There go the policeman knocking at my door

They knew about the behavior of police officers because they had seen situations much worse than mine. I went back inside my home and told the cleaning women what happened. The officer stared at me, and, remembering that I wasnвЂ™t wearing a bra, I crossed my arms over my breasts. I wondered whether the dog knew that the police were going to arrest its owners. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a police officer taking the neighborвЂ™s dog for a walk. вЂњBut you knocked down my door, and the other policeman said he was in San Antonio,вЂќ I replied.ДЄround us, the scene remained surreal. He told me that the police were looking for a suspect and came into my home because there were вЂњexigent circumstances.вЂќ When the officer who demanded to enter my bedroom came out, he stood in front of me, as if he were a bull ready to charge a bullfighter with a muleta. The cop told me to ask the other officer and went inside to get him. вЂњIf heвЂ™s in San Antonio,вЂќ I asked, вЂњwhy did you come in my home?вЂќ There was a long pause. Now the shock was starting to wear off, and I was getting angry. In my mind, the police would have killed them, for sure. Thank God the men repairing my roof didnвЂ™t come in to work early that day.

They said that he was Mexican and she was Asian. The cop told me that they thought my neighbor was in San Antonio and that his girlfriend was still in Dallas, at work. I continued probing and asked whether they had caught the couple.

I moved, and the next thing I knew, I had flown down the stairs to let them inside. Suddenly, the men who were repairing my roof and women from a service who clean my house walked up to my front door. I could tell that one of the masked men was Black because I glimpsed his hand and, bizarrely, wondered whether he was good-looking. Other officers were covered in black, from head to toe, wearing ski masks. An officer in a tan cap and a shirt that read H.S.I.-Homeland Security Investigations-stood next to a black vehicle. truck, and some police officers with guns. I walked to the window and saw several police cars in the driveway, a white van that appeared to be a C.S.I. I do know that I stood alone, in my bedroom doorway, for what seemed like a week before I moved. I donвЂ™t remember whether the officers left by way of the roof or through the front door, three stories down. Did I look guilty? What crime did I commit before I awoke? Maybe I did something yesterday, last year, or five, ten, twenty years ago. I believe that the roving one searched the rooms twice because he came up the stairs, looked at me, and headed back down. I heard the tall officerвЂ™s footsteps as he stomped down the stairs. I canвЂ™t remember whether the officer with the gun stayed and pointed it at me while the other one roamed through the corners and crannies of my home, but I do remember standing frozen in place. Had I forgotten to check the date on the fire extinguisher? Would it work after the expiration date? Should I dial 911 while climbing down the ladder? There was the ladder-which promised to hold up to five hundred pounds-that IвЂ™d tested, and I could hang from the bedroom balcony and then climb down it. I thought about all of the things I had prepared in case there was a burglary or fire. I will knock this door down,вЂќ came the menacing reply. вЂњHow do I know youвЂ™re the police?вЂќ I asked, as I reached across the bed for my pajamas, a robe-anything I could use to cover myself.

(I hate that roof.) The morning when I heard the loud knocks on my bedroom door, I sat up in bed and tried to remember where I was, because, if I was home, something had gone seriously wrong. Two things you should know: my doorbell was broken, and there was a ladder leaning against my townhome, from the ground to the roof, because I was having the roof replaced. There are no cell-phone videos of my encounter with them. I want to-need to-share it on behalf of all of the women whom the police have brutalized. She isnвЂ™t here to tell her story, but IвЂ™m here to tell mine. I can only wish that had been true, and that she hadnвЂ™t been conscious enough to hear the shots that rang out as the bullets hit her body. Open the door, or IвЂ™ll kick it down.вЂќДЄ friend had told me that Taylor was killed in her Louisville, Kentucky, apartment while she was dreaming. An act that my great-grandmother would call lazy is why my bedroom door was locked when an officer banged on it, yelling, вЂњThis is the Dallas police. Since then, I have wondered whether that decision is what saved my life. Like Breonna Taylor on the date of her death, I had been up late-having suffered through a long day of teaching and then writing until after midnight, I decided to sleep late. on April 25, 2018, and I was asleep-which was unusual for me, because IвЂ™m a very early riser. The truth is, I didnвЂ™t commit a crime, but I still feel as if I did.

There go the policeman knocking at my door