In article <5bok72F2t7v2sU1 DeleteThis @mid.individual.net>,
"Steve Freides" <steve DeleteThis @fridayscomputer.com> wrote:
> Om, what's the frequency?
>
> [Google "What's the frequency, Kenneth?" for more]
>
> Sorry, couldn't resist.
>
> A good Memorial Day weekend to everyone - remember why we "celebrate"
And let's not forget our Street Warriors:
Something to really think about..........
Confessions of a Police Officer:
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 myself 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 an
elderly grandmother's ribs break while I keep her 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. Andrea Boccelli's voice 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 AIDS.
Beethoven's 9th symphony 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 during a drug raid was
sitting on a loaded 9mm pistol.
Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot to smile when you
greeted me in the store because I was remembering the anguished,
whispered confession of a teenager who pushed away his drowning brother
to save his own life.
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
heroin 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 mother slumped behind the wheel of her
car in a tightly closed garage. She had dressed in her best outfit
before rolling down the windows and starting the engine.
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 don't faze 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 six children under the age of 10 whose mother left them unattended
to go out with a friend. When the 3-year-old offered the dog the milk
from her cereal bowl, the dog attacked her, tearing open her head and
staining the sandbox with blood. The little girl's siblings had to pry
her head out of the dog's jaws - twice.
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.
One week in May has been set aside as Police Memorial Week, a time to
remember those officers who didn't make it home after their shift. But
why wait? Take a moment to tell an officer that you appreciate there
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.
Nothing given from the heart is truly gone. It is kept in the hearts of
the recipients. Give from the heart. Give something back to the officers
who risk everything they have.
--
Peace, Om
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"My mother never saw the irony in calling me a Son of a bitch" -- Jack Nicholson
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