Police Encounters of a Black Kind

Stephen D. Harper

Description

Oftentimes, we find ourselves entering various stages of life unaware of the outcome. Some enter from a faith-based perspective, while others operate a different way. Chances are, we are driven by what we think is right for us, at the time. It’s part of our human experience; knowing what serves you.
The challenges placed on our path to success help develop and shape who we need to become in the future. They are expected but unforeseeable; anticipated but not specific.
Stephen Harper’s journey in law enforcement proved to be no different. His challenges, however, led to a greater sense of accomplishment.
As a former, South Florida cop, Stephen recognizes the police problem this nation faces; especially when it comes to the treatment of the Black community. Therefore, he has offered a solution for the on-going issue.
His suggestions aim to reduce tensions between law enforcement and the Black community. It will uplift both those who still work in the profession as well as those who do not. His stories are very informative, very relatable.
With an insightful view into the police mentality, Stephen imparts just how the police think, work and act when dealing with the public. He even advises what responses they are looking for during certain encounters; and how to avoid preventable jail time; based upon certain conduct in the presence of the police.
Those who wish to avoid heightened police encounters will benefit from the information contained in this book. It is a transformational nonfiction, solution-based book, that offers distinctive measures for a new perspective on policing, attributable from Stephen Harper’s success in the law enforcement profession.
This book is based on true events.
The reader will appreciate his candor, his honesty, and his bravery; adding value to all those who read it.

Sujets

• Personal Memoirs
• Biography
• Autobiography

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse
• Date de parution: 08 février 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9798823000499
• Langue: English

Extrait

POLICE ENCOUNTERS OF A BLACK KIND
 
A Guide For Those Who May Not Know
 
 
 
 
 
Stephen D. Harper
 
 
 
 

 
 
AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: [phone]
 
 
 
 
© 2023 Stephen D. Harper. All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
 
Published by AuthorHouse 02/06/2023
 
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0048-2 (sc)
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0047-5 (hc)
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0049-9 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023902320
 
 
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Contents
Enter the Egregore
Pop Goes the Achilles
Levels of Encounters
Just Because You Can Doesn’t Mean You Should
Getting Out of Your Own Head
Draw Conclusions instead of a Weapon
 
 
 
 
For my parents, Gloria and Donald Harper. Your love, guidance, and overall commitment to excellence served as models for me, to which all my accomplishments are attributed. Thank you for everything; thank you for providing me with all that I needed and more. I love you both.
For my children, Jahnai, Jaiden, and Jillian. I am proud of the loving and intelligent individuals you have become and are still becoming. My unconditional love for you all has opened the way for me to see the divinity within myself as well as you, ensuring we are all on the right paths.
To my best friend and greatest human support a husband could ever have, my wife, Saran. You have proven who you truly are at the very core of your being: absolute truth, love, light, and beauty. The love you have shown me confirms the presence of God. Our journey together is undoubtedly our confirmation of our alignment with divinity, for which I am grateful. Thank you.
And to all my ancestors, those who I know and those who I do not know, thank you for your contributions, your spirituality, and for paving the way.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Life can be very short,
Or it can be incredibly long.
The minute I think I’ve figured it out is the minute I’m proven wrong.
Along my journey, I’ve learned some things that I think would add value to lives,
For in those things are lessons with accompanying highs.
The existing lows gives us strength, rooted like a tree.
Remember to place God first and always believe in me.
There are times one may ask, “Who am I?” when faced with a thickening plot.
The thing I learned best is to avoid being someone who you are not.
ENTER THE EGREGORE
I never wanted to be a cop. I grew up in New York thinking the worst of the police. Wherever they were, I made sure I wasn’t. Distancing myself from the police was a way of life. I understood that the police didn’t like Black people, and they treated us unfairly. Cops weren’t cool, they weren’t courteous, they weren’t trusted, and they most certainly weren’t admired. Most of the cops I saw certainly weren’t Black either. We didn’t call the police for assistance because we knew how that would turn out. It was just something that Black people didn’t do. I had no desire to deviate from that groupthink. To be of an opposing stance would make you an outcast. Aspiring to be a cop? Nope. Not me. It never crossed my mind.
Many years ago in the late 1980s, on the corner of Flatbush Avenue and Church in Brooklyn, New York, there was a Korean/Jamaican grocery store. My father, Donald Harper, who is from Jamaica, West Indies, supplied that store with various Jamaican products that he imported from the Caribbean (more on that later).
One summer day, I went with him to deliver some of his products to that Brooklyn store. I helped unload his van and waited for him outside while he stayed inside conducting business.
I stood next to his van and just took in my surroundings. I remember thinking how vastly different Brooklyn was compared to Westbury, Long Island, where we lived. Despite the metropolitan differences, I still felt a cultural connectedness to the area. The city was vibrant with all sorts of people coming and going. Most were from the Caribbean—a large percentage of them were from Jamaica. Growing up in a Jamaican household allows one discernment with which recognition and cultural identity are easily acquired. In short, I could tell whether someone is Jamaican or not before they even uttered a single word.
The energy, mood, and apparent spirit of the community seemed to be in perfect alignment with Caribbean culture of that time. Scents of Caribbean pastries and other food dishes wafted through the air. Clean sports cars and Jeeps zoomed by playing music. People greeted one another the usual way Black people did in those days, laughing and joking with one another. Everyone seemed happy with themselves and their environment.
Across from where I stood, there was a shop with big speakers standing at the store’s entrance. Loud reggae music came through those speakers, playing legendary music of that time. I’m talking Shabba Ranks, Super Cat, Admiral Bailey, Chaka Demus—you know, all the legends.
A small group of people danced near the speakers, enjoying the moment. It seemed as if nothing was wrong. Nothing was out of the ordinary. No one had been fighting, no one was getting robbed, and no one seemed angry; you weren’t made to feel fearful at all.
And then it happened. Change arrived. I noticed a young (I say “young” now, but looking back, he was probably older than I was at the time) Black male with a brush cut running toward me on the same side of the street where I stood. He wore a light-blue sweat suit and white sneakers. His stride was one of particular intention. The manner of his pace indicated that he needed to be somewhere and fast. I could tell he wasn’t out exercising.
Maybe his pace and stride caught my attention because I wanted to see where he was going. Who knows? It’s difficult to say. I recently heard someone mention that our eyes have a brain of their own. I don’t know about that. But what I do know is that I became fixated on this running guy, and no one else seemed to pay him any mind.
The dancing group kept dancing. Though the music seemed to lower in volume. I remember seeing a guy eating chicken wings from a white Styrofoam carton/takeout tray and drinking a bottle of soda. He bopped his head to the beat and enjoyed the view.
I watched as the running fellow drew closer. I knew something was about to happen. At about ten feet away from me, he stopped and turned toward the dancing group. He then pulled out a gold, long-barreled handgun and began shooting at those people in front of the shop. Time seemed to slow down, the music faintly heard.
I remembered the distinctive expression on the shooter’s face as he stood there in front of me, firing rounds into the dancing group of people. It was one mixed with determination and recklessness. I made a mental note of it. For that look would present itself on another incident that I would experience in many years to come.
It is very interesting how the universe shows you certain things to remember. A preview, so to speak, as a lesson before a lesson informing you what to look out for in the future and how to proceed for your betterment. That is something I realized then but had been unable to express with words.
There was an intuitive knowing in which I understood that the shooter had no other agenda for anyone else in the area.
I didn’t duck, I didn’t run, and I wasn’t frozen with fear. In fact, I hadn’t been the least bit frightened to stand so close to someone so committed to carrying out such an act.
I watched him fire about four or five rounds at those people. Thankfully, all rounds missed. No one had been struck or hurt.
The guy eating chicken wings threw his soda, chicken wing bones, carton, and whatever else he could in the direction of the shooter. The young fellow then retreated. He ran even faster back in the direction from which he came. He ran at a pace likened to the last leg of a relay race, holding the gun like a baton. He looked pretty skillful at it, to be honest. It was like a scene from an action movie.
If memory serves me correctly, one of the people he missed grew so upset that they chased him up the block. I never followed, but I would imagine there were some serious repercussions for that young fellow.
I stood on that corner thinking, Well, that doesn’t happen on Long Island . What’s more, I thought how fortunate I had been to witness only what some would have seen in a movie. I heard wild stories about Brooklyn, but I never thought I would actually see something like that. I don’t come from street life. I only heard about it through music and movies. Overall, I was glad that no one got hurt.
I snapped out of my reverie and noticed my father exiting the store. I stood there for a beat or two and listened to the group talking among themselves as the music was now turned down. There were a whole lot of bomboclaats and rassclaats going on, which are cuss words the Jamaican culture uses to both heighten one’s sincerity and to show strong emotion about something in protest or highly discouraged.
However, the key thing I reme