I’ve never been able to talk my way out of a ticket.

I’ve never been able to talk my way out of a ticket.

Cops sense my disdain for them. I can’t help it. The ones I’ve dealt with in the South have reinforced the fact that they profile people. Plus, I’m not smooth enough to bullshit reasons for why I was speeding or why I cut off incoming cars while making a left turn.

The only time I was able to avoid a ticket was last summer when a cop was posted by Ceddy’s old place near the Highlands. The cop pulled over every person who rolled this one stop sign, in an attempt to catch drunk drivers. I hadn’t drank a drop that night, so I just got a warning.

In college, Labor Day was a cursed holiday. Every time I’d drive to Alpharetta for the long weekend (or when I’d drive back to Athens), I’d get a ticket. That year, it was a particularly stressful weekend of dealing with our parents, so Raf and I wanted to get the hell out of Alpharetta and back to Athens as soon as possible.

Once traffic slowed, Raf fell asleep. After crawling down GA-316, I maneuvered around the wreck that had caused the delay and sped up the hill past The Georgia Club. From what I could tell, I was going with the flow of traffic…until a cop’s sirens blared and lights flashed in my rearview mirror. Groaning, I pulled to the side of the road and rolled my window down. Raf jerked awake.

“Sis, what happened?”

“I got pulled over.”

“Shit. Are you gonna get a ticket?”


The cop leaned onto my window.

“D’ya speak English?”

My eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Yes.” Better than you, asshole.

“D’ya know how fast you were goin’?”


“Nope. 83. Gonna hafta write you a speeding ticket for that. Gimme your license and registration.”

I sighed and complied.

The cop squinted at my shoes. “Are you Native American?”

“No, why?”

“You’re wearin’ moccasins.”

“They’re from Macy’s.”

“I didn’t know Native Americans sold their goods at Macy’s.”

Before I could reply, Raf coughed loudly and shot me a look. Don’t make it worse, sis!

Fine. But he’s a racist moron.

“Sorry for speeding.” I said flatly.

“Just watch it coming up that hill, next time.” The cop smiled, “Your English is great, by the way.”

“I was born in New York, but thanks.”


6 thoughts on “I’ve never been able to talk my way out of a ticket.

    • Thanks, Robert! Lol, seriously! I took this one sociology class & my professor explained why profiling is prevalent among cops — it’s part of their training at the academy!


  1. Oh my holy hell…Are you kidding me?? Well done on keeping your cool. It’s shocking that people still can’t get past our cultural/racial differences in this day and age. I spent a couple of decades in the south and found it exasperating. One of the problems of being white in the south is that other white people naturally think that you agree with them which leads to all kinds of awkward conversations. Or maybe I just make them awkward. I’m kind of fun that way. It’s also one of the many reasons I moved to England.

    Your stories are fantastic.


    • Agreed, Buffy! Where did you live in the South? It is exasperating. I was glad to move from Alabama to Georgia, but especially glad to move to Atlanta. Athens is full of students & professors, so it’s more open-minded, but the surrounding counties have some really ignorant folks. Atlanta has been great. I’ve told Ceddy that if need be, we should move too! 🙂 England was really chill, when both of us visited. Paris & Nice were, too! Thanks so much!! I’m really glad you enjoy them. 🙂


  2. Do you speak English? Good lord! … Actually, I sort of get that here too… Only their version is “Your English is so good!” As if shocked that I speak their language (even better!). When I had T, one of the midwives even had the gall to ask “Why is your English so good?” I had to bite my tongue from saying something really bitchy. The husband said that the “comment” was probably a compliment… Yeah right.


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