I was twenty-five and suicidal, barreling down 35W, the accelerator, pushed to the floor, weaving in and out of traffic.

I heard the siren and paid no attention until I saw the flashing lights in my rearview mirror, I slowed to a stop.

The officer approached my window and motioned for me to roll it down.

"Mam, you were going ninety-seven miles an hour." He looked at my tearstained face. "Are you all right?"

"Offices, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Can I call someone for you?" I shook my head. "Ok, I'll let you off with a warning. Please drive carefully." He pulled away as I sat shaking, realizing what I had done.

Now I am writing this memory, knowing I could have killed someone, and acutely aware it was white privilege which allowed me to escape without roadside consequences.

Now when my housemate hurls racial slurs, I tell her to stop.