Author: Unknown Police Officer
·I am a cop. That means that the pains and joys of my personal life are
often muted by my work. I resent the intrusion but I confuse myself with my
job almost as often as you do. The label 'police officer' creates a false image
of who I really am. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating between two worlds
My work is not just protecting and serving. It's preserving that buffer
that exists in the space between what you think the world is, and what the
world really is.
My job isn't like television. The action is less frequent, and more graphic.
It is not exhilarating to point a gun at someone. Pooled blood has a
disgusting metallic smell and steams a little when the temperature drops.
CPR isn't an instant miracle and it's no fun listening to an elderly
grandmother's ribs break while I keep her heart beating. I'm not flattered
by your curiosity about my work. I don't keep a record of which incident was
the most frightening, or the strangest, or the bloodiest, or even the
funniest.
I don't tell you about my day because I don't want to share the images that
haunt me.
But I do have some confessions to make:
Sometimes my stereo is too loud. Andrea Boccelli's voice makes it easier
to forget the wasted body of the young man who died alone in a rented room
because his family feared the stigma of AIDS. Beethoven's 9th symphony
erases the sight of the nurses who sobbed as they scrubbed layers of dirt
and slime from a neglected 2-year-old's skin. The Rolling Stones' angry
beat assures me that it was ignorance that drove a young mother to draw
blood when she bit her toddler on the cheek in an attempt to teach him not to
bite.
Sometimes I set a bad example. I exceeded the speed limit on my way home
from work because I had trouble shedding the adrenaline that kicked in
when I discovered that the man I handcuffed during a drug raid was sitting
on a loaded 9mm pistol.
Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot to smile when you
greeted me in the store because I was remembering the anguished, whispered
confession of a teenager who pushed away his drowning brother to save his
own life.
Sometimes I'm not as sympathetic as you'd like. I'm not concerned that
your 15-year-old daughter is dating an 18-year-old because I just comforted
the parents of a young man who slashed his own throat while they slept in the
next bedroom.
I was terse on the phone because I resented the burden of having to weigh
the value of two lives when I was pointing my gun at an armed man who kept
begging me to kill him. I laugh when you cringe away from the mess in your
teens room because I know the revulsion of feeling a heroin addict's blood
trickling toward an open cut on my arm.
If I was silent when you whined about your overbearing mother it's because
I really wanted to tell you that I spoke to one of our high school friends
today. I found her mother slumped behind the wheel of her car in a tightly
closed garage. She had dressed in her best outfit before rolling down the
windows and starting the engine.
On the other hand, if I seem totally oblivious to the blood on my uniform,
or the names people call me, or the hateful editorials, it's because I am
remembering the lessons my job has taught me.
I learned not to sweat the small stuff. Grape juice on the beige sofa and
puppy pee on the oriental carpet don't faze me because I know what
arterial bleeding and decaying bodies can do to one's decor.
I learned when to shut out the world and take a mental health day. I
skipped your daughter's 4th birthday party because I was thinking about the
six children under the age of 10 whose mother left them unattended to go out
with a friend. When the 3-year-old offered the dog the milk from her
cereal bowl, the dog attacked her, tearing open her head and staining the
sandbox with blood. The little girl's siblings had to pry her head out of the dog's
jaws - twice.
I learned that everyone has a lesson to teach me. Two mothers engaged in
custody battles taught me not to judge a book by its cover. The teenage
mother on welfare mustered the strength to refrain from crying in front of
her worried child while the well-dressed, upper-class mother literally
played tug of war with her toddler before running into traffic with the
shrieking child in her arms.
I learned that nothing given from the heart is truly gone. A hug, a smile, a
reassuring word, or an attentive ear can bring an injured or distraught
person back to the surface, and help me refocus.
And I learned not to give up EVER! That split second of terror when I
think I have finally engaged the one who is young enough and strong enough
to take me down taught me that I have only one restriction: my own mortality.
One week in May has been set aside as Police Memorial Week, a time to
remember those officers who didn't make it home after their shift. But why
wait? Take a moment to tell an officer that you appreciate their work.
Smile and say 'Hi' when he's getting coffee.
Bite your tongue when you start to tell a 'bad cop' story. Better yet,
find the time to tell a 'good cop' story. The family at the next table may
be a cop's family.
Nothing given from the heart is truly gone. It is kept in the hearts of the
recipients. Give from the heart.
Give something back to the officers who risk everything they have.
'Loyalty above all else, except honor...'
·I am a cop. That means that the pains and joys of my personal life are
often muted by my work. I resent the intrusion but I confuse myself with my
job almost as often as you do. The label 'police officer' creates a false image
of who I really am. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating between two worlds
My work is not just protecting and serving. It's preserving that buffer
that exists in the space between what you think the world is, and what the
world really is.
My job isn't like television. The action is less frequent, and more graphic.
It is not exhilarating to point a gun at someone. Pooled blood has a
disgusting metallic smell and steams a little when the temperature drops.
CPR isn't an instant miracle and it's no fun listening to an elderly
grandmother's ribs break while I keep her heart beating. I'm not flattered
by your curiosity about my work. I don't keep a record of which incident was
the most frightening, or the strangest, or the bloodiest, or even the
funniest.
I don't tell you about my day because I don't want to share the images that
haunt me.
But I do have some confessions to make:
Sometimes my stereo is too loud. Andrea Boccelli's voice makes it easier
to forget the wasted body of the young man who died alone in a rented room
because his family feared the stigma of AIDS. Beethoven's 9th symphony
erases the sight of the nurses who sobbed as they scrubbed layers of dirt
and slime from a neglected 2-year-old's skin. The Rolling Stones' angry
beat assures me that it was ignorance that drove a young mother to draw
blood when she bit her toddler on the cheek in an attempt to teach him not to
bite.
Sometimes I set a bad example. I exceeded the speed limit on my way home
from work because I had trouble shedding the adrenaline that kicked in
when I discovered that the man I handcuffed during a drug raid was sitting
on a loaded 9mm pistol.
Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot to smile when you
greeted me in the store because I was remembering the anguished, whispered
confession of a teenager who pushed away his drowning brother to save his
own life.
Sometimes I'm not as sympathetic as you'd like. I'm not concerned that
your 15-year-old daughter is dating an 18-year-old because I just comforted
the parents of a young man who slashed his own throat while they slept in the
next bedroom.
I was terse on the phone because I resented the burden of having to weigh
the value of two lives when I was pointing my gun at an armed man who kept
begging me to kill him. I laugh when you cringe away from the mess in your
teens room because I know the revulsion of feeling a heroin addict's blood
trickling toward an open cut on my arm.
If I was silent when you whined about your overbearing mother it's because
I really wanted to tell you that I spoke to one of our high school friends
today. I found her mother slumped behind the wheel of her car in a tightly
closed garage. She had dressed in her best outfit before rolling down the
windows and starting the engine.
On the other hand, if I seem totally oblivious to the blood on my uniform,
or the names people call me, or the hateful editorials, it's because I am
remembering the lessons my job has taught me.
I learned not to sweat the small stuff. Grape juice on the beige sofa and
puppy pee on the oriental carpet don't faze me because I know what
arterial bleeding and decaying bodies can do to one's decor.
I learned when to shut out the world and take a mental health day. I
skipped your daughter's 4th birthday party because I was thinking about the
six children under the age of 10 whose mother left them unattended to go out
with a friend. When the 3-year-old offered the dog the milk from her
cereal bowl, the dog attacked her, tearing open her head and staining the
sandbox with blood. The little girl's siblings had to pry her head out of the dog's
jaws - twice.
I learned that everyone has a lesson to teach me. Two mothers engaged in
custody battles taught me not to judge a book by its cover. The teenage
mother on welfare mustered the strength to refrain from crying in front of
her worried child while the well-dressed, upper-class mother literally
played tug of war with her toddler before running into traffic with the
shrieking child in her arms.
I learned that nothing given from the heart is truly gone. A hug, a smile, a
reassuring word, or an attentive ear can bring an injured or distraught
person back to the surface, and help me refocus.
And I learned not to give up EVER! That split second of terror when I
think I have finally engaged the one who is young enough and strong enough
to take me down taught me that I have only one restriction: my own mortality.
One week in May has been set aside as Police Memorial Week, a time to
remember those officers who didn't make it home after their shift. But why
wait? Take a moment to tell an officer that you appreciate their work.
Smile and say 'Hi' when he's getting coffee.
Bite your tongue when you start to tell a 'bad cop' story. Better yet,
find the time to tell a 'good cop' story. The family at the next table may
be a cop's family.
Nothing given from the heart is truly gone. It is kept in the hearts of the
recipients. Give from the heart.
Give something back to the officers who risk everything they have.
'Loyalty above all else, except honor...'
