You don't really know me.

You don’t really know me.  You nod, you say hi as we pass in the store.  Maybe you like all my facebook posts, since we vote the same, laugh the same.  But you don’t really know me.  Maybe our kids play together, my baby crawls around your toddler and our preschoolers giggle and dance.  But still, we’re not the same.

At night we tuck in our babies and kiss our spouses.  But I kiss mine and grab my bag and drive to work.  I stand in front of my locker and read a note that I keep there, that says tonight might be the night.  Tonight I pledge to follow my training, take care of my city, and do what I need to do to come back home in the morning.  I grab my belt and fasten it over that tummy, that tell-tale c-section scar that we’ve joked about together in my mom’s group.  Over my hips - that will never be the same after two babies - sits my gun and my radio and my handcuffs.  You know what I wear, but you don’t really see it.  I strap on my ballistic vest, over breasts that fed two babies.  Over that goes my shirt, with my shiny badge pinned on.  It doesn’t look like much, but I soared with pride when my boyfriend, now husband, pinned it on years ago. 

I’ve made a lot of promises, some of them you probably expect but don’t really know.  I promise to come to your house when you call, no matter how bad the snow and ice is on the road.  I pledge to stand in the rain when a big crash happens and direct traffic, hold hands and help sweep up the road so your family is safe, a crying child finds comfort and your car isn’t damaged on your commute the next day.  Someday, I may have to run in that school for you and face a demon to save your babies.  You expect me to do those things, and in fact would be full of rage if I didn’t.  As a supervisor I’ve taken the complaints when what my officers do doesn’t fit your idea of service.

Many of you see me at the coffee shop, the festival, the community center.  I gave your child a sticker, or a tour of my car or the station even.  I sat there and listened to your amazing child, filled with awe, stutter through a great question because they saw things you didn’t see.  And it made me proud to be there, to make that child feel safe and learn there was always someone who would come help him out there.

But I still don’t think you see me.  You see, I made another promise when I got hired.  I was even psychologically screened for this promise.  I made a commitment that someday, if there was no other option, that I would kill someone.  I know this makes you squirm.  I know it is uncomfortable, for I might kill someone you know.  Someone who really shouldn’t die but who made choices to force my split second decision.  But I made a promise to a lot of people that when it comes down to my life or the life of someone else – whether it be you or your family or even someone you don’t like, I would make the choice.  

I have two amazing children and my husband is a true blessing.  I made a promise to them too, and I make it every night when I walk out the door.  I promised them to do whatever I can to come back home in ten hours.  Too many of my friends have made the choice.  To take another life is not fun.  It can be devastating.  But those friends are all still here.  One friend was going to be stabbed.  One was being shot at by a person who’d already shot at others that week.  Yet another was rammed, repeatedly, trapped in his police car by a suspect trying to kill him.  It’s ugly.  You don’t want to see it.  You don’t want to know about it.  But it’s my world.  

So how do I know you don’t really know me?  Because I see your social media posts.  I hear your comments at our gatherings.  I hear you at the grocery store.  You call me a racist monster.  You tell your friends that all cops are bullies.  You snicker at the idea that there is evil in the world.  You ask why cops have to shoot to kill.  And you go on, pretending that life or death decisions are easy and made with time on our side.  You act like I don’t get scared.  You squirm when my jokes and stories show that ugly side to society.  I don't always think you're wrong.  I don't think every cop is right.  There are bad ones.  And I take offense to them, and I work to remove them.  

I don't think our society is perfect.  I don't think every kid gets a fair shake at life.  Because I've been in that kid's house at three am when his parents are drunk and fighting again and I know this kid - he might not make it far.  I know he goes to school in his dirty clothes and eats his free and reduced lunch and sits next to your kid with her new clothes and beautifully planned organic lunch and it hurts his spirit every day.  I know that until that government check goes in the account he doesn't get to eat anything that isn't microwaveable.  So while you judge me for not knowing what privilege is, I sit with this kid and sneak him food and meet him at school and tell him I'm proud of how hard he works. 

You excitedly ask me if I’ve ever shot someone but when I tell you the one time I put my finger on the trigger, the woman’s children were in the house and all I could think was that I’m going to kill a mommy and her kids are going to hear it and I don’t really want to do this but I will because she’s going to stab my partner.  And that thought took me .25 seconds until my partner’s Taser worked and the world was better for all of us.  You don’t want to see that part of me.  You ask me if I’ve ever been scared and I tell you yes.  But you don’t know that the most scared I’ve ever been was standing at the bottom of a staircase looking at a man, sitting there with his hands in his lap, who was planning to kill me.  And I knew it.  He looked at me like nothing but a badge who was going to take him to jail and his eyes were hollow as his fists clenched and he began to focus on the gun on my hip that he was going to kill me with as his breathing changed.  

You ask me how scary it must be to drive fast and run red lights and it is, but it’s exhilarating too.  Because I know I can go fast and get there and help.  You joke that I’m an adrenaline junkie and I am.  I have to be.  I work a night shift that can go from sitting in the station checking boxes on forms to hearing my friend yell he has been shot over the radio and the bad guy is getting away.  

So you don’t really know me.  We’ll keep smiling at each other and our kids will keep playing with each other, because I need you.  I want you to understand but I know you can’t.  So I need you to help me stay normal.  I need you to remind me that not everyone wants to kill me on every traffic stop.  I wish you would at least cross that line to acknowledge there are things you don’t know, but after so many years I know that’s not how it goes.  So I’ll close off that part of me that is ready to commit violence until I need it there, and you’ll continue to ignore that part of me until you need it there.