Driving down a Brooklyn street in April, I suddenly noticed a police car’s siren and flashing lights behind me.

In that instant, I was viscerally reminded of my Blackness. I thought of Daunte Wright and Tyre Nichols, two young Black men whose lives ended at the hands of police in America after traffic stops – names and stories I knew all too well.

Calmly, I pulled over and a police officer got out of his car and approached mine. I noticed his right hand hovering over his pistol, still holstered, but ready.

Walking right up to my window, he leaned down and said: ‘Licence and registration please.’

I nodded slowly, my voice steady but quiet: ‘I’m reaching into my bag.’

He didn’t respond. Just watched.

Handing it over, he went on to accuse me of running a stop sign and then issued me wit

See Full Page