The saddest part is that this is not a unique story.<p>Some number of weeks ago, I &quot;fit the description&quot; of a latino male exiting Safeway after having caused some kind of spat in Mountain View. They &quot;identified&quot; the male as having on black shorts and wearing sandals, and some kind of sleeve tattoo if my memory serves.<p>I am a fairer-skinned black male, I did have on black shorts and Birkinstocks, so close enough I guess. I was over a block away from Safeway, but the cop still felt the need to creep up on me, then bleep his siren, turn around, get out of his SUV and question me.<p>The cop felt the need to know if - simple Silicon Valley yuppie me, carrying a Starbucks cup from earlier in the day and a fresh bag of Thai food with a receipt dated no more than nine minutes prior - I had gang tattoos and&#x2F;or affiliations, asked me to roll up my sleeves. He needed to know why my out-of-state drivers license didn&#x27;t have my current California address (no, I&#x27;m dead serious, I guess he couldn&#x27;t figure it out.)<p>Of course, I grew up in the deep south so I&#x27;m more than used to this, and know how to keep my head on when dealing with a police officer who is holier than thou and is packing the hardware to prove it to you at a twitch&#x27;s notice. My upbringing taught me that, as a black person, this is what we have to expect from officials, be it police, school officials, any petty tyrant&#x27;s office job. This is why you don&#x27;t talk to the cops and you keep your head down when walking - your skin still says enough about you.<p>However, even after climbing the broken ladder, fighting my way out of abject poverty through stacks of student loans, it was truly disheartening to see it&#x27;s still true, even here in the land of million dollar homes and self driving cars.<p>I&#x27;ve felt this man&#x27;s fear.