The “-isms” of Experience: Here’s What Happened When I Called The Cops On The Bagel Guy

I’d just worked out in my living room, and had come down to chat with my mom. My parents owned a two family house and I rented the apartment upstairs from them. I was wearing shorts and a tank top, and my mom and I were in her bedroom, when we heard a knock at the front door.  It had been days since the whole thing happened at the bagel store, and I hadn’t been back there since.

A minute later, my dad walks in and says “That guy Dan from the bagel store is here for you, Kerry.” My mom knew the story. I told my dad to tell him I wasn’t here. I immediately called my new boyfriend, Michael (by the way, he’s now my not-so-new husband). He told me to call the police, but I didn’t want the hubbub on our quiet street. I decided I’d go to the police station, and Michael would meet me there.

I have no idea how Dan even knew where I lived. He’d never been to my house, it’s not like I’d ever given him directions. All of a sudden, there he was at my front door. It was scary.

We got to the police station and were ushered into a room with a large cop, his blue uniform crisp and his badge, shiny. He short blond buzz cut spoke of military and all-American football. His blue eyes were steely, though not really unkind. I could tell he was treading lightly around this woman’s issue.

But let’s face it. I was a white woman making this complaint — that gave me some privilege. I also came with a man — my boyfriend. He brought authority. I wonder, now, if the complaint would have been treated differently if I’d been alone, or black.

But wait. It gets better. Or worse.

The cop was about to toss down a nice big flaming ball of racism and sexism all in one God-awful response.