Spring Break
The "Good" Black and the H-Bomb
Debbie McCoy (OC), Special Contributor
Issue date: 2/10/03 Section: Black History Month
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As I write this article in celebration of Black History Month, it is difficult to share my thoughts about something that is at once personal, controversial, and political. In my fourth semester at HBS, I know that any one of these three topics makes for questionable conversation. I'm inspired, though, to challenge everyone to examine his or her perspectives and assumptions about black people both inside and outside of the HBS community.
At 5:30 AM one morning last winter, I was greeted by three Cambridge police cars. I was on my way to Shad for my daily workout when an officer turned on his lights behind me. My driving speed could not have exceeded five miles per hour, so I figure that one of my car lights may have been malfunctioning. The signaling lights that the officer put on weren't the friendly, red "pull over, buckaroo" lights. No, no. They were blue and bright and as soon as I slowed there was a spotlight behind me. And then another in my face and a third on left cheek.
This is what my mom and dad had warned me about. My instinct was to reach for my Harvard ID, pull off my hat and gloves, and give a friendly smile. A 1991 lecture on getting pulled over told me that I should remain completely still --even place my hands in the air if I wanted to prove that I meant no harm. I was shaking, but moved my hands from my steering wheel to the top of my Jetta's roof. Right then, a police officer started screaming from behind me, "HANDS UP! HANDS UP! PUT YOUR HANDS UP!!!" Strange thoughts raced through my head. "What will my mom think if I get killed by a trigger happy cop in front of my apartment while I'm attending Harvard Business School?" "Are these guys going to hurt me?" One officer approaches, covering the spotlight on my cheek. He pounds on my window and I slowly drop my left hand to roll it down. I'm sweating. I'm afraid.
The officer commands, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
That's when I do it. I'm condescending when I drop the H-Bomb, responding, "I'm a student at Harvard Business School and I'm going to the gym. Is there a problem, officer?"
At 5:30 AM one morning last winter, I was greeted by three Cambridge police cars. I was on my way to Shad for my daily workout when an officer turned on his lights behind me. My driving speed could not have exceeded five miles per hour, so I figure that one of my car lights may have been malfunctioning. The signaling lights that the officer put on weren't the friendly, red "pull over, buckaroo" lights. No, no. They were blue and bright and as soon as I slowed there was a spotlight behind me. And then another in my face and a third on left cheek.
This is what my mom and dad had warned me about. My instinct was to reach for my Harvard ID, pull off my hat and gloves, and give a friendly smile. A 1991 lecture on getting pulled over told me that I should remain completely still --even place my hands in the air if I wanted to prove that I meant no harm. I was shaking, but moved my hands from my steering wheel to the top of my Jetta's roof. Right then, a police officer started screaming from behind me, "HANDS UP! HANDS UP! PUT YOUR HANDS UP!!!" Strange thoughts raced through my head. "What will my mom think if I get killed by a trigger happy cop in front of my apartment while I'm attending Harvard Business School?" "Are these guys going to hurt me?" One officer approaches, covering the spotlight on my cheek. He pounds on my window and I slowly drop my left hand to roll it down. I'm sweating. I'm afraid.
The officer commands, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
That's when I do it. I'm condescending when I drop the H-Bomb, responding, "I'm a student at Harvard Business School and I'm going to the gym. Is there a problem, officer?"
