Mary Pember: Memories of racism come back in a police stop

The public debate over police violence against unarmed black men has reminded me of the same police treatment of Native men and the palpable lack of public concern. The August 2014 report by the Center on Juvenile and Criminal Justice notes that the racial group most likely to be killed by law enforcement is Native Americans. It's painful to consider and not much fun to write about, but I must. Like so many frail humans, I try to ignore pain until it touches me personally.

"Driving while Indian" isn't a skill I want to know, nor is it something I want to pass along to my children. I would prefer to loll comfortably in racial anonymity here in my home in Southern Ohio, where race is primarily about black and white. I am occasionally mistaken for Latina out here in the suburbs, which sometimes raises a bit of suspicion among my white neighbors. But mostly I have the tremendous luxury of going about my business without fear of racial injustice from law enforcement and the community at large. This may partially be the result of a heavy personal armor that I've grown to protect my psyche; I simply choose to ignore incidents that might have hurt or angered me in the past.

Last summer, however, with my daughter, I got to revisit the frightening vigilance that comes with living on the reservation and traveling to border towns. As a child, I recall many humiliating and scary experiences made all the worse by witnessing the powerlessness of my elders at the hands of white authorities. I remember vividly the shame of seeing my uncle swallow his pride and walk wordlessly out of a store rather than endangering us kids when the white owner told him, "down the street, chief," when we walked in to buy pop. I remember the fear of frequent traffic stops over things like broken taillights or something or other being too high or too low on the car. Mostly I remember how we all knew to be absolutely quiet and still, no matter what the officer said or did because we knew instinctively that the situation could turn deadly in a second.

This was a lesson I had hoped my children might forego, but I was wrong.

Last summer, when the officer moved his hand toward his gun, the familiar skills returned. It was like knowing how to ride a bicycle.