black is made of more primary colors than blue.

“All things grow up, not just humans. A gypsy moth caterpillar is quite the sight. Covered in hairs of pure gold, their traffic light backs shimmer with each scrunch and wiggle. Quite the stark contrasts to the adult versions, white, black, grey… cold.

We used to play with them when we were kids… just would sit there for minutes which felt like hours, just admiring them, but making sure not to touch them, as we did not know what they were.

It was not a fear of the unknown, but rather a respect for it… admiration even. Besides, they were pretty.

One day, one of my friends picked one up; we looked in awe. None of us had ever done this before. It stood still for a second and then began to crawl over the tops of his fingers, like a surfer going over waves. Those golden hairs, the traffic light back. Oh my! However, after a quick, yet careful inspection, my friend’s face shifted from awe to something else.

‘These are nothin’ but moths before they grow up,’ he gruffly muttered.

He then picked the gypsy moth caterpillar, ever so gently, up off his knuckles with his forefingers… and squished it. He then wiped his fingers on his shirt and went back to playing with sticks. The caterpillar lay there motionless. Not a scrunch, nor a wiggle.

I saw some more caterpillars nearby. They looked the same as our friend, one might say identical in every way, but something was off. Yes, something was distinctly off; these weren’t special at all.

I let one crawl on my hand. It felt weird, but it wasn’t scary. No, it was just a stupid moth. I placed it down and jabbed it with a stick. My friends joined in. The ones we didn’t squish with our sticks, we crushed with our shoes.”

“How frequently do you have this flashback Mr. Winslow?”

“Once a month, usually. It’s been twice a week since, well, since I’ve been forced to see you.”

“I’m sorry you still feel like this is a punishment. I can try to see if I can get our appointments reduced to once a week if you’d prefer that instead. I mean, it would extend how long before you could be back in the field, but maybe that’s a good thing, maybe the break-”

“Naw, it’s fine. Honestly, I didn’t mean it like that, sorry. I find it helpful, it’s just, this is new to me. It’s all new.”

The last thing I wanted to do was be out of the field even longer. I was in mandatory therapy sessions. I told my captain I didn’t need them, but he said rules are rules. 

“Anytime you discharge your firearm and it results in death, you have to attend therapy to discuss it.” 

That’s what he told me. I mean, maybe I’d be more welcoming if I shot an innocent person or something like that, but this was a clear-cut case. The perp had a knife pressed to his four-year-old daughter's neck and had just stabbed his ex-girlfriend to death. I would have taken that shot a million times over. No hesitation. Seeing his limp body on the floor was just a confirmation of a job well done. It might sound callous, but I just have no sympathy in certain situations.

I’ve seen a lot of nightmare-inducing images during my years on the force, but it’s always the stuff with kids that makes my stomach churn. I remember my first crime scene involving a child. I was only a few months out of the academy and this child was only a few months out of the womb. The boy’s father threw him against a wall when he kept crying all night. Snapped his neck. He threw him so hard that the wall panel was cracked. Didn’t even attempt to call 9–1–1. The child’s mother called it in when she came home four hours later. When we arrived at the scene, the father was watching a sitcom, just laughing. That image of him drinking a beer and chuckling at “Night Court” haunts my dreams. I threw up twice when I got home and the nightmares lasted for months.

Apparently, the memory still had some power over me as my hands were trembling. Not to worry, as soon as work was over I’d pick up my usual medicine: two shots of Jameson and a pint of Coors from O’Malleys. Don’t get me wrong, I had nothing against therapy, but if it ain’t broke, why fix it?

That being said, I also understood where the department was coming from. Civil lawsuits riddle all police departments, but with cell phone cameras being rampant, that number has skyrocketed in recent years, to the point that cities are hemorrhaging cash to settle cases outside of court. With the amount of stress that police officers face on the job, we all probably could use all the extra therapy we could get… and to be honest, sensitivity training as well.

As much as I love being a police officer, I can’t blame people for lumping all cops together. Just recently a young black boy in Chicago was “accidentally” gunned down while in his backyard. They claimed he was “noncompliant and looked like he had a weapon”, which turned out to be “he was listening to music and holding his cell phone”. Three officers, 21 bullets in total. Let’s say each officer fired seven rounds apiece.

CLICK.

CLICK.

CLICK.

CLICK.

CLICK.

CLICK.

CLICK.

STOP.

Call it a mishap or not, but let there be no doubt about this next part… the intent was to kill. Yes, you can blame adrenaline, sure. Hell, you can even say you were fearful of your life, that happens… but once again, let’s be clear… the intent was to kill.

If you can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen. It’s as simple as that. If we don’t blame the shooters, where does the onus lie? Instead, do we hold the ones who provided the botched intelligence accountable? The drug suspects the police were looking for hadn’t been spotted at that residence for at least three months. Is that person just as responsible as the person who pulled the trigger? Where is the accountability at any level? I mean if that was Michael who got killed, I dunno what I’d do. In fact, I don’t wanna know what I’d do.

I wonder if it would have been different if it was a white teen. I can never understand how a white kid, armed to the teeth, can shoot up an entire school and be captured practically unscathed, yet a young black boy from the Southside of Chicago can get shot on his property for just listening to his favorite songs with the volume too loud. After a while, it’s hard to think it’s anything but color. And realistically speaking, if racism is rampant amongst the blue, how the hell can I expect my fellow officers to govern the streets fairly and without bias?

I had been on the force for seventeen years and in that entire time, only three minorities have made sergeant in my department. None of them black. In fact, Lewis had been at the department for thirty years and never even made sergeant. Every year, another excuse, while other white candidates got promoted.

“They said my reviews were mediocre. That’s why they couldn’t promote me. Every year, same bullshit,” Lewis ranted.

That last statement left a lump in my throat. There is something about mediocrity that is almost depressing. When you try your best, people assume it will turn one of two ways… you succeed or you fail. When you meet someone who is mediocre, whether it’s in their career, their hobbies, whatever, you just assume they didn’t try hard enough. But the truth of the matter is that many people who try their best, end up being mediocre. For every successful college athlete who joins the pros, there are tons that are forced to take jobs outside of sports after they graduate. We hear success stories about writers who launched lucrative careers out of nowhere, but it’s a rarity. For every one of those, there are ten e-book authors who can’t even muster up enough sales to afford a decent ribeye dinner. The owner of Amazon started off in a garage, and now he’s on the verge of being the first trillionaire, but so many tech companies start and end exactly there, in someone’s garage.

But let me be clear… this had nothing to do with mediocrity. Sure, Lewis’s numbers were the middle of the pack, but that didn’t stop others who scored below him to reach the rank of sergeant. In fact, out of all the people at our department who had worked at least thirty years, every single one was ranked higher than Carl. He was dead last. With supporting evidence like that, it’s hard to not think it’s not a race issue. Nothing was logical. Then again my father always told me that the only trait that is consistent with humans is their unpredictable nature. Unfortunately, this was a heavy lesson my father learned at the tender age of six.

He grew up in Texas. Deweyville to be specific. His family had just spent some time with relatives in Beaumont and it was getting late so his pops set off before checking the tank. Figured he could just do it on the way. 

Well, they made the mistake of stopping in Vidor, which unbeknownst to my grandfather, a first-generation American, was a famous sundown town in the area. By the time he noticed the “Whites only after sundown” signs, they were already at the gas station. When the gas station owner refused service, it got ugly. When a few other men showed up, my grandfather gave my grandmother the keys and told her to roll up the windows and lock the doors.

Looking out the window of that locked car, my father told me he saw those white men beat my grandfather to nearly an inch of his life. Then they put a single gallon in his tank and said, “Get the fuck out of Vidor you dumb n*****… and make sure you take your n***** family with you.”

Though he was beyond in pain, he wasted no time getting to his feet and back in the car. His eyes were so swollen he couldn’t even see the road well enough to drive to a hospital. With tears pouring onto the steering wheel, my grandmother drove him. It was the only time my father ever saw her drive. Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, they drove back to Beaumont, and then with aghast faces, my relatives took my grandfather to the local hospital. He spent three days recovering before they deemed him healthy enough to be discharged. To add insult to injury, when he checked out one of the doctors said, “Maybe next time you’ll be smart enough to know to stay out of Vidor after sundown.”

Each word stung like a drop of lemon on an open membrane. As agonizing as the experience was, my pops made sure to not skip a single detail of that story because the color of my skin doesn’t afford me the luxury of being ignorantly blissful to the ways of the world. I did the same thing when I told Michael. When he had that scared look in his eyes, I continued telling the story. When that scared looked turned to one of disgust, I knew the lesson had sunk in. He’d have to be tough to survive this world because there would be times in life that no matter what I did, I wouldn’t be able to protect him.

It’s the reason I became a police officer in the first place. I always wondered what would have happened if a dutiful cop saw what was happening to my grandfather that fateful night. I’d like to think that their civic duty would have been more important than their personal views. That doing the right thing mattered more than doing what you wanted to do. However, these days I’m not sure anymore. Maybe for most cops, it’s just a job, just something you do to pay the bills and pass the time until retirement. Perhaps I’m the naive one, thinking that it really was a brotherhood.

Hell, the black community had turned on me too. A cop, even a black cop (and sometimes especially a black cop), is just a pig to some people and no matter what you say, it won’t change their mind. I heard them chanting at a rally once, “Piggies, piggies, throw them in a fryer.”

That hurt so much. It doesn’t matter that I know my community intimately. I grew up with these people, went to cookouts with these people, did church communions with these people, clothing drives, soup kitchens, you name it, I’ve been there, but it doesn’t matter. The same type of stereotyping that is being protested against, is happening in another form. I just happened to be getting a double dose of it, but I’m starting to feel so tired of it. I’m supposedly not black enough to be black and not white enough to be blue, stuck in a weird sort of weird limbo, without a team.

Michael has been heading to the rallies lately, ones with counter-protestors, and it bothers me knowing that no matter what I do, I can’t protect him, even with this badge and gun. While most of the participants are fine, some of those groups that congregate at the rallies operate more like cults, and as a parent that concerns me. All it takes is one or two crazies on either side and things could erupt and then the hate will perpetuate some more. I’m not sure what Jesus would do, but it sure as hell ain’t all of this. Why does it feel like we’re always going backward?