A middle-class black man raised by white parents, Ben had always respected the police. Until one night they stopped his car...



Growing up as a black person in a predominantly white society, I always regarded myself as having a balanced view of the world. I have experienced my share of prejudice, of course, but life has taught me that, on the whole, our nation is decent, tolerant and, above all, fair.

I was born in the UK and raised in Middlesex by adoptive white parents after my Bajan birth mother fell seriously ill. We were a middle-class family and I was educated largely privately, so I was sheltered to some extent from the casual racism which blights so many lives.

I own and run an international theatre school. When I speak to people on the phone, the vast majority assume I am white, which, though it pains me to admit it, probably makes my life easier.

But I have plenty of black friends and have worked with disadvantaged youngsters all my adult life. So when certain sections of the black community exchanged elaborate — and almost always anonymous — anecdotes about deeply ingrained police racism, I took it all with a pinch of salt.

I knew better than to mistake conspiracy theory for fact. Or so I thought, until my cosy illusion was shattered two weeks ago.

The Damascene moment came as I drove home to Kingston-upon-Thames after seeing A Chorus Line at a London theatre. Settling back into the driving seat of my £36,000 black Audi A5, I was happily humming a tune from the show when I noticed a flash of blue in my rear-view mirror.

I spotted an unmarked police car but continued my journey, assuming the flashing light was nothing to do with me, since I was driving at a perfectly legal 30mph.

When I realised the car was on my tail I pulled over, wondering if, perhaps, my brake light was out.

Five seconds later, a police constable was rapping on my window and shouting: 'Open it!'

No sooner had I done so than he barked: 'Is this your car, pal?' I nodded, but before I could speak he launched into a tirade.

'I don't think you heard me right, mate. I asked if this was your car? It's a very nice car for a bloke like you to be driving, isn't it? Now I'm going to repeat the question, to be absolutely clear, and think hard before you answer me: Is. This. Your. Car?'

Again I tried to answer, again I was cut off.

'Let me guess — it's yours but you can't prove it? Or maybe you've borrowed it from a friend? And you haven't got your driving licence. Am I right?'

Finally given the opportunity to reply, all I could do was stare into his eyes, gripped by self-righteous fury.

I took a deep breath and slowly, quietly, informed him that I did have my driving licence and perhaps he could let me know on what grounds he had stopped me.

His voice dripping with disdain, he told me to be quiet and hand over my licence. When I asked if I could see some form of identification — or at least get his name — he leaned in and jabbed his finger at me, hissing the words: 'Hand. It. Over.'

Which I did and, of course, everything was in order. In a heartbeat, his demeanour changed.

His anger was replaced by a distinctly panicked look. Now he was allowing me to speak freely, and my pronunciation was clearly giving him the jitters — I trained in the theatre and have retained the clear diction drilled into me by my teachers.

I asked again why he had stopped me, and he spluttered something about a spate of Audis being stolen in Twickenham.

Ignoring the fact our conversation was taking place six miles away in Roehampton, I pointed out that surely they would have the registration numbers of the stolen cars? Were they stopping every Audi within the Greater London area, or just the ones who drove safely within the speed limit?

The police officer stared at his shoes, apparently dumbstruck.

Once more I asked to see his warrant card, whereupon he turned on his heel, flashing some form of identification as he walked away, telling me: 'You can go about your business now.'

The ID he showed me could have been a Nectar card for all I could make out.

Ten seconds later he pulled off, tyres squealing. As he sped off — apparently the 30mph restriction does not apply to officers of the law — my first reaction was to laugh out loud.

But there wasn't the slightest hint of mirth in my laughter. It was born of bitter frustration, shock and an overwhelming sense of foolishness.

I was an idiot. What's more, I owe a huge apology to Britain's black community.

I always believed in the Boys in Blue; trusted them to look after our best interests because, well, that's what they do, isn't it?

My faith in them survived the Macpherson Report, with its allegations of institutional racism, and a disturbing documentary called The Secret Policeman, which exposed racism among recruits.

Call me naive, but I regarded these as mere speed bumps on the road to a better place — an opportunity to learn lessons and move forward.

On a personal level, I never had the slightest reason to doubt the police or their integrity. Whenever I came across them — especially after I received racist death threats two years ago — they were unfailingly polite, professional and respectful.

The only time I wavered in this view was when Stuart Lawrence, whose brother Stephen's racist murder prompted the Macpherson Report, spoke out about being stopped in his car by police up to 25 times, simply because of the colour of his skin.

That stopped me in my tracks, I must admit, but still I had nagging doubts. Could it really be true? It shames me to admit this but, hand on heart, I couldn't help wondering if there was more to the story, because this kind of racism had never happened to me.

Now, having been through my own chastening experience, I cannot recall a time when I have felt more foolish.

There is no doubt in my mind why that ignorant policeman pulled me over: I was a black man in a high-end car. People like me don't get to drive a new Audi A5 unless we are professional footballers, pop stars or up to no good.

I am no longer surprised that so many ethnic minorities distrust the police. I can see why they choose not to step forward when asked to, often preferring to settle disputes without recourse to the very people who belittle and, on some occasions, openly detest them.

Setting off on my short journey home from the West End, my mind flooded with contradictory thoughts. Chiefly, I thought, what an utter waste of police time. How many burglaries were being committed within a mile of us while he was indulging his prejudice?

What could I do about it? Surely they can't get away with treating people like that?

Then the reality struck me. They can and they do. This is precisely what Stuart Lawrence was talking about.

This is why the black community complains so bitterly about the lack of respect they experience on a daily basis from the police.

This officer had picked on me because of the colour of my skin, but he would never be held to account for his actions. He was gone, like a ghost in the night, and without knowing his identity there was nothing I could do about it.

Here I was in a leafy suburb, protected by relative wealth and privilege, which had clearly frightened him into a hasty retreat. There is no such luxury for the majority of black people, who have no option but to take the abuse and move on.

In the days since this happened, there has been a stark change in my world view.

I am no longer surprised that so many ethnic minorities distrust the police. I can see why they choose not to step forward when asked to, often preferring to settle disputes without recourse to the very people who belittle and, on some occasions, openly detest them.

This has been a huge wake-up call for me after years of blithely assuming the best — a reminder that while we have come a long way as a nation, we can never stop striving to improve.

I still maintain that the vast majority of police officers are decent, hard-working and fundamentally honest servants of the people.

Yet it only takes one rotten apple to spoil the barrel and, judging by the experiences of Stuart Lawrence and many more, this is clearly not a case of one rogue officer.

These are difficult times for our police forces. The officers themselves admit as much: two-thirds of bobbies in London's Metropolitan Police say the public no longer receives a good service.

Lord Stevens, who was the Met's commissioner from 2000 until 2005, speaks of a 'national crisis' in police morale.

Well, it cuts both ways. Just as they have lost confidence in themselves, I have lost confidence in them. And for that I am truly sorry.

Original report here




(And don't forget your ration of Wicked Thoughts for today. Now hosted on Wordpress. If you cannot access it, go to the MIRROR SITE, where posts appear as well as on the primary site. I have reposted the archives (past posts) for Wicked Thoughts HERE or HERE or here