I was seventeen years old propped against the stone siding of the Walgreens on Gen De Gaulle around 3:30 am, eating pudding and drinking a mocha Frappuccino when they pulled up. Something about these particular NOLA cops instantly gave me a bad feeling in my gut—I knew I was about to get in some kind of trouble. They sauntered over to me, a male and a female officer, gesturing toward my unusual choice of meal. I quickly gathered my things and threw my pack over my right shoulder grabbing the now fraying messenger bag that had been at my side. The male officer proceeded to question me about why I was out so late at night and how I was clearly violating city ordinance by being a minor out past midnight. The female officer, now shining a bright light directly in my eyes causing me to wince at the sight of it, stepped uncomfortably close to my face glaring harshly at me. She pushed her way in front of the male cop and demanded I get in the vehicle. Having been through this situation previously up north I knew my rights and refused.

Something about being a teen runaway always seemed to bring about the nastiest of people. The people who thought they could do anything they wanted to us because we didn’t matter. The lowest of the low in their opinions and what became of us was of no concern to them. They didn’t care where we came from or who/what we’d run away from—they only knew we were essentially the nutria of humans and should be snuffed out if at all possible. During all my time as a homeless youth, never once did someone consider perhaps my lack of a home was better than what I had left behind. The assumption was I was a troubled youth and I needed to find my way back to my parents before I got hurt--as if they could help. People don’t like to think about the fact that perhaps the home I had left was causing me more pain than anything someone could do to me out on the streets.

The female officer grabbed my arm tightly and tried to pull me toward the empty police cruiser. I resisted and broke free taking quite a few steps backward now poised for defense. If there was anything being homeless taught me, it was that police are not to be trusted and always be ready to fight for your life. The male took an easy step toward me, his left-hand extended palm up to show he meant no harm yet the other firmly placed on his holster ready to draw if necessary. I half put my hands up showing I had no weapons and wasn’t going to be a problem but took another step back away from his ever-edging forward body. They assured me I needed to come with them, that I didn’t belong out here at night. They called me by a name that was not my own—nor had I introduced myself as of yet, neither had they asked. I told them I had my papers in my backpack and if they allowed me, I would show I was in fact who I claimed I was. A northern girl just down here from Maine, making my way across the country traveling alone. Despite my faded green hair and Monroe piercing they reassured me they knew I had run away from a home in Algiers and they’d come to take me back. Once seeing my papers, the man released his grasp from the gun holstered to his belt and tried to convince me into the car. I once again refused but promised to move along and not be any trouble. The woman forced her way closer again despite her partners warning to stay back. She yelled and called me scum, said I didn’t deserve to get off so easily and wished me to be gotten rid of—no matter the means. From the mismatched, hole-ridden converse on my feet to my dirty appearance she was disgusted by the sight of me and didn’t hesitate to let me know.