My Personal Experiences Verify What The Entire World Already Knows.
I’m going to tell you a little story, set in the summer of 1971. I was 18. I had just graduated from high school and was awaiting entry into ROTP (ROTC) in the U.S. A friend of mine, and I decided to take a long trip through the United States, before I had to attend military training for the Royal Canadian Navy and my friend Dick was to head off to college that fall.
I had just purchased a Pontiac Catalina that I thought was in reasonable condition and Dick and I broke out the maps to determine our route to see ‘most’ of America in six weeks. Now for a normal, rational and reasonable human being, to cover what would become tens of thousands of miles in six weeks by road would seem irrational.
Well, to an eighteen year old, it seemed like adventure and a plan. We started in Canada, from dead centre in the middle of the continent in Winnipeg and decided the first leg of the trip would be across the Northwest of the United States then down to California before making another turn eastward across the United States to the East Coast. Then down the East coast to the Carolinas and back across the U.S. to California.
We had some interesting times in South Dakota when the State Police literally drove us off the highway into the ditch and then approached our vehicle with guns drawn telling us to put our hands on the dash, which of course we did. Shocked, we asked why this particular type of ‘stop’ had been made and were indignantly told that ‘that’s the way we do it’, if you don’t like it, I suggest you lodge a complaint with the State Police.
Of course, we didn’t and continued on our journey, thinking the incident was simply unusual but nothing out of the ordinary in a place like South Dakota.
After a couple of more traverses of the United States East to West, we found our last leg of the trip heading east, from Texas, aiming to get to Florida and then the return trip straight home.
Mississippi had other ideas.
We entered Mississippi from Louisiana in the very Northwest corner of the state of Louisiana and we decided to drive through the state by not travelling on the interstate, thinking what had happened in South Dakota shouldn’t be revisited.
We were travelling on a paved highway in the first county in the state, when we rounded a corner and were confronted with a series of speed posting signs, separated by just a few feet, from 50 mph down to 25 mph. As I was slowing down, I noticed a police car on the side of the highway opposite, whose red light immediately came on as we passed the vehicle.
The police car pulled up behind us, and I rolled down the window and placed my hands on the dash. Dick did the same. The police officer that walked up to the side of my window could have been the poster boy for a southern local town sheriff, which he was. He was 50 pounds overweight, and he wore a holster with a revolver that must have had a barrel that was almost 12 inches long.
He had more braid, golden cord and epaulettes than an Admiral and the attitude of Buford Pusser.
“Licence and registration,” was all he said.
I brandished both and asked him what the problem was.
“You were speeding,” came his instant answer.
I said the infamous words, obviously never heard in Mississippi, come freely out of my mouth.
“No I wasn’t.”
He bent down and pushed his face inside the car and yelled, “If I tell you were speeding, you were speeding.”
I said nothing.
He passed me back my registration, license and insurance and told me, “Follow me.”
Then he walked back to his car and began to drive.
I followed.
We terminated the trip at a small building, which had obviously been a parish church at some time, as the steeple was still on it. I parked my vehicle and the Sheriff said,
“This is the country court. You can pay your fine here.”
I began to say something and he ignored it saying, “Keep your mouth shut unless the Judge wants you to open it. Otherwise pay your fine and get out of here.”
I followed the cop into the church and noticed there was a judge sitting at the back on a raised Dias , a bailiff on one side, a stenographer on the other, and a bench for those awaiting their case to be heard.
A black man next to me just nodded as I sat down. Dick took a seat behind me on a bench against the wall.
The bailiff read out a case number and then stated a man’s name to come to the judge and stand in front of him.
What followed took less than 30 seconds, when I heard the Judge say “Guilty” quite loudly and the man was then handcuffed and taken out a side door by the bailiff.
Needless to say, at this point I was beginning to get concerned.
Then I heard my name called. I stood and walked to the spot in front of the judge, who stated;
“You were speeding this morning on such and such a highway when you were stopped by Sheriff Whatever for exceeding the speed limit by x miles per hour. How do you plead?
I stated, “Not guilty your honour.”
The bailiff now returned, stood and looked at me, incredulously. The stenographer did the same.
The judge who wore glasses, then took them off and stared at me for about ten seconds, stating,
“Would you like to reconsider your plea son.”
I stood there saying nothing.
The Judge then said.
“Son, if the Sheriff states that you were speeding, then I suggest that you were, or are you telling me that the Sheriff is lying? Before you answer I suggest you contemplate your answer.”
I thought for just a moment, and stated;
“I suppose I might have been speeding your honour.”
“Duly noted son. Your fine is $150 dollars. Pay the cashier outside.”
Now, in 1971 a gallon of gas cost me .49 cents in Canada, so $150 was an incomprehensible price for a speeding ticket, which I assumed would be at worst, $20.
I stated, “Your honour, I don’t know if I have $150 on me. Can I make a phone call to have the money sent.”
“Yes, but should you not pay the fine son, you will remain in custody of the state until you do so.”
I nodded, and left the court, followed by the Sheriff and trailed by Dick, whose mouth was agape, wondering “What the fuck is going on here?”
I asked to use a phone and contacted my father, explained the situation and of course he was livid, as he was sure I was being railroaded.
After a brief discussion, the words of which escape me, arrangements were made to have the money wired to the country clerk. After about an hour, the clerk came in and said the fine’s payment had been received and I was free to go.
The Sheriff walked back in to the county court and with his finger told me to come over and follow him.
He simply said, “I’m taking you to the state line, where you will be free to leave. I suggest you don’t come back.”
We went back to the car where Dick was yelling about how ridiculous this was. I was apoplectic, but decided discretion was the better part of valour.
We followed the Sheriff to the county and state line, whereupon he turned on the cruisers light and signalled us to stop on the side of the road, which we did.
He walked back to my car. My window was open, and said.
“You’re lucky you’re not working a chain gang son. Neither I nor the judge have ever been told that a speeder such as yourself, was not speeding. Dick opened his mouth to speak, when the Sheriff stated, “Look, you little mongrel. Best you shut up or you may find yourself in some real serious trouble. You northern wetbacks should stay out of this state.”
I said nothing.
The Sheriff turned around, walked back to his cruiser, and left.
We sat looking at each other, stunned.
But here’s the kicker.
Dick’s name (changed to preserve some sense of propriety) is Dick Fujimoto.
Yes, he is Japanese. His parents were interned in Canada, during WWII where they were forced to live out the war in a ‘work camp’.
The Sheriff, simply verified what we both felt.
We were not wanted in the U.S.
The message was unequivocal, clear and filled with a dripping sense of hate and racism.
We actually drove from there to Sheridan, Wyoming. Slept for a few hours, and drove from Sheridan to the Canadian border.
I did not return to the U.S. for almost twenty years.
And since I experienced another racist event in Minnesota, last fall while taking a photographic motorcycling trip, I will never, ever fucking return to the U.S.
America, under Trump is just as racist as it was in 1865, or 1968, or yesterday.
Canadians, writ-large are never coming back.
America is simply a racist, hate-filled place that will self-immolate in short order.
And I, have no empathy for America.
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