Five years ago today I began my career as a police officer.
I thought about it the entire time I was in the application process and the academy, but as I've said before the weight of this job never really hit me until I hit the road. I had no idea what I was doing when I first started out. I knew some stuff about the law and I was a good shot. Part of me prayed that was all I would need.
Despite my prayers, some things they just don't teach at the academy. They don't teach you how to play politics within the department. They tell you to stay clear of the bullshit knowing damn well the bullshit can find you just as easy. There is no lesson on how to go from being in a room with a dead body to being in a room with your family eating dinner an hour later. Nobody discussed how sad, then upset, and then angry you'll feel at the blind hatred you find yourself the target of. I never heard about the numbness I'd feel in a car chase or running into the woods looking for a man with a gun. I didn't understand the power I had until I had wielded it a few times. Not just the power to make an arrest or to stop someone's freedom of movement. The intoxicating feeling of walking into a place you wouldn't normally be walking into and knowing you were safe from harm or harassment. The uniform. The badge. Nobody dares to fuck with you because while the consequences are unspoken they are also guaranteed. Cars on the highway move out of your way. The thugs that your mother warned you about walk or run away when I show up. That is power. That is also one of the most dangerous and difficult things to understand. That power can lead to arrogance, which can get you killed awfully fast.
Luckily I haven't made any lethal mistakes to date. I've been scared and angry, sad and joyful. I've had my finger on the trigger a squeeze away from taking a life. I've slapped the backs of friends and enemies under the same roof. I've bled and sweat, broken a bone, crashed a car and tackled total strangers, but I'm still alive and in good working order. For that I thank God every day.
More than anything I keep remembering the words a former Sergeant once told me as I was merrily blabbering about how happy I was to have made it one full year on the job: the first five years are the hardest. Five years seemed a long way off back then, and it sure as hell feels like a long time ago now.
I'll never be perfect, but I can say with confidence that after five years I am a damn good cop. If the first five are the hardest it's not because of the work. The work never changes. It's only because it takes about that long to really find your rhythm - like walking on hot coals. Too slow or too fast and you'll get burned, but if you move at your own pace you'll make it through the fire.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Ice Cream Sandwiches
Last week while I was working I took a minute to run inside a gas station. I had a craving for some ice cream, which happens more often than I'd like to admit now that I've quit smoking. Specifically I wanted one of those Snickers ice cream bars because they are amazing.
Well I got inside and browsed the ice cream thing, and to my dismay there were no Snickers ice cream bars. It was a pretty basic selection, so I went with your basic ice cream sandwich. Didn't think twice about it. Paid my tab, got back in the car, and swung around to the far end of the parking lot so I could watch to make sure the clerk closed up safely.
I peeled the paper off my ice cream sandwich and took a bite. It was chocolaty and creamy and delicious, and like a punch to the head a memory sprang up from the abyss.
My grandmother on my mother's side had a big, beautiful house back in Syracuse. It was the perfect house for grandparents, with a big, dirty garage for us to play in with Papa, a set of red carpeted stairs we could slide, run, and fall down, and a big kitchen where Gramma made magic happen. My Gramma could cook like it was nobody's business. How many hot, delicious meals emerged from that kitchen I'll never know, but I do remember that there was more to Gramma's kitchen than just pasta. In the corner was Gramma's seemingly centuries old refrigerator. The freezer made up the bottom of the unit, so it was at the perfect level for small children. Whenever my brother, sister, cousins, and I would find ourselves turned loose at Gramma's house we would always take a moment to run into the kitchen, tug open the freezer, and help ourselves to the box of ice cream sandwiches. Gramma never ran out of ice cream sandwiches. If we spent all day over there, leaving only one left in the box, and went back over again the next day there was another box ready and waiting. Gramma always had ice cream sandwiches. I swear she must have made trips to the grocery store just to buy them.
Sitting there in my patrol car I remembered what it was like to spend hours running around, playing, just being a kid, and how great that ice cream sandwich was when it was time for a break. Isn't it funny how a certain taste or smell can bring you back to a moment or time that was dear to you? Gramma will always have ice cream sandwiches in my mind.
Well I got inside and browsed the ice cream thing, and to my dismay there were no Snickers ice cream bars. It was a pretty basic selection, so I went with your basic ice cream sandwich. Didn't think twice about it. Paid my tab, got back in the car, and swung around to the far end of the parking lot so I could watch to make sure the clerk closed up safely.
I peeled the paper off my ice cream sandwich and took a bite. It was chocolaty and creamy and delicious, and like a punch to the head a memory sprang up from the abyss.
My grandmother on my mother's side had a big, beautiful house back in Syracuse. It was the perfect house for grandparents, with a big, dirty garage for us to play in with Papa, a set of red carpeted stairs we could slide, run, and fall down, and a big kitchen where Gramma made magic happen. My Gramma could cook like it was nobody's business. How many hot, delicious meals emerged from that kitchen I'll never know, but I do remember that there was more to Gramma's kitchen than just pasta. In the corner was Gramma's seemingly centuries old refrigerator. The freezer made up the bottom of the unit, so it was at the perfect level for small children. Whenever my brother, sister, cousins, and I would find ourselves turned loose at Gramma's house we would always take a moment to run into the kitchen, tug open the freezer, and help ourselves to the box of ice cream sandwiches. Gramma never ran out of ice cream sandwiches. If we spent all day over there, leaving only one left in the box, and went back over again the next day there was another box ready and waiting. Gramma always had ice cream sandwiches. I swear she must have made trips to the grocery store just to buy them.
Sitting there in my patrol car I remembered what it was like to spend hours running around, playing, just being a kid, and how great that ice cream sandwich was when it was time for a break. Isn't it funny how a certain taste or smell can bring you back to a moment or time that was dear to you? Gramma will always have ice cream sandwiches in my mind.
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