Your not a copy until you taste them

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Your not a cop until you taste them
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I was sent this article recently by one of my former Criminal
Justice students at the College who is now a police officer.
Those who are police officers at present, or those, like me,
who are former police officers can relate well to this
article. It has nothing to do with polygraphy, just life.

I take a survey of my entering Criminal Justice students
within the first week of class to list 10 reasons why they
want to become police officers. Many of the reasons given are
revealing in that it is obvious that some of the people have
no concept of anything but "Hollywood" law enforcement. Even
those people, however, have the same reason that most people
have every semester as the most often listed reason - "They
want to help people". I try to explain to them that they will
become frustrated and disillusioned quickly if they think
that they will help bunches of people or that they will have
even the smallest impact on the social ills faced by many
U.S. residents. Most people that they encounter don't want
any help or the help they need isn't anything that the police
officer can help them with anyway. I explain that they may
have great impact helping people on a personal basis; e.g.,
helping one person with their problem and another with
theirs. They will not, however, be able to help large groups
of people or to be some type of hero (which is the real
motivating factor) in most daily situations short of
preventing some major catastrophic event.

This article puts my comments into perspective very well.
I try to include as much realism as possible in my classes
so that the students understand exactly what kind of
profession that they are choosing. It's not nice, or clean,
or comfortable, or quiet, etc. It has the highest rate, by
profession, for substance abuse, divorce, and suicide
(statistics indicate which may only be 49% to 51% - but a
majority nonetheless - that a majority of police officers
who kill someone in the line of duty, kill themselves at
some point later). I also let them know that the average
time spent in prison for killing a police officer is 7 years,
which is basically what judges and parole boards think that
the police officers' lives are worth. Generally, this gets
the students, "on the fence" to usually change their major
to something else, which is the whole point.

Obviously the College administration is not happy with this
because it causes us to lose enrollments; however, these
people would cause much more potentially serious problems
if they ever did get to the point of wearing a shield.

I do not know who the author is, but if someone does, I
would like to give him/her the proper credit for a fine
article.

-------------Not A Cop Until You Taste Them---------------

The department was all astir, there was a lot of laughing
and joking due to all the new officers, myself included,
hitting the streets today for the first time. After months
of seemingly endless amounts of classes, paperwork, and
lectures we were finally done with the Police Academy and
ready to join the ranks of our department.

All you could see were rows of cadets with huge smiles and
polished badges. As we sat in the briefing room, we could
barely sit still, anxiously awaiting our turn to be
introduced and given our beat assignment or, for the lay
person, our own portion of the city to "serve and protect".

It was then that he walked in. A statue of a man - 6 foot
3 and 230 pounds of solid muscle, he had black hair with
highlights of gray and steely eyes that make you feel
nervous even when he wasn't looking at you. He had a
reputation for being the biggest and the smartest officer
to ever work our fair city. He had been on the department
for longer than anyone could remember and those years of
service had made him into somewhat of a legend.

The new guys, or "rookies" as he called us, both respected
and feared him. When he spoke even, the most seasoned
officers paid attention. It was almost a privilege when
one the rookies got to be around when he would tell one
of his police stories about the old days. But we knew our
place and never interrupted for fear of being shooed away.
He was respected and revered by all who knew him.

After my first year on the department I still had never
heard or saw him speak to any of the rookies for any
length of time. When he did speak to them all he would
say was, "So, you want to be a policeman, do you hero?
I'll tell you what, when you can tell me what they taste
like, then you can call yourself a real policeman."

This particular phrase I had heard dozens of times. Me
and my buddies all had bets about "what they taste like"
actually referred to. Some believed it referred to the
taste of your own blood after a hard fight. Others thought
it referred to the taste of sweat after a long day's work.

Being on the department for a year, I thought I knew just
about everyone and everything. So one afternoon, I
mustered up the courage and walked up to him. When he
looked down at me, I said "You know, I think I've paid my
dues. I've been in plenty of fights, made dozens of
arrests, and sweated my butt off just like everyone else.
So what does that little saying of yours mean anyway?"
With that, he merely stated, "Well, seeing as how you've
said and done it all, you tell me what it means, hero."
When I had no answer, he shook his head and snickered,
"rookies," and walked away.

The next evening was to be the worst one to date. The
night started out slow, but as the evening wore on, the
calls became more frequent and dangerous. I made several
small arrests and then had a real knock down drag out
fight. However, I was able to make the arrest without
hurting the suspect or myself. After that, I was looking
forward to just letting the shift wind down and getting
home to my wife and daughter. I had just glanced at my
watch and it was 11:55, five more minutes and I would be
on my way to the house. I don't know if it was fatigue or
just my imagination, but as I drove down one of the
streets on my beat, I thought I saw my daughter standing
on someone else's porch. I looked again but it was not my
daughter as I had first thought but merely a small child
about her age. She was probably only six or seven years
old and dressed in an oversized shirt that hung to her
feet. She was clutching an old rag doll in her arms that
looked older than me.

I immediately stopped my patrol car to see what she was
doing outside her house at such an hour by herself. When
I approached, there seemed to be a sigh of relief on her
face. I had to laugh to myself, thinking she sees the
hero policeman come to save the day. I knelt at her side
and asked what she was doing outside. She said "My mommy
and daddy just had a really big fight and now mommy won't
wake up." My mind was reeling. Now what do I do? I
instantly called for backup and ran to the nearest
window. As I looked inside I saw a man standing over a
lady with his hands covered in blood, her blood.

I kicked open the door, pushed the man aside and checked
for a pulse, but unable to find one. I immediately cuffed
the man and began doing C.P.R. on the lady. It was then I
heard a small voice from behind me, "Mr. Policeman,
please make my mommy wake up." I continued to perform
C.P.R. until my backup and medics arrived but they said
it was too late. She was dead. I then looked at the man.
He said, "I don't know what happened. She was yelling at
me to stop drinking and go get a job and I had just had
enough. I just shoved her so she would leave me alone and
she fell and hit her head."

As I walked the man out to the car in handcuffs, I again
saw that little girl. In the five minutes that has
passed, I went from hero to monster. Not only was I
unable to wake up her mommy, but now I was taking daddy
away too. Before I left the scene, I thought I would
talk to the little girl. To say what, I don't know. Maybe
just to tell her I was sorry about her mommy and daddy.
But as I approached, she turned away and I knew it was
useless and I would probably make it worse.

As I sat in the locker room at the station, I kept
replaying the whole thing in my mind. Maybe if I would
have been faster or done something different, just maybe
that little girl would still have her mother. And even
though it may sound selfish, I would still be the hero. It
was then that I felt a large hand on my shoulder. I heard
that all too familiar question again, "Well, hero, what do
they taste like?" But before I could get mad or shout some
sarcastic remark, I realized that all the pent up emotions
had flooded the surface and there was a steady stream of
tears cascading down my face. It was at that moment that
I realized what the answer to his question was. Tears.
With that, he began to walk away, but he stopped. "You
know, there was nothing you could have done differently,"
he said. "Sometimes you can do everything right and still
the outcome is the same. You may not be the hero you once
thought you were, but now you ARE a police officer."

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