Alissa Semple
MHC 250
Professor C. Haberman
February 14th, 2017
Response 2- Police Encounter
I was in the fourth grade when I visited the American Museum of Natural History for the first of many, many times. I remember being fascinated by everything. Everything seemed so large, everyone seemed so tall, the train station seemed to be such a scarier place than it is. The details of the museum itself were a blur, but my first visit was one I’ve never forgotten.
We were lined up to leave the museum, warm, bundled up in our scarves and hooded coats, our bellies full with ridiculously overpriced museum chicken nuggets and hilariously small pizza slices. We were holding hands, as fourth graders do, in two lines, buddy system style. I was holding on to the hand of my buddy, a girl who was probably a close friend of mine, but whose name I cannot remember. It was a cold January day, snowing in fact, and our teacher reminded us that when we got outside, we should keep our eyes peeled and hold on to our buddy’s hand tightly. We were told not to let go. I let go.
It was an innocent mistake; I bent down to tie my shoelace and when I looked up, they were all gone. My buddy had let go of my hand, following the class like I should have done, and through the thick flurries floating downward and the crowds of people walking the streets, I discovered, after about thirty seconds of frantic neck motions that would definitely incur whiplash, that I had lost my group. I stood on the sidewalk for a second, ultimately bewildered, never having felt so lost and afraid, and did what any rational nine year old would do. I bawled my eyes out.
It was one of my first memorable experiences in the city, and I’ll never forget how people stared and said things like, “Omigod, that little girl’s crying,” “Someone should really help her,” but continued to walk by, styrofoam coffee cups in hand, briskly through the freshly fallen snow. I was appalled at their lack of compassion, frustrated that nobody would help, disgusted with myself for being the snotty-nosed kid who gets lost and quite possibly never found. I was suddenly and brutally aware that I was not wearing gloves, and that the tingling at the tips of my fingers meant that frostbite was soon to set in. I was no longer filled with panic, but a sort of defeatist dread. I began to imagine death, that perhaps I was to die here, and I’d never see my parents again. I cursed my innate disability to be able to walk for five minutes without my shoelace coming untied.
Until. My tears had not gone unnoticed by all. A police officer, clad in hat and all, walked up to me and asked “Are you lost?” I don’t think I even managed to get the words out clearly. It was a wonder he didn’t turn away in disgust. I’m sure a snotty-nosed fourth grader blubbering isn’t what anyone wants to deal with, voluntarily. But he was patient. He asked me what school I was coming from, what grade I was in, my name, my teacher’s name, and a bunch of other questions that I answered almost as a reflex. I slowly began to stop crying. He handed me a rough but dry tissue from his back pocket.
“They’re gonna notice you’re missing,” the officer said in a confident voice. “I think I’ll go back to the museum and ask them to call it over the loudspeaker. Do you think you’re okay here by yourself?”
Before I got a chance to answer, my teacher, seemingly out of nowhere, appeared from the white flurry blizzard. I ran to her without a second thought, and over her barrage of questions that assailed me as hard as the flurries, I managed to thank the officer, for helping me.
“It’s what I do,” he said. He smiled.
I stuck my hand out for a shake, and he didn’t even falter. He stuck his hand out promptly and shook mine firmly, seemingly understanding that though I had been crying in the snow helplessly for ten minutes, it was improper and immature as a fourth grader to hug people.
My teacher thanked him, and we headed back to the bus. I looked over my shoulder one more time, but he was gone. I never asked his name.
