Driving down a Brooklyn street in April, I suddenly noticed a police car’s siren and flashing lights behind me.
In that instant, I was viscerally reminded of my Blackness. I thought of Daunte Wright and Tyre Nichols, two young Black men whose lives ended at the hands of police in America after traffic stops – names and stories I knew all too well.
Calmly, I pulled over and a police officer got out of his car and approached mine. I noticed his right hand hovering over his pistol, still holstered, but ready.
Walking right up to my window, he leaned down and said: ‘Licence and registration please.’
I nodded slowly, my voice steady but quiet: ‘I’m reaching into my bag.’
He didn’t respond. Just watched.
Handing it over, he went on to accuse me of running a stop sign and then issued me with a summons to a local court.
Months later, I came face-to-face with the officer in court for the first time. He read a long statement, accusing me of driving without due care.
Finally, the judge’s voice cut through the tension: ‘I’m dismissing this case.’
I gasped in relief, disbelief, and a strange exhilaration. The officer’s own testimony revealed the truth – he had been so far behind my car that there was no way he could have seen whether I had stopped.
Vindication.
This Black History Month, that moment – being stopped and questioned – lingers in my mind like a quiet ache. It’s a stark reminder that, as a Black British man in the US, while my accent may soften first impressions, it’s my skin that shapes how I’m truly seen and treated.
That tension between who I am and how I’m perceived is something I carry every day – a weight born from history, but lived in the present.
Trump’s America feels worlds apart from the country I arrived in nearly five years ago, to work as Good Morning Britain’s North America correspondent. It currently feels torn and fractured by politics, consumed by division, and suffused with a pervasive sense of unease.
These days, you just have to whisper the words ‘diversity’ and ‘inclusion’ and you’ve got a problem. I remember when they were once rallying cries for fairness.
In just 10 months in office, Donald Trump rolled back or attacked programmes born from the civil-rights era and began reshaping how the country remembers the stories of Black Americans.
From scaling back lessons about Harriet Tubman – who risked everything to lead hundreds of enslaved people to freedom – to the US Air Force reviewing lessons on the first Black pilots (known as the Tuskegee Airmen), critics accuse the President of whitewashing America’s racist past and erasing the legacies of Black heroes.
The impact goes beyond headlines and news cycles: many say it has fueled a climate where discrimination feels more overt and, disturbingly, more accepted.
America’s Black erasure is why this year’s occasion feels different compared to other years for Britain too, where questions of race and immigration are once again front and centre.
The recent Unite the Kingdom protest, led by far-right agitator Tommy Robinson, was more than a rally – it was a warning flare. It was proof that the anger and concerns igniting in the US are spilling across borders, seeping into the veins of other nations.
That rally reminded me of June, when I stood in the thick of immigration demonstrations in Los Angeles. The air was heavy with tension as chaos erupted all around me.
Suddenly, in the midst of officers clashing with protesters, I realised I had been shot. A rubber bullet, fired by an officer, struck my left arm just moments before I was due to do a live broadcast on ITV.
The shock stole my breath. The pain was sharp, but sharper still was the realisation of how quickly debate can become dangerous – how words can harden into weapons.
Trump’s vow to carry out the largest deportation operation in US history has already sent waves of dread and uncertainty through millions of migrant families. Communities are on edge.
A country once defined by opportunity, now reverberates with demands to send them home. It calls on all of us not only to defend our history, but to also look inward.
Black History Month
October marks Black History Month, which reflects on the achievements, cultures and contributions of Black people in the UK and across the globe, as well as educating others about the diverse history of those from African and Caribbean descent.
For more information about the events and celebrations that are taking place this year, visit the official Black History Month website.
Black history on both sides of the Atlantic is full of examples for us to follow: like Claudette Colvin, a 15-year-old girl who refused to give up her seat on a Montgomery bus months before Rosa Parks made history.
Her courage, largely overlooked for decades, reminds us that resistance often comes quietly, in moments that seem small at the time but ripple through generations.
In the UK, I think of Britain’s first Black policewoman, Sislin Fay Allen. I met and interviewed her several years ago, and she told me she never set out to make history when she joined the Metropolitan Police in 1968.
These lives remind us that Black history is not only a timeline of oppression and progress, but a lens through which we can see more clearly the world we live in. Even as things seem to be going backwards.
This Black History Month, it is more important than ever for us to do more than remember. We need to act.
We must confront injustice where it festers and nurture empathy in the coldest corners. History is not just a record of what was.
My experience of being stopped unfairly is not just an inconvenience. It strips away dignity and instills fear.
It echoes the harsh realities of a criminal justice system that too often treats Black people as threats rather than individuals. And these encounters can escalate dangerously.
Studies show that, in the US, drivers who look like me are not only disproportionately stopped, but also face an increased risk of violence and death compared to white drivers.
Yet, amid this adversity, there is a determined spirit – a relentless fight for equality.
The legacy of those who came before us demands nothing less. Only then can we dare to imagine a world where courage defies fear, and hope burns brighter than despair.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk.
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