Listen. This past couple of weeks have been one for the books. I’m not just saying that to be dramatic. It was packed with anxiety attacks, uncertainty, and sheer panic. Usually I start off with some cute little anecdote that connects the dots, but I ain’t got it in me today, girl. Let me just tell the story.

A little while ago on a trek back to DC one weekend, I got pulled over. My fat ass was trying to get to Royal Farms right off the highway in Cecil County Maryland, and ran right into a road block. For those who don’t know anything about Cecil County, MD, it is a vast land of meth, void of melanin (No shade to people from Elkton, but I’m just saying). Off top, I’m terrified because I’m black man, pulled over at midnight, in the middle of methville, USA, but I was fine. The cop was cool and asks me questions about work. He runs my license and comes back to inform me that I was ineligible for a drivers license, which is odd because I handed him my license. We were both confused. It was super strange. Basically, I was driving a car without a license, which is an arrestable offense, but since I seemed like a “respectable, upstanding young man”, he let me go to “figure out what the issue was.” He told me to call the courts and make arrangements, and I probably wouldn’t even have to show up, if I got the public defender to show up for me. So, I was cool. This is a walk in the park, and it wouldn’t be a big deal. 

Well. A bitch was completely wrong.

Two weeks before the court date, I called the court like the officer suggested to get some special arrangements made. To my surprise, there were no “special arrangements” that could be made. I had to show up to court (about 10 miles from the Delaware line) and had to make arrangements to get there or a bench warrant would be issued. I still didn’t panic. I called up the public defender’s office and this is where the terror hit me. He tells me that I have to show up to court and that I was looking at up to 60 days in jail if this went sour. 

Listen. 60 days. Who? Me? Oh baby fuck no. 

The terror that washed over me fueled me into a frenzy.I’m going to one of the whitest places on the planet to stand before a judge. I called the Virginia DOT, and asked them what the issue was, so I could try to get this rectified before I went to court. Turns out, Louisiana had canceled my license with the National Driving Registry, for tickets I got in 2011. Had I not gotten this ticket, I wouldn’t have ever known to call.  I’ve literally been driving and riding around with a invalid license and couldn’t even justify it. I tell the public defender all of this, and he says to me, “you need to work on paying these tickets and bring evidence to court that you have paid them, or it may not look good.” I had to go to a local commissioners office to apply for a public defender at this point, but I make too much money to qualify, and the application process wouldn’t be complete by the time I went to court anyway.. 

So, a bitch had to represent himself and hope that the prosecutor and judge would take it easy on me. Then there was the small task of getting to court, since I wasn’t allowed to drive. The day before court, I had a whole anxiety attack in my office on the floor. I’m shitting bricks and trying to make contingency plans, warn my boss of the possibilities, and try to figure out next steps. Five AM on a Wednesday morning, I hop on an Amtrak train to Wilmington, DE, then take a $35 Uber ride to Elkton, MD, so I could appear in court. I show up in a navy blue suit, sweating bullets as I wait for my turn to speak with the prosecutor. My smug ass looks around the room and sees the plethora of missing teeth, plaid shirts, work boots, dusty leggings and think to myself, “ I don’t belong here.” A bitch got humbled real quick because the clerk called out my name on the docket just like she called everyone else’s. I wasn’t special. I was in unfamiliar territory which could end badly for me. 60 days means a criminal charge on my record, no more job, and the possibility of no longer working in education. I’m a black man and one additional strike against me could undo all the things I did to build myself and  career. My literal future lay in the hands of 2 people, with one having pivotal impact; the judge. 

When my turn to speak to the Prosecutor comes up, I swiftly trot up and  he asks me all these questions. I’m nervously answering trying not to shake. He gives me his recommendation for a guilty plea, which meant no jail time, no conviction, and paying a fine. My fat ass takes a sigh of relief until he says to me, “it’s just my recommendation, but given your history I think the judge will accept it. Ultimately it’s up to her.” 

Kill me. I gotta fight the final boss of me.. , I mean Elkton, for my freedom. Now, I just have to wait until my name is called and see what she says. Two fucking hours I sit there and wait. My time comes and I approach the bench. She reads me all my rights as it pertains to court which was cool cause a bitch didn’t know, then asks me how I was going to plead. The prosecutor makes his recommendation, and she accepts. The fine?  $75. I paid more to travel to Elkton than I did for the actual fine but I wasn’t complaining. I sit my fat ass down and wait on my paperwork so I can go pay the cashier and GET THE FUCK. ASAP!

I learned a valuable lesson. I needed to be knocked down a few pegs to realize that when it comes to life, you don’t get to skip the hard parts because you’re smart. Being smug and elitist won’t get me anywhere. Had the judge decided differently, my black ass would have been in jail with everybody else. I also learned that I relied a lot on my career to get me out of this. I work at an elementary school. I’m a school leader. That shit doesn’t make you invincible. Educators get locked the fuck up everyday. I’m no different. Luckily, I’m not going to jail, but I definitely need to get my anxiety under control, so I’m meeting my psychiatrist next week to start meds again. This experience will always serve as a reminder to me. There’s a place to be “that bitch” and there are spaces where you have to walk in some humility. Until next time. Keep healing bitches. 3 more months of 2019 to fight through. We can do it.