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Last year, I was steps from completing what is, for most Americans, a mundane part of air travel—walking down the jet bridge from the airport gate to the plane—when the police stopped me.
They didn’t have any reason to stop me (a fact they have admitted). It’s just part of Flying While Black.
Shortly after I entered the jet bridge, two police officers stepped in front of me, blocking my path. They started rapid-fire questioning: Was I carrying any illegal drugs? Cocaine? Meth? Pills? Why was I traveling? Could they see my ID?