Two or three decades and a lifetime ago, a Hermosa Beach (Calif.) policeman pulled me over for suspicion of driving under the influence. I was the designated driver for my carload of dudes, and we were about midway through our mission to determine the best margarita in the South Bay. Honest, I had nothing stronger than black coffee. About 7 cups.  And that was the problem.

“I don’t know what you’re on,” said the uniformed man in blue, “but I know it’s something.” He didn’t want to hear that copious caffeine was the reason for my dilated pupils. “Close your eyes, extend your arms and touch your nose.” “Hop on one foot.” “Recite the alphabet backward.” Eight squad cars screeched up and suddenly I was plunged into an uphill battle to prove my sobriety.

I never feared for my safety. I was, however, petrified at the prospect of being handcuffed and whisked to jail as a completely innocent man. I remember feeling a helpless loss of control, much like the first time as a little kid, in the ocean and over my head, kicking my feet in a rising panic, unable to touch bottom.

Somehow, I managed to talk myself out of being arrested but we were forced to leave my car and walk 3 miles home.  I have told this story many times over the years. Until this week, I never even paused to consider how that scene may have been different if I were Black.

On a day when a family, a community and a country reflect on the memory George Floyd, I hope meaning and understanding can lift us from what feels like rock bottom.

Jon