The origins of modern-day policing in the United States are not found in the lofty ideals of justice or public safety. They are rooted in control—specifically, the control of Black bodies. The earliest form of organized law enforcement in this country was the slave patrol, established in the Carolinas in the early 1700s. These patrols existed for one purpose: to instill fear, suppress rebellion, and forcibly return human beings to bondage. Their methods were brutal, their mission clear.
As time moved forward and slavery evolved into other forms of racialized control, policing in America was refined—not reimagined. Between 1840 and 1860, formal police departments emerged, modeled after the English system, but they retained the original spirit of enforcement: to protect the interests of the powerful and manage those deemed dangerous, disorderly, or disposable. Too often, that meant us—Black Americans.
This is the bitter root of our distrust. For African Americans, encounters with the police are not neutral events. They carry history in their wake. That history doesn’t end with slavery. It stretches through Jim Crow, mass incarceration, stop-and-frisk policies, and the disproportionate killing of unarmed Black men and women. It’s not paranoia; it’s memory. Generational, ancestral memory.
As a Black parent, raising two children in a country where that memory remains active, I had to prepare them not just for life, but for survival. I taught my son and daughter the same painful lessons many Black parents must teach: If you're ever stopped by the police, be polite. Keep your hands visible. Speak calmly. Announce your actions before you make them. Hold your license and registration in one hand, and keep the other on the steering wheel. As Richard Pryor once said, “I’m reaching into my pocket for my license because I don’t want to be no accident.”
But there’s a fine line we walk—a tightrope between being polite and allowing ourselves to be dehumanized. That is where self-respect and education must intervene. We must be wise enough to maintain our dignity without escalating the danger. Because, as spiritual beings having a human experience, we must remind ourselves and others: I am your equal. I am not a threat—I am a reflection of your own humanity.
Yet we live in a time when even the Constitution—once touted as the backbone of American democracy—is being disrespected by those in power. Legal orders are ignored. Institutions of justice are undermined. In such an environment, the already difficult path for Black Americans becomes more treacherous. Still, we find a way.
We find a way by understanding the power of energy—our energy. Life, like spirit, operates as a magnet. The energy you emit is the energy you attract. I’ve never owned or shot a gun. I’ve never believed in answering violence with more violence. That old adage rings true: Live by the sword, die by the sword. Carrying fear invites danger. I choose to carry peace.
I also recognize that many dangers we fear—such as home invasions or betrayals—often come not from strangers, but from people we know. They are drawn not by random chaos but by patterns we may not see. That’s why protecting your energy is more important than any lock or weapon. Keep your thoughts clean, your spirit light, and your environment clear. Avoid negativity. Feed your soul with music, nature, connection—not fear or hate.
I came of age in Dallas, Texas, a city with a long and lingering legacy of racism. In the 1980s, I drove a candy-apple red Trans Am, often cruising the parks during summer weekends. I partied. I drank. I made mistakes. And yet, despite the climate and my actions, I was never pulled out of my car, never harassed, never harmed by police. Was it luck? Perhaps. But I believe it was something greater—my energy, my mindset, and the protection of unseen forces. My mother, who passed in 1980, remains with me as a spiritual guide, watching over me through choices wise and unwise. Her presence, and the presence of other spiritual guardians, has helped steer my path away from destruction.
After reading Sacred Contracts by Caroline Myss, I came to see life not as a string of random events, but as a series of spiritual agreements. We choose our lessons before we are born. We choose our teachers, even if they come disguised as adversaries, heartbreaks, or hardships. That ex-spouse, that corrupt system, even that unjust cop—each may play a role in our soul’s evolution. Some of these contracts stretch across lifetimes, tied to karma. Others are opportunities for us to finally learn the lessons we once ignored.
This is how I’ve come to see my life—as a sacred journey. One that demands awareness, strength, humility, and love. To be Black in America is to be in constant negotiation with danger and dignity. It is to survive systems that were never designed for your freedom, yet still rise with grace. It is to remember your divine worth in a world that tries to make you forget.
So I say to my brothers and sisters navigating this American terrain: Do so with caution, but also with power. With wisdom. With clarity. Keep your energy high. Protect your peace. And remember: No matter the color of your skin or the weight of your burden, you are a soul on a sacred path—equipped not only to survive but to shine.
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