◉)) I Hear Tings - Buying Groceries Should Not Require a Strategy
- Kiing Curry
- 3 hours ago
- 11 min read
A traffic stop does not always end when the lights disappear. Sometimes it follows you home, reshapes your routes, alters your calculations, and reminds you how much of survival depends on being believed.
◉)) I Hear Tings - Buying Groceries Should Not Require a Strategy
Tidal Water Meeting Minutes
Observation: Small red traveler discovered aboard transport vessel.
Behavior: Appeared before a period of turbulence. Remained unconcerned.
Additional Notes: Vessel and occupants successfully completed journey despite unexpected interference from larger, louder creatures.
Recommendation: Continue moving. Evidence suggests the journey remains protected, even when the waters become rough.
I am writing this addition the day after being pulled over.
Yesterday, I would not have been able to tell this part of the story. Yesterday, all I could feel was the disruption. The raised voices. The confusion. The way my nervous system struggled to understand why buying groceries suddenly required strategy, scripts, and contingency plans.
But before any of that happened, there was a ladybug.
A small red traveler that appeared in our vehicle and stayed long enough for me to stop what I was doing and take photographs. I spent several minutes watching it move across fabric and seams, completely unconcerned with schedules, destinations, or the larger creatures surrounding it.
Today, looking back, I understand that moment differently.
The the presence of ancestors and spirit reminding me that they were already there before the turbulence arrived.
For most things, I want explanations. I want context. I want patterns that can be traced and understood. But every now and then something arrives that does not ask to be solved. It asks only to be witnessed.
The stop happened.
The fear happened.
The disruption happened.
And so did the ladybug.
The ancestors were present before the flashing lights.
They were present while I sat in the car.
They were present when a friend answered the phone.
They were present when we made it home.
Today, what remains with me is not only the memory of being pulled over. It is also the memory of a small red traveler appearing before rough waters and carrying on as though the journey itself was never in doubt.
We had just come out of Hobby Lobby.
Masked.
The way we have remained masked for years.
For reasons that belong to us.
For reasons that require no public explanation.
Today was grocery day.
The monthly route.
The same stores.
The same roads.
The same ordinary errands that make up a life.
Partner.
Driver.
Watching the rearview mirror.
Watching one vehicle become two.
Two become three.
Three become four.
Noticing the pattern before I did.
I wasn’t looking behind us.
I was looking ahead.
Thinking about groceries.
Thinking about getting home.
Thinking about the rest of the day.
Then the lights.
Then the pull over.
Then the stage lights came up.
The thing about policing is that sometimes it feels less like observation and more like casting.
Everyone already knows their role.
Good Cop 1.
Bad Cop 1.
Officer 3.
Officer 4.
Supporting cast.
Audience.
We pull over.
Only now do I look behind us.
Only now do I see them.
Multiple vehicles.
Multiple officers.
The full scene finally visible.
Bad Cop 1 approaches.
Voice already elevated.
Not conversation.
Projection.
The kind of volume that belongs in a television crime drama.
The kind of volume that belongs in a scene from The Wire.
Not because communication was difficult.
Because performance was underway.
Questions.
Answers.
Questions.
Answers.
Voice gets louder.
Partner responds.
Voice gets louder.
Partner responds.
Voice gets louder.
At some point I ask why he is talking so loudly.
He says highway traffic.
But he is standing beside the vehicle.
Full head leaning inside the window.
The traffic is somewhere else.
The sound is here.
Inside the car.
Inside my chest.
Inside my nervous system.
So I tell him.
I am neurodivergent.
Not as an excuse.
Not as an argument.
As information.
A simple statement of fact.
Something that might help the interaction.
Something that might make communication easier.
Something that might allow this encounter to become less overwhelming.
He appears to adjust.
Or at least performs an adjustment.
The volume shifts slightly.
The cadence shifts slightly.
The presentation changes.
But not enough to matter.
Not enough for my body to experience it as different.
The sound is still too large.
The energy is still too large.
The presence is still too large.
The performance continues.
The words acknowledge me.
The behavior does not.
Good Cop 1 enters.
A softer tone.
A different energy.
A different costume.
The same production.
Meanwhile two officers stand together talking.
Laughing.
Existing in a reality completely separate from the one unfolding inside our vehicle.
Bad Cop 1 has already made a decision.
Not investigating.
Not observing.
Deciding.
Then searching for evidence to support the conclusion.
Suspicious driver.
Suspicious passengers.
Suspicious Black passengers.
Suspicious circumstances.
The script has already been written.
Everything after that is line delivery.
Insurance.
Available.
Documentation.
Available.
Explanations.
Available.
Context.
Available.
The details pile up.
The scene does not change.
Then Bad Cop 1 finds the next thing.
The grocery store.
Forty-five minutes.
Forty-five minutes.
Forty-five minutes.
There is no way you drove forty-five minutes to buy groceries.
The declaration arrives with the confidence of a detective cracking a case.
No way.
No way.
No way.
And I remember thinking:
Then what exactly do you think we’re trafficking?
Bell peppers?
Oat milk?
Okra?
A trunk full of reusable grocery bags?
What crime is being uncovered here?
The logic never arrives.
Only suspicion.
Only certainty.
Only volume.
Then comes the moment everything shifts.
Partner.
Driver.
Removed from the vehicle.
The door opens.
The body exits.
And something ancient wakes up inside me.
Not a thought.
Not a plan.
A refusal.
Something older than language.
Something older than reason.
Something older than policing.
The part of me that wants to open my own door.
The part of me that wants to stand up.
The part of me that wants to physically place itself between danger and someone I love.
Get out.
Get out.
Get out.
Every cell in my body screaming it.
Then another voice arrives.
Do not move.
Do not move.
Do not move.
The collision is immediate.
Fear.
Anger.
Protection.
Survival.
Refusal.
Freeze.
Everything happening at once.
I do not leave the vehicle.
Not because I do not want to.
Because I cannot.
I am frozen.
Choked by fear.
Choked by anger.
Choked by the understanding that movement could make things worse.
The body knows this before the mind does.
So I stay where I am.
Hands shaking.
Recording.
Watching.
Trying to remain still inside a body that desperately wants motion.
I ask why he is being removed from the vehicle.
No answer.
I ask again.
No answer.
I ask again.
No answer.
The only response that returns is the same strange explanation about highway traffic.
Highway traffic.
An answer to a question nobody asked.
Meanwhile the actual question remains suspended in the air.
Why is he out of the car?
Why is this escalating?
Why does a grocery run require this level of theater?
No answer arrives.
Only roles.
Only costumes.
Only performance.
And that is the moment I make the call.
One person.
One homeie.
One friend.
I call.
Straight to voicemail.
My voice shaking.
Words stumbling over each other.
Trying to explain.
Trying not to panic.
Trying not to cry.
Trying to stay coherent.
Then I hang up.
And before the panic can finish building—
the phone rings.
They have already seen the transcription.
Already understood enough.
Already called back.
Immediately.
No delay.
No hesitation.
No making me prove that this is serious.
Just response.
Just presence.
Just showing up.
And suddenly they are with me.
While my partner is outside the vehicle.
While officers continue moving around us.
While I am still recording.
While I am still terrified.
They stay on FaceTime.
Talking.
Breathing with me.
Keeping me anchored.
Keeping me present.
Helping me stay in my body.
Helping me remain calm enough to continue observing what is happening.
Helping me remain calm enough not to completely disappear into panic.
I am crying.
Hyperventilating.
Checking mirrors.
Checking windows.
Checking for police vehicles.
Trying to understand what is happening outside the frame I can see.
Trying to determine whether my partner is safe.
Trying to determine whether this is over.
Trying to determine whether it is about to become something worse.
And they stay.
The entire time.
Not waiting for the crisis to finish.
Not checking in later.
Staying.
Right there.
Holding the line with me.
Then comes the trunk.
Would you open the trunk?
Of course.
The trunk opens.
And suddenly the mystery reveals itself.
A colorful tangled mesh of Baggu bags.
Bright colors.
Patterns.
Reusable bags folded into reusable bags.
Stuffed.
Overflowing.
Vegetables.
Fruit.
Household supplies.
Food.
Groceries.
Just groceries.
The evidence of people doing exactly what they said they were doing.
Running errands.
Buying food.
Living life.
The trunk looks less like a criminal enterprise and more like two neurodivergent adults trying to avoid plastic waste.
The great conspiracy of a monthly grocery trip.
But the scene still needs its ending.
Because once a production starts everyone has to make it to the final page.
Eventually Bad Cop 1 returns to my side of the vehicle.
He leans toward the window.
Closer than I want.
Closer than feels necessary.
And my body responds before my mind does.
I lean away.
Immediately.
Instinctively.
As far back into the seat as I can manage.
Breathing hard.
Trying to create distance where none exists.
The fear is palpable.
Not hidden.
Not subtle.
The kind of fear that fills an entire vehicle.
The kind of fear another person can feel.
And he knows it.
I know he knows it.
Something changes.
The volume softens.
The posture softens.
The performance shifts.
A new role.
A gentler tone.
A softer face.
But it is too late.
The nervous system does not care about costume changes after the fire has started.
Trust has already left the building.
I do not believe the softness.
I do not receive the softness.
I do not have space for the softness.
I hand over my license.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Making sure our hands do not touch.
Making sure there is space between us.
Making sure the transfer happens with as little contact as possible.
A tiny act.
A nearly invisible act.
But one that feels deeply important.
Because my body is drawing a boundary my mouth cannot safely articulate.
Do not touch me.
Do not come closer.
Do not mistake compliance for comfort.
Do not mistake silence for trust.
Do not mistake fear for cooperation.
I am participating because I have to.
That is not the same thing as feeling safe.
end scene
And somewhere inside all of this another realization arrives.
One almost too large for the moment.
I am not alone.
Not completely.
Not anymore.
Because for years that answer would have been different.
For years the list would have been empty.
For years I would have sat inside that fear believing there was nobody to call.
Nobody who would answer.
Nobody who would understand.
Nobody who would see me.
But this time someone did.
Immediately.
Before I could finish falling apart.
And there is something profoundly moving about discovering friendship while actively moving through terror.
Not afterward.
Not once the danger has passed.
During it.
While the panic is still happening.
While the fear is still happening.
While the possibility of things becoming worse still feels real.
I thought I was panicking because we were alone.
Instead I discovered evidence that we weren’t.
The evidence was calling me back.
The evidence was staying on FaceTime.
The evidence was helping me breathe.
The evidence was refusing to leave.
The evidence was friendship.
The evidence was love.
The evidence was someone saying:
I see what is happening.
And I am staying right here.
The officers eventually left.
The lights eventually disappeared.
The traffic stop eventually ended.
But that is not actually true.
Because the stop followed me home.
It followed me into route planning.
Into grocery planning.
Into deciding which roads I will take.
Which roads I will avoid.
Which intersections feel safe.
Which intersections do not.
Into deciding that next month I may take the back roads.
Even if they take longer.
Even if they are less efficient.
Even if they make no logical sense to anyone except the nervous system that now has to carry this memory.
The stop became infrastructure.
A new map layered over an old map.
A new contingency added to a life already full of contingencies.
People talk about traffic stops as events.
A beginning.
A middle.
An end.
But for many of us they function more like software updates.
A thing gets installed.
A new calculation.
A new vigilance.
A new route.
A new strategy.
And I am tired.
Not shocked.
Not surprised.
Tired.
Tired of watching ordinary errands become nervous system events.
Tired of understanding that while the officers continued their shift, my body carried the stop home.
Tired of knowing that tomorrow, and next month, and maybe six months from now, some part of me will still be driving around this moment.
Calculating.
Rerouting.
Adjusting.
Trying to convince myself that buying groceries should not require a strategy.
And maybe that is the thing I keep returning to.
Not the traffic stop.
Not even the fear.
The performance.
The expectation that some of us must become perfectly legible in order to survive.
Perfectly calm.
Perfectly compliant.
Perfectly understandable.
Perfectly regulated.
Perfectly still.
While standing inside situations specifically designed to make regulation difficult.
I think about how many of our ancestors were misunderstood because they could not perform calmness for the overseer.
How many were interpreted as threatening when they were frightened.
How many were interpreted as aggressive when they were defending themselves.
How many were interpreted as suspicious when they were simply existing.
How many were punished because they could not find the exact tone.
The exact posture.
The exact volume.
The exact words required to satisfy someone who had already decided who they were.
How many people have lost freedom.
Lost livelihood.
Lost possibility.
Lost life.
Because they could not successfully perform safety for someone who was committed to seeing danger.
That is the inheritance I felt sitting in that back seat.
Not history as an abstraction.
History as muscle memory.
History as freeze.
History as the ancestral understanding that sometimes survival depends less on truth and more on whether the person in power is willing to believe it.
And that is an impossible burden.
Because no one should have to perform their humanity in order to be recognized as human.
Postscript.
I am currently reading Warrior of the Wind.
Several hours after the traffic stop, I found myself wishing there had been a Ninki Nanka in the trunk.
I wanted something older than the performance.
Something older than suspicion.
Something older than policing.
Something older than the need to explain why two Black people might drive forty-five minutes to buy groceries.
Imagine it.
Bad Cop 1 demands the trunk be opened.
The trunk opens.
No groceries.
No reusable bags.
Just an ancient Ninki Nanka staring back.
A creature so unconcerned with human authority that the residency discussion immediately evaporates.
The thing I like about the fantasy is not the acid spit.
Though I am not opposed to the acid spit.
It is the refusal.
The absolute refusal to become legible for someone else’s comfort.
The Ninki Nanka does not explain itself.
It does not justify itself.
It does not produce paperwork.
It does not answer questions about where it lives.
It does not discuss residency requirements.
It simply exists.
And everyone else has to reorganize themselves around that fact.
Honestly, after the day I had, that feels aspirational.
Because after a day spent explaining myself to people committed to misunderstanding me, I find myself increasingly aligned with the Ninki Nanka philosophy: ask fewer questions, mind your business, or prepare to be turned into mush with acid spit.
◉)) I Hear Tings - Buying Groceries Should Not Require a Strategy
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