A Thing Called "Hope"

The stigma attached to mental illness is beginning to fade. People understand that our brains can be injured just as easily as our bodies. People are quick to offer support to veterans suffering from physical injuries or PTSD, or both. They are also quick to assume that the service dog by my side means that I am a military vet with a war injury, either physical or PTSD, or both.

I do have a physical injury. And I also have PTSD. But I am not a veteran. I did not serve overseas protecting the borders and ideals of our country. I'm a medically retired police officer. I served here in the US, protecting the streets and homes of our citizens.

Several years into my career as a police officer, I began experiencing depression, nightmares, and mood swings. My level of awareness swung between irrationally heightened and frighteningly numb. I felt threatened when people were too close to me. My work suffered. Where I used to be proactive and busy with traffic stops, encounters, and building checks, over time I became reactive, just taking dispatched calls and rarely initiating anything.  I no longer took overtime shifts, stopped caring how my uniform looked, and used all my sick time. My personal life began unraveling, too. I lost interest in things I'd always enjoyed, gave up on working out, refused to socialize, and rarely left my home except for work. To avoid being labeled "weak" at work, I secretly sought medical help but none of my doctors or therapists associated PTSD with police work so I was diagnosed with depression and prescribed medications that actually made things worse. In desperation, I called our "confidential" Employee Assistance Program. The EAP accused me of exaggerating my symptoms and said they'd have to alert my Chief if I admitted to taking antidepressants.

At a police training course in the mid 1990s, an instructor asked us to complete a "test" on police stress. The officer seated closest to me had attended the police academy with me. After catching site of my score, he leaned over and whispered, jokingly, "You should be dead."  He was joking because it was the 1990s. Cops were supposed to be too tough to have emotional reactions to the things they experienced at work. Off-color jokes, drinking, and, most of all, silence were the only acceptable responses to burned bodies, mayhem, and dead babies. So, I sucked it up, managing to keep it together for most of my shifts and then falling apart at home alone.

Years later, a psychologist told me the development of PTSD is like trying to hold a beach ball under water – you struggle to keep it down and when you inevitably lose your grip, the ball explodes up and practically takes your head off. To maintain my social mask, I'd been struggling to stuff a beach ball full of emotions and memories and symptoms under the surface. I finally lost my grip when a cherished police friend was killed in the line of duty (https://uneflic.blogspot.com/2007/05/lost-friend.html). 

The resulting explosion did almost take my head off.

I felt like I was falling down a hill backwards. I was having flashbacks, avoiding public places, waking up a dozen times a night from violent, terrifying dreams, and isolating for days or weeks at a time. Even though I often felt completely numb inside, I could be sparked to irrational anger or to wallowing anguish for no reason, often in the same hour. I was fearful and hypervigilant. I had to carefully censor what I watched, listened to, and read to avoid being "triggered" to a flood of tears, or to unwanted memories, or to the depths of despair, or into a flashback. I turned into a hybrid of a sloth, a snarling rabid wolf, and Eeyore, the donkey from Winnie the Pooh.

When I did leave my house, I engaged in risky behaviors like driving too fast and tempting fate where a rational person wouldn't. Even my core beliefs began to change. I developed trust issues, felt any betrayal viscerally, and laughed or smiled so infrequently that even strangers commented on it. I began to see people in two categories; they were either a threat or they were blocking my view of a threat. I was angry too often – wrap rage, apple core rage, coffee cup sipping lid rage – and I started filling my sentences with profanities. One of my brothers joked that I needed a DEFCON-type T-shirt to warn friends and relatives about my mood levels.

I finally asked my police supervisors for help, telling them that work stress was getting the better of me. They listened impatiently, and then accused me of shirking my duties and looking for unwarranted time off. Feeling lost and abandoned, I poured my feelings into three essays that were published locally and then nationally. Still, except for a note from a supervisor acknowledging my writings and suggesting I call our EAP, no one reached out to me, not even coworkers who were members of our regional police stress team.

In the midst of struggling with the "depression," I was physically injured on patrol. When my Chief insisted on an involuntary disability retirement, the career I loved was terminated against my will.  I was unceremoniously shoved out of "the brotherhood" where I'd spent my entire adult life. My years of service to my community were not recognized with a party or even an official farewell, just a call telling me I didn't "need to bother" coming to work anymore.

The "depression," coupled with forced retirement at age 37 and the physical pain from injuries that wouldn't heal, swamped me. Because of my career, my past contained nothing but monsters and without my career, my future contained nothing, period. My soul felt empty while my head and heart were overflowing with filthy trash that bubbled up from a brimming cauldron. My super power became a total lack of affect and I shielded everyone from my deepest thoughts. I spent a lot of time seesawing between figuring out how to commit suicide and figuring out how to stop myself from committing suicide.  Many friends suggested that I was "just depressed" and needed to "stop thinking about it" because "people are as happy as they choose to be" and when I didn't "just shake it off", they stopped coming around. Other friends, along with family, watched me withdraw from the world – the woman they'd known for years was disappearing. I let them think it was entirely due to the relentless physical pain. Only my dog knew the truth, and when things were at their worst, I hugged her tightly to me while I sat on the floor with a loaded gun and a 3-minute egg timer, tangling my fingers deep into her fur and letting her lick the tears from my face while I told myself that I could pull the trigger when the egg timer went off if I still felt the need.

"Hope" was no longer in my vocabulary.

A few months after retiring, I was finally diagnosed with PTSD. My police department hadn't been supportive when I was a cop, and even though my now former department was aware of my PTSD diagnosis, I didn't receive any support when I was a civilian either. I used my personal insurance and my personal savings for treatment. I attended week-long residential workshops for First Responders at On-Site Academy (https://onsiteacademy.org/) in Massachusetts – twice – and at The West Coast Post-trauma Retreat (https://www.frsn.org/west-coast-post-trauma-retreat.html) in California.  I spent many hours on the phone with Dr. Bobby Smith (http://www.visionsofcourage.com/). I practically memorized Allen Kates's book CopShock (http://www.copshock.com/). I embraced treatments like EMDR, more medications, more therapy, meditation, and a service dog. Those tools helped me better understand and accommodate the PTSD but I came to realize that unless getting hit by a bus could be considered a cure, PTSD can't be cured – it can only be managed.

But living with PTSD is not the same thing as having a life. It's a battle to maintain real courage under fake danger. And being torn between wanting to enjoy memories and being tormented by them is maddening. Sadly, though, when you stuff down the bad memories, you stuff down the good ones, too. When you dull the emotional pain, you dull the joyful moments, too. So, I become an empty shell of the person I used to be.

In recent years, police PTSD has received more attention and more respect. Officers are receiving mental health care from their departments. Organizations are sending officers on cruises and to retreats so they can bond with other First Responders with similar diagnoses. And PTSD is now being treated as a line-of-duty injury. While it's heartening to witness the positive changes, it's been difficult to be excluded from the benefits that seem to be reserved for the newer generation. Recently, when a Massachusetts officer retired from PTSD with an exclusive pension that generously exceeds the statutory standard, I met with the politician who had spearheaded that special pension exception. He said "ALL cops have some level of PTSD," and since I "didn't have your best friend's brains splashed across your face," my PTSD is not remarkable or worth compensation. I left the meeting in tears, chastising myself for thinking that the State would support me when my Town and police department never had.

A year later, a friend sent me information about a new PTSD treatment developed by Dr. Sean Mulvaney in Annapolis.  

(https://drseanmulvaney.com/stellate-ganglion-block-for-ptsd)  After some reassuring research, I was able to get an appointment and a hotel reservation. I drove 9 hours clutching a credit card to pay for Dr. Mulvaney's Stellate Ganglion Block (SGB) for PTSD procedure.

Dr. Mulvaney's professional, direct, and friendly manner cultivated the trust I needed to allow him to stick a long needle into my neck.  After a short period of rest and a couple of evaluations, I was released. I was too distracted until later to notice that my service dog greeted me very differently when I returned to the car but I would have seen it as a good omen. Within an hour of the procedure, I felt different. It was as though my head had been a noisy, bustling, overcrowded room and suddenly the people left, leaving an open, clear, quiet sensation. I felt lighter - not physically but mentally - the way I used to feel when I finally arrived home and dumped the day's events (as well as my duty belt and bulletproof vest) after a long shift. I even felt spiritually taller because the weight my shoulders had carried for so long was lessened.

There were a few minor side effects that lasted a few hours but the changes were extraordinary and immediate. I caught myself smiling for no reason, which was startling. Although I normally went to bed early to escape the chaos in my head, that night I stayed up until I was physically tired. In the morning, I was shocked that I felt rested and that I hadn't had a single nightmare or been startled wake from a single insignificant noise. As I prepared for the journey home, I had a persistent, strange, elusive feeling I couldn't shake. I finally identified it as a thing called "hope," something I hadn't felt in two decades. That's when I realized that my service dog had been treating me differently since I'd had the procedure. He'd recognized the transformation instantly.

At home, I surprised myself by readily accepting the first social engagement that was offered. Friends said they could hear a difference in my voice. I slept through the night again, and again, and again. I continually smiled without provocation. The clear-headed feeling remained; the chaos in my head had settled, replaced by a quiet composure. I no longer lost my temper over trivial things and the sensation of being constantly emotionally overwhelmed was gone. My dogs were confused, and delighted, when I started singing, even when there was no music playing.

But the procedure did not take away the PTSD. It only quieted it. Whereas most of the symptoms used to strike many times a day, they now only occur once or twice a week, some only once or twice a month. And I am still susceptible to the triggers that used to overwhelm me but now my reactions are muted and they pass when I acknowledge them. It's disconcerting but there's peace in knowing the symptoms won't last and there's power in realizing I can better control my reactions to them.

Continual hope has replaced constant thoughts of suicide. I am rested and more focused because I sleep through the night; the few times my Service Dog has awakened me, I assume he sensed a nightmare but I have no memory of one – a far cry from waking almost every night covered in sweat with tense muscles and clenched teeth, unable to fall back to sleep with the nightmare spinning through my head like a movie reel.  In public, I am situationally aware – like a cop – rather than paranoid and hypervigilant, and when my service dog steps between me and others, instead of feeling relief that I have a safety barrier, I feel relief that now I can actually breathe in the midst of other people.

I'm still figuring out which behaviors are continuing from habit rather than from the PTSD symptoms that linger. And I still have to deal with the daily physical pain from the physical injuries that forced my retirement. Discovering how tangled the PTSD and physical pain were is staggering. In some ways, the PTSD masked the pain by upstaging it but in other ways, it magnified the pain by heaping more stress onto my body. Unfortunately, since the procedure, there have been times when I've longed for the numb emptiness of PTSD that veiled the physical pain.

I have always thought that having some control over the PTSD would make me the person I used to be but now I know that I am no longer who I was and that I will never be what I was going to be. And now that there's space in my head and a desire to move forward, I'm starting to build a new me. It is a struggle to figure out who I am, what I will enjoy, what makes me happy, how I will live, and how I will love.

Prince Harry, the Duke of Sussex who is a military veteran and founder of the Invictus Games once said, "You do not have to be defined by your injury or your disability. You may not realize or appreciate it but do not underestimate the incredible impact you are having on those around you, by simply being yourself."

Having the PTSD under control means I can be myself again, whoever that may be, and I have begun waking up for my life rather than to my life. I, not the PTSD, can dictate how I move through the world.

So, six months after the SGB procedure I am still unraveling the snarled knots that muddled the PTSD and the physical pain, and trying to accept the pain as its own entity. In that endeavor, I have posted a single quote on my normally blank refrigerator door from a quadriplegic man named Chad Hymas, "Let go of the illusion that it could have been any different."

There's something to be gained from living through what Dr. Mulvaney's procedure erased. When I find out what it is, I'll be able to let go of the illusion.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Jill Wragg

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

Christopher Van Ness

Steven Xiarhos

@yarmouthpolice

http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/

More Quarantine "Cooking"

I decided to make a protein shake for lunch today. My method involves putting cold tap water and protein powder into a metal cocktail shaker because it chills it a bit without needing ice. The powder has a slight vanilla flavor but I normally add a dash of cold espresso from the fridge to punch it up.

I've forgotten to make the espresso several times before so I've improvised by squishing a strawberry or a bite of banana into the concoction to add flavor. This time, I found no espresso, no strawberries, no bananas, not even a single blueberry hiding anywhere, but, wait, that fruit flavored kombucha I bought at the store last week is tasty! So I added about an eighth of a cup of that.

Note to self: quarantining alone for three months kills brain cells.

I not only know that kombucha is fermented but I also know that store-bought kombucha is made with - or injected with - more, um, sparkle. Unfortunately, I didn't recall that I know those things until after I'd combined my ingredients and begun shaking the cocktail mixer. It was actually the strange hiss emanating from the container that started some rusty wheels turning. Sadly, the momentum of the wheels inside my head did not catch up to the momentum of the chemical reaction inside the shaker.

The vigorous shaking of the well-carbonated kombucha ignited an explosion that blew the cover off the shaker, blasting a fruity and attractively pink bubbly liquid halfway across my kitchen, even spattering the mirrored wall behind my stove.

It looked - and smelled - like a fruit-filled fairy princess volcano had erupted in my kitchen.

Magoo and Kenosha scrambled for cover, sidestepping the rapidly spreading, still-sizzling pink lava while I gaped at my pink-glitter-speckled reflection in my pink-glitter-speckled mirror. Even as the other dogs hastily retreated, Xyban came charging in from outside to see what kind of monster had attacked us. He slipped in the liquid cotton candy, spinning out of control before crashing into the refrigerator. The look of panic he'd displayed while ricocheting across the kitchen was replaced by one of disgust as soon as his abrupt deceleration allowed him to survey his surroundings. After shooting me a reproachful glare, he marched back through the mess to resume his guard duties on the deck, punctuating his exit with snorts and loosely formed pink paw prints.

Now my kitchen and dining room look like a Grimm crime scene, like the aftermath of the Big Bad Wolf having an unfortunate reaction to gobbling up Cinderella's Fairy Godmother and leaving a violently purged carnage of simmering, pink pixie puke in his wake.

Sorry, no pics until next of kin is notified.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Jill Wragg

Dog Drama

I have severe chronic pain from twenty-year-old injuries incurred during my duties as a police officer. The pain keeps me stuck at home most days. Today, I had lots of company. Xyban is a German Shepherd who works as my Service Dog.  Magoo is confirmed to be ½ Chihuahua, ¼ Pug, and ¼ English Bulldog. Kenosha is my roommates' Catahoula mix. And Molly is my aunt's 13-year-old Portuguese Water Dog whose incontinence prescription isn't working. She's leaving a wet, noxious, spreading mess on anything she relaxes on. Within 36 hours of her arrival, I had to decommission my favorite, and only, living room chair twice by using both soap and water, and a leather cleaning kit – twice each – because she leaked fairly prolifically on its seat – yes, twice.

The first accident was no one's fault.  It wasn't Molly's fault; she doesn't know that she leaks. It wasn't my aunt's fault; she gave me Molly's 'pee' pills before she went away for the week. And it wasn't my fault; I didn't have any idea that Molly's incontinence medication wasn't working.

Perhaps being abandoned by her parents was the proverbial straw that broke Molly's bladder control. The first chair-christening by Saint Molly was definitely no one's fault. But the second one? That second christening that occurred after I took counter-pee-measures? That pungent soaking that happened after I vowed to always flip the ottoman into the vulnerable seat of my (only) chair? That time? Yeah, that one was my fault, because of that proverb that goes "once peed-on, twice paranoid".

My defense in the matter of that second mess is a good one though. It happened like this:

At about 8, I sat in my favorite (only) chair to drink coffee while the dogs ate their breakfast. It was an espresso shot so I finished drinking just as they finished eating. We all convened in the kitchen for 'breakfast dessert', a single small dog treat that's a special reward for, I don't know – for being dogs, I guess.

My pain was really bad so I wasn't looking forward to doling out dog treats. Since I keep them in the broken dishwasher, I have to bend over to get them, which never helps the pain.  It also doesn't help that it's been raining forever, or that marijuana and wine don't help – not even together, or that doctors are terrified of prescribing painkillers that actually kill pain. Anyway, after completing my tour as a doggie-treat-dispenser, I didn't feel like going all the way back into the living room because it was at least an extra 5 feet away.  I sat at the dining room table instead.

Magoo, AKA the Wireless Warming Pad, was in my lap within seconds. He'd just assumed his favorite cat-taught pose – the this-is-cozy-and-I-am-NOT-moving pose – when I realized I had forgotten the ottoman-in-the-chair trick to prevent Molly from getting – or wetting – on it. I dreaded having to scrub it a third time but I just couldn't decide if it was worth standing up, and walking all the way over there, and bending over, and lifting the edge of the ottoman, and trying to roll it into the chair seat without moving my back muscles, and, geez, just the utter dread of standing back up to trudge back to the dining room. Ugh. So I consulted my tattered inner Zen which told me to stay in my chair and allow things to play out. Of course, I know now that if my inner Zen had been thinking more clearly, she would have rolled her eyes and told me to just carry Magoo over to that more comfortable chair to simply sit in it to protect it from Molly's excretions. Just like they say, hindsight can be, uh, really, really, annoying.

I convinced myself that the always-attentive-and-always-obedient Molly would remember that I have reminded her countless times to stay out of my chair, and I sighed peacefully, just as the now-rather-quite-a-bit-senile Molly daintily climbed up into my chair.

I said quietly, and firmly, "Molly, get out of that chair."  When almost-deaf, slightly-blind, and rather-quite-a-bit-senile Molly stubbornly – and adorably – refused to move out of the chair, I copied her tactics (and IQ) by also stubbornly – and childishly – refusing to move out of a chair.

I raised my voice slightly, adding a stern tone, "NO. Molly, get out of my chair."  As I began speaking, Kenosha and Xyban, AKA The Hoyden and The Hooligan, both started moving. Reacting to my sterner tone, super-sensitive Kenosha was noisily bolting out the dog door on my right while on my left, Xyban, the poster boy for equanimity, was moaning deeply as he lazily curled over, the way a bored dog would if he thought he might possibly maybe have an itch on some vague part of his body, somewhere.

Looking right and left was a mistake. Big mistake. HUGE. I should have been looking at the 26 lb. Chihuahuan warming pad in my lap that was getting hot, as in hot-under-the-collar, literally. Before I finished the last syllable of my second command, a surly, spitting fury – an incensed Magoo – leapt off my lap, raced across the floor, jumped onto the ottoman, and bared his teeth at Molly while self-righteously snarling, "LISTEN to WHAT the BOSS LADY said BEFORE I MESS UP your PRETTY FACE!"  Molly froze in a panic. She's known Magoo since he was four weeks old. She's been aware of Magoo's "problem" for a while. Magoo has illusions of grandeur. Magoo has a tragic need to control. Magoo thinks he's a cop. That's a problem. A big one. Yes, huge. 

And Magoo's been known to overreact when he polices the other dogs. He did not learn that from my example; his ½ English Bulldog father has serious anger issues. Magoo has also been known to spark citizen unrest when he disregards the government's established rules and regs regarding the police use-of-force continuum. But Magoo has never been a sworn police employee of this particular household. He's more like that creepy, socially-inept guy who got tossed out of the police academy after he insisted that they didn't recognize his brilliance. Unfortunately, it falls to me as the overseeing superintendent to prevent any brawls. But, unlike Magoo, I've had training. I went to two police academies. With the reflexes of a crippled, senior cat, I instinctively reverted to my police training, skillfully thwarting bloody mayhem by jumping up, um, I mean, by moving somewhat faster than a 90-year-old arthritic, and shouting with badly-improvised enthusiasm, "Who wants a cookie?" before darting (I love verbs! They are SO prettily objective.) into the kitchen with as much, er, alacrity as I could muster.

Mission accomplished! Disaster prevented! And there are happy dogs thanks to treats from the Puppy Crack jar.  Enforcer Magoo got a cookie right after he was presented with a Junior Police Chief Badge in front of a small, semi-official canid gathering. Every one of those civilian dogs was drooling with envy – and probably with impatience from waiting for cookies. Molly got a cookie because she got off my chair quickly without releasing any unpleasant liquids into its seat cushion. Xyban got a cookie because, well, because he was just lying around lustily snuffling his . . . well, because he was just so amazingly engaged and focused while the others were itching to start a pit-fight. Kenosha got a cookie because fair is fair and she is part of the pack, even if she's the part that handles pack-crises by running away screaming louder than a five-year-old girl whose ice cream just fell to the sidewalk.

Oh, and there's a happy human, too, because I grabbed a beer for myself without having to walk an extra 5 feet.    

      

#WinWin                         

#MagooTheJerk

#MmmmmBeeer

#It's5pmSomewhere

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Jill Wragg

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Lessons From Dogs

As a child, I looked out the window on road trips, pretending to run alongside the car through the hills and yards. A lone German Shepherd inside the highway fence caught my eye one day. He was trotting along, looking forlorn. I begged my father to stop so we could catch the dog. I was terrified that he would be killed. We didn’t stop. That day on our return trip, I saw a dog carcass on the shoulder of the highway. I didn’t know if it was the same dog, or even the same area but the memory stayed with me. And the lesson – follow your instincts.

I’ve learned a lot from dogs.

My grandparents’ Newfoundland, Blackie, taught me about personal responsibility and holding up my end of the bargain. He had an easy life. He was even treated to a bowl of ice cream in front of the TV every night. But, spoiled as he was, he repaid my grandparents by treating them like royalty and being the best dog he could be.

A Black Lab named Shadow was my companion when I was eight. His participation in his owner’s hobby, duck hunting, turned my stomach. I was convinced that Shadow shared my distaste yet he performed his repugnant job with spunk and style. If Shadow could jump into an ice cold lake to retrieve a bloody murdered duck, I could clean the toilet without (too much) complaining.

I found Mr. Sweets in a neighbor’s yard, chained to a dog house. He was matted and flea ridden and adorable. A good grooming revealed a handsome Schnoodle. We renamed him Mr. Bojangles. His dedication as my willing sidekick helped me to become a better friend.

Trooper was a burly German Shepherd at my kennel job who liked to bite everyone but me. We had a special bond. When I visited him at his new position as a guard dog, he lunged at me and ripped the end of my sleeve. If I hadn’t been quicker, he’d have ripped off my arm. The lesson? Sometimes it’s best to leave the past behind.

Kali was born in a friend’s house at the end of the school year. I used the “she followed me home, can I keep her?” line, and it worked. By the end of the summer I learned the true meaning of devotion, as only a Shepherd could model. Her shamelessness, and friendship, and undying loyalty showed me that dogs have souls, too.

Kevvie, aka Kevlar, the Giant Schnauzer, was meant to be my police K9 partner but her heart wasn’t in it. The day she became entangled in a wayward rope with a terrified squirrel showed her true character. She squealed in pain as the frantic rodent bit her over 70 times on the face and neck in its efforts to escape. Instead of killing it with her massive jaws, she gently pulled it off each time. Still entangled, it attacked again and again until exhaustion rendered it helpless and I was able to cut them free. Kevvie was true to herself and kind to smaller creatures, gifts I admired and endeavored to possess.

Paxil, my current Lab, is an expert at pleasure, both giving and receiving, and at fun. Everything is her favorite. And she has the best stress management strategies: karaoke – howling at sirens, cheap aroma therapy – rolling in every vile, vomitous substance she can find, and soothing water therapy – splashing in the tub with a child. The lesson she expounds is that there’s good in everything if you look (or smell) long enough.

In addition to the lessons I’ve learned, my dogs have taught me about myself. I learned I am a loyal friend when I stood between Bojangles and an angry Doberman with gnashing teeth who outweighed me by ten pounds. I discovered that I am courageous, and foolhardy, the day I headed into a riptide to save Kevvie who was being sucked under and tossed about in terror. I was surprised by my strength of character when I defied the vet and insisted on staying with Kali when she was euthanized. And I wasn’t embarrassed when I brought friends home the day Paxil left half-eaten underwear in the living room and scattered the contents of the bathroom trash throughout the house.

My dogs have been building blocks in my life. The cats? They haven’t taught me anything, except maybe to mind my own business and keep the food dish filled.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

*** This piece is copyrighted and can be used with permission only. ***

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Operating Under The Influence

People sometimes ask me, “Are we really safe?” Some people fear burglars, some fear assaults, some fear vandalism. Some simply fear the dark.

So, I decided to ignore everyone’s fears and deal with reality. I decided to discuss the subject that should be your biggest fear. To identify the most random acts of violence that occur with the most frequency. To highlight the crime that victimizes more innocent people than any other. To narrow the topic down to the crime that most frightens police officers.

Any guesses?

I’ll give you a hint. No matter where you live in the U.S., it goes by a nickname of three initials.

Need another?

No matter what it’s called, it indiscriminately maims, kills, and destroys families.

Keep thinking.

It is the most frequently committed violent crime in the United States.

More?

Nationally, it kills an average of two people per hour, 45 per day, and 315 per week with no regard for age, gender, race, or religion. Last year, 15,786 people were killed.

Give up?

The answer is OUI – operating under the influence of alcohol.

Did you know that there’s a difference between an “accident” and a “crash”? One involves chance. The other involves an intentional act that endangers lives. That intentional act is getting behind the wheel after consuming alcohol.

More people are arrested annually for OUI than for any other crime except larcenies. Approximately one percent of the national population is arrested for OUI every year.

So, how serious is it? Does the term “it’s like shooting fish in a barrel” mean anything? That’s what you’ll hear if you ask a police officer how easy it would be to find a drunk driver if the officer had no other responsibilities. Unfortunately, with minimum shift strength and strict budget constraints, we don’t have many opportunities to go fishing. We have to be content to grab the OUI‘s that cross our paths while we are answering calls for domestics, responding to alarms and handling fights in bars.

It amuses us when defense attorneys claim that their clients were targeted by overzealous officers who “troll” the streets around bars, hoping to catch an innocent driver exiting the parking lot. After reading these statistics, wouldn’t you prefer that your officers had time to actively pursue people who drive while impaired? We certainly wish we had the time to “troll”. Imagine! Time to catch drunk driver after drunk driver and prevent fatal crashes and innocent pedestrian deaths!

Fat chance.

We finish one call, hoping to catch our breath before the next, and stumble across a car that’s weaving. That’s all we have time for. And that’s where the odyssey begins.

An arrest for OUI is the most time consuming event in a police officer’s shift.

The stop of an erratic driver can take between 20 minutes and several hours. Twenty minutes for the questioning of a driver who swerved while sneezing. Several hours for visiting the victim’s family when a drunk driver kills. The only guarantee is that we have removed a potential killer from the roadways.

The paperwork is overwhelming. While booking the prisoner, we explain that, in Massachusetts, he does not have a “right” to a breath test. Rather, he is deemed to already have consented to take a breath test, simply by virtue of his driving on a public way in the state of Massachusetts. If he refuses the test, we are required to fill out even more forms to suspend his license. Once the intricate booking procedure is complete, we begin compiling a report. A report that hardly seems worth the effort when it is torn to shreds in a court of law.

Our report will cover how the operator’s driving caught our attention, how he responded to our questions, and whether he smelled of alcohol or appeared intoxicated. It will contain information about the operator’s performance on the field sobriety tests, his blood alcohol content according to a Preliminary Breath Test (PBT) at the scene, and his alcohol content as determined by the Breathalyzer at the police station. It will include all of the information that led us (and would lead a reasonable juror - a member of his peers) to conclude that he was, in fact, operating while under the influence of alcohol.

Unfortunately, not all of that pertinent information will be presented to the jury.

Did you know that an operator cannot legally refuse to perform field sobriety tests? Did you know that if he does refuse, the refusal cannot be mentioned to the jury? If you were a juror, would you wonder why the officer didn’t mention those tests? Would you think the officer forgot to ask the operator to perform them? Would the thought that the officer was remiss influence your decision about the operator’s sobriety?

It gets better.

Did you know that we use the roadside Preliminary Breath Test (PBT) to confirm that the conclusions we drew from the operator’s driving and his performance on the field sobriety tests were correct? Did you know that, as a juror, you aren’t allowed to reach that same conclusion because the PBT results cannot be admitted as evidence?

Wait, there’s more.

Did you know that an operator’s refusal to take the Breathalyzer at the police station is not admissible in court? In fact, no one will even mention whether the test was offered. If you were a juror, would you wonder why all references to the infamous Breathalyzer had been ommitted? Would you think the officer forgot to administer the test? Would you think it meant that the operator had passed the test?

My response as a juror, as a parent, as a driver, as a member of the community threatened by this operator’s complete disregard for safety would be, “What’s up with that?”

If you call the courthouse and ask what percentage of the operators arrested for OUI were actually convicted of OUI, you won’t get an answer. Those statistics are not available. If you know any police officers, ask them what percentage of their arrests either go to trial or are convicted of OUI. The answer will disgust you.

Most OUI arrests result in dropped or reduced charges. Those slaps on the wrist result in repeat offenses. Statistics compiled by Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) show that about one third of all OUI arrests are repeat offenders. One third of the people driving drunk in your town have been arrested for OUI before.

Some of them were stopped and arrested soon after leaving the bar. Some of them drove badly enough to contribute to a crash between two other cars. Some of them struck and injured pedestrians. Some of them struck and killed pedestrians. Some of them were involved in crashes themselves. Some of them were injured. Some of them injured their passengers. Some of them were killed. Some of them killed their passengers. All of the people involved were doing what we all do every day of our lives – using our roadways. All of the people involved were someone’s friend, someone’s child, someone’s neighbor. All of the people involved could have been you.

We try to help our intoxicated friends by taking their keys because we are worried for their safety. Maybe we should start a campaign to take the keys from our sober friends, too. We should also take bicycles from our children. And ban lovers from strolling the sidewalks hand in hand. And forbid grandmothers from walking their grandchildren to the park. And outlaw jogging.

As long as there are people who drink and drive, everyone near the road is at risk.

We have a poster in the lobby of the police station that shows a crumpled car wrapped around the base of a big tree. The caption reads, “If you drive drunk, you’ll be lucky if it’s a cop that stops you.” Perhaps the caption should read, “If you use our roadways, you’ll be lucky to get home alive.”

Does that answer your question?

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Chief Frank Frederickson 

Yarmouth Police Department

Steven Xiarhos

@yarmouthpolice

http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/

What Would You Say?

I have many pictures of family and friends on the wall inside my front door. I get obsessed with the arrangement. I’m constantly adding the most current or most flattering picture of the people I like to think about. But there is one picture that doesn’t change.

It’s a picture of a girl. Her long hair is fine and straggly. She’s wearing cut off shorts and a t-shirt. She’s reclining in a bean bag chair on the lawn with her legs spread apart in a decidedly unladylike pose. There’s a litter of four week old puppies sleeping on the ground between her ankles. She’s smiling as she holds one puppy up to the camera. She’s the picture of contentment. She’s completely indifferent to fashion or beauty. She’s happy, and secure, and unencumbered. She’s a treasure. She’s a souvenir.

She’s me on my tenth birthday.

She’s the me who used to make sentences with her alphabet cereal. The one who always shared her Hershey bar with the big Labrador from down the street. The one who could down a bottle of Orange Crush without taking a breath. The one who thought that lying in bed listening to a summer thunderstorm was as exhilarating as a roller coaster. She’s the little girl who finally got brave enough to tear the tag off her pillow, who always had a book nearby, who brought salamanders home in her pocket, who raced motorcycles on the weekends, and who cried every time she read Bambi. The one who insisted that she’d attend Harvard, and who knew she could throw a ball further than the boys, and who was careful not to step on ant hills. She’s the daredevil, the giggler, the shy one, the brat. She used to be me.

I keep that picture because it’s a reminder of my beginnings. In that little girl’s eyes are the dreams that propelled me, the ideals that guided me, and the foundation that grounded me. She stays up on the wall because she’s my soul. She stays up on the wall because I’m afraid of losing sight of her. That little girl stays up on my wall because I can’t see her in the mirror – not even if I squint. She’s my hero. I think the world of that girl. Sometimes I wonder what she’d think of me.

If I were to take that ten year old out to lunch, what would she say?

She’d be happy that I am independent and able to fend for myself but she’d be disappointed that I’m not able to beat the boys at all of their games. She’d be glad that I pet every dog that I see. She’d wonder why I don’t sleep outside or walk in the woods for hours and hours. She’d be surprised that I haven’t memorized all of the constellations. She’d be pleased that I am a vegetarian. She’d be amused by the number of dresses in my closet and by the one pair of heels next to my cowboy boots. She’d be amazed that there are no college diplomas hanging next to the mementos of my adventures – but she’d be impressed by the adventures.

She’d offer me one of her stuffed animals because she’d think I don’t have enough. She’d encourage me to get up earlier and stay up later. She’d invite me to climb trees, and watch sunsets and build snowmen. She’d expect me to laugh more, and tell me stories or tickle me until I did. She’d like my big, high bed and my classical CD’s. She’d tell me that she wants to hike the Appalachian Trail and join the Peace Corps and run a marathon. She’d be envious that I went for a walk with a guide dog, lived in New York City, looked into the Grand Canyon, performed CPR on puppies, made friends with people from Europe, and actually saw Madame Butterfly. She’d laugh at my car and tell me to get a Jeep or a motorcycle.

We’d talk about what a great movie Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory is and about how Tolkien’s trilogy is the best reading ever. She’d be concerned that I don’t spend enough time with my dogs but thrilled that I remember Hamlet’s soliloquy, and Frodo’s quest, and Snoopy’s favorite foods, and Jonathan Livingston Seagull’s mission, and all the American Kennel Club breeds, and Hawkeye, and how to bake chocolate chip cookies, and how to make moccasins. She’d be glad that I’m friends with my mom.

She’d be surprised that I am not a doctor or a teacher but impressed that I do something that girls don’t normally do. She’d think I’m stupid for forgetting that there’s always a new experience only a minute away. She’d wish that I remembered how to say “no” when I really don’t want to play. She’d worry that I waste too much time doing household chores. She wouldn’t understand why I think about work so much. She’d tell me to concentrate on moments instead of days. She’d wonder why I don’t spend time doing nothing. She’d ask why I don’t read more. She’d think that I act old. She’d ask if I’m happy.

And what would I say?

What would you say?

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

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Proof That I Exist

I’m impressed more by facts than by philosophy. I prefer evidence, not theory. I like things that I can prove - me, for instance. I can prove that I exist. I have a birth certificate, photographs, a copy of Alice in Wonderland that I wrote my name in when I was eight, and bank statements. If those aren’t enough, I have a fail-safe, people who will insist on identifying a lifeless body if I stop paying my bills. And my dog, Ripley, exists. I can smell her fur and touch her body and scoop up what she leaves in the back yard. There’s another fail-safe, the garbage can in the back yard that houses Ripley’s, um, leftovers. Proof, any kind of proof, even that kind of fragrant proof, makes me feel safe.

Unfortunately, some things can’t be proven. No one can prove that dogs don’t have souls. No one can prove that my brother has ever read a book. And no one can prove that pain exists. I can prove that everyone at the pharmacy knows me by my first name but not that I have pain. I can prove that I stay in bed for hours and hours but not that I have pain.

I can prove that I continually feel tired and drained but not that I have pain. I can prove that I often function with the animation of a cooked noodle but not that I have pain. People commiserate by comparing their own stories of current or past pain. Those are the people who haven’t experienced pain long enough to know that it is deeply personal. Pain can be shared but not compared. A broken arm feels different to everyone, physically and emotionally. And it’s the emotional aspect of pain that matters. Our bodies deal with physical pain mechanically, somewhat uniformly. When we drag our psyches and emotions into the fray, it gets ugly. The pain that kept you off the softball field for one season doesn’t translate to the pain that has sidelined my life. You’re in the Emergency Room facing traction and a few months of inconvenience. I’m in Room 101, facing my most dreaded fear and a life that doesn’t come close to resembling the one I loved.

Classifying the pain is just as difficult as proving it. Someone made a pain scale with smiley faces. Even worse, someone gave me the pain scale with the smiley faces. I guess it works with kids, or with people who don’t speak the same language as the doctor. But then, how many of us ever do speak the language of our doctor? I’m not suggesting that doctors aren’t people like us. I just think there are some things that go on in med school, things that we don’t want to know about, that alter their perceptions. I have found a use for the smiley faces though; I throw darts at them. If I can throw a dart and hit the bright and cheery smiley face, then that’s my level of pain. If I can throw a dart and hit the scale itself, it’s time for Advil. If I can pick up the dart but not throw it, Tramadol. If I can’t pick up the dart, Vicodin. If I can’t concentrate long enough to find the dart, Oxycontin. If I can’t find the Oxycontin, I cry.

It amazes me how quickly pain turns into depression, how quickly I become an observer rather than a participant in life. It feels like everything is painted gray, like I’m in the midst of a black and white movie, standing still while the action continues around me. My focus narrows dramatically. Time drags. I become a different person, a self-centered person who wields a knife. Ripley gets slashed with the sharp end of my emotions when I have bursts of anger or sadness. My family and friends get pummeled with the blunt hilt when I don’t answer the phone or can’t have a civilized conversation.

But it also amazes me that there’s nothing more grounding than unrelenting pain. When I have to walk more slowly, I see more flowers and dragon flies. When I lie in bed, I get to snuggle with Ripley. If I can’t take my friend Brady to the park, I get to see his delight when he licks the bowl after we make cookies. When I can’t work every day, I appreciate my job and coworkers more. I’ve even been able to add to my list of things that make me happy. Now, in addition to puppies and snowfall and children laughing, I’ve learned to value simple things like inexpensive narcotics, flexible ice packs, and drugs that don’t make me constipated. And I have a new career path. My doctor suggested finding a job that requires no lifting over ten pounds, no prolonged standing, sitting, or walking, and no repetitive twisting, bending, or kneeling. I understand Nevada has legalized a job that fits that description.

I shouldn’t complain. As it happens, it only hurts when I laugh, speak, sit, walk, stand, or lie down. And my life is full and varied. There are annoying days when I can’t remember how to adjust the volume on my car radio, ditzy days when you can hear the ocean if you stand close to me, drugged days when the squirrels out back are singing Barry Manilow songs, in key, and many successful days when I manage to stay alive despite the breathtaking incompetence that comes in the grip of chronic pain.

Prove that the pain exists? I can’t do it. But I can prove that the sun is warm on my face. I can prove that life is what you make it. And I can prove that I have friends to help me deal with it; friends who often ask, “Is there something I can get for you?” I always answer, “Yes, something tall, fit, well-educated and sensitive who gives a good massage.” After all, I don’t want to end up being the quiet neighbor who always kept to herself.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

The Perfect Pearl Earrings

When my Ex-with-a-capital-E moved out after sixteen years, I packed all the jewelry he’d ever given me into his moving van. We’d been together since I was 19 so that left me with a few silver earrings, a Snoopy pendant, and some beaded necklaces. 

As he drove away with my birthday and Christmas and just-because-I-love-you keepsakes, I decided that I would buy my own jewelry from that point on. I wasn’t going to wait for a man to adorn me with trinkets. Instead, to rationalize the expense, I was going to wait for a man to disappoint me so I could adorn myself. 

I had no idea how quickly my jewelry box would fill up! 

My first purchase was a few months after The-End-Of-Sixteen-Years. It was a big one. It had to be. Sixteen years culminates in a big disappointment. So, I splurged on a white gold necklace with a dangling pearl – in Paris.  

On My-First-Christmas-Without-Him, I bought a pair of white gold and diamond earrings. I threw in a silver brooch just to be sure. You only live once. Besides, I knew I was too old to count on another sixteen year relationship ending in disaster so I figured I was entitled. 

My distress on My-First-Birthday-Without-Him turned into a cute gold and silver watch. In the months that followed, I allowed a lot of moments of disappointment to slip by without observing protocol because I thought they would continue long enough for me to find a fantastic ring. 

An unexpected epiphany propelled me forward along the grief time line. Before I knew it, I had reached the I-Wouldn’t-Take-Him-Back-If-He-Came-Crawling-On-His-Hands-And-Knees-With-A-Million-Dollars-And-A-Single-Long-Stemmed-Rose-With-The-Thorns-Still-Attached-In-His-Teeth stage. The sudden feeling of forgiveness caught me off guard but I recovered admirably. I quickly bundled any and all remaining disappointment into my fist. I traded it for a gold and ruby bracelet. 

Oh, there were trickles of frustration here and there because I saw him at work every day but since it wasn’t outright disappointment, I couldn’t justify any purchases. I controlled those spells with Belgian chocolate. 

On My-Second-Christmas-Without-Him, he reduced my willpower to rubble by giving me a present. I was so angry at myself for crying that I shunned the cases of expensive jewelry and bought a pewter heart the size of my thumbnail. I carried it in my pocket for a long time. It was a symbolic attempt to keep my heart out of harm’s way. 

My-First-Date after my Ex-with-a-capital-E made me feel very special. He awakened some things that had been dormant, some nice things. And he made me smile. I gave him my pocket heart because I didn’t need it anymore. I was ready to take a chance at being vulnerable, and being disappointed. I didn’t have to wait long. 

Four weeks later when he hadn’t called for a second date, I bought a really great sapphire ring. Not long after, Mr-No-Call surprised me with an invitation. I kept the ring. I’m not stupid. I’d been disappointed for only a short time but it was long enough to size a ring so I deserved to keep it. 

Mr-No-Call impersonated Prince Charming long enough for me to be disappointed again when my phone stopped ringing. Since it wasn’t entirely unexpected, I was able to exercise a little self-control. The charming little necklace I bought is silver. As an inside joke, I chose one with a heart much like the pocket heart I’d given him but I display this one where everyone can see it. 

I’ve been asked for my phone number twice in the past month but they haven’t called. Together, those disappointments were just enough for a small gold and silver ring twisted into the symbol for infinity. Infinity is a long time - time for a lot of disappointments and quite a bit of precious metals. That can’t be a bad thing. 

I figure the day will come when a man will ask me out and I will survey my fingers and wrists to see if I need any more disappointments, er, jewelry. Until that day comes, I’m keeping my eyes open for the perfect guy, and the perfect pearl earrings.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

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French Tutor

My French tutor has a cold nose. She also has four legs and a tail. It's actually a stub with a tiny bald spot at the end but it conveys her moods as well as any conventional tail and is more knick-knack friendly.

Her name is Ripley. She's a Giant Schnauzer. “Giant” being the operative word. A point I tried to drive home to Fernando the cat on the day Ripley arrived. The cat ignored my instructions to wage psychological war on Ripley while he still had a chance to make an impression. But she was a cute little bundle of black fur with adorable brown eyes! How could he swat something smaller than him? Regret was written on his face when she doubled in size and weight after two weeks and decided to use him for a soccer ball. Apparently, hind sight is 20/20 even when you're a cat.

I had pick of the litter so I put the girls through a series of puppy tests. I wanted the dominant female. It turns out that I'm much better at testing puppies than I thought. By the time she was eight weeks old, Ripley displayed a dizzying variety of dominant behavior. She growled over toys and food, she stepped on my toes, she leaned against me - and pushed, she stood between me and any food I'd set on the coffee table. She came when she was called but never in a straight line. She even lifted her leg to declare that the trees in the yard were hers. And when she realized that only I was allowed on my bed, she quietly removed herself to the living room to sleep alone. She was not willing to play second fiddle to anyone. She was stubborn, strong willed and hard headed. My mother's wishes had come true - I had a child just like me.

It was obvious that she thought a lot about how to unsettle the pack leader and claim the throne for herself. She wasted little time chewing furniture, peeing on the rug or whining at night. She spent a lot of time refusing to be rolled onto her back, getting onto the couch and chasing the cat, my cat -in other words, using my toys without my permission. My older dog, Kevvie, who happens to be Ripley's aunt, was a plaything, too. Albeit, a plaything with teeth and a short temper around midget upstarts who repay the boss' kindness with disrespect. Sometimes I broke up dog fights but most of the time Kevvie enjoyed a sort of anonymity. Ripley wasn't concerned with Kevvie. Kevvie wasn't the boss.

When Ripley was 1½, I took a crash course in French. Two weeks in Montreal made me dangerous. Dangerous enough to put a few words together to make a sentence. Dangerous enough that anyone who spoke French didn't want to hear me butchering their language. That's where Ripley comes in.

I don't know if it's because she missed me (yeah, right) or because she was a French dog in a former life but Ripley loved to hear me trying to speak French. Her stub would wag, her ears would lift and she would smile. So, I started practicing French with Ripley. She never laughed at my pronunciation or ridiculed my grammatical errors. She'd never cared what was on my mind when I spoke English, but she was always interested in what I had to say in French. It made learning fun. For both of us.

We practiced obedience commands in French. We discussed the meaning of life. We exchanged sweet nothings - I in French, she with her stub. The breakthrough came when I found her on her back with her legs splayed and playfully asked, "Est-ce que tu fais le morte?" (“Are you making the death?”). She grinned a big dog grin and wagged her stub so hard it could have whipped eggs for a soufflé. I took advantage of her mood to rub her belly, something she rarely tolerated. A few minutes later, when she'd regained her composure (and her attitude), I said, "I liked you better when you were dead." And added, “Why don't you ‘fais le morte’?" I was shocked when she instantly fell to the floor and rolled onto her back, splaying her legs and wagging furiously! She'd taught herself a trick and, in the meantime, allowed herself to be subservient to me without compromising her ethics. It was the beginning of a better relationship - and of household harmony.

My French has improved and so has Ripley’s temperament. We occasionally have spats over territory and household rules but I think she's just trying to hang onto her childhood, sa enfance. We hadn’t realized that we were speaking different languages until we learned a new one together. It made us closer. It's amazing what adjusting the lines of communication can do!

The discovery of Ripley’s true self, her inner tutor, has resulted in real learning experiences. Practical French and practical relationships. Too bad it’s costing me a fortune in baguettes and Roquefort! I hope she doesn’t learn to like wine.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

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Mental Holiday

Perseverance Path in Dennis is about 50 yards long, and it’s a dead end – how’s that for perseverance? I think it’s a sign of the times. Perseverance in the 1950’s was walking a mile to the store in the middle of summer to buy an ice cream cone. In the 60’s, it was going into the kitchen to answer the one phone in the house. In the 70’s, it was getting up to turn the dial on your black and white television. In the 80’s, it was waiting until 5pm to hear the day’s news. In the 90’s, it was not being able to retrieve your phone messages from your answering machine until you got home from work. Now, in the 21st century, perseverance is waiting with exasperation while your Nextel “bleeps” before you can speak to your next-door neighbor while you are both home.

I gave my mother a Nextel when her clunky old cell phone finally expired. A few minutes later, I “bleeped” my brother to warn him that Ma had the ability to contact him at any given moment. There was silence for about 25 seconds before he responded, “You’re grounded.” That’s when I realized that we’ve come too far. Do we really need to be in touch with everyone we know every second of the day? Doesn’t absence make the heart grow fonder? We’ve become addicted to instant gratification.

My friend’s seven year old complained that the ride from Yarmouth to Orleans took too long. He said, “I hate minutes. I like seconds better.” Do you agree? Does instant coffee take too long? When was the last time you counted out cash instead of sliding a debit or credit card through a machine? When was the last time you were bored? Do you sit down to eat? Are all five of your televisions always on? Is everyone in your household taking medication? That’s always a good sign. I knew I was cooked when the vet prescribed Valium for my dog.

With four phone numbers, five email addresses and a doorbell, I’m fairly easy to contact. And people contact me, over and over, hour after hour, day after day. I decided I needed a break from the world. I wanted to spend a day with myself, out of reach, incognito, disguised by a lack of technology. So I conducted an experiment. I spent two hours just sitting still so my kitten could sleep on my lap. I did nothing while she slept. My coffee got cold. My legs fell asleep. Dust settled on the mantle. I could hear snow melting off the roof. My cell phone languished on the kitchen table. I didn’t drop dead when people dialed my number and no one answered. After the kitten woke up, I walked out of the house without looking at the caller ID and drove to the beach for the sunset.

I didn’t bend the speed limit so I could screech to a halt at the end of the boardwalk just as the sun dipped below the horizon. I allowed enough time to park legally. I strolled out over the marsh and sat comfortably watching day turn to evening. I remained still until the shards of sunlight faded to gray. I continued to enjoy the view after I turned back toward my car. I didn’t reach for my keys until I used every opportunity to inhale the crisp ocean air. I felt relaxed. It only took thirty minutes and it was much cheaper than flying to Paris. It was a mental holiday, a break from the 21st century, a fast.

Some people fast one day each week to cleanse their bodies. I recommend giving up your cell phone for one day each week to cleanse your mind. Being out of touch can be a good thing. We don’t have to be busy to get things accomplished. Sitting quietly by yourself is doing something, accomplishing something. Our time, and our thoughts, are some the few things that we truly own. We can decide how to use them. Two minutes spent screaming at the driver in front of you or twenty minutes spent harassing your spouse for last week’s infraction can set the tone for your day. Two minutes spent playing with a puppy or twenty minutes spent making cookies with a child can change your day, your whole week. It’s even more relaxing if you can send the puppy and the child home to their real families when you’re finished.

Don’t just do something, stand there. Or, if you’re the type who must do something, do something else. Ignoring your phone is doing something. Not checking your email is doing something. Refusing to answer the door is doing something.

Taking a mental holiday is doing something.

Just don’t use Holiday Lane in Yarmouth. It’s a dead end, too.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Racial Profiling

In June 1999, President Clinton issued an executive memorandum requiring all federal law enforcement agencies to collect information on race, ethnicity, and gender of every person who was subjected to a search. He called it “Fairness in Law Enforcement: Interior Collection of Data”.

It was drafted in response to the much debated police tactic which is now called “racial profiling”. “Profiling” began when police started using extensive resources to collect data - age, gender, life style (not sexual), psychological, and, yes, racial - which would give them a “profile” of a person most likely to commit certain crimes.

For decades, “profiling” has helped police agencies identify and arrest serial killers, prolific burglars, terrorists, and the like. In recent times, the positive aspects of “profiling” have been overlooked. One characteristic of the “profile” is being questioned - race. The ACLU has set up a toll free number for reporting incidents of “DWB” - Driving While Black. They chose the digits “1-877-6-PROFILE”. Within a year, Connecticut, Kansas, North Carolina and Washington instituted laws requiring police to record racial data on the people they encounter. Missouri will soon follow suit.

I’m confused about this clamor for police officers to document the nature of every call and the race of the people encountered. I’m told that it’s an attempt to prevent racial profiling. Isn’t it racial profiling when officers make concentrated efforts to note the race of everyone they encounter?

When I write a traffic ticket, there is a box that asks for race. I leave it blank. Who am I to determine the race of a person just by looking? Isn’t that racial profiling? I could be providing false information that will label that person for life. I also left it blank on my census form. When the census taker visited my home, he took it upon himself to check off “white”. According to my research, my paternal ancestors had a substantial amount of land and slaves. Isn’t it possible that I have some “black” blood? My maternal family descends from the settlers who arrived on the Mayflower yet some of my cousins have black skin. Are they black or white? Am I? Who decides?

If skin tone alone is how we will determine a person’s race, will cops be equipped with tint meters that will tell us whether the color of a person’s skin will be legally categorized as “white” or “black”? Perhaps there will be a fine tuning device that will tell us whether the “black” person is African American, Puerto Rican, Native American, or Cape Verdean. Perhaps it will grade a “white” person according to pigmentation. Any rating below 50% "white" could be classified as “mixed race”. And what about Asians? Is there a third, or fourth (or fifth) color we can add to the statistics?

And if lineage will be the determining factor, how will we obtain that information? “Excuse me sir, I need to know the nationality of three generations on both sides of your family tree so I can fill out this form.” And what do we do if a man with pale white skin identifies himself as black because his father or grandmother was black? Arrest him for determining his own race? And will we judge those of mixed ethnicity by their paternal or maternal heritage? Which is more important?

Perhaps DNA will be the determining factor and every American citizen will be required by federal law to carry a card documenting the government’s official classification of his race. Perhaps the magnetic strips on our new driving licenses will include that information. Is the day far off when we will be required to “swipe” the licenses at every store and restaurant to compile more statistics.

The bottom line? Yes, there are some police officers who judge people by the color of their skin. There are also shop keepers who follow young customers around their stores, and bankers who deny loan applications because a person doesn’t speak perfect English, and teachers who don’t spend as much time encouraging girls to go to college, and reporters who insist on adding “black” or “hispanic” or “female” to their descriptions so often that we all know the absence of those adjectives means the person was a white male.

Still, racial statistics are a step backward. Suppose we begin to require officers to record the race/color of every person encountered. How soon before we begin to evaluate the officer’s performance based on those statistics? How soon before officers begin to fear being fired because they have dealt with more “whites” than “blacks”, with more “blacks” than “mixed race”. At some point, officers will begin to practice selective law enforcement in order to maintain acceptable statistics. Then, when the month of December is coming to a close and an officer realizes s/he has stopped 20 white motorists and only 5 black, s/he will turn the other way when a white motorist speeds by. Perhaps that motorist will travel a few miles further and run straight into a crowded bus stop.

Why hasn’t anyone directed an assault at the other aspects of profiling? No one is bashing “profiling” by age, gender, life style, or psychological background. Perhaps it’s time we did.

Perhaps my insurance will go down when insurance companies are prohibited from asking the age of drivers, and classifying the younger ones as an insurance risk.

Perhaps your daughter will come home with straight A’s in science after the media is prohibited from publishing statistics that say boys are better in math and science.

Perhaps my cousin who enjoys sampling many different jobs instead of remaining in one career will not be denied a mortgage application when banks are prohibited from referring to statistics that show she’s a bad investment.

Perhaps that boy down the street who finds pleasure in dismembering small pets will achieve his dream of attending medical school, or becoming a police officer. No, wait, perhaps not.

Perhaps “profiling” has its advantages after all.

It is right for the public to keep abreast of the activities of the police but it is wrong to judge us all according to the behavior of a few. The few bad seeds will be weeded out. The rest of us are here for you 24 hours a day, on weekends and holidays, and when our kids are sick. We don’t care what race you are, any more than you care whether the officer giving mouth to mouth to your child is black or white.

Do not believe your television. Portrayals of cops are about as accurate as General Hospital’s portrayal of doctors. How many of us believe that all doctors are adulterous drug addicts involved in a murder cover up?

Cops are not inherently racist, nor do we become racist after graduating from the police academy. We try very hard to judge people as individuals, even when they are spewing racial or sexist slurs at us. And we are all trained to protect your civil rights. I invite every person who feels differently to attend a citizen police academy or to accompany a police officer on patrol.

It’s very easy to play “breakfast-nook-quarterback” while others are actually out on the street facing life or death situations while you sleep. My mother always reminded me to “look before I leap”.

I offer those words of wisdom to those clamoring for racial statistics.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

Steven Xiarhos

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