I am the Thin Blue Line

I am the Thin Blue Line.  Most of my life I’ve been feared and revered, trusted and faulted, esteemed and belittled, respected and – well, you know.  I may have had my birth in London, but I’ve existed in spirit since the beginning of time.  Maybe even before.

I walked the streets at night checking doors to make sure they were secure.  I rode the range on horseback tracking down train robbers and bank robbers and murderers.  Sometimes I rode the rails to secure express cars.  I sat atop more than one stagecoach defending the passengers inside and the payroll at my feet.  I’ve been sunburned and drenched all in the same day and I’ve eaten enough dirt to plant a field of corn.

I lit the gas lamps at night in the cities and tapped my nightstick on the sidewalk in neighborhoods to let people know I was coming through.  Occasionally I had to borrow your wheelbarrow to haul a drunk away to sleep it off in the drunk tank.  I always brought wheelbarrow back.

I had a callbox key that I carried with me everywhere I went.  If I didn’t check in, the desk sergeant would send somebody looking for me.  Generally, I was doing fine.  Just forgot to check in.  Sometimes I wasn’t fine.  Not at all.

I’ll never forget my first “police radio.”  It filled the entire trunk of my police car.  It was handy though, especially if I was within a couple of miles of the radio tower.  I had to buy my own uniforms and gun and leather.  Sometimes I had to use my own car.  I don’t have to do that so much anymore.  My radio almost fits into the palm of my hand now.  Occasionally I use my POV (privately owned vehicle) for work for which I may or may not be reimbursed.

Back in the Twenty’s I could just walk onto the job.  If I could shoot a gun and punch someone in the face who desperately needed it, I was hired.  Today I can’t pin on a badge until I’ve had between six months and a year’s worth of training and then I have to ride with a field training officer.

I am the Thin Blue Line.  I stand between you and the mugger.  The rapist.  The human trafficker.  The forger.  The abuser.  The murderer.  The mutilator.  The kidnapper.  The anarchist.  The burglar.  The thief.  The vandal.

I delivered your baby.  I changed your flat tire.  I gave you directions.  I delivered the message to you that your mother died.  Or that your son was killed going home from a party.  I gave you first aid.  I investigated your accident.  I took your theft report.  I checked on your neighbor when you were concerned.  I put the fire out that was under the hood of your car.  I escorted your neighbor’s funeral procession.  I saved the choking baby.  I jumped into the icy river to save someone that fell through the ice.  I rescued the kitten from that low tree limb.  I’m awake at night while you sleep.  Sometimes I work double and triple shifts.  I probably gave you a speeding ticket. 

I’ve seen things that no person should ever see.  While you may talk about parts of speech, I know about the body parts.  “Parts” is the operative word.  I’ve seen babies in freezers.  I’ve cleaned up blood and vomit and urine and stuff you don’t want to even think about.  I’ve done things that you don’t want to do yourself.  I’ve misled the bad guys on the street and told the truth in court.  The Supreme Court said I could do that.

I’ve been yelled at, spit on, punched, choked, stabbed, shot and left for dead in a dumpster or at the bottom of a river or alongside the road or in a ravine.  Most of the time my body has been recovered.  That would be most of the time.  My mother’s reputation has been called into question – more than once.

I have learned certain phrases from the public.  “I pay your salary.”  “Do you know who I am?”  “I know Captain Jones.”  “Why aren’t you doing real police work?”  I hear them every day.  There’s a good chance I’d get suspended if I responded to your snarky comments.

My kids get taunted at school.  I can’t eat at a restaurant in town.  People know me and sometimes cooks and servers do things to my meal.  When I eat out at a restaurant, I sit so I can see who comes in through the door.  Bad things that have happened in the past have taught me that I have to be that way.  My personal cars have been vandalized.  You may have seen my name spray painted with some derogatory terms on a building.  My kids and spouse have seen it.    I can’t walk into a store on my own time without being asked about the accident that happened or the fire that occurred or the ruckus at the home basketball game.  I don’t go to parties with “civilians.”  The only thing people want to talk about is police work.  They forget I have a family, too, or that I coach Little League.  I get asked a lot to do an unethical favor.  When I go to the movies, I hear the crowd cheer as the police beat or kill someone.  You know.  Like, “Go ahead.  Make my day.”  Yeah, we hear you tell us that’s what you want us to do.  We don’t.

I’ve drawn my duty weapon maybe a dozen times over a 25-year period of time.  I fired it once during that time.  It was to dispatch a deer that was still alive after it had been struck by a car.  Yes, I’ve had to use deadly force during my career.  On average, I kill someone once every 602 years. That’s about one, one-thousandth (1/1,000) of a chance that I will have to kill someone.  It’s not a choice I relish.  I do it to save my own life or to save someone else’s life.

I’ve had false allegations filed against me.  One time a civil rights complaint was filed against me for something I wasn’t even present for.  That investigation was carried out by the FBI.  I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been accused of racism because I stopped a racial minority at night, in the dark, without even seeing the race of the person in the car that I stopped.

I hate making an arrest.  I never know how the person arrested is going to react.  I try to maintain control, but sometimes I get hurt making an arrest.  I’ve spent too many hours in the emergency room.  It comes with the job.

I spend as much time writing reports as I do on the street.  Often when I make an arrest, the person I arrest is back out on the streets long before I finish the report.

Television Police.  If I did a smidgen of the abuse they get away with, I’d be fired on my first day on the job.  And if I solved crimes as quickly as they do, I would be awarded tights and a cape.

I am the Thin Blue Line.  Lately, I’ve been beaten and battered and torn and ripped.  I’m tired.  I’m worn out.  I am disgusted by what I see happening around me, not just by the bad guys, but by the people I’ve sworn to protect and defend.  I am sickened by what I see happening to my country, my community.  I am disheartened when I see our Constitution hanging by a thread.  I despise the fact that I am lumped in with the less than one percent that mess it up for the ninety-nine percent who get it right.  At the same time, I’m heartened and uplifted by the fact that there is a silent majority that is willing to stand with me.

I am the Thin Blue Line.  I swore an oath to which I will never be released.  I am proud.  I am the police.

I am the Thin Blue Line.