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Washington Post, August 29, 2018
Two black pastors wanted help with a flat tire. A sheriff’s deputy asked
if they had guns or drugs.
By Taylor Telford
They were stuck on the side of a suburban highway, waiting for
assistance. Instead, what they got was a jarring question from a
sheriff’s deputy and a background check.
On the way home from a fishing trip in May, Demetrius Williams and John
Patterson — both pastors at Baptist churches in Milwaukee — got a flat
tire on their boat trailer. They pulled to the edge of the bustling
interstate and called an insurance company. As they waited for a tow
truck to help with a spare tire, a Waukesha County Sheriff’s car pulled
up behind them, lights flashing.
A deputy, Erik Michalsen, approached the two pastors in the Chevrolet
Silverado. After the men explained they were awaiting assistance for the
flat, Michalsen, the men say, asked them if they had any drugs, guns or
alcohol in the truck.
“Sir, we’re both pastors,” Williams remembers explaining. “We wouldn’t
have anything like that.”
When the deputy asked for both men’s licenses, Williams felt himself
growing agitated, confused at why they were being treated like criminals
when they hadn’t even been pulled over and should have gotten help. Stay
calm, he thought to himself. There’s no telling what might happen. When
he asked the deputy why it was necessary see their licenses, the deputy
said it was standard procedure.
Deputy Michalsen returned the licenses 10 minutes later and smacked an
orange sticker — used to mark abandoned vehicles — on the side of the
boat, even though the men had explained they were staying with the boat
and waiting for service. The pastors were rattled.
“This isn’t right,” Williams said. “We’re sitting here waiting for
roadside assistance, and this man is treating us like we’re criminals.”
By now, this story probably is not surprising. It is just the latest in
a series of cautionary tales about doing ordinary things while black in
America: going to Starbucks, mowing the lawn, eating at Subway, staying
in an Airbnb, golfing. These stories do not end in death or great
tragedy, but they are not without consequence. They are evidence of fear
and tension tangled up in racially-charged encounters that unfold every day.
These incidents stir conversations about 'overpolicing'
The nation is embroiled in a debate about the disparate treatment of
black people after several incidents of apparent “overpolicing” across
the U.S. (Taylor Turner /The Washington Post)
That is why Common Ground, a community organization working on social
issues in southeastern Wisconsin, has pressed the Waukesha County
Sheriff’s Department about the deputy’s process and is mounting an
investigation on possible racial profiling by the department. The
organization wants to see how bias might be shaping policing in its
community and show there is still a fallout, even in the absence of
violence.
“These kinds of cases get swept under the rug,” said Keisha Krumm,
executive director of Common Ground. “This goes way beyond these two
men. There’s a whole community of people affected by this every day.”
Since May, Common Ground has been trying to get an audience with the
Waukesha County Sheriff to discuss the incident with the pastors and
explore policing procedures. After months without success, they
submitted written questions: Why hadn’t the deputy asked if they needed
help, why did he ask about weapons and drugs, why did check both
pastor’s licenses and why did sticker the boat even though they were
waiting with it.
The department conducted an investigation without speaking to either
Williams or Patterson. It explained Michalsen asks every driver he
approaches about weapons and drugs and justified the rest with
procedures for traffic stops, even though the pastors had not committed
a moving violation and were not pulled over.
Now Common Ground is requesting records of Michalsen’s past 45 days of
narratives from traffic stops and disabled vehicle interactions. It is
also asking the community to share stories of contact with the sheriff’s
department — both positive and negative.
“We have a suspicion this is a pattern, but we want proof,” Krumm said.
Abundant research of bias in policing has shown people of color are
often treated differently by law enforcement in routine traffic stops.
Black and Hispanic drivers are twice as likely to be searched as white
drivers, according to findings from the Stanford Open Policing Project,
which analyzed data on more than 100 million traffic stops in 31 states.
In a written statement provided to The Washington Post, Waukesha County
Sheriff Eric Severson said racially biased policing “is not trained,
condoned or tolerated,” the department’s investigation found no
violations of training, policy or procedure, and evidence did not show
the deputy’s actions were racially motivated.
This was a small incident, relatively speaking. There were no bullets,
no bloodshed. Encounters like these, that show how subconscious
prejudices can shape our behavior, are most important to talk about,
according to John Dovidio, a Yale psychology professor who studies
implicit bias and race. It is tough to have a real dialogue when bias is
only discussed in the context of tragedy, like police shootings of
unarmed black men. With encounters that are less violent and emotionally
charged, it is easier to reflect, to stay open and stave off defensiveness.
There is an instinct to brush off a minor aggression like this if you
have never gone through the same thing, Dovidio said, but it is a
mistake to underestimate the effect they can have.
“What microaggressions do is create a constant feeling of suspicion and
stress,” Dovidio said. “If I’m a person of color, these pinches that
come every single day in so many different ways shape my view of the
world. It puts a barrier between me and members of other racial groups.
Recently, as Krumm was tucking her daughter into bed, the girl began to
sob. She was worried the police were going to kill her, the 6-year-old
said. As Krumm wiped her tears and assured her the police would not hurt
a child, she said, she was stricken by the loss of innocence her
daughter had already gone through. Bedtime stories are supposed to be
about magic and fairy tales, but here she was, grappling with her little
girl’s fears of being harmed by those who swear to serve and protect.
“Sheriff Severson doesn’t have to have this conversation with his child
at bedtime,” Krumm said.
The Sunday following the incident, Williams shared his story as part of
his sermon. He tried to use it as a chance to teach his congregation —
especially the younger members — about staying composed in tough
situations. He has kept them updated as the investigation progressed,
hoping to teach something about the complexities of justice.
Every time he has brought it up, members of his church have come to him
afterward, offering stories and fears akin to his. He knows each one is
weight — invisible, constant and shared.
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