Though this time my aspirations of sailing were nowhere to be found and I was picking up some film from the 1-hour photo lab at the Walgreen’s of choice. The weather called for a hoodie, so being the Boy Scout that I am I was prepared.

The clinical Walgreen’s scent permeated the store as I walked to 1-hour photo lab counter. The talking fish was still in full stock, as if it were the hot new gift for the good ole boys and the 50 million pack of batteries were on sale for $9.99.

Finally making it past the hot sales, I stood at the counter with my hood up. The photo technician asked me what the last name was.

“Robinson. Bradley,” I replied.

A faint sound muffled in the back of my mind appeared, like a balked fast food speaker. Not paying attention I stood there with hands in pocket waiting for my 1-hour photos.

“Put your hands in the air!” The broken fast food speaker box said.

But this didn’t make sense I thought, as I watched the photo-technician retrieve my photos from my Florida trip?

“Put your hands behind your head!” The speaker box said louder.

Interested in what was going on I turn around. A moment of question then occurred.

“Why are these two SWAT officers dressed in all black, pointing their guns at me looking a bit bothered?”

Lifting my hands like my brain was interpreting, a slow bamboozled apparatus, the two officers rushed me. One of the officers coupled my hands together, while the other patted me down.

“Why didn’t you turn around when we told you to,” the officer exclaimed.

Still trying to analyze the situation, I replied, “I didn’t hear you.”

“What are you doing here?” the officer demanded like I was being of hassle to the 1-hr. photo lab. Immediately he followed up with another question.

“Why do you have your hood on?”

A fashion for those of the utmost quality of course, though at this point I began to understand what was going on.

“Well, if you look behind this counter, you will see that I have photos with the name Bradley Robinson on them.”

A bit offended by this, the officer pulled the sleeve of my hoodie.

“Are you in a gang?” the officer demanded again.

Amused by this I chuckled and said, “No. Are you in a gang?”

“What do these tattoo’s mean?” with a final demand, before I abruptly spoiled the escapade.

“I do believe I am being profiled right now,” I said casually.

And as quickly as they came on, they let off. And then the situation for the two officers went sour.

“You guys don’t even know who I am, or what I do. I am just a kid who goes to school and is here to pick-up some photos,” I hammered. “If you look in my wallet, it says Bradley E. Robinson on my I.D and behind this photo counter…Bradley E. Robinson.”

“Well…” one officer stammered. “We have had a lot of robberies here at this location lately and you looked suspicious with your hood on.”

“Are you going to stop every person, like you just did me, that comes in here with a hood on? I think that is some sort of grounds for profiling?” I defended. “I was standing here minding my own business. The least you could do was wait and see what I was about to do.”

“Well…you have to understand…”the officer began to say as I furiously interjected.

“Oh, I understand. I understand that I have just been profiled. I have no interest in the field of being a cop, but I would take a guess that was bad practice on your part.”

The situation lay silent, with me on the offense defending my basic rights that were at first thrown out by these two shifty public servants. I got the impression that the two officers were got off guard by this kid full of tattoos, reminding them of my basic rights as a citizen.