Heroes and MVP's

I know I promised more on the sissification of America, but this is a more pressing thought. Actually now that I think about it, this thought has everything to do with the sissification of America and as you read you will see that this subject is apropos for this time of the year. 

Ernest Hemingway once said, “As you get older, it is harder to have heroes, but it is sort of necessary.” When I was growing up I had heroes, well really just one. There were plenty of sports figures to choose from, actors from Hollyweird or other famous people, but mine was someone that not really anyone had heard of. I had a picture of him on my bookshelf in my room. Occasionally on Memorial Day or Independence Day or Veterans Day my dad would pull out a worn manila envelope and read to my brother and me the story of my hero. My hero was born 12/09/48 and only lived to be 18 years of age. If you are a part of my family you already know his name and know that it is located on Panel 25E Line 086 of the Vietnam War Memorial, his name is Bruce Bernard Livingston. Neither my father nor my Uncle Rich or Aunt Carol talk a lot about Bruce. Not that they don’t want to remember him, but I imagine that still after 44 years knowing that he was killed in a war no one understood is still painful. You see Bruce was just a kid, 18 years old fighting a war that he was sent to, but he died a hero. As I was told the story, Lance Corporal Bruce Livingston was on patrol in South Vietnam on 09/02/67 when his battalion was ambushed by the enemy. As I understand it, and I trust my father or uncle to set the record straight if I am wrong, his battalion was pinned down by an enemy machine gun nest, there was no retreating and no advancing, just enemy fire. As I remember being told, Bruce, without concern for personal safety, advanced on the enemy in an attempt to break through and get his friends to safety. Unbeknownst to him, another machine gun nest was waiting and caught him in crossfire, yet his actions which cost him his life ultimately saved the lives of his friends. Just this past year my dad forwarded me an email from a Marine who served with Bruce, here is a portion of that email. “Your brother and my hero valiantly came to my aid in a serious moment of need. I am alive today because of his valor. This day is marked in my memory to never forget to thank Him, your family and God for his sacrifice. I wish he were here so that I could personally thank him, as I am sure you also regret not having his presence. Just know that he will never be forgotten. When our Battalion gets together every other year his name is joined by the names of our fallen and his memory is kept sacred.” You see as I was growing up and possibly naively so, Bruce embodied everything that I wished to be. He embodied honor, valor, bravery, courage and everything that is good and respectable.

As I grew older, I realized that there was a great possibility that my hero was a flawed human being who made mistakes and maybe bad choices. Not that that specific realization changed my perspective of Bruce, but it tempered my view. The older I got the more I realized that as great as I found him to be there was another man who emerged as my hero. To some people this man was just an ordinary guy. This man had a Monday through Friday job, as mundane as that sounds it was his job. This man had a wife and 2 sons. The thing about this ordinary average guy that stood out from most was that he put his family first. This man would work long hours in the city and then drive home in time to entertain his two young sons with silly made up games, like Alligator…a game made simply from the living room furniture (which was land) and the floor (which was water) and him (the Alligator). As his children grew up the man still worked at the same job and the same hours, yet there was still time for his family. The sons began to play sports at their high school and this man was there to pick up his sons from basketball. The job and hours continued to be long, but still he was at every game, picking them up from basketball practice. There were times when the sons would argue over who had to ride home with him after a tough game, not for fear that he would be disappointed in them, but in that he would instruct them on how to be better players. Not only was this man at every game, but he was at every recital or concert his sons were in. For 20 years this man worked the same job, but managed to be there for every important event of his sons lives. There was a time where this man was offered another job, possibly a better one than what he had at the time, but he turned it down because it would not have been good for his family. I can’t recall ever seeing this ordinary man lose his temper. I know there were times when he wanted to, especially when his youngest son would pull some of the stunts that he did.

In case you haven’t guessed by now, that ordinary kind of average guy, to everyone else, is my dad. To those who didn’t know him, he was just another man, but to me he became my hero. The last couple of years have shown that at times he and I didn’t see eye to eye, but he never stopped loving me. He is the one who taught me respect. He is the one who taught me about hard work. He is the one who didn’t have to tell me how to be a man, but showed me how to act like one. Maybe that is the reason why America is in the state it is today, because there are not more men like my dad. There are no heroes for children to look up to, starting with their own fathers. I saw that the Cleveland Indians were running a promotion called, “My dad, my MVP”, where they will give a deserving father a day at the ballpark for Father’s Day. If I had my way, my dad would be at the ballpark for every game, for the rest of his life. I heard a song the other day on the radio, and as I am not really one for country music, it makes me think of my dad and me (the song happens to be a father singing about his son)…and the day when maybe I will have a son, and what I want for him.
He's gonna love me
And hate me along the way
The years are gonna fly by
And I already dread the day

He's gonna hug his mama, he's gonna shake my hand
He's gonna act like he can't wait to leave

But as he drives out he'll cry his eyes out
If he's anything like me
There's worst folks to be like, oh, he'll be alright
If he's anything like me

The price of your soul...

I read the paper this morning (via the internet because I was working) and I came across an article entitled “Arraignment postponed for suspect in Cape Coral police officer shooting”. It caught my eye, obviously, and I began to peruse it. A local attorney, a gentleman (a term I use loosely) named David Brener has filed to have the arraignment postponed because the family is trying to raise enough money to hire him. I thought about it for a minute and realized that this same lawyer was the same who defended a local gang member who brutally tortured and ultimately murdered two teenagers. I decided at that point to Google this lawyer and see what else he has done. I came across his webpage which is titled justiceisourpassion.com. I will cut and paste a section from his personal website that really made me think.

Mr. Brener has eliminated the death penalty in eighteen of nineteen death penalty cases he has handled, including the recent unanimous jury recommendation of life in prison, instead of the death penalty, for alleged Cash Feenz “ringleader” Kemar Johnston, who was charged in a double murder of two teenagers. Mr. Brener eliminated the Death Penalty in the Iris Moreland/convenience store murder case, and in the double murder case of Jeremy Chapman, who was accused of killing a seventeen year old honors student and his landlord in a ten day period. See our In The News section. Mr. Brener has no clients on Death Row.

Ummm, what?? What I am trying to understand is how someone can look at themselves in the mirror knowing that they have defended the “rights” of individuals who have violently murdered multiple subjects? I understand in our justice system there is a “necessary evil” called defense attorneys, but seriously? I don’t think that when our founding fathers wrote the constitution they would have ever imagined that the words they wrote would be used to defend violent criminals. It made me wonder how a person could use the phrase “justice is our passion” when the very thing they are defending is injustice.

            A few questions come to mind as I ponder this situation. First and foremost, at what point does someone sell their soul to defend these pieces of scum? How much money does it take to satiate the horror that has to be there, knowing that you had a part in freeing a known violent criminal or depriving justice from a genuine victim? I know for a fact that as humans we have an idea, how strong it is I can’t say, of what is right and wrong. How can a person who defends a murderer justify what they do as right?

            I suppose the reason why this hits home the most for me is twofold. First in my line of work there is right and there is wrong. You commit a crime and you have to pay for it. I guess the phrase “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth” means more to me than some. The second reason is the scum he is defending, or they are trying to raise enough money to have him defend, tried to kill one of my friends. I cannot wait to see the defense that is mounted for this criminal. Seriously, he was a felon with a gun who didn’t want to go back to jail so he shot a cop. How can you defend that? I guess a better question is how can you defend that and honestly look yourself in the mirror when you go to bed at night. I know that I couldn’t do that and no amount of money could persuade me to.

The Sissification of America Part 1 (to borrow a phrase)

I was watching a movie the other night, “The Sons of Katie Elder” with John Wayne, and my brain began to turn, which is always a dangerous thing. I shelved the thoughts and moved on…until I was watching TV again and saw a show called “Beyond Scared Straight”. The thoughts then began to whirl furiously in that empty space between my ears and I felt the need to again put my fingers to the keyboard. As the thoughts were flying in, I quickly realized that this was more of a dissertation than a blog, so I cut it into 3 parts. This is the first…

I remember a lot of things about growing up. I remember when I was little, my brother and I played outside…all the time. A few things I remember distinctly that I will share with you and after I make my point you may realize why.

I remember playing tackle football with my dad in the backyard. It was always me and Greg against him. We could never tackle him, obviously…according to him, my dad, I was a Chihuahua on steroids and my brother was Thunder Thighs. Yet that never stopped us from playing. We would trip him up occasionally but more often than not we lost that battle. We also played soccer with him. We had picnic benches that we set up as goals and again my brother and I would play my dad. Again we occasionally won, but I still remember losing to my dad. Eventually my parents put up a basketball hoop in the driveway and the sports moved there. We began to keep a record, always in Dad’s head (which I think began to get fudged the older we got), for our games and I can still remember getting beat by my dad. I used to think if only I was a little taller or could jump higher we could win and it would be awesome! Needless to say as the years progressed the games became more competitive. Dad became the “all-time quarterback” and in basketball he got 3 free 3 point shots that if he made he got the ball back, and eventually it became my brother and Dad against me.  We played ping-pong, foosball and air hockey in the basement. My dad played left handed at first to “make it competitive”, but he still beat us. I remember telling Chelsea about the exposed trusses we had on the ceiling where we kept track of games and who was all time leading champ…to this day I still think it was my dad. Today I look back and think of the times I played sports with my dad and my brother and they were some of my fondest memories, the bitter sting of defeat (because Dad never won gracefully) and the thrill of victory (because we never won gracefully).

I remember trying out for basketball and soccer at school. I remember most distinctly sitting the bench because someone was better than me and knowing exactly why I was on the bench. I remember the BCSA tournaments, wanting so badly to win and not. I remember one year we played our soccer tournament in a huge snowstorm. It was a very close game and I committed a stupid foul and my coach pulled me out. He said to me “Livingston, what were you thinking??” I sat the bench until half time. Coach pulled me aside at half, gave me some encouragement and instruction and put me back in. I can remember that because Coach wanted us to win, as did the other players, and I had been a hindrance to that winning effort. We eventually won, but I still remember sitting the bench, upset that Coach had pulled me and wanting to play more than anything. There are probably more instances that I could reminisce about, but they all have begun to run together. I remember losing and hating it and sitting the bench which stunk. I remember the sports awards at the end of the year at our school. I remember leaving empty handed because I wasn’t as good as someone else. That drove me during the summer to get better, to be faster, to move quicker and to want more.

Fast-forward to today. I was talking to a friend of mine whose son plays in a little league. They don’t keep score. They give out trophies to everyone because they played hard. Everyone gets a trophy. My brother, who coaches his daughter’s soccer team, has said they don’t keep records. Everyone gets to play regardless. Yes I realize she is 6 and it’s just fun right now and I understand that, but when does it end? We have constructed a carefully controlled environment where no one loses, everyone is a winner and no one has to feel left out. We are so afraid to have our children be competitive that we have taken dodge ball and field hockey and wrestling out of gym glass to prevent someone’s delicate feelings from being hurt. It is my opinion that in doing so we have done a disservice to them, the children, and produced a generation who doesn’t know what it is like to lose. In a world where the environment cannot be controlled and someone is going to definitely lose this generation is unprepared to face those disappointments. Granted I am not a parent and would never profess to know how to raise a child, my mom would agree because she sometimes thinks I can’t even raise a dog! My point is this; I lost a lot when I was growing up. I know what it feels like to not be as good as someone else, but as far as I can tell, I am not that damaged! Winning and losing produces character and now we have a generation who has no character and we wonder what happened.

Why I do what I do

July 14, 2005, a day that is etched in my mind and will be forever. That day I put on a badge and took an oath to uphold the law and defend my city and its citizens from those who do not believe in the law and choose to willfully break it. I carried that badge with pride knowing that with it came a huge responsibility. For five years I have struggled in my mind to reconcile the facts as I believed them to be to what I saw in my everyday work. I believed that there was a little good in everyone. I believed that everyone would respect the badge, if not the person at least the office. I believed that when given the opportunity to do the right thing, good people would step to the plate and show themselves as good people. I believed that everyone would be supportive of my decisions I made in my job.

As the years went by the once shiny badge seemed to dull ever so slightly. The once lofty belief of serving and protecting people will result in their appreciation began to falter. I saw people for who they were, basically bad with a few streaks of good. I saw people who have no consideration or care for their fellow persons only for themselves. I saw people who had no respect for authority, no respect for the badge or the position. I saw people who Monday morning quarterbacked every decision I made, solely to undermine me and to make themselves look better. We now have a city council that undermines the police department on the local news. We have people who complain to the NAACP that it is not easy enough for them to file complaints on officers. We have citizens of the very city we have sworn to protect accusing officers of stealing gas and stealing money from their pockets. We can all point to injustices inside our own department where we feel that we haven’t been treated fairly in certain situations. With all the downsides of what is happening I struggle to find the upside, the positive. It seems like forever now that I have struggled with myself to understand a simple question, why do I do what I do?

To answer that question, I need to answer why I don’t do what I do. I don’t go to work everyday to make people happy. I don’t go to work to kiss ass to make someone look better on paper than they really are. I don’t go to work so that someone will see me and appreciate what I do. Although it is always nice to be appreciated it is not my driving force. I don’t go to work for the power trip. There are some that do, the badge gives you power to decide others fate, but that’s not why I go. So why do I do what I do? I go to work everyday because I know the difference between right and wrong. I have a sense of justice that demands that wrongs be righted, no matter if it is liked or not. I go to work that on the off chance I may be able to help someone, to be able to see a genuine victim who I can help.  Yet those reasons, as good as they may be, still are not my driving factor that brings me to work day in and day out.

The question has been posted to many discussion boards on the local newspaper website. Why would anyone want the job of a police officer? The hours suck, the pay is horrible and people hate us. Why would any rationale person take on a job like that? I will tell you my reasons. The first and foremost reason I put on this uniform every day is so that my brother to my right and my sister on my left goes home at the end of their shift in one piece. Not a day goes by without me wondering if it will be another December 20^th. I think to myself that I would hate myself forever if I was not able to or could not be there to help a brother in blue. I have seen and heard too many instances of one of us leaving behind a grieving widow and family. I swear to myself everyday I go to work that it will not happen on my shift if I can help it. I have no doubt in the desperate hour I would willingly give my all to have my brother live and I have no doubts that my brothers would do the same for me. If asked to, I would give my life willingly for the very people who live to criticize me and question every motive and every action that I do. I would do that not for love of them, but for the simple reason that it was my job. The other reason I wear this uniform is to prove people wrong. Prove them wrong about me and about the officer I am. I go to work to prove a society wrong, a society that has all but given up on an honest person who says what he means and means what he says. I go to work to prove that even when people criticize, accuse or downright degrade me and my profession I will still do what I promised to do those five years ago. Despite all the controversy that seems to be swirling about in our agency these days I firmly believe that those who are good officers feel the same way. Yes we may be irritated or angered by the public opinion and by the decisions that are made against us, but we will still do our job…if not for these two reasons alone.