Dear Colleagues
An Excerpt from “Officer Friendly,” a Memoir in Progress
Dear Colleagues,
I write this letter with a heavy heart. Because of recent events, I feel unsettled about the culture of law enforcement. It’s become a mean culture, dark and resentful, defensive and angry. I know, we joined the force to catch the bad guys, to protect the vulnerable, and to be heroes. Problem is, not many people treat us like heroes anymore.
Yeah, sure there are the police benevolent associations, the Fraternal Order of Police, and the business owners who give us free stuff from time to time: a cup of coffee, a meal, a discount. The courts give us the benefit of a doubt, and we have immediate credibility. Well, that is, until recently.
Now, it seems like everyone hates anyone who has ever worn a badge and carried a gun, especially the people who call us the most, and they call us liars, haters, brutes, and racist. I know, it seems crazy that they call us racist when we’ve risked our lives for them, run into burning houses to rescue them, pulled them out of wrecked cars, protected them from intimidation and exploitation from the gangsters who roam their neighborhoods.
We have bled for them, suffered injury for them, and, some of us, have died for them. Yet, every time we drive by, they spit in our direction. They look at us with fear and suspicion, casting derision upon everything we do. It’s not fair.
We’re missing something, though. Those gangsters have families, and those families love them, worry about them, visit them in jail, cry for them when they die. They are part of the neighborhood, part of the scene. Their families remember them as children. Their mommas have those greeting cards they made in art class stuck on their refrigerators with magnets they bought at WalMart. Yeah, those cards with the cut-out flowers, the petals falling off one-by-one year after year, sunshine peeking out on the upper left corner with a smile on its face, and the stick figure families with big, round heads and huge smiles. That’s love. That’s family.
They love their families the way cops love their brothers and sisters in uniform, even deeper, though. They love their families and will defend their families against injustice and brutality, the way we would defend our peers. Even if their family member is wrong in the first place because he committed a crime — passing a counterfeit bill, shoplifting a piece of candy, or selling single cigarettes on the corner outside a respectable grocery mart, or worse, after bailing from a stolen car, running from a vacant home they’ve been vandalizing, or trapped in the backseat of a drive-by vehicle they didn’t know was going to do a drive-by. When they’re dead, they’re gone, and when they’re gone, their memories become transformed, almost perfected.
You know, Elvis is still The King even though he died on the toilet, even though he appropriated the music of Black People and given credit for inventing something new. John F. Kennedy remains the perfect President in our imaginations because he died before he ruined his legacy unlike Lyndon B. Johnson did - even though JFK cheated on his wife, was raised by a bootlegger, and ordered that mess called The Bay of Pigs.
We venerate fallen police officers, guys who cheated on their wives, who were investigated for excessive use of force, who were driving too fast and crashed into school teachers, killing them and leaving their children without mothers. When they die in the line of duty, we still put their names on walls for all to see.
So, why are we surprised when a gang member, a drug addict struggling with recovery, or a perpetually unemployed homeless dude dies in the hands of authority without proper consideration, respect, or dignity becomes a martyr? Why do we have to go out of our ways to defame them while their families and neighbors are grieving?
To justify ourselves, that’s why. Because we have to be right no matter what.
Even when we’re wrong.
And when we know we’re wrong, we don’t/won’t say anything because we fear the wrath of our peers, that they might have the “blue flu” when it’s their turn to back us on another domestic call. We don’t want to sit by ourselves in lineup. We don’t want to drink our coffee late at night alone with our patrol cars parked in some hiding place away from public view, window rolled down a crack because of the cold, a train whistle blowing in the distance making us nostalgic for better times. We don’t want that. We fear that.
So instead of listening to the silence, we perpetuate it.
Really, we have a lot of work to do, a lot of clean-up. We have contributed to the mess because we resist self-reflection, innovation, and change. We have been fighting too hard for too long for the wrong things. Instead of fighting crime, why not preserve peace? Instead of protection, why not emphasize service? Instead of probable cause, why not the truth?
Exonerations can be as gratifying as convictions.
More so… right?
So, then why are we willing to fudge a little in testimony, saying we remember things we have forgotten?
“No your honor, I am not sure if the driver was him or his brother. After all this time, I agree, it might have been the brother using the wrong identification.”
Why is that so hard to say? Why does that feel like defeat?
I have so many questions, so much mental unpacking. I don’t know if I can do this, write this story, I mean, a story that must be written with all the aching truth, the tragedy, and the pain, yes the pain. You know, I will one day be accountable to the Almighty, and I’d rather stand in the light of truth than hide in the shadows of doubt and shame. Isn’t that your faith, too, my colleagues? That truth shall set us free?
I really want to believe that.
Sincerely,
Paula Sophia Schonauer
Master Sergeant, Retired
Oklahoma City Police Department 1992–2014
