I spent a year working in Camden’s Catholic schools and living in a community of other volunteers on Vine St. in North Camden. We were mostly a bunch of white (there was one Mexican and one Mexican-Italian in our six-person group) idealistic 22-year-old college grads from everywhere in the country but the East Coast. The neighborhood is mostly Puerto Rican, Dominican, black. It’s far enough north that no out-of-town Rutgers kids live there – though at first that’s what our neighbors naturally assumed we were. The majority of white people who come to the neighborhood – I was told first by a Camden County detective, then by a local drug dealer who apologized for mistaking me for a buyer – are there for drugs: suburban addicts, homeless addicts. So we got stopped a lot by the cops – some of us more than others – for looking like addicts.

 

The rest of this needs a preface:

– I understand why I was profiled in these cases.

– I in no way mean to suggest that these encounters come even remotely close to resembling what other, typically non-white people endure, on a daily basis and in more heinous forms, their entire lives.

– These anecdotes are also not even meant as complaints about racially profiling white people in the city. My experiences were sometimes even amusing. But there are broader implications of what I and my housemates experienced that are worth sharing, and these situations were also revealing examples of the “broken windows model” of policing.

 

 

Ok, here’s the rest:

 

Once, biking back from playing soccer at Pyne Poynt, a cop parked on the side of the street with his window down called me over, asked the requisite “Where are you going?” and informed me I was the “whitest person in the city.” I told him he should see one of my housemates. He also told me that, with my bike and backpack (filled with cleats and ball), I looked like a homeless person – as if that were some sin. I said thanks. I told him I was playing soccer and he said, “Oh ya, I think I’ve seen you there before.” It was the first time I’d played at Pyne Poynt, though.

 

Another time I was driving and paused at an intersection on State Street to let an elderly guy cross – it was an intersection without a stoplight or stop sign. A patrol car followed me for several blocks after that, then finally flashed its lights. The officer apparently hadn’t seen the older guy and thought my stop was suspicious – my car also had Utah plates. He let me go, but said I needed to remove my “Gonzaga University Alumni” plate protector because it obscured the top half of the word “Utah.” As a Utah native, I was mainly just insulted that he hadn’t recognized the plate’s picture of Delicate Arch. When he told me about the plate, I said ok and laughed, and so did he, as if he knew how ridiculous it was to stop me for that.

 

Other times I was just walking (to the liquor store, to the library) when patrol cars sped up, blocked my path, and ejected intimidating officers, one of whom, after I’d explained myself (they became sort of friendly once I convinced them I lived in the neighborhood), said something about going after the dealers, not the buyers. (More on that later.)

 

Another housemate of mine – whiter even than me, with Missouri plates – was stopped at least (I lost count) eight times in the first half of this year while driving and cited for violations you’d be surprised to know even exist: too much snow on the rear window, too much stuff dangling from the mirror. One of the citations she fought, successfully, in court. There was even an instance where she was pulled over by a rookie cop for having her phone out, then told by the officer that not having a seatbelt on would be a smaller fine so he’d cite her for that – except she was wearing her seatbelt, and he could see that. But he told her to “read between the lines,” whatever that meant. I assume it meant the cop was telling her to lie to help make it seem like he had a legitimate reason for pulling her over. The cop’s older partner eventually stepped in, and they let her go.

 

Most of the cars I saw roll stop signs were police cars – no flashing lights or anything, just driving around. I’ve twice seen cop cars driving the wrong direction on a one-way street. One of those time they were involved in a high-speed pursuit, and two of their mean-looking Camden County Dodge Chargers – lights on, sirens blaring – came from nowhere going almost 40 and sped right past the school where I was working at the time – going the wrong way down a one-way, recall. We were in the process of dismissing from an after-school program. I was outraged that the cops would be so reckless – it goes without saying that it’s not worth it to risk people’s lives while chasing drug buyers. 

 

I think one reason I’m offering these anecdotes is that these interactions – limited as they were, and I’m hoping not representative – did little to inspire confidence in the competency of a police force that is full of young, inexperienced cops who apparently often have nothing better to do than sit around and wait for suspicious-looking people – white, homeless-looking, whatever – to go by.

 

 

As far as the recent NYT article goes, the police should not be praised for making Camden a place where, when “you do something bad, they are going to stop you” and where “officers aren’t afraid to come out of their cars and interact with the community” – those are bare-minimum expectations.

 

It’s encouraging to hear Chief Thomson say he doesn’t think Camden can arrest its way out of its issues. But I wonder what role he sees his officer playing, exactly. After all, community organizers don’t wear guns.