This episode was so close to home it was in my backyard.
Khaki shorts and sandals. Casual picnic. Yet, I was on edge.
Take a man in uniform out of uniform, and he’s just a man. Sitting next to me, no gun, no badge, but there.
I flinched at the first mention of police that so easily slipped into conversation. Mr. Off-Duty Officer enlightened us with tales of near life, near death and lots of the latter. It was sickening. It was engaging.
But this wasn’t Cops.
This was real pavement, real blood, real life. Real officers who had come as close to home as the one on my patio.
In April of 2001, my fellow suburbanites became acquainted with the police through their TV sets. My eldest sister got socked right in the stomach with it.
A flaky city curfew enacted in select regions (but not others) gave way to protest; my sister took to the well-paved sidewalks of Mount Adams. She was plucked and Maced and cuffed. Thrown and abused.
I was stumped. The city had told me an officer was the symbol of safety.
So why was she beaten to the ground? Because Mount Adams has everything — a population deemed worthy of protection. And their property? Even more so. As if the police force had said straight out, “Show us the dough and we’ll cook up something real nice for you.”
The epitome of trust? Who do you call when the rapist breaks in? The police.
But whom do you call when the policeman is holding you at billy club point?
No one wants to make nice with a system like that. Claiming that police-community relations are “black and white” is impractical, but I was biased, thinking that police aggression was predominantly white on black. That is until four officers attacked my white sister.
Police are trained to identify the “other,” be they Black, Latino, Asian, young, protester or poor.
Does the Constitution really go to the highest bidder? As if democracy were only for those who don’t really want to use it, who just want to smile and wave an American flag.
So maybe I should feel beholden to Mr. Off-Duty Officer in my backyard and all his compatriots, but until the “other” is safe, I cannot trust them.
TEHILA WISE, 15, is a student at Walnut Hills High School.
This article appears in Sep 17-23, 2003.