When my brother was 8, a police officer caught him and a friend throwing rocks at windows in an empty house. I hovered behind my mother at the door while the officer, his back to the boys, said he was going to take them straight to jail—oh, the terror on their faces—but thought he’d check with her first. Then he winked. And left the criminals in her competent hands. It was 1957 and police were a comfort, serving and protecting.
In Sacramento a decade later, I lived in a communal house from which a major march on the state capital was organized. Someone named Reagan was governor and had done horrible things to education. Unmarked cars drove slowly past our house, snapping photos of us. I worked for Sacramento County, joined an early attempt to unionize public employees. It was illegal to do so. The county got an injunction and police descended on us as we marched with our picket signs. Barely 22, I looked 17. The young officer who had to arrest me begged me to leave the picket line.
“Like a tree planted by the river,” the strikers sang, “we shall not be moved.” I got in the patrol car, inflated with righteousness. Once in that backseat, the shock of no inside door handles, the metal grill between me and the front, hit me like cold water. My resolve evaporated, replaced by panic. The American Civil Liberties Union bailed us out later and we were hailed as movement heroes, but for years after, I felt a shiver of fear whenever a police car passed me.
I once had a mother-in-law who scraped by, always behind on bills. A cook’s assistant, she was wielding a chef’s knife on a warm afternoon when a bill collector pushed open her screen door and stepped into her house. Before I knew what happened, that knife was across the room, quivering in the doorframe. The bill collector yelled and ran. Soon, a graying Denver police officer showed up. She let him in, but the tension was thick. This cop sat down wearily and asked, “you got any coffee?” The ice shattered. She fixed him coffee while explaining. The kids came out of hiding while he commiserated. There was a discussion about how people can’t just walk into your house but throwing knives might not be the best way to respond. He thanked her for that coffee as he left.
I had a teenaged stepson in the 1970s, a long-haired Chicano into drugs and rock n roll, who wore headbands and fringed leather jackets and was a cross between an Apache (an actual part of his heritage) and a hippie. We had a new red Camaro. What were we thinking, letting him drive it? But we did. He was stopped and the police officer wanted to know where he stole the car. They impounded our car and took my stepson to juvenile hall. We had to bail both out. Driving while Mexican.
In 1972 I served on the Denver Statutory Grand Jury. It did some good work, including an investigation of conditions at the county jail. We’re doing that again now: see how these problems recur? Grand juries also investigate when a police officer shoots someone. In 1972, cops shot thirteen people, two—if memory serves—fatally. The thirteen were seven Mexicans and six blacks, all male under 30. The cops doing the shooting were white. In every case, the evidence presented left no possibility but to exonerate the police, although I did file a minority opinion in one case. Activists like Corky Gonzalez called the grand jury a whitewash tool. That institution’s in the critical spotlight again: perhaps we can change it this time?
In the 1980s, I worked the other side, coordinated police officer testing for eight suburban jurisdictions. My colleagues were mostly sergeants and lieutenants who’d been given the job of screening applicants for their departments. I did ride-alongs, served on interview panels. These were hard-working people who saw the seamy sides of humanity daily. One officer said, “I’m a real cop now: I’ve been cursed, spit at and vomited on.” Another told me he maintained positive people experiences by leading a scout troop, or the job would poison him. I knew twenty-year career officers, fine human beings, who had never used their guns on the job.
In the 2000s, we had a young police officer as neighbor. He often shoveled our walk when it snowed. He and his lovely wife were a delight, remodeled their little house themselves, built a garage I watched the two of them finish, hammering siding and shingles into place on their days off.
These are some of my personal police stories, ambiguous and repetitive, like life. Good and bad on all sides, folks. Because we don’t address root causes, like poverty, our missions aren’t accomplished to last. Like any home repair, they have to be redone. Too many police officers die in the line of duty. Too many black and Latino men die in the sights of law enforcement. Meanwhile the denizens of corporate boardrooms are cozy and safe and getting richer all the time.
The truth of things “on the ground” are always less than neat. We all need to keep the complexities in mind or we risk turning into simpletons. At Thanksgiving, during a brief dust-up over Ferguson, a family member blurted, “The hate us as much as we hate them”—followed immediately by, “That’s not what I mean.” But it was. Once you embrace “we” and “them,” “hatred” tends to follow as night the day….
Great perspectives, Pat. Such truth in the variety of experiences, at least for those of us in the majority. That entitlement is so entrenched we can’t imagine the tables turned, but white minority will come, sooner, perhaps, than we think. Thanks so much for sharing your history so thoughtfully!
Thanks, Pat, for the balanced view grounded in experience…and the great, clear, too true conclusion.
Pat, one thing I love about your writing is that you tackle issues head on. With all the examples of police racism in the news recently it’s good to get a little balance. My own encounters with the police travel the entire spectrum, from not taking the police dogs seriously and barking back at them in the early 60’s when DU students rallied following the discontinuation of collegiate football, being paranoid of the “pigs” in the mid-60’s, riding with them in the 70’s as a graduate student in social work, to being thankful for their protection in the 90’s, and having no encounters of any kind since. May violence and racism die a final death in the coming years.
Worth pondering, Pat. Our family has had the police at our door more than one might imagine (but then 5 kids!!). Each one gives me a story to tell, none like the stories going on in large cities across the country. I am thankful for my stories and devastated by those who have only stories instead of children left for their retirement. Why is it that humans have so much trouble learning anything? We worked so hard to allow women to be treated equally, to be able to have corporate high-level jobs. We thought the female would bring dignity to the work place. Far too often it is these young women we worked so hard for that flip us off in grid-lock traffic. Dressed in their three piece suits and neck scarves! Will minorities bring sanity to the world when they are finally the majority do you think, Kitty? Finally in charge of the streets and police? I probably won’t live long enough to know, but my grand babies will, and I hope that schools can find a way to teach what is important for a change. I must say, however, that I wouldn’t have believed I’d live long enough to see Obama in the White House and I have, and I’d scour the neighborhood for votes for him all over again. So perhaps earlier rather than later is possible!