For as long as I can remember, I have lived in the same apartment building on the same street in Flushing, Queens. Even though I did live with my grandparents in China until I was four, the memories of my toddlerhood only exist as faint vignettes now.  Fortunately, I am glad to say that I have never personally had a bad experience with the NYPD. However, I do remember two instances where I have interacted with the police: the first was when the lock on our apartment door broke and we called the police out of fear that someone had broken in; the second was when my mother’s workplace was burglarized.

Both of these incidents occurred when I was still fairly young. I don’t remember the year or my exact age, but I think I was either finishing elementary school or just starting middle school – a preteen. Since my parents did not consider me old enough to stay home alone yet and they both did not get home until 8 or 9 PM, my parents paid my neighbor to pick me up from my afterschool and I ate dinner at their house on the weekdays. After dinner, I would do my homework or read books until my mom or dad came to pick me up. One night, as my mom was unlocking the door, she noticed that it seemed jammed and wouldn’t open. She tried for a good ten minutes, but the lock would not budge. Eventually, my dad got home as well and we ended up calling the police for help. They managed to get the door open, and suggested that we get a new lock because ours were nearly ten years old.

I don’t remember when the robbery at my mom’s workplace happened, but it was after the problem with our door lock. At the time, my mom worked at a nail salon in Staten Island, and she would take me with her on Sundays and I’d spend the day with her friend’s children. She and three other workers worked the opening shift, and when they walked inside the store they saw drawers strewn on the floor, chairs toppled over, and a desk lamp that was still turned on. The police were called immediately, but they took over half an hour to show up. The burglars were already gone, but we later learned that they had entered through the store’s bathroom; they dug a tunnel from the building next door through to the bathroom and had left with a few hundred dollars in cash.

In both of my encounters with the police, they were kind but professional, so even though I have heard and read about many stories of police brutality around the nation and in New York, I can’t say that I personally relate with any of those incidents. However, the fact that police officers often do use excessive force when confronting civilians is still troubling. Even though the city’s crime rate has been declining steadily, there remains room for improvement – for police and civilians alike – in the effort to keep New York safe.

As the resident commentator from Northern Westchester, I probably have a different relationship with law enforcement than most of my friends born and raised in the city. In my town, the police weren’t an entity to be feared or avoided. One of my best friends in high school’s father was a police officer and I frequently sat with him at their dinner table and thought nothing of it. The biggest impact cops made on my upbringing was the fact that they would frequently stop teenagers speeding down back roads when we were running late for school.
In all honesty, I’d never even had a one-on-one conversation with a working police officer until I was 19 and got pulled over for not coming to a full and complete stop before turning right at a red light. That experience was far from the violent, aggressive, or fear invoking one my friends in the city have experienced. The officer was nothing but friendly and respectful. Now, I think it would be naive to ignore the fact that being a young, female, and white most likely played a factor in how I was treated but nonetheless. The officer wrote my ticket and let me go on with my evening. That experience is a far cry from my young, male, black friend who was arrested and detained as a sophomore in high school by law enforcement in Brooklyn simply because he fit a suspect profile. My opinion of the police is largely different from my peers and is largely a product of where I grew up.

The date was Tuesday June 14^th / Wednesday June 15^th, 2016. I had dragged my friend along with me to see my favorite group, Florence and the Machine, live at Barclay’s Center in Brooklyn. It was either the concert or the train ride after it, but I can’t forget that night. Since the MTA likes to mess with my emotions, I had to take a different route home from the one that I had planned. All was well because the trains were packed with people who shared my love for Florence Welch. Being out late at night was already making me uneasy, so the last thing I needed was a drunk man shouting on the train. He fell asleep quickly but dropped his drink which went into where the conductor was. This contributed to what ended up making this night memorable.

I have an inexplicable fear of vomiting. Of course, luck would have it that some man, who was under the influence of who knows what substances, emptied the contents of his stomach on the same train car I was on, only a few seats behind mine. I only realized what had happened when my friend told me not to turn around so I naturally decided to turn around. We were one stop away from our transfer station when this happened. When the train pulled up to 59^th street, the doors were not opening. We heard the conductor reporting some sort of unidentified liquid in the cabin and a sanitary condition in the car. We were there for what seemed like ages but was probably just a few minutes. When the conductor decided to let us out, she came out of the cabin and walked to the other end of the car to open one half of the last door. We had to walk over this man’s vomit and I had the privilege of standing behind him as we waited to exit. Moral of the story is don’t take the D train late at night.

While I have not had any significant interactions with on-duty NYPD in my everyday life, I do have a number of former officers as family members. In particular, my Aunt Maryann and Uncle William (brother and sister) were both officers of the NYPD. My aunt (who retired as a homicide detective) started fresh out of the academy on solo foot patrol in the early 80s Bed-Stuy. Maryann, during her patrols, became a familiar face to those on her beat and actively sought to know those she was protecting. When she was informed that the pensioners in her sector were being robbed on Social Security Check Day, she personally coordinated with the elderly residents on her beat. On that day, she would collect them from their houses and walk them, as a group, to the bank. Checks cashed, she would then walk them to the local supermarket, wait outside while they did their daily shopping, and escort them all home. My aunt’s intelligence and compassion, as well as her personal interactions and relationships with those on her patrol, not only decreased the crime on her beat but also improved the safety of those she swore to protect. Because she was so well known in her sector, with a connection to those in her care, it also served to increase her respect and safety in the community. Having the trust of that community, she was also privy to valuable information about ongoing activities and individuals in her area. This communication created a beneficial relationship between the community and their “local cop”. She didn’t see herself as just working in the community but also a part of that community.

In contrast, my uncle was a police sergeant. While I do not have any poignant stories about his time on the force, I can say from my interactions with him that, while he is not an “evil” person, he is an extremely closed-minded individual and does not share my aunt’s compassion or drive to connect with ALL of NYC’s residents. My father, William’s and Maryann’s brother, was constantly regaled by my uncle with tales of “getting these people under control” and various gleeful anecdotes of abuse and mistreatment of those under his watch. His overall demeanor regarding this was heavily laden with his contempt for those he was supposed to serve.

To this day, I enjoy the time that I spend with my aunt discussing any and every subject, the retired bomb dogs she and her husband adopt, and her view of life in general. The time that I spend with my uncle I often find quite uncomfortable. He is highly opinionated (although poorly informed), regarding the relationship between the NYPD and the city’s various citizens. He expresses extreme biases, racism, and a discriminator mindset which I could see presenting a barrier to him doing his job in a professional and ethical manner. He stories convey that many officers that he worked with shared a similar mindset. This prejudice, lack of understanding, and poor communication, in my opinion, fosters the mutual fear and widens the gulf between the officers of the NYPD and those they swore to serve and protect. In stark contrast, my aunt and uncle demonstrate that, despite being siblings with the same upbringing and taking on the same calling, they viewed and undertook this duty in very different fashions. Through them I can see that police officers are individual people with their own minds, hearts, and thoughts which dictate their actions both on and off duty. While there are many officers that enter the force with open minds, professionalism, and empathy for those they serve, there are so many others that enter the department with closed minds, serious biases, and pre-formed dysfunctional views of what their job should entail. Unfortunately, those of the latter mindset find themselves comfortably falling in line with so many others of a similar perspective and perpetuate the narrative of “us versus them”. This is often fostered by the sense of “Police Culture”, peer pressure within the department, and guidance from their like-minded superiors. As this framework progresses, it engenders fear in the populace and evokes powerful reactions, which in turn can feed and “validate” the police’s fear. Such a cycle is ineffective and detrimental to all parties and promotes increasing fear, distrust, and violence between the two groups. Although there have been many attempts at instituting programs to improve the relations between the people and the police, perhaps it is time to promote respect and concern between the NYPD and the community. If mutual trust can be restored, if the police can become a positive (and accepted) part of the community, and if the current adversarial relationship be converted to one of understanding and unity, I feel that the populace and its protectors can eventually co-exist without significant friction.

I myself haven’t exactly had any meaningful experience with the police, and neither have my family members. My family actually avoids interacting with the police whenever possible, and this is possible since Asians aren’t particularly targeted by the police. In fact, even though I have had some acquaintances from school who have been stopped by police officers, they have always remained in the background in places such as subway stations or at Times Square. In fact, the majority of times when I’ve actually spoken to a police officer would be when I was hopelessly lost and asking for directions. They were actually fairly polite to me, though that may have been because I looked harmless. I’ve never been stopped by a police officer before. I just occasionally saw other people being stopped during the years when “Stop and Frisk” was actually heavily put into action. Mostly the people I saw who were subjected to “Stop and Frisk” were of Latino and African descent. I understand that the policy was very heavily reliant on stereotypes and racism, and Asians were considered a “privileged minority” which was why I was never stopped by police officers. This sort of system alienates communities of certain races, which builds distrust, and a system based on distrust is bound to encounter major problems.

In my past I have never personally had an interaction with the New York Police Department (NYPD). The closest to an encounter with the NYPD that I have had is by seeing my father receive a ticket for his driving. Of course those tickets with my father were all very much so deserved. A big reason for me not directly having any issues with the police, is that I have always put myself in situations that kept me safe from ever being arrested. That does not mean, however, that I believe the police do not act against those who are innocent, and have not broken the law in any particular way. There are most certainly police officers hold racist, homophobic, or other discriminatory views, which cause them to carry out heinous acts against these people.  While I have never had an encounter with the NYOPD, I do fear the concept of ever having to deal with a member of them. Some of this fears drives from the fact that while I may not portray any specific ethnic minority through the color of my skin, many people are able to tell that I identify as a gay male in society. So while I have never had an encounter with police officers, I have heard through others I know how poorly one can be treated by them. This fear is something that others carry so deeply with them, that it should show society how badly we need a change. A change in the way police officials, and government officials treat people in society.

I’ve been fortunate enough to avoid encounters with the police almost entirely. This is for two reasons: because I primarily “read” as East Asian, a group less likely to be racially profiled as dangerous or criminal and less likely to be seen as an acceptable target, the main reason, and because my mother has always pointedly told me to stay away from the police.

“If you’re lost, don’t ask them for directions. Don’t make small talk. Don’t interact unless you’re in immediate danger–and even then, be careful that they don’t add fuel to the fire,” she told me when I was old enough to toddle about on my own. My mother, who is often read as a non-white Latina, has not had any significant encounters with the police by luck, but did explain to me that in every minor encounter, most police officers (especially white police officers) were extremely rude and “treated [her] like a low-life and talked down to [her].” She explicitly linked this behavior to white privilege.

I always took her word for it, but about 50 news articles and 100 personal anecdotes shared by friends, family, and friends of friends later, I was quite convinced that staying away from the police would be in my best interest.

So are there good cops? Sure. I know some who are my friends’ parents or my own distant family members. But the system is broken in a way that lets racist and more generally abusive cops act however they want seemingly with impunity, and often conversations about the police end up focusing on the good few rather than addressing the lethal elephant in the room. Will every police officer choose deliberately to be cruel? Of course not, but it shouldn’t even be an easy option. This doesn’t even account for police officers who are unconsciously racist because racist behavior is so normalized.

Finally, please note I chose my words carefully when describing why I haven’t been a prime target. East Asians are discriminated against and can become victims of police brutality, but in comparison to other groups, black people especially,  we’re less likely to be hassled or worse. Also, other prejudices have a part in it. LGBT people and disabled people are also vulnerable groups.

A Friend’s Testimony

My African high school friend, who shall remain nameless for the sake of this story, had just gotten out of her class at BMCC when she decided to go to Whole Foods to pick up some groceries. After purchasing what she needed, she got on the shuttle bus to the Staten Island ferry which was packed due to rush hour. Seeing that she was tired and pregnant, a nice man offered his seat to her. My friend kindly accepted and began to converse with the people around her. In the midst of her conversation she heard a lady in the front of the bus “sitting in her own seat, might I add” my friend stated over the phone to me, complaining that pregnancy isn’t a disability. My friend tried to ignore the woman’s comment, but she continued to testify that pregnant women love to use their pregnancy to take advantage of every situation they face. At this point my friend was annoyed, offended, and felt personally attacked and began to curse the lady out as well. The lady proceeded to say, “Don’t make me hurt you and that baby!”. My friend felt personally threatened and continued to stand up for her safety and the safety of her unborn child. The bus driver hears all of the raucous behind him and decides to pull the bus over in the Financial District of Manhattan instead of coming to my friend’s defense. A white police officer comes onto the bus and says to my friend, “Get the f@#$ off the bus!”. My friend was confused as to why the police officer was being so rude to her considering she was the victim in the situation. So, she remained seated and told the officer that she saw no reason to get off the bus. Seeing that my friend wasn’t following orders, the officer’s partner enters the bus as well and says, “Didn’t you hear what he said? Get the f@#$ off the bus!” The first police officer grabs her groceries and throws them off the bus. He grabs one of her arms and begins to twist it and  drag her off the bus. He struggled because my friend was resisting his force, so he partner helped by grabbing and twisting her other arm. The harder my friend tried to pull away, the tighter their grip got on her arms which caused serious pain. My friend was aggressively thrown off of the bus, red wrists, tattered phone, and groceries flung down on the city sidewalk. Upset and embarrassed, my friend told the officer how disappointed she was in his behavior. She said that she told him she was a clear victim in the situation and felt threatened by the lady’s insulting words. She was more concerned with protecting herself and her unborn baby and she thought the police officers would share the same conviction. The white police officers didn’t appreciate her scolding them for the manner in which they decided to handle the situation to say the least and demanded that my friend give them her information and follow them downtown so they can file a report against her. My friend rightfully refused to give her name because she presumed that if a report needed to be filed the entire story would be essential, but they didn’t seem to agree considering the lady who instigated the entire fiasco exited the bus and was walking away in the opposite direction. At this point, my friend is on the phone with her hometown friend as witness. She demands to get the officer’s name and badge number so she could file her own report of how mistreated she was. The officer’s partner said no and the pair finally walked away. In that moment my friend felt what it was like to be black in white America as the white police officers who were sworn in to protect their citizens physically and verbally abused and embarrassed her in front of a bus filled with white tourists who found pleasure, even laughed, instead of coming to a young pregnant girl’s defense.

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.

Police encounter

I truly cannot think of any significant encounter with the police. I’m lucky enough to have never been questioned, stopped, or harassed. The clearest image I have of police is their movement en masse along Fifth Avenue during The Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Happy, smiling, the image of justice and positivity.

And yet, whenever I pass the police on the street, it is not this ideal that I think of. Their eyes always look black, their jaws tight, their stance hostile. While this often melts into a ‘good afternoon’ or just a nod, I still feel uncomfortable and unsafe around them.

        It’s because I know that while I’m left alone, so many other innocent people are not so lucky. I am a middle class white woman, and that is likely the reason. It is in no way right, but statistics don’t lie: ‘minorities’ (which is an obsolete word in a diverse city such as New York) are stopped more than white people.

I experienced this firsthand back in high school. After a day at Coney Island, a friend and I were heading to the train when we noticed the emergency exit was open, and the booth worker was not paying attention. We had Metrocards, but we jumped at the chance at a free ride. We were just three feet past the exit when we heard, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” We turned to see two cops coming out from behind the pillar, and simultaneously blurted, “Oh sh*t.”

     The cops came up to us, but almost immediately turn their attention to my friend, who happens to be Hispanic with a dark tan. They told him he was in a lot of trouble, that they could take him in et cetera, and continuously ignored me as I tried to make excuses. They eventually wrote him a ticket, but not me. Four years later, and I’m still shocked.