The Police Stopped My Son Last Night
- Dedra Muhammad
- Dec 14, 2025
- 6 min read
Updated: Dec 23, 2025
When the Police Stopped My Son: A Black Mother’s Truth About America’s Climate
Last night, the police stopped my son. It was not just one police car. They called for backup before they pulled him over -before he knew he was being targeted.
Let me be clear about what this is—and what it is not. This is not hatred for the police. It is distrust.
And that distrust exists for the same reason police often say they feel “fear” when encountering Black men. The difference is this: their fear carries a weapon. Ours carries prayer.
The lack of trust on both sides is deadly. And too often, it is Black men who pay the price.
The Call Every Black Mother Knows
At 8:23 p.m., my phone rang. I had recently arrived home from a business meeting at the Mosque. My son, Hanif, had attended the same meeting but left a little later. Before I even pulled off ahead of Hanif, a familiar thought crossed my mind—one so common it barely registers anymore:
It’s dark. The police might target my son tonight.
That thought alone tells you everything you need to know about America’s climate.
Once I got home, a friend called me. She said she had just seen two police cars pull Hanif over. Without hesitation, she turned her car around, dropped her location, and headed back to the scene.
That reaction was not dramatic. It was instinctual. Just as I instinctively grabbed my keys, prepared to do 90 miles per hour to get to my son. As I immediately headed to my car,
I immediately called another friend and told her the Huntsville police had stopped my son, and I would update her. Later, she told me she and her husband went straight into prayer. The friends started calling the brothers of the Fruit of Islam (F.O.I.) to dispatch to the scene.
Why?
Why is it that when police—those sworn to protect and serve—stop a young Black man, our bodies respond with fear?
A white parent would not have the same vigilante response. They would not need witnesses, backup, or prayer chains activated within minutes. That difference alone reveals the depth of America’s unresolved problem.
My Son Is Not a Threat
My son, Hanif, is a graduate of Jackson State University and Western Governors University. He is a cybersecurity enthusiast, a disciplined young man, and a Muslim. He had just left the Mosque.
Yet last night, none of that mattered.
Hanif noticed the police trailing him for two lights. Then came the stop. The reason given? "He was on the line.”
Hanif knew he wasn’t.
Two police cars. Immediate questions about weapons. A flashlight was sweeping the back seat as if a crime were already in progress. A sealed bottle of ginger ale was scrutinized, mistaken, or perhaps hoped to be alcohol. Questions about where he was coming from. “What’s that?” He answered, “The Mosque.” Then, “Oh… you’re a Muslim?” They questioned his personalized license tag, as if self-expression itself were suspicious.
And then the microaggressive question that exposed everything:
“Are you from this country?”
My son is visibly Black. Visibly other. And in the minds of these officers, that visibility triggered a cascade of assumptions—criminality, danger, foreignness—none of which had any factual basis. None of which was their business.
They asked if he had weapons. The audacity of that question cannot be ignored. In a country where white citizens openly brandish firearms, carry assault-style weapons into public spaces, and are rarely questioned—much less stopped—my unarmed son was treated as a potential threat simply for existing in his Black body. He had no weapon, but even if he had, possession of a legal weapon is not probable cause. If he was truly stopped for allegedly being “on the line,” then weapons inquiries were irrelevant. That alone reveals the stop for what it was: a fishing expedition rooted in stereotype, not safety.
This was not casual curiosity. It was harassment. Probing. Testing. Seeing how far they could go.
Many of the questions asked were not legally required to be answered. Yet my son answered them anyway—not because he owed them anything, but because Black men understand the stakes. Exercising one’s rights in these moments is often treated as defiance. Silence is read as guilt. Confidence is labeled “attitude.” Calm resistance is rebranded as insolence.
Police in this country have a documented history of taking personal offense when Black men do not comply with unnecessary questioning—even when officers themselves are out of order. Too often, that perceived “disrespect” becomes justification for escalation. For force. For violence.
A Black man standing firm, not cowering, not apologizing for his existence—that alone can be seen as a threat. That is the reality. That is the climate.
So yes, Black men are often forced to become the ones who de-escalate encounters that should never have been hostile to begin with. They must speak carefully, move slowly, answer politely, suppress indignation, and prioritize survival over dignity—because they know that the margin for error is razor-thin.
This is not conjecture. This is not an exaggeration. This is lived experience, backed by history, statistics, and far too many funerals.
What happened to my son was not routine policing. It was racialized suspicion. It was religious profiling. It was the unmitigated audacity of power assuming danger where none existed—and expecting gratitude for restraint.
What the officers didn’t know when they stopped him was that Hanif’s car was equipped with a front-and-back windshield camera. Hanif's car was filming them from the moment they started trailing him, even before Hanif knew he was being trailed. When they claimed he was on the line, Hanif was prepared to review the footage in real time.
The camera showed the truth: he never crossed the line.
No probable cause. No violation. Just suspicion.
We thank Allah that the presence of recording devices may have changed the outcome. We also know that countless families did everything “right” and still buried their sons.
Holding Two Truths at Once
Anyone who knows me knows this: I speak openly and boldly about Black-on-Black homicide in impoverished communities. Rising South Literacy School’s mission is to increase self-love, accountability, and safety within our own communities.
But we must be honest enough to hold two truths at once.
Yes, we must address violence within our communities. And yes, we must address unjust, disproportionate, and often unaccountable violence by police against Black men.
The Honorable Minister Louis Farrakhan specifically addressed gangbangers in a speech delivered in Atlanta, Georgia. He said:
“You make it very difficult for me. In 2007, YOU are the enemy. It’s Black people killing Black people… You have become the number one slayers of yourself and your own people.”
That truth demands self-examination.
But it does not excuse racial profiling. It does not justify fear-driven policing. It does not erase the reality that Black men are often presumed guilty before they ever speak.
Our awareness season is called From Hidden to Crowned: A Whole New World because too many of our sons live hidden—hidden behind suspicion, stereotypes, and fear—rather than crowned with the dignity they deserve.
Last night reminded me why this work matters. Remarkably, two-time Grammy Award-winning artist Mr. Peabo Bryson is already scheduled to come to Huntsville, Alabama, to help the Rising South Literacy School raise awareness of community violence. And now this.
My son came home safe. Many mothers do not get that ending. The wife of Stephen Perkins did not get that ending.
Until a Black mother can receive a phone call about her child being stopped by police and feel calm instead of terror, America still has work to do.
This is not anti-police. This is pro-life. This is pro-truth. This is a call for a world where safety does not depend on cameras, witnesses, or prayer chains.
Until then, we will remain vigilant. We will remain faithful. And we will continue the work of turning pain into purpose—from hidden to crowned.
~
Dr. Dedra Muhammad is the author of four books
My Mom Wants This, but I Want That: High School Guide for Educators, Parents, and Students
Black Male Resilience Following Homicide in Predominantly Black Neighborhoods: A Qualitative Study.
She is a community advocate against community violence. Her PEN is her weapon of choice.
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