By Guy A. Rossi
There was a time in my life when Kennedy was president and space shuttles were a comic book writer’s fantasy. I lived in a mixed neighborhood. I am white and my best friend, David, was black. Together, we built models, rode countless miles on our bikes, and played cops and robbers on my grandparent’s porch. We were inseparable, we kept no secrets, and there were no dividing lines between us.
My family believed in a strong work ethic. I tried several career paths: grocer, machinist, musician. I remember when I told my parents that I was going to the academy to learn how to become a policeman. My mother cried and my father beamed with pride, his only son would be an asset to his fellow man. Now, it seems it was more like a quest than a dream.
In the beginning, I was obsessed with the righteousness of the job. I formed alliance with fellow officers that paralleled the joyous summers of my childhood. I thought that maybe I could change things. Back then, my body and mind were fit, there was no challenge that my partners and I could not meet. I had faith that good would always prevail. Many years later, I realized that we were little more than idealists. With each passing night, I donned my gun and shield, hoping one would surely keep me alive and the other would bring with it the faith and authority that would earn respect from all ages alike.
In the years to come, I intervened in countless arrests, accidents, and disturbances and still found time to be a productive self-initiating officer. After all, isn’t it true that the harder one worked the more rewards and respect he earned? Everyday I would report for work, eager for my next assignment. I thrived on the success and ignored the losses. With each passing day, I witnessed the travesties that plagued my fellow man. In time, it seemed that I was always there when something bad happened and seldom present during mediation or resolve. Less and less, I felt that I was actually helping people, other than giving them a piece of paper – a report. I guess I was somewhat naive, for it never dawned on me that I, too, could become what my parents most…a statistic.
The first burn began when I became the victim of a crime. He was a mental patient armed with a rifle.
I was his hostage cop. I survived in the midst of danger because I heard the silent voice of those who had trained and loved me. I still held faith as I heard the distinctive snap of the hammer dropping on his empty chamber. I escaped unscathed. As for the suspect, he has long been released and now labeled by the media as “a former mental patient.” I didn’t realize how close I had come to meeting my maker.
Several years later, I toiled nightly as my dreams replayed the incident. I, subsequently, learned that the replay occurred because I had never laid to rest that I had won the encounter. I figured that if I ignored my feelings then everyone, including me, would stop worrying. I ignored my family. I was cold as stone. I was no coward, I showed no fear. It seemed ironic that one incident could haunt me throughout my entire career. Ten years later, I learned that the hostage incident was merely the trigger of anxiety of the fears that had built up inside of me. I had never learned to truly admit that during those times I was scared.
Other things happened as well. Some of my friends were arrested after abusing the public’s trust. The respect that the badge had once carried became marred by those I had respected and loved. I feared that the public would perceive that we were all one and the same. I should have had more faith in them, for they saw us more clearly than I had seen myself; as individuals.
Then came an even greater test of my faith. Later that year, I was maliciously accused of brutality. My partner and I sat at the defendant’s table stunned as the plaintiff’s attorney summarized, “Let’s get these bad cops off of the street, before the good cops are forced to lie for them as well.” Once again, my faith in the justice system rang true as we were found innocent of all counts.
There are some things no man should ever have to experience, to see or to know. Those of us, who choose to, must remember whom we represent. We are “non soleus;” never alone.
RUNNING ON FAITH by Guy A. Rossi was originally published in Police Magazine, May, 1993, under an anonymous writer.