My mother was always gearing me up for something: a good education, future job security and, most of all, institutionalized racism. Every time we passed a police car, she would drill my sister and me on what to do if and when a police officer stops us. We would begrudgingly repeat what our superior said: “Maintain eye contact, stand straight, speak when spoken to, no sudden movements.”

As children, we never understood why she grilled us like that. Then, when I was 12, Trayvon Martin was killed. Even though it wasn’t a cop who killed him, I started to comprehend what she was preparing us for. Although we live in a quiet suburb of Oakland, we are in a city where a police officer is usually seen as more of a threat than a friend. As a young black man, I know an officer of the law can shoot me no matter where I am — and maybe especially in the middle of Orinda, the mostly white city where I was being stopped for the first time.

So, as the cop was questioning me, I decided to practice what my mom preached.

“Is there a problem, officer?” I asked in my most articulate, mature, but nonviolent voice.

“No. What’s your name?”

“Riley Lockett.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Where do go to school?”

“Orinda Academy, just up the hill. But I live in Oakland.”

“Do you have ID?”

“Yes, here you go.”

I felt like I was performing a one-man show I’ve been rehearsing my whole life. He eyed my ID, then looked through me while handing it back. He turned on his radio and mumbled some breaker-breaker nonsense into it, and in a few seconds he got a few squawks back.