n choir instructor John Gainer’s first day of class at the University of Oregon, the students trickled in slowly: five whites. A few minutes later, two black faces finally made their way into the room—neither had ever sung black gospel before. "Oh my God," Gainer thought. "What am I going to do with these people?" That day, in 1983, there weren’t any students he’d call "vocally qualified" to sing black gospel music. But they seemed eager to learn and Gainer decided to work with them. As the new members left that day, he encouraged them to tell friends about the choir. Word spread around the university, and by the following week the choir had grown to 15. The next week 21. The next term 54. In the fall of 1983, the choir became an official class, and Gainer became an adjunct professor. He started a community choir to include members outside the university. On campus, the class swelled to 264 registered students by 1985, almost twice the size of the school’s marching band. The class grew even though the university, like the city of Eugene, Oregon, had an overwhelmingly white population.

For years, Gainer has drawn multitudes of people together through song. Inside the choir’s practice room, Gainer found harmony. But outside those doors, he found a world that was more than ready to stereotype him. In the past, people in passing cars have yelled "nigger" at him. Once, a kid threw a soda in his face. On three separate occasions, Gainer had the misfortune of being a black man in a mostly white community where police quickly suspected him of being guilty because of his skin color.

Gainer certainly isn’t the first innocent black man to be detained by police under questionable circumstances. The NAACP cites studies that say 72 percent of all routine traffic stops involve African Americans, even though less than 15 percent of the country’s driving population is black. The problem, known as racial profiling, involves police using the color of a person’s skin to determine whether they will question that person about a crime. Police officers watch for non-whites who look "out of place," or are somewhere that they "don’t belong," says Hilary Shelton, director of the NAACP Washington bureau. Shelton, who meets annually with NAACP leaders across the country, says that no matter what region he visits, everyone has a story to tell about racial profiling. John Gainer has several.

n the morning of April 1, 1997, Gainer took a Eugene city bus to look at a rental home. The realtor told him the house would be hard to spot from the road. He was able to locate the right street—Harlow Road—but Gainer, whose extreme nearsightedness qualifies him as legally blind, had trouble finding the right address. He was wary of walking up to front doors to look for street numbers; people might see a black man in this predominantly white neighborhood and get the wrong idea. Instead, he peered closely at several mailboxes, his hand over his eyes, squinting because of the bright sun. An older woman passed him and gave him a strange look. He eventually found the house, looked it over, and headed back to the bus stop.

He sat near the rear door of the bus as it headed back downtown. It paused at a stop for about five minutes and Gainer saw a police officer talking to the driver. Suddenly, another police officer, James Cameron, pulled apart the rear entrance doors. Pointing at Gainer, he said, "Sir, we need to talk to you. Can you get off the bus, please?" After stepping off the bus with Cameron, Gainer noticed that Stefan Zeltvay, the first officer, was walking around him. A police car sat parked behind the bus, and the passengers peered through their windows at Gainer and the cops.

Gainer said Cameron initially accused him of stealing mail. Cameron has said he never directly accused Gainer of anything. The predicament made little sense until Gainer heard Cameron mention Harlow Road. The situation suddenly became clear to Gainer: Black Man in the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time.

Gainer explained that his visual impairment was his reason for examining the mailboxes. He showed his faculty identification and the rental house’s address. He thought that information would end the inquiry. Then another officer pointed out some mail in Gainer’s lower left coat pocket. Gainer remembers Zeltvay asking to look in his pockets and briefcase, but Zeltvay said Gainer held out the mail for the officers to see. The police looked at the mail, realized the envelopes belonged to Gainer, and told him that he could go. "Is that all you’re going to tell me—that I can go now?" Gainer asked, frustrated. Police told him they were just doing their job and following up on a report. Gainer, now boiling mad, told them he knew the chief of police and would be filing a complaint. In addition, he said he would be notifying the NAACP. Climbing back onto the bus, he faced the passengers’ judging looks. As he walked back to his seat with his head down, he tried desperately not to look anyone in the face, embarrassed that they might believe he was guilty of something.

He stewed over the incident. His doctor found his blood pressure soaring later in the week, and Gainer broke down crying in his office. Reluctantly, Gainer agreed to see a psychologist. But he still had to prepare his students for the spring gospel ensemble concert.