DRIVING WHILE BLACK: A MEMOIR OF PROFILING

By Kevin J Phillips

My name is Kevin J. Phillips. The virus behind profiling comes in many forms, races, religions, sexual preferences, etc. I was a subject of profiling while driving, and my goal is to educate others on the problematic effects of profiling through this book, Driving While Black: A Memoir of Profiling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636308968

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

The 1960s—DWB Style

The Assassination Profile

The 1970s—DWB Style

Housing Profiling

Religious Sex Profiling

Financial Religious Profiling

Human Sex Trafficking Profiling

Sexual Harrasment Profiling in the Workplace

Babies Profiling Babies to Make Babies

Pimping Profiling

Every Day I Am Hustling and Profiling

Suicide Profiling

The 1980's—DWB Style

The Pedophile Profile

Athletic Profiling

Thug Life Profiling

The Cheater's Profile

Racist Profiling

Drug Turf Profiling

The Drug User Profile

Affliation Profiling

HBCU Profiling

About the Author

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DRIVING WHILE BLACK: A MEMOIR OF PROFILING

Kevin J Phillips

ISBN 978-1-63630-894-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63630-895-1 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63630-896-8 (Digital)

Copyright © 2021 Kevin J. Phillips

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Dear reader, please refer to the website to view direct scans of all legal documents related to this book at

https://memoirofprofiling.godaddysites.com/

The 1960s—DWB Style

Ah yes, the Great Migration of the 1960s. Black Southerners were running from the Jim Crow South like Bo Jackson through defenses. Southern blacks migrated to many different cities; however, most of them went to usually the same towns in droves—Jersey City, New York City, Buffalo Chicago, Milwaukee, Cleveland, and Detroit, to name a few. Although most black Southerners migrated to the north and northeast, there were some who migrated to the southwest and west, namely Texas, Louisiana, and California.

The California connection of the Southern exodus of the 1960s is unfortunately a big part of profiling and the practice of it. Many of the blacks who were involved and/or affected by the riots in Watts were originally from the Deep South. They were no different from the other black people who moved to cities previously mentioned as they wanted a better life. However, as history of the Watts riots clearly identifies, you can't run away from your skin. (Google Watts riots.)

Black people are like any other group of people, nonmonolithic. My family is a testament to that. Rather than follow the lead of most of the Southern defectors, my people chose Minnesota. Yup, the arctic north face. Never mind the brutal winters. Never mind most blacks were unfamiliar with Minnesota back then. And please do not ask one of those Southerners to pronounce Minneapolis. A scene like that would be worthy of an appearance on Jimmy Kimmel. (It appears that even native New Yorkers have trouble pronouncing Minneapolis. Not only does he have to deal with the COVID-19 pandemic during the summer of 2020, President Donald Trump appears to mispronounce Minneapolis on several news outlets, as well as on the internet, after my hometown became the center of the universe after the lynching of George Floyd. Mel Gibson once made a movie called Payback. Things that make you go Hmmm, Arsenio, hmmm.) (Jimmy Kimmel Cracks Up Because Trump Can't Even Pronounce Minneapolis, Ron Dicker Reader. Google Jimmy Kimmel cracks up because President Trump cannot pronounce Minneapolis.)

The Work Muscle Exodus

I like to refer to the 1960s (the first decade of my life) Minnesota migration as the work muscle exodus. Black people came here to work and thrive through legal tender. No games—Please, sir, I am educated, let me work. Please, sir, I have a trade let me work. Please, sir, I want to run my own business, let me work. In my next book, SWB vol. 2, I will explain the 1990s migration, which I like to refer to as the best hustle exodus, Midwestern-style.

My family embodied the work muscle philosophy of the exodus to the fullest. My talented and well-educated mother was a music and English teacher. My stepfather was a hardworking government employee. Together, they were the glue that kept my grandmother, uncle, aunt, and my eight siblings together through some challenging Minnesota adjustments. They left friends, family, and all that was familiar to them to come to a place that had less blacks in the entire state than the city of Birmingham. I, Kevin Phillips, still marvel and am amazed by them to this very day.

Some things never change. One thing for sure that never changes is the good ol' wingman or wingwoman. You know how it is. You go out on the town to meet the ladies and gentlemen, right? Maybe it's just me, but it seems most people go out with other people to ease the mess or enhance the yes when trying to meet strangers. My family's exodus to Minnesota was no different, figuratively. They moved to the north face with friends.

One of the families was the Grigsbys in which one of them will play a major role in a particular profiling style that crushed our nation if not the world. (Angela Grigsby is her name, and Operation Starburst scam was her game.) This person and the profiling style (financial Profiling) will be on Blast in my next book SWB vol. 2. This book is about profiling. And, yes, the premise of this book is I, Kevin Phillips, must have a thin or six degrees of separation connection.

Before I move on to page 8, I feel the need to provide you, the reader, with actions that set the tone for the 1960's as well as the book I have written for you in which you are reading at this moment. A 1967 traffic stop in Newark, N.J. that set the world in a tailspin:

https://www.gettyimages.com › videos › 1967-newark-riots

https://www.blackpast.org › african-american-history › newark-riot-1967

https://www.youtube.com › watch?v=pkYnsHetxjg

https://www.nj.com › njv_mark_diionno › 2010 › 12 › newark…

https://www.youtube.com › watch?v=T1QrTPZ-lJs

https://en.wikipedia.org › wiki › 1967_Newark_riots

https://www.ojp.gov › ncjrs › virtual-library › …

https://timeline.com › newark-riots-snipers-tactical-3e7019d835b0

https://blackamericaweb.com › 2016 › 07 › 12 › little…

https://timeline.com › myth-black-snipers-1967-c8602defde13

The Assassination Profile

Murder is murder. Killing someone can be intentional, unintentional, accidental, or in self-defense. But when an individual or individuals set out to hit an individual, or individuals, for personal reasons, this is murderous assassinating hate. During the 1960s, the first decade of my life, produced the most historically profound and well-known cases of assassination profiling—

John F. Kennedy

https://www.youtube.com › watch?v=YTdQzXuoXgU

Robert Kennedy

https://www.youtube.com › watch?v=aG_xw93irUA

Martin Luther King Jr.

https://www.youtube.com › watch?v=wZLDlVyl43g

Medgar Evers.

https://www.youtube.com › watch?v=EST8rmZRrNk

Fred Hampton

https://www.youtube.com › watch?v=RlNqcrpfdQ0

Malcolm X

https://www.youtube.com › watch?v=eqjMzzUS38w

Freedom Summer murders of Goodman, Chaney, and Schwerner

https://www.youtube.com › watch?v=Nl5G4Xwv-aw

Charles Manson and his crew

https://www.youtube.com › watch?v=JlhkyE59PTg

As I said before I, Kevin Phillips, will have had to have some type connection to the profiling style I am writing about. My thin degree of separation to the assassination profile is my dear grandmother. We live in a time when people take pride in ignoring their solid wit and common sense: Alexa, do this; GPS, do that; or I must google my next thought just to be sure my last thought was on point.

My mom had exceptional wit and common sense. However, she was also college educated. My grandmother, however, had extraordinary wit and common sense. She did not grow up with a formal education. In fact, she took it upon herself to get her GED at age fifty-nine. In fact, I can bet you all the tea in China, all the dunks in a dunk contest, and all the bagels at Bruegger's that this woman with limited formal education would make a mistake like this:

Feb 08, 2020—Man Falls Through Ice on Mississippi River, Says Google Maps Told Him to Cross the Minneapolis. Fire Department says that the app most likely told him to cross the Stone Arch Bridge, not walk across the river.

Use baking soda on your teeth; now look at Colgate toothpaste. Eat prunes and take Mylanta; now look at all the laxatives on the market. Have a smart wardrobe; now look at that get rid of the clothes that do not make you happy lady making a killing off people who should know better. And, finally, in the case of eating right and staying fit naturally, those Alabama people had no exercise bikes (sorry, Peloton). They were always personally attending to others' needs so personal trainers were me, myself, and I. Maybe if Jimmy the Greek would have said what he said with more class, he would have lasted longer on CBS Football Sports longer. (It's okay to google Jimmy the Greek.)

This extrastrong, extrapowerful, extratalented, extrawise, extrasmart part black and Native American woman helped raise me in significant fashion. She worked me hard as a youngster, but in true Alabama fashion, she fed me good. Sometimes at the end of long days, she would ask me to part her hair and grease her scalp. I would sometimes take a shot at braiding her hair, but I preferred to grease her scalp to avoid complaints. Anyone who knows women understands the hair rules, and if don't, you better ask a woman. (FYI, I wrote this book before most of the world, including myself, ever heard of this guy):

Feb 10, 2020—A former NFL player has won the Oscar for Best Animated Short Film, eight years after predicting he would one day be nominated. Matthew A. Cherry wrote and directed Hair Love.

Just so you know, I knew about these rules fifty years ago. It was usually during these hair sessions she would tell me riveting stories about growing up in Alabama after the turn of the nineteenth century. Some of the stories were heinous and hard to listen to. She was not a fan of Gov. George Wallace, to say the least. But through all the hard times, she was all about family, in-laws included. Did not matter.

We have family all through Alabama. Many of my relatives are from Birmingham, which is where the six degrees of separation—as it pertains to assassination profiling—has its connection. The 16th Street Baptist Church (the bombing of which assassinated four young black girls) was the home church to many of my relatives, some of which were very close to my grandmother. Assassination profiling to the extreme.

Grandmom, Mom and Grandpa

Reader, each time I reference a profiling style throughout this book, DWB, and the forthcoming book, SWB, I will recommend a list of songs to be listened to after you have read the profiling style. Reread the profiling style while simultaneously listening to the music. For the profiling style of assassinating people, I recommend Strange Fruit by Billie Holiday; Don't Call Me Nigger, Whitey by Sly & the Family Stone; Mississippi Goddam by Nina Simone; MLK by U2; Pride by U2; Abraham, Martin and John by Dion DiMucci; and It's Like That by Run-D.M.C. and Jason Nevins.

The irony of the turbulent sixties, the first decade of my life, is that although my people left the racist terrorism of the South for Minnesota, they could not escape racial dysfunction. Some things even a change of scenery can't stop. During the sixties and early seventies, protests and riots became commonplace in the United States. I vividly remember watching Walter Cronkite on the black and white. He would be reporting on things that made this young black boy wonder if he will ever make it to his eighteenth birthday—Vietnam; Watts riots; the Detroit riots; the Kent State riots, the riots after the MLK assassination, including the Boston riots; the Chicago uprisings after the slaughter of Fred Hampton; and racial tensions throughout the South. (Thank you, James Brown, for your 1967 concert in Boston, Massachusetts. It kept the peace.)

So when my stepdad brought me to Francis Henry's barbershop just off on Plymouth Avenue in 1967, and these grown men were all up in arms about the chaos roughly a half a mile going west on Plymouth Avenue, I knew the trouble had hit home. The north side of Minneapolis was in chaos; martial law was declared, and because we lived a stone's throw from Plymouth Avenue, we could not leave the house alone.

(Reader, I remember that day in 1967 because my Hall School kindergarten buddy Keith Arrandondo, brother of current Minneapolis Police Chief Medaria Arrandondo was at Francis Henry's Barbershop with his dad)

The news of the 1967 Plymouth Avenue riots made the desk of Walter Cronkite as well. Blacks wanted a bigger piece of the Minneapolis pie, and they were starting to feel cheated. Burning buildings, broken windows, and looting filled Plymouth Ave and other parts of the north side. This was my introduction to profiling. (Check out the first part of the April 23, 2019, and the April 24, 2019, airing of 1969 on ABC.)

The 1970s—DWB Style

The 1970s brought big things to me and my family. The first big thing for me was going from kindergarten to the grade school. Going to the first grade should be a big deal for any kid. Yup. Not only were you going to school with people your age and older, you felt more responsible about young life—your appearance, how to get along with others, doing well in school, and, probably most important, how you are perceived by your teachers.

Oh yes, let's not forget about the girls. You now have girls from the first to the eighth grade to ogle at; and trust me, even as a young boy, I was good at ogling. My two favorite classes were lunch and recess because all girls in the whole school would be visible. This fascination with observation turned to a little deviation that nearly led to my separation from the ascension participation. I found myself losing my pencil quite consistently at times. Since I sat in the front row, it seemed the pencil would always roll under desk of my ferociously good-looking teacher's desk. When this occurred, it gave me a reason to crawl under her desk in order to retrieve the pencil. I could usually do this without her knowledge because her desk was big, I was small, and once I ducked down and crawled, she could not see me. She wore fancy long dresses every day that in most cases went past her knees even when sitting down. But one day, she wore a fluffy short dress; and by mere coincidence I, Kevin Phillips, lost my pencil under her desk. Like any other responsible student, I knew I needed my pencil. I took it upon myself to retrieve my pencil that day by crawling under her desk. Who knew this would happen again on the one day she wore a fluffy short dress? Go figure. Well, needless to say, she caught me and put an end to the slippery pencil move like Michael Jordan in the clutch. It was over real quick.

The next big thing that happened in 1970 was my grandmother, aunt, and uncle finding their own home located at 822 Morgan No. So let's rewind for a moment. My family arrived in Minnesota in 1959. Our first place of residency was the projects or, as some people like to refer to them, the bricks. (Google Lil Scrappy's song Livin' in the Projects.) We then moved to our house on 914 14th Avenue North, right off Dupont Avenue, in north Minneapolis in 1964. My mom and her husband already had a ready-made family of four when they arrived, which meant there were at least nine people living under one roof at one time or another. Only the strong survive, so remember you are talking people from the land of Bear Bryant, so we talk extrastrong 'Bama folks, okay?

My grandmother and her family's move was hard on me. Her son was my role model. One of the best men that I have ever met in my life, and I, Kevin Phillips, attest to it. His name was Daryl Hall. It was a grand time for a guy like him back in the north face. Affirmative action programs, job opportunities, athletics, education, and good looks were a potent mix in the seventies; and Daryl had 'em all. People use the term millennial as it's something to be paid attention to today. We were all young once; it just so happens that many of us from certain races are put behind the eight ball when we are in our prime—pick one: racism, poverty, incarceration based on race such as the Central Park Five in New York City.

Daryl was the exception. He graduated from DeLaSalle High School in Minneapolis and St. Thomas University in St. Paul. He was an awesome baseball player who played semipro ball with a local team called the Grain Exchange. I like to refer to him as a soulennial or realennial. Like Tupac said, To be young, black, gifted, healthy, and have all your limbs is a beautiful thing. Daryl possessed all of that so that made him a real soul brother, hence the terms soulennial and realennial.

Daryl was real and soulful indeed. He along with some of his Minneapolis-born white buddies, which included television brothers Peter Graves from Mission Impossible and James Arness from Gunsmoke, took me to the Aquatennial Parade in downtown Minneapolis in 1970; and I got a Minnesota nice reality check that set the tone for my survival in the world of ten thousand mixed messages.

Musician-actor Isaac Hayes was in the parade rolling down Nicollet Mall in a drop-top convertible. He was famous but became even more famous after Shaft hit the movie theaters and record stores. I remember asking my uncle who Isaac Hayes was, and he said He is a big star. I said to him something like, You're a black man, and you're a star, and you belong in a limo. His buddy then laughed and said, Daryl isn't a real black.

What I have come to realize having grown up in America is that mixed messages are consistent, constant, and dangerous. Even more so now with the internet, the worldwide web, social media, crazy videos and images of sometimes wild things, and let's not forget photoshopping. Maybe in the 1970s, his buddy's view was since he was a white-collar black, he was not a real black because he was not the 1970s bell-bottoms, superfly, big-afro, or Kojak black. Perhaps in the eyes of other generations who grew up listening to Too Short, DJ Quick and Rick Ross, Tupac, Biggie, Snoop Dog or Dre, Drake, Lil Wayne, Warren G, and others; he may not have been a real black man because he did not offer what some people like—i.e., urges for drugs, prostitutes, or a rap song. (Some people can be quick to refer to a black person as chump when they play by rules but will call their friend Leroy on Friday when they need specific goods or services that only Friday night Leroy or Saturday night Tyrone can provide—BFFPDOR, which means best friends for pimpin' drugs or rappin'.)

What I can tell you is, he was black when the Plymouth Avenue riots hit; he was black when he was the last hired and the first fired; he was black when the heat and the electricity were shut off (google Lil Scrappy—anutha country story, you will understand); he was black whenever someone called him a racial slur up here in the north face; and he was black when he got drafted and was asked to put his life on the line for this country. He never let me forget what his buddy said; needless to say, it was hard on me seeing he, my aunt, and grandma move out. However, no one died and no one went to jail. Before they moved Daryl took me to a great little restaurant on Broadway and Emerson in north Minneapolis called Tally Ho.

Back in them days it was not uncommon to see professional athletes on the north side of Minneapolis. So as he and I are eating here walks in NHL Hall Of Famer goalie Gump Worsley. That's right THE GUMPER! The no mask wearing legend! Kids, this guy never wore a goalie mask, you don't believe me, believe google.

After escaping Jim Crow hell in the South, one would think grass would be greener and life would be a long walk in the park. However, most northern cities that blacks escaped to during that period were bigger, faster, and far more liberal. This can lead—which it very well did—to temptation, temptation, and more temptation. This can lead to problems, problems, and more problems. Like I said, before my family arrived in Minnesota in 1959 with nine people, it started out with nine but mushroomed to fourteen after my mom gave birth to five more of us. The walls were closing in rapidly, and I knew it. We managed, but not without your extraheated Alabama stress. I recall Lawrence Fishburne once saying, Black people are a stress-related people. And believe me, we had enough stressful moments for your family and your family's family.

So how did we cope in these tight spots? Well, most of us know of the Black Lives Matter movement. You must also remember that black lives chatter, especially when it comes to double-digit bodies living in a single-family dwelling—translation: fussing, fussing, when doves cry fussing. (Man, that near Northside Prince was too good for us mere mortals. Hail the north side.)

It is my firm belief that the conditions black people, like my family, lived under during that period in America set the stage for profitable fussing. Some of the biggest recipients of profiting from the fussing format have been Morton Downey Jr., Sally Jessy Raphael, Phil Donahue, Oprah Winfrey, Jerry Springer, Steve Wilko; Maury Povich, and many other made-for-prime-time mouthpieces that have made a killing off the stresses of people.

As long as I am on this talk show topic, I would like to contribute a documentary program idea to Jerry Springer. Jerry, interview a host of black people who grew up during the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980's. Make sure it's a multipart series similar to the R. Kelly and Michael Jackson fiascos. Call it Cheating in the Next Room. Play the Z. Z. Hill song as the intro and throughout the documentary. Now ask some people if they come from families who have more than one father. Now ask those old school people if it mattered. I would bet the farm, if I had one, that you would get a resounding no from each person. Momma was Momma to all her kids, and all her kids were family. You see those wise people back then did not play that blended mess. Most importantly, whoever the father was all of momma's kids were momma's kids—one family functioning together.

I speak with almost doctoral experience concerning this phenomenon. My stepfather was an ambitious man. He took full advantage of what Minnesota had to offer in 1959 and opened up a small grocery store. Yes, he became a store owner in south Minneapolis. He also became AWOL and flamboyant. You know the drill—Cadillacs, women, good-time friends were only his friends when times were good.

Momma knew he was cheating. Yup, he came all the way to the north face with his family to cheat on his wife. Did Mom go to the Springer or Oprah show crying the blues? Nope, it was before their time. Did Momma go on Tinder looking for that kind of action? Nope, it was before their time. Did Momma go on a computer site to find love? Nope, it was before their time as well as morally and culturally incompatible. What she did would have humbled all those previously mentioned mouthpieces before their first commercial break.

Back in them days, all self-respecting black women, which is what she was, went dancing, looking fine. Her club of choice was called the Nacarema in south Minneapolis. Rather than get jealous dizzy, she got loving busy and met my biological father one night at this particular club in early 1960. You heard it right, while already married my mom had three kids by my biological father, my sister Arivia, my sister Kim and yours truly. It was not until this man, my biological father, died that my mom told me who he actually was. He came over many times for years, and I just assumed they were friends. One day he said to me, Boy, your momma is the prettiest creole-looking woman I have ever seen. I asked my mom what creole meant, and she told me she gets that all the time because of her light skin.

No cops, nobody lost their lives out of jealousy, no shrinks, and no one went to jail. Momma was just a natural woman with kids who made supernatural moves after the man for whom she changed her life for and who threw her an unnatural changeup. To make this conundrum even spicier, those two did not get officially divorced until 1980, the year I not only turned eighteen but also graduated high school. Now ask me if I missed the many years of child support he was responsible for, and I will tell you this: if I were eating and had a place to live, I felt like Prince Harry (former prince) desperately seeking Ms. Merkel. In other words, I was cool and happiest I had ever been in my entire life because we all were Phillips.

No drama, no Springer, and no you are the father chaos. Just one big family. So, Jerry, remember—find some old-school, wise black people and interview them. I know they are hard to find these days, but they are still out there. Do a multipart documentary and ask them if they care who one sibling's father is or not. Bottom line is, if Momma's happy, everyone is happy. And trust me, it's got Emmy written all over it.

So now we will fast forward to 1970 and my grandmother's big move into her house. She finally had gotten the house and space she always wanted in a community she was most familiar and comfortable with—the black community of the near north side of Minneapolis. Being the family woman that she was, my grandmother offered to take in one of her grandchildren in order to ease the load off of my mother. I was the chosen one and moved in with her in 1971.

My aunt and uncle had moved out by this time so I, Kevin Phillips, became her sole tenant. She taught me how to work, but she worked this little boy hard. If it was not the lawn, it was the garden. If it was not vacuuming, it was cleaning the bathroom. Big tasks for a little kid, especially in a town that was much easier to live than Prattville or Montgomery. You could not tell that to my grandmother though. In her eyes, I was just like any black boy from down South—able to work.

She was hard, that is for sure. I can vividly remember the arguments that she would have with my stepdad, or my mother and my stepdad, or all three of them at once—the power, the force, the velocity, the strength, and the high octaves fussing. This kind fussing could bring a wild African lion to its knees easily. I began to have a better understanding of why my stepdad may have left. Had he not, I may not be able to say, No one died and no one went to jail, ever.

After my stepdad moved out, life went on. He would pop in every now and then, bringing over different types of items we needed. My extrastrong and extratough mom never showed any negative or ill will toward him; therefore, just like many other black families, the routine felt regular in Momma's house or Grandma's house. Y'all know the routine. All was peaceful for