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Reflection on Policing in New York City
My first, and only, firsthand encounter with New York City police officers was when I was about five years old. If I recall correctly, my babysitter did not let me watch television so I called 911 to complain. Naturally, the NYPD was not pleased that I was wasting their time and resources. They dispatched two very nice Russian-speaking officers to my apartment to tell me to never do that again.
I am not ignorant. I recognize that, as a white male with a disability who lives in a fairly “good” neighborhood, my views of the police force are very different than that of some of my African American and Latino friends. It is unfortunate that we live in a world that considers two very different extremes when it comes to its views of the police. For me, I was taught from an early age that the members of the NYPD are some of the finest people in our society. They “Protect and Serve” our communities and are willing to lay down their lives to keep us safe. There is no greater sacrifice in this world and, for that, these brave men and women deserve our utmost respect. It is unfortunate, therefore, that there are certain sectors in our society where police officers are vilified. It is also extremely disheartening that various public officials use rhetoric that only seems to further escalate this situation. In the wake of the unfortunate death of Eric Garner, New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio spoke about training his son, Dante, about how to “take special care” in his encounters with law enforcement.” I have no doubt that the Mayor’s comments were well-intentioned but they, nevertheless, added to the growing public opinion that police officers were not to be trusted. This negative view of police was a contributing factor in the murders of NYPD Officers Rafael Ramos and Wenjian Lin. While the actions of one man are not representative of the whole population, the senseless assassination was certainly triggered, at least in part, by the anti-cop rhetoric throughout the city and the country.
Once again, I recognize that there is a reason why certain people feel victimized by police officers. I find it very unfortunate that people, as well as the media, take two extreme stances on the issue. Additionally, the media often sensationalizes stories of African Americans who are killed by police officers, which has added to the racial division and animosity towards police in this country. It is difficult for me to personally criticize the split-second decisions of a police officer, having never stepped into his or her shoes. It is also understandable, however, that people of color might feel differently about the situation. Therefore, it is imperative that people analyze each situation individually and view things from both perspectives. Police officers need to better understand the concerns of the minority communities that they interact with, while the people in said communities should view these officers with respect as authority figures within their society. This is the only way that we can achieve compromise and some level of peace.
Every year back when Oscar, my brother who is one year younger, and I were in elementary school, my school handed a booklet on safety precautions and procedures to our classes. The booklet was in black and white with informative cartoons on the pages. Our teachers all gave us time to look through it and color in the cartoons. I always liked this time of the year, more so because of the coloring part. One of the safety procedures it emphasized was to contact the police by dialing “911” so they can help when there is trouble or danger. Calling ‘911’ for help, and other procedures were already drilled into my head by my parents and teachers so the booklet did not have much use for me except for the nice art.
One night, I heard knocks on the door. I was used to knocks on the door because the tenants would do that when they wanted to reach my father, but these knocks were different – they were more forceful and loud. I got a little startled and when my father opened the door, there were two policemen. Apparently they got a call from my house phone. I immediately started crying because I thought there was trouble in the house or something. My father talked to them. I noticed they never tried to step inside the house. We later found out that my cousins dared my brother to call “911” and he did. The policemen were really nice about being forced to come to my home because children do dumb things and did not fine us. Because this was the only direct encounter with policemen that I remember of, I think policemen are nice and respectable people.
When my mother first came to this country in the 1980s, she lived in a basement with a friend from her country. The house in Flushing had three levels: the basement, 1st floor, and 2nd floor. My mother and her friend really kept to themselves and didn’t know the people in the 1st floor at all. All they knew was that the entire house was Spanish. One day late at night, my mother and her friend were returning to their basement carrying a large suitcase. My mother’s friend was traveling to Peru and had gone to buy a suitcase. After entering their basement, someone knocked on their door. As soon as they opened, two men came barging in without invitation. Then, they flashed the women FBI badges.
My mother and her friend were obviously nervous, but did as the officers demanded. They asked to see what was inside the suitcase. My mother and her friend explained why they brought and showed them the inside. After that, the FBI threatened them by saying, “We know the personal status of everyone in this building.” The FBI left after that. My mother and her friend did not have an idea why the FBI was interested in the people at their house. Their friend from the 2nd floor came down to explain that the group of people living in the 1st floor were involved in drugs and cleared up the mystery.
My own experience with law enforcement is limited to NYPD checking my backpack at the Times Square train station. They didn’t explain why they wiped down my backpack and then placed the tissue in an electric machine. They didn’t seem interested in informing me of what they were checking for.
It’s true. I look a little different from everyone else. I walk the same, talk the same, maybe even think in the same way. But every morning, I get up and wrap a scarf around my head before going out. I thread pins through cloth and hair to hold my faith in place, before rushing out the door into the unknown, backpack in tow.
So yes. I do look different, and we live in a world where looks come first, and rationalities later. And truth be told, racial and ethnic stereotypes hold quite some influence in how people view and react to one another. (Ideally, this would not hold true, but who ever said our world was ideal, right? In fact, far from it.) So interestingly enough, although I have never had a serious, legitimate encounter or even any sort of extended interaction with a member of New York City’s police force, of the single minute interaction I can pull up from the recesses of mine own mind, I can say this: knowing what I know about how things often pan out, I have always been wary of what can happen, outside of what is warranted.
I spun around again, pivoting about my left ankle as I scanned the entirety of the 14th Street station corridor. “I swear, it was around here somewhere. I mean, I’ve definitely been here before…This is how I returned last time!”
My friend looked over at me, laughing a bit, “Ahhh Sayema, are we lost?”
“How can we get lost in a subway station? This doesn’t make any sense,” I walked forward a bit and then back again the other way, trying to gather my bearings. “There’s no way there’s only a downtown F. I’ve gone home from here before. WHY IS THIS STATION SO CONFUSING?!?”
“Maybe we can ask someone,” my friend suggested, indicating the subway token seller who looked out from his booth, seemingly bored.
“Yeah, but I don’t wanna hafta swipe in again. Don’t have an unlimited.” I walked towards the stairs that we had just come up, the ones that led down to the downtown F train. I was sure the uptown train was supposed to be down there too, but something hadn’t clicked and we had been getting the run-around.
And then, there was something else I had failed to notice; I had taken absolutely no notice of the two officers standing near an adjacent stairwell, watching me as I stared around me and paced back and forth. “Can we help you with something?” they asked.
It was honestly a simple, innocent question. And yet, it all surfaced. All the news headlines and facebook trends, all the seemingly racist stop-and-frisks and ‘conveniently-convicted’ criminals. Why had they approached me? Why would they assume I need something? Am I acting suspiciously? Is it just because I seem to be looking for something the eye cannot see whilst looking the way I do?
They looked at me expectantly. I looked back.
“We’re just looking for the uptown F train?” And I heard my voice shake just a bit.
So why am I telling this story, especially when it barely even qualifies as a significant exchange with our officers of the law? Awareness. If I’ve discerned anything from my fleeting sightings of cops or from my lack of significant encounters thereof, its that I seem to always possess a certain awareness in the back of my mind; a slight jab in the temple that serves to remind me to remember who I am and how other people may see me.
If I see cops on the street, I can feel myself consciously looking down to avoid eye-contact, avoid any possible indication of challenging their authority. I can feel myself consciously trying to make myself look as normal as possible (although ironically, one is most normal when he or she is not actively thinking about it), and for no reason at all except a, possibly, irrational sort of wariness that they will take any excuse apprehend me. That’s not to say I walk around the streets of New York in fear, I mean, don’t get me wrong, I do believe strongly that I have nothing to fear when I am not doing anything wrong. But the things one sees and the stories one hears in the dealings of justice (or sometimes lack thereof), the possibility that one person or small collective can ruin a perception of an entire group of people by his or her or its actions, always remains at the back of my mind.
My only exciting encounter with a police officer dates back to my junior year of high school. My parents were away for the weekend and left my two siblings and I at home with a fridge full of groceries and a list of phone numbers to dial in case of an emergency. Against my better judgment, I let my best friend convince me to throw a “small” party that Saturday night. The beginning of the night went pretty smoothly: there was no out of control drinking, no loud music, and no drugs of any sort. I was a strict host, and all my friends respected that. However, in a moment’s time, a mass of cars pulled up in front of my house at around 1 AM. The party went from quiet and small to absolute mayhem in an instant. A rush of senior boys piled into my cramped dining room, unloading knapsacks of vodka bottles, packs of beer, and Ziploc bags stuffed with marijuana. I turned around to find my best friend smoking with a few boys in my living room, and spilling red and orange drinks on my ivory sofa. As the music grew louder, my anger grew stronger. I started getting phone calls from my neighbors, which I of course ignored. I then noticed a commotion right outside my house. One boy had just crashed his car into my friend’s car, and a police officer was charging toward my front door. He demanded that I call my parents, and after a long ten minutes of speaking with them on the phone, he forced every last person out of my house. To my surprise he ignored the strong stench of pot that permeated the foyer. He didn’t even question the bottles of alcohol that lay open and almost finished atop every counter in my kitchen. All he demanded of me was to shut the music off and to respect the noise complaints from my neighbors. He gave me a stern “warning,” and then went on his way once all the cars pulled away from my house. In that moment I realized I was more afraid of getting into trouble with my parents than my neighborhood police.
Policemen were always “on standby” in the never ending film that was my childhood. They were a part of the backdrop, a silent yet imposing presence, crucial to the events surrounding me but never directly impacting my everyday schedule and activities. Because I lived close to the Fifth Precinct of the Police Department in Chinatown, I often caught glimpses of policemen at their most relaxed state: cracking jokes and strolling about with their partners, climbing out of or settling into their squad cars, taking notes and murmuring into their walky-talkies, and strolling into convenience stores for lunch and snacks. They would help tourists with directions, and direct little children to school.
My mother once told me a story about how the police had aided her. On one of her many walks with her first grade class, one of her students had tripped, fell, and cracked his head on the sidewalk. Blood came oozing out the nasty gash, and he understandably fainted dead away. The hospital was miles away, and the ambulance wouldn’t be able to come in another half an hour. My mother was besides herself with fear: fear for her student’s life, fear of her job position, and fear of backlash from the school and the student’s parents. Luckily, a police car was parked nearby and had witnessed the entire situation. Thanks to the power of coincidences, they were able to whisk him to the hospital in minutes.
On the flip side, because I live in close proximity to the detention center in Lower Manhattan’s City Hall, I often saw the police in their most serious and physically threatening state. Stark white and blue prison vehicles would often be parked near the local playground, and burly motorcycles and scooters would be lined up neatly along the edges of the police center. On the way to elementary school, I would sometimes come across police buses and vans with suspects and criminals clambering out of the backseats, squinting in the harsh sunlight. Most of the time, they would be merely handcuffed behind their back. If they partook in a more serious event, the individuals along with their partners in crime would be linked together with steel chains attached to their handcuffed wrists, their pants dangling precariously without their confiscated belts, means of preventing escape.
When I was five, I had my first action packed police-chasing-down-the-bad-guy experience on my way to school. As I was rounding the corner with my mom, a loud shriek shattered the peaceful morning. I looked in the direction of the raucous scene unfolding down the street. A thirty year old man had snatched the purse of a fifty year old woman, and the two subjects were tugging back and forth at the object of interest. The man eventually broke free from the lady’s grasp and began running full tilt away from the victim, the purse clutched roughly under his arm. The lady and her mother stumbled after him, arms flailing as they screamed for help. Strangely enough, the criminal was running straight towards the police station detention center. He was either extremely stupid, or he was new in town and had yet to get the lay of the land. Fortunately for the victim, the police were stationed by their vans and swiftly ran to catch the criminal, who had stopped dead in his tracks when he realized the extent of his blunder. The ladies eventually caught up to the criminal whom being handcuffed and began beating him up with their shopping bags. The cumulation of these two events gave me a rosy perspective of the police force throughout childhood and well into young adulthood.
The amount of policemen that appeared in public increased tenfold after 911. I would see cops guarding subway stations, stopping anyone with particularly large backpacks or handbags. I would see cops patrolling crowded areas, walking amongst pedestrians in casual clothing. I would see them standing next to government buildings, check in stations, bag check areas, barricades, and tourist attractions: posing threateningly in their full uniform and gear, their badges winking in the light. Since childhood, I have been more exposed to the social and political world, both the good and the bad new, the bias and the skewed reports, enough to know that not everything is black and white. Much of the news is true, and much of the news is manipulated through various extents to serve a specific purpose. Crime reports are often targeted towards a specific social, financial, racial, and ethnic background, and crimes against minorities of race, gender, and sexual orientation, and low social economic status are often glossed over in the news or are tinted with a certain bias and discriminatory action. People of majorities in terms of race, gender, and social economic status are often favored by the justice system, and not all is fair in the political world. On the flip side, sudden surges of rebellion lead to public persecution towards the police force, and social media play a big hand in featuring both bias and non bias actions by the police, criminals, and victims, adding fuel to the frenzy. Because of my position in society as a petite Chinese female, I am fortunately excluded from the majority of the “police brutality” events sweeping across the nation, bringing to light many unjust misdemeanors as well as unfair hate against the entirely of the police force because of the actions of a selected few. The public needs to always look at the bigger picture: we need to be critical, educated, well informed, and non-judgmental when dealing with tension-filled situations between public and government run institutions.
The earliest memory I have of interacting with the police actually involved a complete lack of interaction. I grew up on the Southside of Williamsburg, and while it may be hip today, I don’t think anyone would call it so in the late 90s. At this time we lived in this second floor apartment with big windows, right above a Latin-American takeout restaurant, El Puente, which I’m pretty sure was open all hours of the day. This place was incredibly popular, with cars sometimes triple parked in front, people chatting outside, and music playing from within.
More times than one my mom would call the police as a result. Whether she was overreacting or not is a different paper, but I remember that when we would call and report the excessive amount of noise the precinct would tell us that a cop car would stop by to maintain the noise. However, very rarely did any policemen ever come by.
While we never reported a serious emergency—it was just noise—I guess it did make sense that police wouldn’t ensure that the situation was resolved. But I always wondered what the response would be like if we lived in a more affluent neighborhood. Would that ensure the attention of the police, even for minor emergencies?
I have to say that I’m pretty lucky that it’s actually hard to think of a particular instance in which I’ve interacted with a policeman in any way, and I feel that it’s important to say that I don’t fear the police, and that is a clear privilege I have as a white man. However, I still have a feeling of slight discomfort if I pass a group of policemen on the street, or if they’re stopping people at subway entrances. Perhaps this distrust stems from the almost lack of police effort of the Southside, or also from videos/media I see every day.
As a child, I would ride my bicycle around the block every afternoon. My mother would be doing chores inside the house and she’d leave the front door of our house open so she could peak out once in a while to check on me. As I rode my bright pink bicycle with purple stars stamped all over it, I heard the screeching siren. It was coming from behind me. I started pedaling faster, trying to pull further away from the increasingly loud siren. I was nearing the gray gate of my house. Quickly, I jumped off the seat, past the gate, and ran up the stairs and onto my porch, leaving my bike leaning against the fence. I quickly closed the front door behind me and slid the lock on.
“What’s wrong?” my mom asked.
“The cops are after me,” I answered.
At this point you’re probably wondering why a 7 year old is running away from the cops. Well, the cops weren’t actually after me. They were probably going after a speeding car given the fact that I live near a busy intersection. I only thought that they were after me. Growing up, my parents would tell me that if I wasn’t on my best behavior, the police would come and take me away. When we were in the car, especially on long drives, and I was whining (I used to get carsick and so hated being in the car for being too long), my parents would tell me the cops would come unless I behaved. Thus, began my fear of the police. I didn’t actually learn what it is that the police actually do until around 4th grade. When my teacher told me that the police work to protect citizens and stop criminals, I was shocked. They weren’t the bad guys?
Today, I am more aware of police officers’ roles in maintaining order and protecting citizens. However, I still can’t help but fear the police. Maybe part of it is the ingrained fear I grew up with. I respect their duty to serve and I commend their efforts, but I will always be wary of the police. I’ve always been uncomfortable with guns and being around anyone with a gun makes me highly uncomfortable. I know that police officers are trained and have to follow certain rules and that there are regulations regarding gun use, but I can’t help but wonder what if something goes wrong and innocent people end up hurt.
Also, as a person of color, I’m always worried how I will be viewed by the police. Would they be more suspicious of me than others because of my skin color? I’ve encountered this at the airport. When I was traveling to California with a friend, we both brought our school IDs to get through security. We both confirmed with the airline that a school ID was acceptable for a domestic flight and were told we were good to go. My friend flashed her student ID, the TSA agent nodded, and she headed towards the security check. I showed the same TSA agent my school ID. To my surprise, I was told that school ID wasn’t valid. I told him that I had confirmed with the airline and was told it was acceptable. This upset him and he threatened to pull me from my flight if I continued “to argue” with him. It’s upsetting to know I was treated differently because of my skin color and that I’ve gotten used to being viewed differently from others.
I have never had a negative encounter with the police. I truly have not interacted much with on-duty officers, but the limited times that I have were as pleasant as could be. That’s not to say that I cheer whenever I see a policeman or patrol car, in fact, the NYPD can make me anxious at times. I am nervous around officers when I am driving because I have a deep-rooted fear that I may be participating in an illegal activity that I am unaware of, for example, driving with a broken brake light or cruising a couple of MPHs above the posted speed limit. Other than that, I am comfortable around the police because I believe that as long as I am being a law-abiding citizen they are on my side; however, I know that many others have different feelings towards the police because even if they are following the rules, they tend to be picked on more than others.
I often will stop to ask a police officer for directions, but I have also had the distinct experience of getting to know a police officer personally. Growing up, my softball coach was a lieutenant at my local police precinct. He and his wife were very close with my mom, and the two families often spent time together. He was the kind of officer who ran into ex-convicts that he had brought to the precinct for their crimes, and the first thing he said to them when he saw them again was “how are you doing?” Sometimes, he asked them if there was anything he could do to help them to get back on their feet. The kind of policeman I had been lucky enough to get to know was not an man with an elevated sense of self who looked down on others, he was a human being who was trying to make our city a safer place.
I am aware that I am 5’4 female who is usually considered white, so I may be privy to an experience with the law that is completely different than the one many of my family and friends face. My brother, with his toffee colored skin, is constantly pulled over for seemingly bizarre reasons, especially if he is driving through a rough neighborhood. My bearded Uncle, who is a slightly darker brown than my brother, is sure to be pulled aside at the airport for further questioning. It frustrates me knowing that some members my family have to experience things that I will probably never have to just because of the color of their skin, but there is a dull reassurance that such terrible stereotyping can arise from some root cause that is true, yet I find myself asking “is that enough of a justification?” Surely, even the world’s most villainous masterminds had a motive for their actions. Our police force is not perfect and there are definitely areas where the officers can sharpen and develop their skills.
As a child, I would ride my bicycle around the block every afternoon. My mother would be doing chores inside the house and she’d leave the front door of our house open so she could peak out once in a while to check on me. As I rode my bright pink bicycle with purple stars stamped all over it, I heard the screeching siren. It was coming from behind me. I started pedaling faster, trying to pull further away from the increasingly loud siren. I was nearing the gray gate of my house. Quickly, I jumped off the seat, past the gate, and ran up the stairs and onto my porch, leaving my bike leaning against the fence. I quickly closed the front door behind me and slid the lock on.
“What’s wrong?” my mom asked.
“The cops are after me,” I answered.
At this point you’re probably wondering why a 7 year old is running away from the cops. Well, the cops weren’t actually after me. They were probably going after a speeding car given the fact that I live near a busy intersection. I only thought that they were after me. Growing up, my parents would tell me that if I wasn’t on my best behavior, the police would come and take me away. When we were in the car, especially on long drives, and I was whining (I used to get carsick and so hated being in the car for being too long), my parents would tell me the cops would come unless I behaved. Thus, began my fear of the police. I didn’t actually learn what it is that the police actually do until around 4th grade. When my teacher told me that the police work to protect citizens and stop criminals, I was shocked. They weren’t the bad guys?
Today, I am more aware of police officers’ roles in maintaining order and protecting citizens. However, I still can’t help but fear the police. Maybe part of it is the ingrained fear I grew up with. I respect their duty to serve and I commend their efforts, but I will always be wary of the police. I’ve always been uncomfortable with guns and being around anyone with a gun makes me highly uncomfortable. I know that police officers are trained and have to follow certain rules and that there are regulations regarding gun use, but I can’t help but wonder what if something goes wrong and innocent people end up hurt.
Also, as a person of color, I’m always worried how I will be viewed by the police. Would they be more suspicious of me than others because of my skin color? I’ve encountered this at the airport. When I was traveling to California with a friend, we both brought our school IDs to get through security. We both confirmed with the airline that a school ID was acceptable for a domestic flight and were told we were good to go. My friend flashed her student ID, the TSA agent nodded, and she headed towards the security check. I showed the same TSA agent my school ID. To my surprise, I was told that school ID wasn’t valid. I told him that I had confirmed with the airline and was told it was acceptable. This upset him and he threatened to pull me from my flight if I continued “to argue” with him. It’s upsetting to know I was treated differently because of my skin color and that I’ve gotten used to being viewed differently from others.
There seems to be this idea that the police are more suspicious of Black and Latino people than of people of other races. I’m Egyptian, but the vast majority of people I’ve met have assumed that I’m Latino. This goes for the rest of my family as well. The four of us have never once been accosted by an officer while going about our business. For example, I remember I was staying home from school one day for family reasons, but I had to go to the deli to buy milk for breakfast. While I was waiting on line to buy the milk, two cops got in line behind me. They didn’t question me on truancy, a big problem in my neighborhood, which surprised me since I was so sure that they would. While its possible that they simply could not care less, anecdotally, I don’t know how much credence I lend the idea of racist police officers.
My family has had two run-ins with police officers. One time we got in a car accident. The officer who showed up was understanding, cordial, and very helpful. Another time, our house was broken into. Of the two police officers, one was the very picture of kindness. The other treated us suspiciously, questioning us far past the point of reason; apparently fake home robberies are a common form of fraud. While I can never know whether or not he did that due to our race, I don’t hold it against him. Maybe I’m a police apologist or something silly like that, but the guy was just doing his due diligence and I don’t consider that an incident of racism.
I am lucky enough to have never had a serious altercation with a member of law enforcement. There was, however, an incident my freshman year of college which almost resulted in police involvement:
The first Monday of the school year, after the first floor meeting at the dorms, a group of us first years decided to hang out by the East River and get to know each other better. Someone supplied cans of Four Loko, and onward we forged to make friends and have degenerate teenaged fun. We gathered around a bench on FDR Drive overlooking the river, and settled down to play a game of Never Have I Ever.
A few rounds into the game, in which our group of sweaty and nervous eighteen year olds revealed their past romantic exploits—or, more accurately, lack thereof—a cop car slowly pulled up alongside us. As the car approached, three different boys gently lowered their cans to the ground. One of them even quietly nudged it with his heel until it fell into the water behind us. As one officer stepped out of the vehicle, my heart felt as if it were pounding against the walls of my throat. I hadn’t even had anything to drink, and still the possibility of getting into trouble with the police my first week of college sent me into a clammy panic. I glanced at the boy next to me, a new friend, who whispered, “Don’t freak out.”
The officer strolled over to one of the group who had a Four Loko can at his feet. “Whose is that?”
“I don’t know.”
The officer picked up the can and walked back over to his car. Very deliberately, he poured out the contents of the can into a line on the asphalt, placed the can sideways on the ground, and crushed it beneath his shoe. Without looking back at any of us, he climbed back into the car and drove away.
With the luxury of hindsight, I realize now that every fear that rushed through me from the moment the police car pulled up—I’m going to be kicked out of this scholarship program, I’m going to be expelled from the dorms, I’m a disappointment to my parents and my entire family—was an overreaction somewhat disproportionate to my actions, especially considering that I am part of a demographic that is not often negatively profiled by the police.
Despite the large role the NYPD plays in keeping New Yorkers safe on a daily basis, in my entire life, I have never had any significant, direct encounters with the police. My only experiences were as a passerby. I used to regularly pass by police officers stationed along various streets in Jamaica, Queens in order to get to and from my high school. Sometimes, there would even be police officers riding horses on the roads. Every time I found myself within inches of a police officer, my eyes would linger on the handcuffs and holstered gun. Even though I had done nothing wrong, it was a frightening view. I was aware that having two officers positioned at the corner of every block was meant to establish a greater sense of safety in a high crime area, especially since I knew fellow classmates who had been victims of muggings and gang beatings. On the other hand, ironically, the heavy police presence seemed to give me more reasons to feel uneasy. It was an indication that the area was dangerous. Why else would there be so many cops? Oddly enough, the act of dispatching officers in high-crime neighborhoods had the very opposite effect than it was supposed to have on me.
In my most alarming police encounter, it was late at night and my family and I were home when we heard banging on our door. Not knocking. Banging. I remember it sounded like someone was trying to break down our door. I heard my parents whispering frantically about who it could possibly be, and as if in response to my parents’ confusion, a man outside yelled POLICE! At that moment, confusion and worry overcame me. There must have been something terribly wrong for the police to have been banging on our door in such a manner. But when my father opened the door and spoke to the officers, my father learned that it had been a neighbor upstairs who called 911 because of a domestic dispute. Since my family and I were unknowledgeable regarding the situation, our encounter with the police ended quickly and peacefully.
Given all of this, I have found that a police uniform and badge can be symbolic of supremacy. The average person walking down the street goes unnoticed but the individual who puts on this uniform or flashes a badge is immediately transformed into someone with great power and authority. The intimidating appearance of individuals in police uniforms with stern, aggressive demeanors combined with the weapons and handcuffs by their waists build tension. Perhaps that is why I find myself feeling unsettled in a police officer’s presence rather than safe, as they are meant to make me feel.
Growing up in Far Rockaway, an inner-city neighborhood, I have seen my fair share of the NYPD. Far Rockaway is filled with lots of drug and gang-related activity. There are cop cars strategically stationed around our neighborhood to patrol any unlawful behavior and activity. Specifically, Redfern and the Hammel Houses are places you are almost always guaranteed to see the familiar blue and white car. In fact, a few years ago, an NYPD Sky Watch was permanently stationed at the intersection of Beach 66st and Beach Channel Drive, an area notorious for crime activity. Despite the city’s downward trend in crime, Far Rockaway’s has increased. According to records, crime has spiked 20 percent over the last five years and has gone up by 42 percent in the 100th Precinct.
Nevertheless, I am more than grateful for the work that the NYPD does on a daily basis. Specifically, in the neighborhood I grew up in, I feel as though without their presence, the crime rate would be even worse. Personally, one situation I am exceptionally grateful for the NYPD is this past summer. The house next to mine was evicted of its residents due to illegal housing. The previous owner tried to rent a one-family house to about five families. Now, the house is completely abandoned. However, the neighborhood kids broke in one day. My neighbor across the street saw them and called 911. In less than two minutes, the cops were at the house but the sirens scared off the kids. Unfortunately, this pattern continued until the weather got cold. Each time the police were called, however, I felt more safe and more at ease that they were aware of the situation. Their presence offered reassurance of our safety.
A year or two back, my other neighbor’s house was broken into. Thankfully, they have an alarm system that alerts the police. Once again, I was comforted by the presence of the police in a time we all felt so vulnerable to falling victim to a burglary.
As for the scene on the streets, I have seen plenty of NYPD activity. On one late night trip back home, driving down Beach Channel Drive, my family and I were stopped by police, along with all the other cars heading in that direction, because the cops were looking for someone. The officers had flashlights and shined them at each of our faces in the car and around the seats and in the trunk. After their search, they let us continue on our journey home. As much as I was scared that someone was out there, I was comforted by the fact that the police were doing their job and actively looking for the criminal. Similarly, it is not unusual for us to see and hear periodically, search helicopters flying over looking for something or someone. Again, the presence is reassuring that the criminals will be caught.
In light of the recent events and the evident racial tensions in the world and my neighborhood, I think that as a society, we must remember that cops, although they are rightfully held to higher standards, are human as well. In that, I mean, that they are susceptible to having flawed characteristics and making mistakes. There are good people and bad people, just as there are good cops and bad cops. Overall, I am personally so grateful for the work that they do everyday.
Growing up in the Lower East Side, I witnessed a few police interactions, but the police presence in my neighborhood was not particularly rampant. Perhaps my closest encounter was in high school, when I was leaving my apartment to go to school. I was waiting for the elevator when the door opened to reveal a pair of police officers holding a man against the wall of the elevator, hands cuffed behind his back. It was quite the shocking view in retrospect, but it was early in the morning at the time and I was too tired to really register what I was seeing. The two policemen kindly told me to take the next elevator and I groggily abided. When I reached the ground floor of the building, I could see the two officers loading the suspect into the back of their car, and I resumed my day like nothing was different.
When I walk past police officers on the streets or in the subway stations, I don’t feel an immediate threat to my own safety. Like many people, however, I am slightly more wary of their presence than I should be, since their job is to protect and serve. This is possibly due to the fact that I have always been taught that they are figures of authority, so I am more aware of my own actions and behaviors when I notice that they are around. I try to “act normal,” even if I wasn’t doing anything particularly sketchy before I came near them, and I try my best not to look suspicious (usually probably looking even more suspicious in the process). In light of more current events, there is even more tension around police officers. Although it is true that there are a few bad cops out there, I think it is important to note that the news only reports the bad. It’s possible that I speak from a biased and privileged standpoint, but it’s true that kindness is not documented as often as crimes. People don’t go through training just to gain a badge to wave around, and it’s important to remember that the general intention of the police force is to protect and serve.
Throughout my life, all of my personal encounters with the police have been pleasant – to say the least.
Although I often claim that my hometown is Jamaica Estates, Queens, my actual home is located in Bellerose Manor, on the border of Northeastern Queens and Long Island. However, what I never choose to share when asked about my hometown, is that I grew up just a quick walk away from one of the internet’s “Top Haunted Asylums in the Country”: The Creedmoor Psychiatric Center.
When I was about ten years old, my sister was attending a small liberal arts university in Rhode Island. Since she had visited New York for the weekend, my parents and I were then dropping her off to catch the Peter Pan Bus at Port Authority. This was a simple, routinely Sunday morning: Wake up at 7 am, drive into midtown, beg my mom to buy me Starbucks or Jamba Juice while impatiently waiting for my sister’s bus, and happily sipping on the newly-bought drink on the way back home. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Excited to go back to sleep and do ten-year-old things for the rest of my Sunday afternoon, my parents’ sedan pulled up to our usual parking space. Instead of the usual quiet of the suburbs and empty parking space in front of our house, multiple police cars and an ambulance unexpectedly greeted us at our door. Not knowing what to do, I remained in the car as my parents spoke to the officers.
This scene at my door was nothing short of a horror film or nightmare. A mentally ill patient from the Psychiatric Center had escaped, and had been consistently banging on my front door, desperately trying to break it open. He claimed that my house was his own, and that his wife and children were in the house waiting for him to come home. Luckily, my neighbors called the police just in time.
While none of my other experiences have been as severe, they, too, are memorable. For example, on the day of my grandfather’s funeral, a passing police car noticed that the cars of the funeral party were following each other to the cemetery, so the officer at the wheel graciously momentarily blocked off the road so that we were able to follow consecutively.
While I am aware that prejudice exists in all forms of all occupations, all of my experiences with police and law enforcement have resulted in kindness. For that, I am ever grateful.
The Police
In the history of the Eastchester Police Department, exactly one officer has died in the line of duty. Officer Frey died the year I was born, and the situation that led to his death would be resolved not by Eastchester cops, but by New York City Police Officers with an armored car.
Frey, of course, was an exception to the rule. The Eastchester Police department usually deals with an inferior brand of criminal; our car was once broken into, only for the robber to find nothing worth stealing, but the thief then forgot the rolls of quarters from cars he had broken into down the road in our car.
I have not often encountered police in hostile situations. Mostly, the cops do peacekeeper work. Aside from traffic direction, I have seen the police most often when they work in the schools in the DARE program, which is about avoiding drugs, tobacco, and alcohol. Each year officers go into 5th grade classrooms, teach, and learn all the kids’ names. Parents hear about the officers from their kids, whether they are funny or nice or strict, and then meet officers in person later. Kids start waving at patrol cars, and officers wave back.
During the DARE program, the officers always talk about where kids can find them, and assure the kids they are around to help. Some act as buddies and some as authorities, but either way the kids all tend to feel really safe around them, and the parents come to as well.
The Broken Windows theory states that cops become accessible to the neighborhood by monitoring it. It is possible, however, that they can be accessible to the neighborhood by teaching in it. A relationship can be built not on solving nonexistent problems, but on educating against the advent of problems.
I have been living in New York City for roughly a year and a half now and fortunately I have not had any run-in with the police yet in that time. However, my only encounter with NYPD came before I attended school here when I was in the city for a concert. The concert is more of a music festival, called Governor’s Ball, and I was attending with my sister and her boyfriend in June of 2013, making me a junior in high school (not knowing I would be attending college here just over a year later). We had gotten off the Metro-North train at Harlem 125th Street and walked down 125th street all the way to the RFK Bridge where many other festival-goers where making the journey to Randall’s Island.
Hundreds of people were making this walk at noon on a Saturday afternoon, almost all with alcoholic beverages in hand, my sister and her boyfriend included. Since drinks were expensive at the festival, most people opted to drink beforehand to save some money, and the best time to do that was while walking along the side of the bridge on the way to the island. Everything was going fine until about a quarter of the way across the bridge, we encountered a police van pulled over on the side of the road with about four cops “stopping” people who appeared to be drinking. I use quotation marks around that word because there was no rhyme or reason to their stops, as was evidenced by my sister’s drink being fully hidden behind a bag, yet they decided to stop her just the same.
This seemed unfair to me because countless people had gotten away with it before we had passed the police, yet they decided to start doing their jobs when we walked past. It was probably because of the fact she looked underage at the time, even though she was 25. I think that once they figured this out, they reduced her fine to only about $15 and instructed her to throw out her own can of beer at the next garbage she saw. She is not a law-breaker, but with no one to enforce that direction they gave her she was able to continue drinking once we were back on our way, and I think the police knew that. So, overall I had mixed feelings about that first police encounter because it seemed like they could not make up their mind about being strict or lenient with the law, perhaps something that occurs more often, and with more serious offenses than carrying an open container of alcohol.
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