 Andrés and me during a happier time. The first time my son was handcuffed and humiliated by the police, I was right there, but I could do nothing. Andrés was in 7th grade. The dark hairs of a budding mustache stood out against his deep brown skin. We were at my work. As a single mom, I often had my kids with me at the Young Women United office on Morningside, not far from where we live. That evening the teenage girls of YWU, my kids, and the staff were working late preparing for a celebration the next day. My kids played outside with other children while we worked inside. I could watch them through the window. Suddenly, my daughter ran into the office yelling, “The police have my brother!” We all ran outside and saw my son being dragged by a police officer and thrown into the backseat of a cop car, lights flashing. I was right there, but I could do nothing. We ran toward Andrés, but another officer rushed toward us, shouting warnings. I gathered my senses. I was not new to “how to behave” around the police. We tried talking calmly, but the officer insisted that we back away or we--a small group of moms and teens--would be arrested. I pleaded for answers while one of the YWU women picked up my daughter and took her inside because she was crying and screaming for her brother. An officer insisted there was good reason for them to have my son, who just 15 minutes previously I had been watching run around with his sister and eight other teen girls. I was right there, but I could do nothing. The officers forced us to wait at a distance. I was trembling. Finally, an officer called me over and said that they were responding to a call that people were fighting. He pointed to the group of kids of color and singled out the two black girls for questioning too. The police took the two young women and Andrés, made them take their shoes off and sit on the curb on Central. I knew this humiliation tactic. I had seen it used many times on my male cousins for driving while brown. Finally, without explanation or apology, the police officers let the kids go. I saw my son walking toward me with a look that haunts me. I could already see the change. I was right there, but I could do nothing. Before that day, I was everything my son needed. He believed that I could and would move mountains to save him. Yet, when faced with these cops and their guns and their badges putting my son in handcuffs for playing, I could do nothing, even though I was right there. We went home and my son went to his room. I gave him space, then went to talk with and hopefully comfort him. I walked to his bedroom door, peeked in and saw him sitting on his bed, fists clenched, face red, holding back tears. I went to him and felt his whole body shaking from the pounding of his heart. All he could say was that he wanted to be left alone. I felt broken. I knew it could have gone much worse, but still I felt guilty because I was right there, but I could do nothing. Just a few months before, we had attended the inauguration of President Obama in Washington, D.C. On the plane home, Andrés had told me, “I want to be the first Chicano President, Mom!” I knew leaving his room the night the police handcuffed him for no reason that being president was no longer something that he thought was possible for him. He would also no longer believe in the super strength of his mom to save him or in the power of justice that I tried so hard to instill in him. He lost his innocence and hope that night. The police took it from him. He was checked--put in his place. That wasn't the last time he was harassed, and it wasn't the only time the cops had no reason to stop him: for being at the bus stop, for riding his bike in our neighborhood, for walking near a school. My son is still alive. I am grateful, but I shouldn't have to be. Black lives matter. We have a racism problem in Bernalillo County and in this country. We must change. I refuse to become so accustomed to biased policing, over-policing and police brutality that I do nothing. I refuse to ignore the constant struggle of black and brown people, the injustices we face at the hands of police and law enforcement, and our communities’ unanswered pleas. I will keep fighting for all of us, for our whole community. I will take these experiences with me to the Bernalillo County Commission. It’s time our voices were heard. When I am your Bernalillo County Commissioner, I will always be right there. And I promise you that I will do something.  Andrés, my daughter, Amarisa, and me at her elementary school graduation. I try to live my New Mexico values everyday. Here's my story. It's not perfect, but my lived experiences have prepared me to be the voice our communities need. Our work to rebuild the world we want to live in starts here in Bernalillo County. I hope I can earn your support. |
AuthorAdriann Barboa, lifelong Bernalillo County Resident, mother of two, social justice advocate and candidate for Bernalillo County Commission, District 3. Archives |
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