Recently, I returned home shaken after dropping my kids off at a friend’s house for a playdate. I had just parked my minivan outside her home and was walking to the door with my children when suddenly, a dark gray SUV pulled up. A white man with his windows down called out, “Excuse me. You should be aware that many kids play in this area, and my wife saw you driving 50mph down the street. She looks after our grandchildren. That’s not safe, and you need to be more cautious.”
I was taken aback and utterly confused. What on earth was happening, and why was he addressing me? I turned away and muttered, “Whatever.” My kids rushed up to me, asking if I had really been speeding. For a moment, I doubted myself, but then I firmly said, “No. I was not.”
First of all, there are stop signs every 300 feet in this neighborhood, many on inclines. My friend’s house is just two doors down from a stop sign on a street where I had to turn left from a complete stop. To reach 50mph, I would have had to accelerate rapidly, come to a screeching halt without leaving skid marks, and then back into my parking spot—all in less than 100 feet in my 12-year-old minivan. If I had those driving skills, I should be competing in Tokyo Drift.
Secondly, from wherever they lived, it was impossible for them to have seen me even if I had been speeding—which I wasn’t. Did his wife possess X-ray vision and a built-in radar gun? Could she see through tinted windows to confirm I was the driver of the minivan? Did she take note of my license plate?
I stewed during the ten-minute drive home, those details replaying over and over in my mind. When I told my husband what had happened, he responded with a distracted “Okay…?” I felt frustrated, not understanding why he couldn’t grasp my anger. But I, too, struggled to express exactly what was infuriating me.
I stormed away from him, waving my arms, and snapped, “Oh, sure! There goes my wife, getting upset again! It’s always something with her! She’s mad about some white guy again!” I retreated to my room and slammed the door. It was unsatisfying.
To be a person of color (POC) means constantly questioning dubious interactions. And I’ll admit, I do have a short fuse. However, once I vent, I usually move on—unless something bothers me so much that I feel compelled to write lengthy rants about it online.
After about an hour, I finally articulated what really bothered me. Why do white individuals feel the need to police POC, especially when they are just going about their daily lives, like dropping their kids off for a few hours of playtime? It’s infuriating, and in many cases, it can be life-threatening.
Given the current anti-Asian climate and the fact that most hate crimes against Asians in the U.S. are committed by white men, I felt unsafe. A study from 1992 to 2014 revealed that 75% of perpetrators in anti-Asian hate crimes were white. Those numbers are likely underreported, and with a 164% increase in reported anti-Asian hate crimes over the past year, it’s reasonable to assume that the percentage of white males involved in violent acts has also risen.
As an Asian American woman on foot with four Asian American children, it was particularly threatening for a white man to confront me. He had the power to run us over—and before you suggest I’m overreacting, a couple of years ago, a white man in a pickup truck actually sped up to try to hit me while I was crossing at a crosswalk with the right of way.
So, no, I don’t believe my fear is unfounded. It didn’t matter that he seemed calm in his self-righteousness; that could change in an instant. In my experience, white individuals—especially white men—can become aggressive the moment they feel their authority is challenged.
Additionally, he could have left his vehicle and physically attacked me. He could have done things I wouldn’t have been able to prevent. He looked young and fit, while I certainly don’t describe myself as fit.
Let’s call it what it is: white privilege.
It didn’t matter that I was in a wealthy neighborhood filled with million-dollar homes. I’m constantly reminded that I don’t belong there, even though I pay my taxes and grew up nearby. It seems POC don’t matter in this country. For some reason, white people often think they are the only ones entitled to occupy certain spaces—and if a POC is present, they’d better justify their existence.
For decades, my mother faced hostility in her gated community, consistently receiving hate mail and being reported to the Homeowners Association for minor issues by one particularly nasty white woman.
This sense of entitlement—the expectation that POC should listen to white individuals as if they are the enforcers of law and order—is deeply rooted in racism.
I wish a life filled with chronic pain and suffering on every meddling white person who calls the cops on POC or posts on Next Door under the guise of being a concerned citizen while being overtly racist. I don’t want to wish harm on anyone, but I have no problem manifesting minor, annoying ailments for the rest of their lives.
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Summary:
This article discusses the author’s experience of being confronted by a white man while dropping off her children, exploring themes of racism, fear, and the policing of POC by white individuals. It reflects on the broader implications of such encounters, particularly in light of the rising anti-Asian sentiment and the constant questioning of POC’s place in society.