Confessions of a Police Officer

[uneFlic]

Hi

I wrote this essay in 2001 and copyrighted it. Someone changed some words in it so it appears to have been written by a man and then sent it around the internet with his name as author. After I confronted that man, the "altered" essay continued to spread but now as "author unknown."
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Every May, there is a resurgence of its popularity on the net. Please respect its copyright by not changing it (especially its pronouns from female to male) and respect me by including my name as author.
.
When it gets posted in that altered form, people copy the incorrect wording and share it with friends and colleagues. That perpetuates the "male" version.
.
Use this version – including my name, my email address, the URL and the copyright notice - when sharing with friends or when posting. My permission is implicit if a colleague posts my work as I have below.
.
Thank you.
Officer Jill Wragg
Yarmouth Police Department (Ret.)
.................................................. ..............................................

Confessions of a Police Officer

http://uneflic.blogspot.com/2007/05/...-beat-cop.html

Dear Citizens, Neighbors, Friends and Family,

My name is Jill and I am a cop. That means that the pains and joys of my personal life are often muted by my work. I resent the intrusion but I confuse my self with my job almost as often as you do. The label "police officer" creates a false image of who I really am. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating between two worlds. My work is not just protecting and serving. It's preserving that buffer that exists in the space between what you think the world is, and what the world really is.

My job isn't like television. The action is less frequent, and more graphic. It is not exhilarating to point a gun at someone. Pooled blood has a disgusting metallic smell and steams a little when the temperature drops. CPR isn't an instant miracle and it's no fun listening to an elderly grandmother's ribs break while I keep her heart beating. I'm not flattered by your curiosity about my work. I don't keep a record of which incident was the most frightening, or the strangest, or the bloodiest, or even the funniest. I don't tell you about my day because I don't want to share the images that haunt me.

But I do have some confessions to make:

Sometimes my stereo is too loud. Andrea Bocelli's voice makes it easier to forget the wasted body of the young man who died alone in a rented room because his family feared the stigma of AIDS. Beethoven's 9th symphony erases the sight of the nurses who sobbed as they scrubbed layers of dirt and slime from a neglected 2-year-old's skin. The Rolling Stones' angry beat assures me that it was ignorance that drove a young mother to draw blood when she bit her toddler on the cheek in an attempt to teach him not to bite.

Sometimes I set a bad example. I exceeded the speed limit on my way home from work because I had trouble shedding the adrenalin that kicked in when I discovered that the man I handcuffed during a drug raid was sitting on a loaded 9mm pistol.

Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot to smile when you greeted me in the store because I was remembering the anguished, whispered confession of a teenager who pushed away his drowning brother to save his own life.

Sometimes I'm not as sympathetic as you'd like. I'm not concerned that your 15-year-old daughter is dating an 18-year-old because I just comforted the parents of a young man who slashed his own throat while they slept in the next bedroom. I was terse on the phone because I resented the burden of having to weigh the value of two lives when I was pointing my gun at an armed man who kept begging me to kill him. I laugh when you cringe away from the mess in your teen's room because I know the revulsion of feeling a heroin addict's blood trickling toward an open cut on my arm. If I was silent when you whined about your overbearing mother it's because I really wanted to tell you that I spoke to one of our high school friends today. I found her mother slumped behind the wheel of her car in a tightly closed garage. She had dressed in her best outfit before rolling down the windows and starting the engine.

On the other hand, if I seem totally oblivious to the blood on my uniform, or the names people call me, or the hateful editorials, it's because I am remembering the lessons my job has taught me.

I learned not to sweat the small stuff. Grape juice on the beige sofa and puppy pee on the oriental carpet don't faze me because I know what arterial bleeding and decaying bodies can do to one's decor.

I learned when to shut out the world and take a mental health day. I skipped your daughter's 4th birthday party because I was thinking about the six children under the age of 10 whose mother left them unattended to go out with a friend. When the 3-year-old offered the dog the milk from her cereal bowl, the dog attacked her, tearing open her head and staining the sandbox with blood. The little girl's siblings had to pry her head out of the dog's jaws - twice.

I learned that everyone has a lesson to teach me. Two mothers engaged in custody battles taught me not to judge a book by its cover. The teenage mother on welfare mustered the strength to refrain from crying in front of her worried child while the well-dressed, upper-class mother literally played tug of war with her toddler before running into traffic with the shrieking child in her arms.

I learned that nothing given from the heart is truly gone. A hug, a smile, a reassuring word, or an attentive ear can bring an injured or distraught person back to the surface, and help me refocus.

And I learned not to give up, ever! That split second of terror when I think I have finally engaged the one who is young enough and strong enough to take me down taught me that I have only one restriction: my own mortality.

One week in May has been set aside as Police Memorial Week, a time to remember those officers who didn't make it home after their shift. But why wait? Take a moment to tell an officer that you appreciate her work. Smile and say "Hi" when he's getting coffee. Bite your tongue when you start to tell a "bad cop" story. Better yet, find the time to tell a "good cop" story. The family at the next table may be a cop's family.

Nothing given from the heart is truly gone. It is kept in the hearts of the recipients. Give from the heart. Give something back to the officers who risk everything they have.

Jill Wragg is a retired Police Officer from Massachusetts. She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

(This piece is copyrighted and can be used by permission only)

.................................................. .................................................. ..

Thanks for expressing what so many think and feel in a way that the general public might be able to relate to.

What a bunch of Bull.....I hate it...The impression I get from the piece is that who ever the writer is, obviously should not be LEO.. As a LEO, you are expected to juggle the good with the bad, deal with the gore as well as the petty calls with the same level respect, and not let it affect your judgement, attitude and way if dealing with people... Sounds to me the writer has difficulty coping. You let the blood, gore and sad cases affect how you deal with the, in your opinion, "non-important" calls. You should not be fit for duty and thankfully you retired.. Try and remember this. What is not important to you and what you feel may be minimal, may mean the world to someone else. I treat every call and every person I deal with, with respect, dignity, on and off the job. You copyrighted piece is an embarassment to the badge and you should be ashamed for writing it..

I thought it was a terrific piece and plan to send it to many of my friends so they can understand why we aren't always in the best of moods.

Critic - you sound like a loser who won't admit any feelings so STFU!

I thought it was a terrific piece and plan to send it to many of my friends so they can understand why we aren't always in the best of moods.

Critic - you sound like a loser who won't admit any feelings so STFU!

Hey, yoyo! What does having feelings have to do with not treating every person on call with respect and dignity. And you call one a loser, because they have there own opinion that you dont agree with? Sounds like you are very reasonable, fair and subjective cop...Would not want you on one of my calls. The bottom line is society expects the LEO's be able to handle these situations more professionally and respectfully more so then the average person. Thats why you are subjected to all the pre-employment testing. AGAIN, IF YOU DONT TREAT EVERY ONE WITH REPSPECT AND YOU LET TRAMATIC CALLS AFFECT HOW YOU DEAL WITH OTHERS, THEN *******NEWSFLASH********* YOU DONT DESERVE TO BE A COP....

What's your reading comprehension level?

Read the piece again. It has nothing to do with unprofessional treatment on calls. It also has nothing to do with the inequitable treatment of any individual. See if you can follow the bouncing ball.....

We witness horrible acts that sometimes cause us to be less than excited about the million other ridiculous things people call the police for. Nowhere did it say the officer treated the lesser offenses without dignity. The piece metaphorically exposes for the un-initiated how grueling our job is on a regular basis and how foolish and self-centered the public's expectations can be at times.

Got it?

What a bunch of Bull.....I hate it...The impression I get from the piece is that who ever the writer is, obviously should not be LEO.. As a LEO, you are expected to juggle the good with the bad, deal with the gore as well as the petty calls with the same level respect, and not let it affect your judgement, attitude and way if dealing with people... Sounds to me the writer has difficulty coping. You let the blood, gore and sad cases affect how you deal with the, in your opinion, "non-important" calls. You should not be fit for duty and thankfully you retired.. Try and remember this. What is not important to you and what you feel may be minimal, may mean the world to someone else. I treat every call and every person I deal with, with respect, dignity, on and off the job. You copyrighted piece is an embarassment to the badge and you should be ashamed for writing it..

Because of your wonderful history I was wondering is that you Duguay? Bad mouthing this because you know a woman wrote it? It sounds like you didn't spend much time on the road. You are an embarassment to the badge, the agency and an embarassment for the rest of us men who don't have problems working with our fellow sister and brother. ops:

The real difference is that the piece would have never been written by a male cop.

The real difference is that the piece would have never been written by a male cop.

Still could be duguay.

Hi

I wrote this essay in 2001 and copyrighted it. Someone changed some words in it so it appears to have been written by a man and then sent it around the internet with his name as author. After I confronted that man, the "altered" essay continued to spread but now as "author unknown."
.
Every May, there is a resurgence of its popularity on the net. Please respect its copyright by not changing it (especially its pronouns from female to male) and respect me by including my name as author.
.
When it gets posted in that altered form, people copy the incorrect wording and share it with friends and colleagues. That perpetuates the "male" version.
.
I have been a defense lawyers for 30 years in a half ass- one horse town called Ft. Lauderdale/ Broward County. I have absollutely no love for most of these bozos who call themselves LEO's in my community. I have seen alot of abuse by these cops, the Sheriff is in prison, the assistants are going to prison. If you read this Blog you will see that most, if not all, LEO's posting here are moron racists. The LEO even bad mouth the DOC guys. Stupid and scary too. Cop against cop !! Imagine being a civilian if a BSO deputy is having a bad day becaus the wife is leaving him. They give these guys/women guns. I was touched by your confessions of a cop. The thoughts you wrote are making me re-think my impressions of cops. The stupid ass comments of most of the pus sacks on this board are probably not the average joe blue collar guy-woman who is a cop here in Broward Count. I must remember that it takes allot of charecter, stamina, courage, and patience to be a cop. BUT>> You voluteered for the job. If it is too hot in the kitchen get out. I will keep an open mind because of this post. Sadly. I think the deputy sheriffs will let me down. God Speed...
Use this version – including my name, my email address, the URL and the copyright notice - when sharing with friends or when posting. My permission is implicit if a colleague posts my work as I have below.
.
Thank you.
Officer Jill Wragg
Yarmouth Police Department (Ret.)
.................................................. ..............................................

Confessions of a Police Officer

http://uneflic.blogspot.com/2007/05/...-beat-cop.html

Dear Citizens, Neighbors, Friends and Family,

My name is Jill and I am a cop. That means that the pains and joys of my personal life are often muted by my work. I resent the intrusion but I confuse my self with my job almost as often as you do. The label "police officer" creates a false image of who I really am. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating between two worlds. My work is not just protecting and serving. It's preserving that buffer that exists in the space between what you think the world is, and what the world really is.

My job isn't like television. The action is less frequent, and more graphic. It is not exhilarating to point a gun at someone. Pooled blood has a disgusting metallic smell and steams a little when the temperature drops. CPR isn't an instant miracle and it's no fun listening to an elderly grandmother's ribs break while I keep her heart beating. I'm not flattered by your curiosity about my work. I don't keep a record of which incident was the most frightening, or the strangest, or the bloodiest, or even the funniest. I don't tell you about my day because I don't want to share the images that haunt me.

But I do have some confessions to make:

Sometimes my stereo is too loud. Andrea Bocelli's voice makes it easier to forget the wasted body of the young man who died alone in a rented room because his family feared the stigma of AIDS. Beethoven's 9th symphony erases the sight of the nurses who sobbed as they scrubbed layers of dirt and slime from a neglected 2-year-old's skin. The Rolling Stones' angry beat assures me that it was ignorance that drove a young mother to draw blood when she bit her toddler on the cheek in an attempt to teach him not to bite.

Sometimes I set a bad example. I exceeded the speed limit on my way home from work because I had trouble shedding the adrenalin that kicked in when I discovered that the man I handcuffed during a drug raid was sitting on a loaded 9mm pistol.

Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot to smile when you greeted me in the store because I was remembering the anguished, whispered confession of a teenager who pushed away his drowning brother to save his own life.

Sometimes I'm not as sympathetic as you'd like. I'm not concerned that your 15-year-old daughter is dating an 18-year-old because I just comforted the parents of a young man who slashed his own throat while they slept in the next bedroom. I was terse on the phone because I resented the burden of having to weigh the value of two lives when I was pointing my gun at an armed man who kept begging me to kill him. I laugh when you cringe away from the mess in your teen's room because I know the revulsion of feeling a heroin addict's blood trickling toward an open cut on my arm. If I was silent when you whined about your overbearing mother it's because I really wanted to tell you that I spoke to one of our high school friends today. I found her mother slumped behind the wheel of her car in a tightly closed garage. She had dressed in her best outfit before rolling down the windows and starting the engine.

On the other hand, if I seem totally oblivious to the blood on my uniform, or the names people call me, or the hateful editorials, it's because I am remembering the lessons my job has taught me.

I learned not to sweat the small stuff. Grape juice on the beige sofa and puppy pee on the oriental carpet don't faze me because I know what arterial bleeding and decaying bodies can do to one's decor.

I learned when to shut out the world and take a mental health day. I skipped your daughter's 4th birthday party because I was thinking about the six children under the age of 10 whose mother left them unattended to go out with a friend. When the 3-year-old offered the dog the milk from her cereal bowl, the dog attacked her, tearing open her head and staining the sandbox with blood. The little girl's siblings had to pry her head out of the dog's jaws - twice.

I learned that everyone has a lesson to teach me. Two mothers engaged in custody battles taught me not to judge a book by its cover. The teenage mother on welfare mustered the strength to refrain from crying in front of her worried child while the well-dressed, upper-class mother literally played tug of war with her toddler before running into traffic with the shrieking child in her arms.

I learned that nothing given from the heart is truly gone. A hug, a smile, a reassuring word, or an attentive ear can bring an injured or distraught person back to the surface, and help me refocus.

And I learned not to give up, ever! That split second of terror when I think I have finally engaged the one who is young enough and strong enough to take me down taught me that I have only one restriction: my own mortality.

One week in May has been set aside as Police Memorial Week, a time to remember those officers who didn't make it home after their shift. But why wait? Take a moment to tell an officer that you appreciate her work. Smile and say "Hi" when he's getting coffee. Bite your tongue when you start to tell a "bad cop" story. Better yet, find the time to tell a "good cop" story. The family at the next table may be a cop's family.

Nothing given from the heart is truly gone. It is kept in the hearts of the recipients. Give from the heart. Give something back to the officers who risk everything they have.

Jill Wragg is a retired Police Officer from Massachusetts. She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

(This piece is copyrighted and can be used by permission only)

.................................................. .................................................. ..