Nuance 10

I am thinking, this morning, of police. I am not comfortable around cops. I don't think a lot of people are. Maybe we're not supposed to feel comfortable around them, or safe, and this helps them maintain an air of fear and intimidation. Three uniformed cops came into the coffeeshop where I was sitting the other day. That would be the same day and place where a bit later I had to cope with the braying she-jackass, mentioned here just two days ago. A few months earlier, in the same café (I think it was back in May), four uniformed cops came in. They all had the same haircut (that's right, their heads were shaved). I felt nervous and intimidated, even with the likelihood that none of them would have even noticed my presence. I don't think that it would be fair to demonize them, either. Likely they are all, or mostly, family men, worried about their spouses, kids, the mortgage, and probably dealing with some level of post-traumatic stress, given what a difficult and challenging job police often have. But all I felt, that day, in their presence in the coffeeshop, was fear, and even after they left, it took me a while to start feeling calm again. Now, I have never in my life been in jail. I have never been even arrested for anything. I do not have a criminal record. I did appear in court once, to protest a transit fine levied on me for not paying to ride on the Skytrain. I was severely poor in those days and it was almost twenty years ago. Otherwise, outside of maybe two fines for jaywalking...nothing. However. I have been frequently harassed by police. This started when I was fifteen. I was a freshly-minted Jesus Freak and had spent the night with some friends, sleeping over in the coffeehouse we were all hanging out in. In the dawn hours of the morning I was going to take a walk over to Kits Beach, not too far away. Police, wanting to know what a kid like me was doing out so early in the morning, intercepted me, then phoned my mother in Richmond where we were living. Mom of course was none too pleased when I got home, but I really could have done without the intervention. Then there was the time when I was seventeen and visiting Lighthouse Park in tony West Vancouver. I was curious about the neighbourhood and decided to explore the residential streets nearby. A couple of cops stopped me and started questioning me. They were quite surprised to find in my knapsack only a Bible, a notebook, a sachet of lavender, and a piece of blue cheese. The lavender was to reduce the odour from the blue cheese, which I felt practically addicted to in those days. Six months later, I was taken in for questioning. They did not tell me at the time where we were going, or why. They took me into a room where I was questioned about a rape and attempted murder. When they found that they had the wrong person, they were of course very apologetic, and I was naturally, quite indignant. I imagine things could have gotten worse, but they didn't, and they were kind enough to drive me back to the area in the West End where they had picked me up. Fortunately, my mother had by that time developed a sense of humour and had quite a laugh about it when I told her later. Then, a couple of months later, in Victoria, they were bugging me again. This time, I decided to play with them. I was sitting on some steps in Bastion Square, enjoying some carob (I was off chocolate in those days, and have since come to my senses, Gentle Reader!). They wanted to ask why I wasn't in school. The teachers were having a professional day, so of course I wouldn't be in school. They wanted to know my name. I told them, then asked, and what are your names. They asked me my age. I replied, eighteen, and how old are you. One was 21, the other 24. And so on. Fortunately, they had a sense of humour, and perhaps even a fondness for the cheeky kid talking back at them. They did want to know what I was eating. I replied, well, it isn't drugs, and it isn't chocolate. It's carob, and I offered them some. I explained that it's a healthier, if less enjoyable substitute for chocolate. They declined. So it has gone with me, Gentle Reader, practically all my life, continuing into my early or mid-twenties, and then off and on well into my forties, and even into my fifties when a transit cop at a downtown Canada Line station body searched me in public, and just for politely questioning one of the Skytrain staff on the entrapment technique he was employing in order to catch fare evaders. For years I was being carded on street checks. Not for doing anything, nor for even looking...suspicious? They never told me why they were carding me. But I did get really sick of it after a while. I am not a person of colour, by the way, and if I was, then I shudder to think of how badly those encounters could have escalated. There have also been times when I have had to rely on the police for help, in the case of assault, threats, and suchlike. They have always been incredibly helpful. So, I cannot really demonize them, but this still does nothing to cure my wariness. In retrospect, I imagine that they were simply harassing me for one simple reason. They could. I looked vulnerable. And this continues to this day, to people of colour, minorities, the poor, queer people, everyone is vulnerable. Similarly, those same police who sometimes abuse power, and abuse persons, are also human beings who hurt and suffer and care and love, like anyone else. There is so much that is structurally wrong with this picture, with policing, with the way we are socially organized, that I don't really know where to begin, nor how. True, the police primarily defend the status quo, and this itself has deep historical, social and cultural roots. They still seem chiefly concerned with protecting the wealthy and privileged. There are also compassionate cops in the mix. I have known some of them. But dysfunctional policing is simply not going to begin to change until we start dealing with and addressing more effectively the social and economic inequalities and injustices that actually foster, nurture and help perpetuate a culture of crime and criminalization.