How to Talk to a Policeman, Part 2

I always thought my son was the cutest thing. But I realized when he made that transition from boy to young man that the rest of the world might not agree with me. I didn't want him to be fearful or paranoid; I did want him to be safe. So with some regret at the loss of innocence it represented, I had the talk that mothers still have with their black sons.

"In any interaction with a police officer -- even if you haven't done anything wrong -- be deferential. Call me or a lawyer before you say a word." All mothers teach respect for the police. Some are thinking about Amadou Diallo when they do it.

I thought of that as I read of the confrontation between Harvard scholar Henry Louis Gates Jr. -- a 58-year-old man who walks with a cane - and members of the Cambridge, Mass., police department. Gates was mistaken for a burglar in his own home when a neighbor reported a break-in. After what the police describe as "loud and tumultuous" behavior, but what Gates says was cooperative and righteous -- not "loud and tumultuous" -- indignation the professor was arrested and paraded across his own porch in handcuffs.

Charges have been dropped. If he was not Skip Gates, he might be in jail still.

My colleague Melinda Henneberger writes that the idea of a post-Obama post-racial America is as real as unicorns dancing on fields of clover. Almost every black person I know has a police story. (Mine involves three officers with hands on guns, a stop sign I didn't run and a scary half-hour with my hands glued to the wheel.) Black men usually have more than one.

In fact, the black man who lives in the White House has people demanding to see his ID -- in his case, a birth certificate -- to prove he belongs. Even though that case has been closed for a while, the issue lives, most recently in a Delaware town hall meeting.

My son is 26 now, and so far so good. He's still mighty cute. But I know that along with all the other dangers life presents, the police officer who stops him for a real or imagined offense may not see the Ivy League master's degree or the sweetness that makes me so proud of him. It's 2009, and I haven't stopped worrying yet.