Words to Live By

My son Langston came into the house visibly angry. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were red and narrowed. “What’s wrong?” I quickly asked. “I was just trying to park and get to work,” he said.

Last summer, Langston was an intern for a progressive organization in New Jersey. They had been lobbying at the capitol in Trenton that day. He left home hoping they could make a difference. But as he attempted to park at the statehouse, a police officer stopped him and roughly told him to park elsewhere. As Langston searched for a different spot, another officer stopped him, drilled him with questions and told him to find somewhere else to park. He stood still in the kitchen, not really looking at me as he spoke. And then, “I got stopped again, Dad. Again! And the cop asked me, ‘Who is your P.O.?’ And I said, ‘What’s a P.O.?’ and the cop yelled, ‘Parole officer!’ I was in a suit, Dad! A suit!” A single tear fell down