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Black grandson riding with white grandma gets mistaken for robbery suspect
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A black man headed home from church with his white grandmother was taken into custody by police in Wisconsin after two witnesses falsely reported that he was robbing her.
Attorney Joy Bertrand believes the 18-year-old man who was detained for roughly six minutes by police in Wauwatosa on Sunday was harassed, and the lawyer has requested all documents pertaining to the traffic stop, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel reported.
“After we take a look at whatever basis they have for stopping and harassing this family, we will be able to comment further,” Bertrand told the newspaper.
Police officials said in a statement that an officer was flagged down by a black couple who indicated that a robbery was either in progress or had just taken place. The suspect was a black male in the back seat of a blue Lexus, the couple reported, according to police.
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“The citizen pointed out the car to the officer,” the statement continued. “A traffic stop was conducted. A non-approach traffic stop was made, in which the officer called the back seat passenger (who was said to be the robbery suspect by the citizen) back to officers instead of the officers approaching the car.”
The 18-year-old man — identified by the newspaper as Akil Carter — was then detained “based on reasonable suspicion” for approximately six minutes as an investigation ensued. Carter and the other occupants of the vehicle were then allowed to leave. The person who reported the allegations to police, however, did not stay in the area as requested by officers and has yet to be located to get a formal statement, police said.
“Officers removed their handgun from their holsters based on the original information of a possible violent crime (robbery) in progress, but kept their weapons pointed in a safe direction during the stop. The officers acted professionally during the entire interaction.”
But Carter was actually inside the car with his grandmother and her friend. They were on their way home from church at the time, Bertrand told the newspaper.
Carter’s grandmother can be heard in squad-car footage released by the department surmising exactly what she thought the man who reported the purported robbery had been thinking.
“I’m sure he saw two old white ladies in a car with a black kid and made some assumptions,” Carter’s grandmother told the officer, who apologized on behalf of the man.
Carter, who was released without incident, declined to comment to the Journal Sentinel. Bertrand said Carter is currently keeping “all options” on the table, including filing a lawsuit against the department.
“It seems to me that the police officers’ suspicion that this car was involved in a crime dissipates when his grandmother said, ‘He’s with me,’ if they had a suspicion to begin with,” Bertrand told The Post.
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On the morning I accompany my demented grandmother on a bus from Las Vegas to Los Angeles, my Uncle Bartolo makes pancakes in his kitchen. He's the brother my mother and my aunts are always scolding and protecting, because of his displacement and his sins.
Fifteen years ago, when I met him during a family trip to Nevada, Uncle Bartolo smiled and sat poolside, his tanned arms over his head. His white American girlfriend, a casino waitress, laughed and mussed his hair. I didn't know then about the wife and five sons Uncle Bartolo had left behind in the Philippines, and the dollars he sent to support them over the decades.
Now he's alone in suburban Las Vegas. I don't know what happened to the waitress. As I read the steady resignation of his movements, I know not to ask. It's 2008, I'm twenty-three, and Uncle Bartolo is still tall and lean in his forties, his hair black and full over his youthful face.
Uncle Bartolo gasps and moves his palm to a sharp pain in his back. He freezes before he feels safe to move again. I don't know what to do. He does not explain the pain.
My grandmother sits at the table with us, peeling a banana with deliberation. Her white hair is a disheveled puff. She wears a rumpled yellow sweatsuit; she's skinny as a cigarette. Mamang was once a woman protective of her appearance, tying elaborate silk scarves around her neck and perfecting her eyeliner.
"I don't want her in a home," my uncle says. "Depressing. Your aunties, they want the home. It's good you're taking her to visit your mom in California."
My grandmother mutters in Filipino. She has a different relationship with my relatives when speaking Filipino, a language she uses with adept relish until one of her children uses it back at her. During post-World War II Philippines, she beat her children with long aluminum strips, smoked through marathon mah-jong tournaments, and yelled if her kids asked for food, school supplies, hugs. I sometimes wonder if that's one reason my mother never taught me Filipino: to spare me the torturous matriarchal reprimands.
Uncle Bartolo does not reply to my grandmother now in any language. He watches TV. There is a rerun of an evening news feature on the Netherlands.
My grandmother leaves the table. I see that her walk—formerly upright, the deportment of a doña—has slowed to a stagger. She reaches in front of her, both hands groping the empty air, and, finding the walls, guides herself back to the room. Her mouth moves quietly all the while.
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"Is that true?" Uncle asks me. "Free doctors in Amsterdam?"
I smile. But he looks at me in all seriousness. Uncle Bartolo has been a perfume salesman, vacuum-vendor, ballroom-dance partner. He's trying to be a real estate agent.
He stares at the stock shots of Amsterdam. Bicycles, water canals, white people. "You help your grandma pack," he says.
I walk back to my grandmother's room. She has already begun to pack.
"We don't come back here," Mamang says. Then, angry and looking toward my uncle, "Everything is missing! ID, passport, money."
I see her passport, ID, and money on her dresser.
"You want to watch Price Is Right, Mamang?" I ask.
She pauses. She says one of the only Filipino words I understand, the word my mother used to finish every loud and happy conversation with a friend far away. "Sige." Okay. The thought of Bob Barker, that pale host totemic to so many budget-minded Filipinos, has suddenly soothed her.
I turn on her TV. I can't find The Price is Right.
I begin to feel a bit of panic. Panic that we haven't left yet. Panic that we aren't moving. As if not being on the bus to California yet means I will be trapped in my family's Las Vegas life, waiting, eating bananas, speaking to ghosts, hustling, hustling in pain, letting my anger and fear drown what's left of my independent thoughts.
We ride in Uncle Bartolo's aging Mercedes to a strip mall. In the noontime daylight the Vegas suburbs are stuck in sad, perpetual dusk. There are brown lawns, shuttered homes, empty parking lots.
"Oh," I say. I decide to be honest. "The same. No job. Staying with friends."
After my parents' violent divorce, my younger brother—twenty-one now—could never decide on a life. The only routine he seemed able to keep was showing up at my mother's house, angry.
"I try to talk to him last time I see him," Uncle Bartolo says. "James only laughs. You know, I am very far from my boys in the Philippines. But I call all the time, email all the time." Uncle Bartolo glances at me, sensing my skepticism. He hasn't seen his sons in twenty years.
"You know metal?" he says. "It won't move. But gentle pressure, all the time, it changes. I talk to my boys every day, I'm calm with them every day. And so my boys came up straight."
All of Uncle Bartolo's sons have names that begin with "B," in honor of his name, and all of them gave their own children "B" names in turn. Bobby, Benjamin, Barry, Bart Junior, Bill. They still beg him to return to the Philippines.
"She peed," my uncle says, looking at my grandmother. "Can you smell it?"
He gasps again at the sharp pain in his back. Soon, Uncle Bartolo will discover the pain is lung cancer. He will die a few months after my grandmother dies—after his sons in Manila watch him wither, over Skype, to half his weight. This moment is the last time I will ever see Uncle Bartolo.
He hands me a stack of bills and leaves.
The bus from Vegas to Los Angeles—a company run by Chinese immigrants—pulls slowly up to the curb. I pick up my grandmother's bag, she slaps my forearm, thinking I'm trying to steal from her.
Her incontinence pads fall out, scattering across the floor of the mall. I feel heavy. I want to feel unburdened of—of what? I can't precisely name what it is I want to escape. My grandmother? The trip? Family? My cowardice? Inevitable death? Pee pads?
My grandmother grips my arm as we proceed up the bus stairs. She pauses. I wonder if I will have to carry her by her underarms.
But she is, for all her age and decline, still powerful. She grips the railing with both hands, then pulls herself up. We sit in the first seat. My grandmother sighs and looks out the window. Her mouth moves.
Across the aisle from us are a Filipino-American teenager, about fourteen, and his little brother. The brother is eight, maybe, and playing a Game Boy.
The bus moves. It moves past the mall, the casinos, the Strip, Vegas traffic, and into the bare beige desert. The bus is filled with sleepy, elderly Asian Americans.
"Fuck, man," he answers. "My Tita fucking took away my favorite fucking hat, like totally fucked my style, you know? Fuck." His listener interrupts, and the kid scolds him. "No it's aunt. Tita. In fucking Filipino. Tita, not titty, dumb shit—"
The little brother stretches out across the teenager's lap. The teenager holds the kid casually, as if the holding of his brother is another extension of his toughness. I decide that this—his paradoxical tenderness—is a sign that it would be safe to say something. I tap his skinny arm.
"There's, like, old people on the bus. Could you cool it with the cell phone?"
"Oh my bad," the teenager mumbles. His brother squeaks a mocking laugh at him. "Ha, ha."
But the teenager puts his cell phone away. His brother turns over on his lap. I remember my brother James, who was once this small and liked to read Calvin and Hobbes with me before bed, before he grew six feet tall and broke windows and doors.
"Do the thing?" the eight-year-old asks.
"Fuck you," the teenager says. But he uses his palms to drum his little brother's shoulders in a familiar, soothing way. His brother falls asleep in his lap.
My grandmother begins to hit the back of the seat in front of us with her fist. A man looks at us, annoyed. "No, Mamang," I say.
I give her my iPod to listen to. My grandmother used to sing at the piano during the 1940s Japanese occupation of Manila. Her voice is why my grandfather fell in love with her, asked her to be the lead actress in a musical he wrote.
The headphones rest on her ears. My grandmother listens and stares out at the vast expanse of sand. She does not sleep.
Moving across the desert for hours, I feel I'm moving between realms—not across the line between Nevada and California, but treading the line between the living and the dead. Suffused with this sense of urgency, danger, and transition, I wonder if I should tell my grandmother something. Something like: I'm sorry you have come to this. Are you afraid? How can I help you?
She gives the headphones back to me.
She starts to move her lips. Perhaps in conversation with the dead. I don't ask.
We cross into Los Angeles county limits hours later. The bus stalls more and more. Electric-red and metallic lines of traffic gnarl before us.
The teenager gets back on his cell phone. Through his new monologue of curses, I realize he's bartering.
"Yeah I can carry. I can get a Glock from Vegas. Two hundred. Naw, fool, fuck that, two hundred cash. Fucking murder someone with that."
I decide not to say anything to the kid this time.
"Kuya, why are you so angry?" his little brother asks brightly.
"Man, you don't fucking know, man. Don't talk about shit you don't know."
The teenager pauses and shuts his eyes. "Shit just gets inside you man. It's gotta get out."
I remember James sitting at the foot of my bed, crying after one of our parents' fights. You don't even care, he tells me as I sit, silent with fear that the fight will continue. You don't even give a shit! His voice rising like our white father's.
"It's okay, Kuya," the little brother says. The teen says, "Shut up."
My grandmother says, "This is the worst bus trip of my life."
We pull into our final destination. The driver brakes sharply. An elderly Filipino man vomits all over his dress pants and the bus floor.
The man's wife yells in Filipino—again, I can't understand, though the anger translates. The man looks at the floor. His wife keeps yelling. I close my eyes, try to un-smell the vomit, and fail.
I wait, in the stink, until we're last, so I have enough time to help my grandmother off the bus without reprimand from other passengers. If she smells anything, she doesn't say.
I vomited once, a few years ago, when my grandmother was living with us. It was just after the divorce, and my mother, busy working, had left food to rot in the fridge. I hadn't noticed it; I had only been hungry.
In between puking, I had curled on the living room couch. At night my grandmother leaned over me, smiling and saying something in Filipino. I would wake, sweating, hear the familiar language I couldn't understand, and close my eyes again. Only later did I realize: my grandmother was praying for me.
Together, with three years left in her life, my grandmother and I clear the last step of our journey.
Laurel Fantauzzo divides her time between Quezon City, Philippines, and the United States. A longer version of this essay first appeared in the journal Kritika Kultura.

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