What kind of wimp is worried about being profiled? Boohoo, why do you think I might be bad? I could cry. Give me a break. Please don’t mistake me for a criminal. It hurts so bad.
Back in my teens I was stopped and frisked a lot of times by the cops in a rich town, Great Neck Estates. It wasn’t because I was black. I was white. But I was young and cops didn’t like teenagers hanging around. They suspected us of causing trouble. Even though there was no proof of it, their suspicions were correct.
I cried no tears when the cops took me to my parents’ home in the middle of the night. In fact I thought it was kind of cool. I didn’t cry that my youth was being profiled. I could take it. It was better to frisk me than to risk my beating someone else up. Did they think I cared if they went through my pockets? That’s nothing compared to my potential mugging. I wasn’t a bad kid. I wasn’t a good kid. I was a kid, and kids by their nature get in trouble.
Here I was a potential criminal sticking up for the rights of innocent people to arrest us in advance while the cowardly civil libertarians try to protect me because they don’t have the courage to call a potential spade a spade. Rev. Sharpton calls a spade an innocent and lets the spade damage the innocent because he doesn’t want to admit the profile of the criminal is often dark or to frisk him for concealed weapons.
I was sometimes bad. For those bad times I deserved to be frisked. This has nothing to do with color. Frisking is preventative. Not frisking is the cowardice of a sucker.
