Editor’s note: This essay is part of “Stories from the Street,” a Police1 series featuring first-person reflections from officers across the country. These essays are about the lived experiences and moments that changed how officers think, lead and serve. If you have a story to share, we’d love to hear from you. Submit your story here.
By Lieutenant Sherman Lee Hopkins Jr.
I was born black and blue.
My father served more than 30 years in law enforcement at the local, state and federal levels. I watched him put on a suit and badge day after day, carrying the weight of a profession that demanded discipline, toughness and sacrifice. He didn’t talk much about the job. He didn’t have to. I saw how he carried himself — principled, proud and steady. His peers respected him, not because of his rank, but for his integrity. He taught me not with his words, but with presence — when to speak, when to listen and when to stand.
Now I wear the badge. And it fits differently.
Like my father, I’m a Black man. A Christian. A husband. A father. A son. I’m also a lieutenant in one of the most historically violent cities in America. I spent nearly half of my 19 years in the profession in homicide and Special Victims. I’ve knocked on too many doors with bad news. I’ve absorbed trauma most people will never see, and I’ve carried it home in silence. My family and I have paid a price for that.
But for all my experience, for all my “stripes,” I’ve learned the most not in the action, but in the conversations we’re often too afraid to have.
This profession is hungry for courageous conversations. I’m not talking about DEI checklists or PowerPoints with compliance stats. I mean real talk that is vulnerable, uncomfortable and unscripted. The kind that doesn’t check a box but opens a door and meets people where they are. The type that strips away politics, hashtags and talking points. The kind that happens when you stand in front of your fellow cops, community members, recruits or veteran officers and say: “Tell me what this badge means to you. And what does it cost you to wear it?”
When you ask a question like that, you can feel people deciding how honest they’re willing to be. Then someone finally says, “This job has cost me the ability to be present at home. I’m always waiting for the phone to ring.” Another adds, “I don’t sleep right. I’m worried I’m going to miss something.” A third officer leans forward and admits, “I can’t relax anywhere. I’m always scanning, always looking for the threat.” Then someone says, “I won’t let my kids go certain places because I’ve seen too much.” Heads start to nod. The room shifts. No one is interrupting. No one is trying to fix it or debate it. They’re just listening. For once, it’s not about having the right answer; it’s about hearing each other. That’s when the conversation begins.
That kind of talk? It’s uncomfortable. It exposes what we hide. And that’s precisely why we need it.
We are policing in a post-George Floyd, post-January 6 environment where the line between public service and politics is thinner than ever. Everyone wants you to choose a side. Blue vs. Black. Republican or Democrat. Woke or anti-woke.
Meanwhile, mental health and officer wellness have become buzzwords at roll call and on command staff slides. But you can’t champion officer wellness without asking officers what they actually need. Too often, resiliency training comes across like a prescription, not a conversation — “Here’s what we think will make you well,” instead of, “What’s really breaking you right now?” This disconnect is why courageous conversations matter. Because what about those of us who are both?
I am both black and blue. And not confused about either.
My son is growing up with a father and a grandfather who both served with integrity and purpose. But what message does he get when the world tells him he can only be one thing at a time? What do we say to our kids, our recruits and our partners when we act like empathy and accountability can’t coexist?
We must do better.
Leadership and training in this moment don’t mean being the loudest. They mean knowing when to shut up and listen. We must start meeting people where they are — on the street, in the roll call room, in the squad car and in the classroom — and bring our whole, authentic selves to that moment.
Over the past five years, I’ve developed a course born not from a textbook, but from lived tension. It started in a classroom, and it grew in awkward spaces — where a white officer doesn’t know how to ask the question, and a Black officer is tired of answering it. Where a female commander hears whispers about her promotion. Where a bilingual officer is valued only for their language skills. This course gives us the space to say the quiet things out loud.
We go there because we owe it to each other and to this profession. Because trust and leadership aren’t built with perfect messaging, they are built with consistency, vulnerability and presence. We go there because if we can’t have these conversations within our agencies, we will never have credibility outside them.
These courageous conversations aren’t about agreeing with each other. They’re about understanding. They’re about acknowledging pain without assigning blame. They’re about stepping outside your comfort zone long enough to be self-reflective.
I’ve spent nearly two decades in this profession. I’ve earned my seat at the table. I’ve never forgotten where I came from.
Leadership is loneliest in the middle. That’s where vision meets resistance. Where culture is shaped — not in memos, but in private corrections, public praise and how you show up when no one is watching.
For those middle managers like me, you are not powerless.
Culture lives in the way we correct and connect privately, and in the way we praise each other publicly. It lives in how we respond to rumors, how we support people through discipline and how we show up when no one is watching.
My father is fond of a phrase that carries great weight: “The badge doesn’t change character, it illuminates it.”
I am black. I am blue. And we as a profession have the power to be better — if we have the courage to talk about it.
About the author
Sherman “Lee” Hopkins Jr. is a lieutenant with the Camden County (New Jersey) Prosecutor’s Office, where he has overseen multiple investigative, administrative and outreach units. He previously served for more than six years in the Homicide Unit, including five years as a detective and over a year as a sergeant, and spent two years as a sergeant in the Special Victims Unit. He has 19 years of law enforcement experience, holds a master’s degree in criminal justice, and is a graduate of the NJSACOP Command & Leadership Academy and the FBI-LEEDA Trilogy.
