I'm Nate Marshall and this is The Slowdown.

The first lesson I ever got about driving wasn't about driving.

I was in elementary school.

I was maybe 11 or 12, only recently big enough to be allowed to sit in the front seat of

my mama's black 1995 Monte Carlo.

I was probably nodding off my habit as a kid until I felt the definite stop of the car.

When I opened my eyes, we weren't at our planned destination, but pulled to the side of the

road somewhere random.

Mama told me to be quiet and pay attention.

I remember seeing her turn the car off, but keep the keys dangling in the ignition.

Her posture stiffened, hands perfectly clinched at 10 and 2 and a moment later a police officer

knocked at the window.

I remember the light yet deliberate tone of her voice.

I remember the way she asked permission to obey the commands to retrieve her license

and registration.

I remember her narrating her own movements.

I remember her calling the officer who was not her elder or superior, sir.

I remember her getting a warning and spending the rest of the car ride home advising me

how to avoid the lethal fear of the law.

Today's poem by Kyle Carrero Lopez imagines an unimaginable world.

Over the last few years, many white people in the United States have become aware of the

specific talk that so many black and brown parents have with their children about the danger

...