As a preface before I get into the story, I had some friends that lived a couple blocks away. I slept over at their house every other weekend, with them coming to my house the rest of the time. These friends were two sisters plus their mom and dad. The dad and daughters had darker skin due to their Hispanic heritage.
One morning, we were at their house watching a show on Netflix in the living room. The living room of this house had a clear view of the front yard and the street. We were all still in our pajamas even though it was noon, because that’s how it goes on sleepovers. Nothing was abnormal about this sleepover, we had some popcorn and watched movies late into the night before going to sleep and waking up the next morning to make breakfast.
But at this sleepover, a knock came at the door around noon. There was no car out front and we didn’t see anyone approaching. I kinda looked around to my friends laying comatose on the couch. I didn’t feel comfortable opening the door if it wasn’t my house, but I got up when the girl that was my age got up to check the window and see who it was before opening the door.
A policeman stood at the porch, his hand rested relaxed on his handgun and he wore a bulletproof vest.
The friend next to me cautiously opened the door. She had to, he had seen us and she didn’t know what would happen if we left him there. The one we left on the couch didn’t move. I think I told her to get their parents, both were upstairs watching TV.
But as she shuffled away, I spotted another policemen out the dining room window, but unlike the one at the front door, this one had a large rifle he held pointed at the ground, a Kevlar vest, and a helmet as he stalked behind the house. Another one followed six feet behind him.
At this point I faced the officer on the porch. So me, a small white girl still in her pajamas says, “Hello Officer, we were just watching a. show Is there something you need?”
He smiled at me, “Is there an adult here?”
Just then the mom came rushing down the stairs. I learned later that the dad was hiding in the bathroom. He knew that if he opened the door, it would not end the same that it had.
The mom and the officer spoke. Apparently there had been a tip from across the street that someone had heard gunfire coming from our house. Which was surprising for two reasons, 1. this family did not own a gun. The mom was a secretary at the local school district, and the dad was a nurse at the veteran's hospital. And 2. because we didn’t here any gunfire the night before and we were up late enough that we should have heard it.
The officer left, saying it must’ve been a misunderstanding, and called off the men waiting in the backyard. I watched them in fascination as they jogged out of the yard, their guns now held loosely. I realized with a pang of fear that they must’ve turned the safety back on.
It was days later when I learned they had parked the police van a block away.
It was days later when I learned at least 10 men had approached the house that morning and another van waited on standby in case there was trouble.
It was days later when I learned we had been Swatted.
The mom still to this day says that I must’ve used my white privilege magic that morning. She still says that my few words are the reason her husband and daughters are alive and not riddled with bullet holes.
“Hello, Officer, we were just watching a show. Is there something you need?”
Is that all it takes to call off a swat team? A little white girl still in her pajamas, her hair messy, the sleep still in her eyes? Not the two other little brown girls or the mom half out of her mind with fear? No. It was those 13 words.
What would the officers had done if the Hispanic dad had answered the door? What would have happened if we were upstairs and suddenly there are police officers in the house with big guns and loud voices.
I fear the possibilities.
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