My family spent a lot of time in Washington, D.C. over the years because both of my older brothers went to Catholic University of America. During one of our trips to the nation’s capital, the police were out in full force on one street, flagging drivers down who were speeding.

I remember a state trooper wearing a hat pointing in our direction, motioning for my dad to pull the car carrying our family into the center median. My dad did so and rolled down his window. The officer walked up to the driver’s side and very loudly said, “Boy! I need to see your license and registration!”

My dad looked him directly in his eyes and very calmly said, “You did say Roy, right?”

The officer replied, “Your license and registration sir.”

My heart started pounding. You could have heard a pin drop in our car. I could not believe that this grown man, a sworn officer, spoke to my father, another grown man, in such a derogatory manner. Did he really just call my dad “boy”? And in front of his family no less. I couldn’t have been more than 8 or 9 years old, but I knew what I’d witnessed was an act of racism in the flesh.

After the officer issued my father a speeding ticket, we drove off. I remember how quiet the rest of the car ride was. I couldn’t stop replaying the incident over and over in my mind. While I wanted him to jump out of the car and pounce on this ignorant horse’s ass, I was overwhelmed with pride and respect for him because he did the right thing: He kept his cool.