On my run yesterday I crossed 16th Street onto Arkansas Avenue, jogged along a dirt path to the crest of a hill, and stopped short. At the bottom were blinking cop cars and a silver sedan. The sedan’s four doors hung open so that anyone could see its innards. Three young black men stood nearby, handcuffed. I pulled out my phone and hit record. One cop wrestled one of the young men to the ground, announcing loudly, like a child actor, “You’re resisting. Stop resisting.” The young man didn’t make much, if any, sound. More people stopped to watch. More people pulled out their cellphones. But some people didn’t. A man wearing khakis kept chipping golf balls. Runners kept running, oblivious or unbothered.
I and five or six other people stayed for an hour as more cops arrived, shuffling paperwork, gripping forearms. Occasionally one cop’s voice escalated in frustration. The atmosphere felt uneasy, like lightning might strike and the handcuffed young men were exposed. Cops picked over the car with gloved hands but nothing, it seemed, was ever found. The young men stared at their shoes, looking skinny and scared. Eventually, they were split up. One was tucked into a patrol unit. One was led to a windowless van. And the third was picked up by his father. When that young man was driven away, a bystander on the hill let out a holler: “At least he’s going free!”
None of this is joyous. It’s awful. D.C. police have a history of targeting black communities. But it reminded me that while the world is becoming worse in new ways, it’s also staying bad in predictable ones. So do you best, and keep your eyes open.
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Now for some actual joy. Patrick Radden Keefe’s podcast Wind of Change came out this week. It’s a must listen. Keefe is a New Yorker staff writer who covers criminals, conspiracies, and now the Cold War. I won’t say much about the series but know that the central animating question is, What if the CIA wrote a mega-popular metal anthem to sneak Western ideals behind the Iron Curtain? If such a quest brings you no delight then I’m sorry. We are not the same.