Yesterday, a man who mistook me for a police officer wanted to fight me.

As I walked by him, he said “back OFF me, Plain Clothes.”

This caught my attention, because it was hostile, but I didn’t identify it as a personal address.

Then he raised his voice, and addressed me directly and said “keep it moving, PLAIN CLOTHES.”

He closed with “I’m not your f-in gimp!”

Now, I was intrigued, because it just so far out of left field, that I had to stop and ponder what he meant.

The man was definitely mistaken as to who I was, and it seemed at least possible that he had mental health issues of his own. His choice of tone, if I were a cop, seemed notably unwise. That said, he had served up a character (Plain Clothes), and an analogy that immediately framed a relationship (the defiant non-gimp), that it stopped me in my tracks.

Now we were in a story together.

The comedian Russell Peters, who is an Indian man from Canada, talks about the tension of hearing “new racism.” He has been called a phrase he has never heard before, and been simultaneously offended to have it directed at him, and excited by its linguistic novelty. It’s ignorance plus innovation, and it gives him pause.

That’s sort of where I landed on the “gimp” reference. I am standing in front of an angry man, but his specific protest is so unexpected that I am momentarily  intrigued.

This particular moment of misidentification is not unprecedented. From time to time, I am inexplicably mistaken for a cop.

To me this is mostly amusing.

Yes, I am a large white man, frequently in neighborhoods where my presence could be confusing.

But very little about me says “officer of the law”, especially not in NYC.

I do not give off “hard-nosed”, or “tough guy.” I think I intimidate fairly few people who are paying attention. I am rarely in public telling anyone what to do.

I’d like to think I give off “pastor”, or “teacher”, or “guy who knows somebody at this party, so you have no reason to stop him.”

Still, it’s a common mistake.

When I was living in East Flatbush, in the early 2000s, the dice games would stop when I walked by.

I have jogged down Church Avenue, and been asked by a group of snarky teenagers “Do you have the time…(as I start to check my watch) officer?”.

I have been asked point blank, by the laundromat guy selling bootleg DVDs if I was a cop.

I have been called 5-0 on more occasions than I can count.

This, however, wasn’t Bed Stuy, or Brownsville, or East Flatbush in 2001. This was Kew Gardens in 2025. Large white guys abound here.

So it really just has me meditating on questions of mistaken identity.

1. How often do people perceive us according to their fears, or challenges?
2. How frequently are we read according to the preconceptions of a person who thinks they understand their neighborhood, institution, or club, and doesn’t expect to find us in it?
3. How often do we face the anger of someone who has us confused with someone else?
4. And how often do we respond with anger of our own, receiving the hostility of the mistaken as an invitation to fight without even attempting to figure out what’s going on?

I pray no one confuses you with their enemy today.

I pray today that even misunderstandings work in your favor.

I pray that you see clearly the people around you and respond with grace and peace.

I pray that you honor the culture of the places you enter and build bridges that connect people rather than freeways that destroy their homes.

Lastly, I pray that no-one’s disapproval chases you from your home.

The neighborhood is better with you in it.

Travelling mercies.

(Photo Credit: Senem Sucu)