THERE WERE COPS IN MY YARD, AND AS AN AFRICAN AMERICAN FAMILY, MY MIND WAS FULL OF NEGATIVE THOUGHTS
I froze when I saw the police car parked in front of our house. The flashing lights weren’t on, but my stomach clenched anyway. Then I spotted two officers standing in my yard.
I gripped the doorknob, hesitant to step outside. My son, Isaiah, was in there. My husband wasn’t home. And we’re a Black family—I didn’t need to tell myself what could go wrong.
I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. “Isaiah?” My voice came out shakier than I wanted.
Isaiah came running up the steps with the biggest grin on his face. “Mom! Did you see?”
One of the officers, a white guy with a buzz cut, turned toward me. “Ma’am, your son is quite the little hero.”
Hero? My mind scrambled to make sense of what I was hearing. I looked at Isaiah, then at the second officer, a Black woman who gave me a small, reassuring nod. But my body was still tight, my hands still cold.
“There was a man running through the neighborhood,” the officer continued. “Wanted for robbery. We were about to lose him until your boy did… whatever that was.” He let out a short chuckle.
Isaiah practically bounced on his feet. “I used my—”
I grabbed his arm before he could finish. “You helped the police?” My voice was gentle, but my eyes searched his face. I wasn’t mad, just… cautious.
Isaiah nodded proudly. “Yeah! And they caught him because of me!”
I swallowed, glancing at the officers again. The Black woman smiled. “He really did. It was clever, honestly.”
I exhaled, my nerves still buzzing. Isaiah was safe. He wasn’t in trouble. But I still needed to know—how exactly did my son, my nine-year-old, help the police catch a thief?
Isaiah smiled wider. “It was easy, Mom! I just used my…”