Like millions of others, I want to know what happened in the hours before Sandy was found, asphyxiated by a plastic bag. Unlike millions of Americans who have no clue, I do know what it is to have run-ins with the police while driving. I was forced into harsh acquaintance, at an early age, with traffic stops and trying to survive them.

Here are some of the tired phrases that cops have actually greeted me with after pulling me over: (1) “Are you lost?” (2) “Do you work over here?” (3) “We had a report of a stolen vehicle this morning.” (4) “Is this your car?” To item number three, I had the audacity to ask the color of the car they were looking for. The cop told me a green Jeep. I was driving one whiter than him.

It was nearly 4 a.m. A black woman alone in an affluent Dallas suburb seemed suspicious to the officer, who wondered if my vehicle could be a paint job. It was 1999, before cell phones could record videos. The lone witness at that hour of the morning was too far away to be credible as he watered down the parking lot of a convenience store. The officer went back to his car and told me to stay in the stolen Jeep. I was blinded by the massive bright light he kept constantly shined onto me. I was ever fearful that I could be shot for stealing a car that bore no match in plate or color to the one he was searching for.

In another routine traffic stop, around the same wretched time of morning, I was stopped again. I had no clue about the traffic infraction that might render my two sons motherless. This time, I was openly agitated because the officer should’ve understood I was working. I had a tough job to do that required my being out in the wee hours. He didn’t want to hear it.

I guess a black woman in a Jeep (think soccer mom) must’ve been a big deal in 1999. I wasn’t speeding. I didn’t change lanes without signaling, insurance was in order, my license current. However, I did commit the sin of challenging the officer’s lie when he said I’d made an illegal U-turn going 60 mph.

Before my racial filter kicked in, I laughed out loud and told the man he was lying because anyone who’s ever driven an SUV knows that particular feat would be a rollover begging to be taped. Next thing I heard was the polite request to shut up and stay in the vehicle. Damn. Me and my big mouth!

His floodlight stayed aimed on me several minutes and I could tell he ran my plates, my life. The three work phones I had on the front seat were ringing non-stop and gave credence to his unmentioned, stereotypical guess that the black woman he pulled over for a routine traffic stop was probably a prostitute or a drug dealer. From his vantage, the cop could plainly see me answering the phones and arguing with someone about my chosen profession.