Mikylie rides in the truck with me again today, her hair still messy from sleep as she climbs into the passenger seat. She loves these drives, long stretches of highway, the hum of the engine, and the little snacks we share. For a while, it feels like our own small world moving at seventy miles an hour.
But today took an unexpected turn.
We were rolling through Frisco when flashing lights appeared in my mirror, blue, then red, then blue again. I eased the truck onto the shoulder, expecting a routine commercial vehicle inspection. Nothing unusual for a driver like me.
A Frisco P.D. officer approached, calm and professional, signaling me to follow him to their setup. Once parked, he asked for my driver’s license and registration. I handed them over, along with my license to carry.
“I’ve got a pistol on my right hip,” I said steadily. “If you want to get it, you can.”
Before he could respond, I heard a movement behind me. Mikylie pushed open the sleeper curtain, her little face pale, eyes wide. Then came the tears, fast and panicked.
She wasn’t scared of the ticket or the stop. She was scared because in her young mind, cops and danger had become linked. Seeing this officer, who happened to be a Black man, only made her fear more intense.
I knew immediately what was happening. My heart sank.
The officer noticed too. His expression softened when he saw her trembling.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said gently, crouching slightly so he didn’t loom over her. “You’re okay. You’re not in trouble, and neither is he. We’re just making sure everything’s safe.”
I knelt beside her. “Baby, listen,” I whispered, rubbing her back. “Not all cops are bad. And not all Black men are bad either. People are different. You can’t assume the worst.”
The officer nodded. “Exactly. I’m here to help people. That’s my job.”
She sniffled, still clinging to me, but the fear in her eyes began to ease. The officer reached into his pocket and handed her a shiny sticker, the kind kids put on their shirts with pride.
“Here,” he said with a smile. “Official Junior Police badge.”
Just like that, her shoulders dropped. The tension melted. The world felt safe again.
He returned to his inspection, and yes, I got an overweight ticket, costly and annoying, but not the thing I’ll remember most from that day.
We stayed there for almost an hour and a half. Through it all, I kept my pistol on my hip, untouched. No tension. No raised voices. Just calm, respectful conversation, the kind I wish more people could witness.
Before we left, the officer waved us over. “Wanna try something?” he asked Mikylie.
She hesitated, then nodded.
He opened the patrol car door and lifted her up so she could reach the buttons. “Go ahead,” he encouraged.
She pressed one. Lights flashed. Sirens whooped. She giggled, a real laugh this time, not the shaky one that had masked her fear earlier.
I watched her, feeling something inside me settle. I wanted her to see firsthand that police officers aren’t people to fear. That good men of every race stand behind badges trying to do the right thing.
Back in the truck, she held her sticker like a treasure.
“You okay now?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yeah. He was nice.”
And in that moment, I hoped, truly hoped, that next time she saw flashing lights, she would remember kindness, not fear. The officer who knelt to her level, who showed compassion, and who let her play with sirens instead of letting her fears grow roots.
We pulled back onto the highway, the sun dipping low behind us, the truck humming steadily. Just the two of us, moving forward, ready for whatever miles lay ahead.
Credit: Micheal Harris
