If everyone had to read this just once, I know the world would be a different place
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 my self 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 ribs break while I keep a 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. The music
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 being gay.
The music 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 adrenalin that kicked in when I
discovered that the man I handcuffed after a riot
had a loaded 9mm pistol in his waist band.
Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot
to smile when you greeted me in the store because I
was remembering the terrifying moment I had a gun
put to my head as a joke.
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
teen's room because I know the revulsion of feeling
a meth 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 son deceased in his bed from
a drug overdose. He used her pills to kill himself.
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 doesn't phase 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 3
children under the age of 10 whose mother left them
unattended to go out with a friend to get drunk. The
children were left in a house not fit for an animal.
They played in their rooms with no bed, and shared
Their home with roaches and mice. Although their pet
Rat didn’t seem to mind the rotting and decaying fish
I found in the kitchen cabinet. The house stunk of urine
And feces and the floor was covered in mouse droppings.
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.
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.
Author:
Eric McKinney
Stillwater Police Officer
Stillwater, OK 74074
personal life are often muted by my work. I resent
the intrusion but I confuse my self 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 ribs break while I keep a 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. The music
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 being gay.
The music 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 adrenalin that kicked in when I
discovered that the man I handcuffed after a riot
had a loaded 9mm pistol in his waist band.
Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot
to smile when you greeted me in the store because I
was remembering the terrifying moment I had a gun
put to my head as a joke.
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
teen's room because I know the revulsion of feeling
a meth 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 son deceased in his bed from
a drug overdose. He used her pills to kill himself.
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 doesn't phase 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 3
children under the age of 10 whose mother left them
unattended to go out with a friend to get drunk. The
children were left in a house not fit for an animal.
They played in their rooms with no bed, and shared
Their home with roaches and mice. Although their pet
Rat didn’t seem to mind the rotting and decaying fish
I found in the kitchen cabinet. The house stunk of urine
And feces and the floor was covered in mouse droppings.
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.
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.
Author:
Eric McKinney
Stillwater Police Officer
Stillwater, OK 74074