I hate to repeat myself, the moral
of that tale has a direct bearing on current race relations.
At the time, I was
completing my Ph.D. in sociology at the City University of New York. Like many a poor graduate student, I was
running out of funds and therefore found work where I could. While I understood that more cabdrivers were
being killed than cops, I decided to take the risk.
Right from the start, I was
warned not to pick up every potential fare.
The Black and Hispanic drivers were particularly adamant. If I valued my safety, there were places I
should not drive and customers for whom I ought not stop.
But I was a sociology
student. For years, I had been marinated
in progressive ideals. Virtually
everyone I knew believed that it was essential not to treat people differently
because of race or ethnicity. Besides, I
prided myself on not being a racist.
And so, early one morning I
pulled over for a questionable passenger.
It was four AM in the morning and pitch dark. This was at the start of my shift, just as I
crossed over the bridge from Brooklyn into Manhattan. Now a black man in a pimp suit flagged me
down. Having previously worked in
Harlem, I knew exactly what his felt hat and flashy clothes meant.
I stopped anyway. I was not going to discriminate merely
because someone had a dubious profession.
Then my new fare told we where he wanted to go. His destination was in the heart of Bedford
Stuyvesant. As I also knew from personal
experience, this was one of the most dangerous parts of the city.
The next twenty minutes were
among the most frightening I have ever experienced. My mind was racing. What if when we got to where we were going,
he decided to mug me? Bigger and
obviously more menacing than me, how could I protect myself?
And what if he was meeting
several of his buddies? If they ganged
up and robbed me, was there anything I could do to prevent this? In fact, when we arrived on the scene, he
simply paid me and exited the cab. There
was no drama; no threats; not even a hint of danger.
Nonetheless, I immediately
put on my off-duty sign. I was not going
to take the chance of picking up another passenger in that neighborhood. Then and there, I vowed I would rather be thought
of as a live racist, rather than a dead hero.
My reputation among those who did not realize the seriousness of my
plight mattered less to me than my personal survival.
Nowadays police officers
often find themselves in a similar position.
They are frequently confronted with potential lawbreakers whose
intentions they cannot know. Thus, when
they encounter someone brandishing a gun, how much restraint should they
exercise? Must they wait for shots to be
fired before they respond in kind?
The Black Lives Matter folks
have no doubts. According to them, cops
must never initiate violence. They must
always make absolutely certain that their own lives are in peril. Anything less is deemed irresponsible.
I am not so sure. Having been vulnerable myself, I empathize
with their situation. I know that
ambiguous circumstances can be difficult to call. What is more, I believe that blue lives
matter. The police have the right to
protect themselves, even though they sometimes make mistakes.
I will go even further. The police have a duty to protect themselves.
If they do not, law and order becomes a sham. Once it is open season on law enforcement
agent, the thugs of this world will have field day. In this case, we will all be in danger.
If this opinion makes me a
racist, so be it. I know that I believe
in treating people equally irrespective of skin color. Others may come to a different conclusion,
but if they have never themselves been in jeopardy, I do not trust their judgment.
Melvyn L. Fein, Ph.D.
Professor of Sociology
Kennesaw State University
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