Criminalization and Community: Reflections on an Encounter in Little Rock

While in town for my cousin’s funeral, I found myself at a gas station in Little Rock, just picking up a bottle of water and a snack. What should have been a simple errand turned into a moment of deep reflection and frustration. As I approached the counter, I noticed a series of flyers taped to the protective enclosure around the store owner. Each flyer displayed the faces of Black patrons, accused of stealing from the store. Among them, what caught my eye most was the image of two young Black girls, accompanied by the handwritten question, "Where are your parents?"

This scene stirred something within me—a mix of anger, sadness, and the recognition of a pattern that is all too familiar. The criminalization of Black people, particularly Black girls, is a systemic issue that has roots deep in the fabric of our society. These girls, whose only crime may have been youthful indiscretion, were now being publicly shamed and labeled in a way that will likely follow them far beyond the walls of that gas station.

The interaction that followed between the store owner and me quickly escalated. I questioned him—challenged him—on why he felt it was appropriate to display these images in such a way. His response was defensive, rooted in a narrative of frustration that I could understand, but not condone. It was clear that he saw these young girls and others like them not as members of the community, but as threats to his livelihood.

This incident is reflective of a broader issue—how Black communities are often treated by immigrant-owned businesses. There is much talk about solidarity between marginalized communities, but the reality is that racism and prejudice can still persist within these relationships. The history of Black-Asian relations in America is complex, marred by instances of violence and mistrust, such as the tragic killing of Latasha Harlins by a Korean store owner in 1991. These events have left scars that continue to influence interactions today.

Moreover, this encounter made me reflect on the broader consequences of integration. While it broke down barriers, it also dispersed the tight-knit Black communities that once thrived. Back then, we had our own businesses, our own schools, our own professionals—doctors, lawyers, shop owners—all living within and contributing to the community. The disintegration of these communities, paired with the influx of non-Black business owners, has created spaces where we are often viewed with suspicion rather than respect.

In the end, the store owner locked me in the store when our argument reached a peak. I had to remind him that I was a lawyer, and that this wasn’t a battle he wanted to escalate. He eventually let me out, but the exchange left a lasting impact on me. It underscored the need for continued advocacy for our communities and a rethinking of how we engage with those who profit from our presence without truly understanding or respecting us.

We need to reclaim our spaces, support Black-owned businesses, and build up our communities in ways that prioritize respect, dignity, and mutual understanding. As for those who come into our communities to do business, they must understand that with economic opportunity comes responsibility—the responsibility to treat us with the humanity we deserve.

Let's keep having these conversations and pushing for the long-overdue change.