A Quote by Chic Murray
The police stopped me when I was out in my car. They told me it was a spot check. I admitted to two pimples and a boil.
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I was walking down First Avenue, heading to CVS. And two police cars pulled over and stopped, and rolled down the window and one of them asked, 'Are you Isaac Wright?' When I said yes, they immediately got out and asked me to take pictures with them in front of the police car.
I remember having my father stand over me when I had driven over my own foot; one leg was out of the car and one leg was in the car. He looked at me and told me that I was a drunk and that he was ashamed to call me his son. That night, I stopped drinking and I never drank again; I was twenty four.
I went to see my mother the other day, and she told me this story that I'd completely forgotten about how, when we were driving together, she would pull the car over, and by the time she had gotten out of the car, and gone around the car to let me out of the car, I would have already gotten out of the car and pretended to have died.
I think you have to be extremely strong to be in the police and I couldn't do that at all. I get nervous when a police car is driving past me when I'm in the car, pondering what they're doing or going to.
Richard Julian was the one who told me to check out Cartola. Telling someone to check out Cartola is like telling someone to check out Tony Bennett, you know.
In Baltimore they can't do police work to save their lives. Now because of Freddie Gray they're not even getting out of the car and policing corners - they're on a job slowdown, basically. Right now if the police stopped being brutal, if we got police shooting under control, and the use of excessive force, if we have a meaningful societal response to all that stuff, and the racism that underlies it, the question still remains: what are they policing, and why?
It did not prepare me for writing or 'Power of Attorney.' However, what it did is that it forced me out of the DA's office. I stopped getting that county check.
My mom told me that when the car struck me, I landed 80 feet off the road. When they found me, I was curled up in a ball with my left leg mangled and twisted and almost severed in two. They all thought I was dead.
I've physically seen profiling. I've seen me walking up the street with my friends, and the police officers get out of their car and bust the hell out of my friends. And they can't do anything about it, and the cop gets back in his car and drives off.
If the police ever try to pick me up, Michael Jackson told me I can hide out at his house.
You know, there's an economy in lyric-writing that doesn't afford you, or at least me - I usually start off with nine or 10 verses and then boil it down to two or three that are half the length of the original verses. I think for me it's about what you leave out [rather] than what you put in. I'm not sure that the songs help me figure anything out so much as they're a distillation of the original question.
I've been pulled out of my nice new car and laid out in the street by the police, interrogated and then have them get in the car and roll off leaving me lying in the street without even saying 'Get up.' The humiliation that they can put on a black man because they determine that you ain't got the money.
The beautiful thing about driving was that it stole just enough of his attention - car parked on the side, maybe a cop, slow to speed limit, time to pass this sixteen-wheeler, turn signal, check rearview, crane neck to check blind spot and yes, okay, left lane.
Kicking a police car? Really?' Caleb shrugged. 'Car offended me. It was sitting right where I wanted to stand. What would you do?
Yes,” I told him. “I think the guy playing the Pirate King was awesome.” He stopped where he was. “What?” I asked, frowning at the big smile on his face. “I didn’t say I liked the Pirate King,” he told me. “Oh.” I closed my eyes—and there he was. A warm, edgy presence right on the edge of my perception. When I opened my eyes, he was standing right in front of me. “Cool,” I told him. “You’re back.” He kissed me leisurely. When he was finished, I was more than ready to head home. Fast. “You make me laugh,” he told me seriously.
I didn't want to understand. Bert had been thrilled that the police wanted to put me on retainer. He told me I would gain valuable experience working with the police. All I had gained so far was a wider variety of nightmares.
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