On Tuesday, I was sitting right here where I’m typing this letter now, minding my own business, when sounds from my front porch compelled me to investigate. What I found was someone pointing a handgun at me and ordering me to show my hands and proceed towards him slowly.
In a matter of seconds my mind raced from delivery person to someone thinking they were funny to the reality that this was a police officer, and he thought I was a bad guy. Once out on the porch, I was able to prove who I was and things calmed down. He’d been dispatched to my neighborhood on a possible home invasion and, even though my address wasn’t given to him, seeing my screen door open he thought he might be confronting a burglar.
It scares me to think that any number of different reactions on my part could have resulted in my being shot. The officer remarked that next time I should keep my door shut and neither of us will have to be scared.
It’s unsettling to think that the guy with the gun and the authority was scared. I’m the one who had a gun pointed at me in my own house and ordered outside to prove I belonged here.
I admit I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but something’s not right here.