I sat in the back seat of my family's white van as we rolled through the wooded Adirondack mountains.

We'd just had dinner and were now headed to our favorite ice cream spot to have family devotions. Dad had asked me to lead, and I was thinking of combining Jeremiah 29:11 and Psalm 27. I was pondering the freedom we're blessed with to be able to publicly display our religious liberty.

"Hey Dad?" came the deep voice of my 16-year-old brother. His voice has skipped the squeaky puberty stage and stooped right to that deep rich tone. Every time he talks I turn around to see what man is standing behind me.

"That cop we past earlier has been following us," he continued. His voice sounded drained and tired, like this was an expected turn of events and telling my father was as typical as saying the gas prices had gone up.

"Has he?" asked my father, glancing at the rear view mirror.

We'd passed a cop on the main road earlier, stationed right at the bottom of a hill. A prime spot for speeding vehicles. Mom signaled Dad to slow down a bit, but sure enough, the police cruiser pulled out behind us, no lights, no siren, just a fixed stare at our back window.

Suddenly we all tightened up and made certain our seat belts were fastened and clicked.

We lost the officer as we turned off the main street, but before long, he was following us again. We made a right. He made a right. We turned left. He followed.

I tried to extinguish the flame of frustration that was kindling inside. With all that's going on in the news these days, I can't help but feel an underlying distrust for white police officers. And though I'm biracial with a white mom and black dad, I know racists don't account for your heritage.

It's just the color you're wearing that matters.

Dad pulled to the side across the street from Skyline Ice Cream, and the police car cruised up beside him. If I was a child, I would have thought this a common occurrence for all families, and I'd of smiled at how good my dad is at talking to authorities.

Instead, I sat musing over this ridiculous profiling situation I so often try to explain to my white friends. A situation where someone as gentle and respectful as my dad is profiled simply because of the ebony skin color he was born with. My dad told the officer we were looking for a spot to park and get some ice cream.

The officer replied with a frown, "Well, be careful." His subtle comment could have meant a lot of things depending on whom he was talking to. But there and then with the muggy mountain air drifting into our air conditioned car, it sounded like a threat.

"Or what?" I wanted to say, "You're gonna keep on following us until we exceed the speed limit? You're going to look for an opportunity to arrest us? Or maybe you'll just shoot my daddy as soon as he resists a search and claim he was about to pull a hand gun?"

Nothing felt worse than the crowd of people watching us as we pulled into the ice cream place, climbed out, and stood in line to place our order. Having witnessed the whole thing, they looked at us as if we'd broken the law.

Could I blame them?

My daddy knows how to play the safe card when it comes to racial profiling, and that's probably what saves our family from trouble every time it happens. But playing the safe card doesn't work for everyone, and this is why 'innocent' black men die under the hands of a crowd of white cops. Tired of playing the safe card and admitting they were wrong just to save their lives, they resist the oppression and take offense.

So what's better, protesting against racial profiling and injustice or playing it safe? How do you stop a social construct that's destroying our country from the inside ...