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/

for Sean,

"Dauntless"

He did not expect death that day,
Nor seek what renown came behind.
Just, our fears he toiled to allay —
True and Strong upon the thin blue line.

Sgt. Sean McNamee Gannon
Yarmouth Police Department, Massachusetts
End of Watch Thursday, April 12, 2018


by Officer Jill Wragg (Ret.)

Yarmouth Police Department

.

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

Steven Xiarhos

@yarmouthpolice

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

Service Dogs

Paxil Josephine Wragg

When I retired from the Police Department in 2001 after a line-of-duty injury that left me with severe chronic pain and a diagnosis of PTSD, I decided to train a dog to help me adjust to my new life. I was given a black Lab puppy by a local breeder and named her “Paxil” because I knew she would make me happy.

Paxil provides physical assistance by picking up items I drop, fetching phones, helping me climb stairs, telling me when to take my pain medications, opening and closing doors, tugging off jackets and shoes, operating light switches, and even taking the clothes out of the dryer and putting them on the counter for me to fold.

She provides psychiatric assistance by alerting me to people approaching from behind, waking me from nightmares, creating a furry comfort zone in crowds, and distracting me with a paw in my lap or a nose in my face. 

When we first began working together, people were surprised to see us in the mall and at restaurants. Almost every time we went out in public, a manager or security guard would ask us to leave because “dogs aren't allowed.” I carried copies of the Americans with Disabilities Act regulations that gave us the right to be in public places and patiently handed them out to everyone who confronted us. As the years have passed, it's gotten a little easier. If we are approached now, it's usually by a curious stranger who has seen something about service dogs on television. 

HISTORY OF SERVICE 

The first service dogs as we know them were trained in New Jersey at The Seeing Eye. In 1928, an American named Morris Frank and his Swiss-trained guide dog, “Buddy,” campaigned tirelessly for federal recognition of guide dogs and earned the right for guide-dog teams to enter facilities that had been traditionally, and legally, off-limits to dogs.

In the 1970s and 1980s, dogs, monkeys, and miniature horses were trained to assist with other disabilities, but they didn't enjoy the same federal rights of access as guide dogs. In the 1990s, the Americans with Disabilites Act (ADA) officially gave people the right to use animals to mitigate the effects of disabilities other than sight loss.

It was a breakthrough, and a problem.

Although the ADA distinguished between “therapy” animals that visited nursing homes and hospitals to comfort patients and “service” animals that made life with disabilities easier, it didn't actually define what a service animal was. As the 2000s evolved, the ADA's vague regulation led to an inundation of animals, both wild and domesticated, being touted as service animals.

The Internet and media were rife with stories about people shopping, dining at restaurants ,and riding buses with parrots on their shoulders, ferrets in their pockets, snakes wrapped around their necks, pigs on leashes, and badly behaved dogs at their sides - one woman even rode a full-sized horse into supermarkets – while declaring that their animal was necessary because of their now federally recognized disability. The ambiguity in the ADA regulation made it illegal to ask someone to refrain from bringing his 9-foot boa constrictor or her snarling Great Dane into public places. The flood of bizarre amateur “helpers” was making it difficult for well-trained service animals to gain respect. Disabled Americans with legitimate service animals, fed-up business owners, and confused law enforcement agencies clamored for some clarity.

On March 15, 2011, the ADA, which takes priority over local or state laws and regulations, revised its definition of service animals. It officially excluded all animals except dogs and miniature horses (defined as ranging in height from 24 inches to 34 inches at the shoulders and weighing between 70 and 100 pounds) from having public access and stated that the dogs and miniature horses must be individually trained to do work or perform tasks for people with disabilities.

Disabled people may still use other animals (goats, gerbils, cats, etc.) to assist them but only in places where those animals would normally be allowed to go, such as within the confines of their own homes and private vehicles, and friends' homes with permission.

The ADA also tightened another loophole by outlining the difference between “psychiatric service dogs” and “emotional support animals."

Psychiatric service dogs are trained to recognize the onset of psychiatric episodes and actively respond by performing tasks directly related to the person's disability, such as reminding the handler to take medicine, interrupting self-mutilation, and removing disoriented handlers from dangerous situations.

An emotional support animal's sole function is to provide comfort or emotional support. The animal may or may not be able to discern that its owner is in distress, but it is not trained to do anything specific in response to this awareness. It merely provides comfort by being present. Emotional support animals are considered pets and do not have public-access rights. 

FOLLOWING THE LAW
But just because someone enters a public place with a dog or miniature horse doesn't mean the animal is a legitimate service animal. Last summer, a woman was asked to leave a Yarmouth consignment shop because the manager did not believe her dog was a real service dog. When she refused, police settled the dispute by verifying the woman's claim.

But there are people who want to take their pets everywhere they go and are willing to exploit any ignorance of the law to get their way. Most states have laws against misrepresenting an animal as a service animal. Managers of public facilities and police officers need to know how to identify a service animal.

There's a YouTube video of a man in a wheelchair bullying police officers who responded to a beach after complaints about his dog. The dog was not wearing any service dog equipment and had clearly been swimming. The man repeatedly admonishes the officers telling them, “If I say it's a service dog then you have to let it stay!”

That is not true, but identifying a service animal is not always simple. There are no national identification cards or certification programs; service dogs trained in any state or country are recognized by the ADA. Some states issue their own cards and certification letters, but since the federal regulations take precedence, state certification is not proof and cannot be required. Most service animals wear special vests or harnesses, but they are not mandated because they could interfere with the service animal's work or a person's disability could prevent their use. The size of the animal does not matter, except when classifying a miniature horse.

Basically, a service animal team consists of a disabled person and a dog or miniature horse trained to mitigate that disability, and the ADA provides simple tools for anyone questioning the legitimacy of a team.

When it isn't evident that a dog or miniature horse assists someone with an obvious disability, the ADA allows only two questions. The answers must be taken at face value. Only a federal judge can decide if a person is actually disabled or substantiate that an animal meets performance requirements.

The first question is, “Is the animal required because of a disability?” Follow-up questions about the nature of the disability are not allowed.

The second is, “What work or task has the animal been trained to perform?” Asking for a demonstration of the animal's training is not permitted.

It is a service animal only if a disability exists and the answer to the second question describes an active, trained response or legitimate work performed on the disabled person's behalf. If not, the animal can be removed and excluded from future access to public areas.

ACCESS IS KEY 

So what is public access?

Federal regulations state that service animals are medical equipment that must be accommodated in the manner of crutches, wheelchairs, and oxygen tanks. Therefore, state and local governments, and businesses and nonprofit organizations that serve the public, must allow disabled people with service animals access to all areas where the public is normally allowed to go, even if health codes prohibit animals. In many states, Massachusetts included, trainers of service animals have the same rights as service animal teams as long as the animal is well-behaved and housebroken. The rule of thumb is that access rights belong to the person, not to the service animal. If the person has a right to be there, an animal that meets the definition of a service animal has a right to be there.

Service animals are allowed at pools, beaches and playgrounds, but they are there to work, not play, so if the animal is running loose, swimming freely, chasing balls or playing with children, then it is not on duty and can be removed.

Of course, everyone needs a break from work once in a while, so an occasional visit to the woods, game of fetch, or dip in the water isn't in violation of any rules, but if the animal's leisure activities interfere with other people it can be removed. If the animal is under control and at its handler's side, waiting at the water's edge to assist its handler in entering and exiting the water, or assisting the handler in the water because of a specific medical requirement, it must be accommodated.

Service animal teams visiting a person living in no-pet housing are not required to give notice to management and are permitted by invitation of the tenant to stay as long as necessary, even if the disabled person leaves the animal at the residence during an outing. Motels, hotels, and inns cannot require prior arrangements or force a service dog team into a room normally reserved for guests with pets.

Enrolled students with a service animal must be allowed to attend school unless the school obtains a court injunction banning it and anyone who would normally be admitted to enter a school as a guest must be allowed if accompanied by a service animal.

Service animals cannot be denied access to public transportation and no operator of a public conveyance can refuse to transport them. Devout Muslim taxi drivers who refuse to pick up service dogs for religious reasons are in violation of federal and Massachusetts laws and in conflict with the Shariah Council, which has ruled that Muslims worldwide must accept, and may even use, dogs that are trained to assist disabled people.

Service animals cannot be excluded from movie theaters, concerts, or auditoriums, but if a service animal makes noise during a performance it can be asked to leave unless the noise was an attempt to communicate with or alert its handler, the animal was deliberately provoked, or the noise was consistent with noises made by humans, such as barking during applause. If an animal is removed because of noise, that behavior cannot be used to restrict its admission to future events. 

HEALTH AND SERVICE 

Regardless of health codes or departmental regulations restricting pets, service animals are allowed in ambulances, police cars, and other state and town vehicles. A service animal team cannot be denied transportation under any circumstance in which any other civilian would be transported.

Exceptions could occur if the presence of a service animal in the ambulance might interfere with patient care; jeopardize the safety of the crew, the patient or others, or cause damage to the ambulance or equipment. In such circumstances, personnel are expected to make every effort to reunite the patient with the service animal at the time of the patient's arrival at the hospital by arranging for simultaneous transport of the animal by the police department, animal control, or the patient's family.

The ADA has determined that police departments have an obligation to accommodate a service animal in the same way as any other medical equipment unless the animal's presence would cause an alteration in the environment that would disrupt normal operations.
 

The ADA prohibits segregating or isolating service dog teams from other patrons, treating them less favorably than other patrons, and charging fees that are not charged to other patrons without animals. A business that normally requires a deposit or fee to be paid by patrons with pets must waive the charge for service animals, but any business that normally charges patrons for damage that they cause can charge a disabled customer for damage caused by his service animal. Staff members at public facilities are not required to provide care or food for a service animal, but they are not prohibited from doing so voluntarily.

The ADA allows, but does not mandate, exclusion of a service animal when the animal poses a direct threat to the health or safety of others.

Health issues could arise in areas such as sterile operating rooms, some intensive-care units and areas where food is prepared, such as kitchens, freezers, and walk-in refrigerators. Allergies are not valid reasons for denying access or refusing service to people with service animals. When a person who is allergic and a person with a service animal must spend time in the same room or facility, they both should be accommodated by assigning them, if possible, to different locations within the room or different rooms in the facility. If an animal is not housebroken, it can be removed. However, an indoor “accident” cannot be used as a reason to refuse entry the next time. Unless there is a specific medical reason necessitating it, a service animal can be restricted from using apparatus, chairs, and other items provided for the use of humans. A miniature horse can be excluded if a facility cannot accommodate its type, size or weight; if its presence will compromise legitimate safety requirements necessary for safe operation of the facility; if it isn't housebroken, or if it isn't under the handler's control.

Safety exclusions could result if a service animal displays vicious behavior. Viciousness must be an overt display of aggression that is unprovoked. Barking and jumping should first be investigated as a medical emergency since a service dog could be trained to bark, jump, or tug at its handler's clothing to call attention to a medical condition. A PTSD service dog may seem confrontational when blocking strangers from approaching its handler, but this is a trained response, not aggression.

Safety concerns cannot be assumptions based on someone's past experience with animals or on his perception of aggression because of its breed's reputation. A person's fear of dogs or miniature horses is not a valid reason for denying access or refusing service to a service animal team.

Private homes and private clubs can exclude service animals if they choose, but if privately owned properties such as gyms and malls serve the public they also must serve patrons with service animals.

HUMAN BEHAVIOR

 When encountering a service animal team, do not distract the animal with whistles, calls, or by petting it. The animal has a job to do and its handler could be injured if the animal doesn't remain focused. Some service animals are able to interact with strangers, but look carefully for any tags or patches that read something like, “Do Not Pet” or “Working Dog, Please Don't Distract” before asking its handler if you may pet it or speak to it. Never touch the disabled person without an invitation and never touch the service animal or its harness or leash, period.

Do not separate the service animal from its handler. Service dogs are specifically trained to remain calm in excitable situations, but they are animals and might show aggression or fear if their handler is startled or injured.

If you want to assist a service dog team, ask the person what to do. Some mobility service animals are trained to step aside and allow humans to help their handlers. Animals that guide the blind are trained to “follow” on command a specific sighted person while still guiding their handlers. If your offer to help is turned down, don't be insulted; the purpose of a service animal is to lessen its handler's dependence on other people. If a disabled person doesn't need your help, her service animal is doing its job.

If you believe a handler is abusing or neglecting his service animal, report the incident to your police department or animal control officer. Generally, service animal training facilities retain ownership of the animals and recall them from handlers who fail to meet their expectations of care.

For more information 

To speak with an ADA specialist about service animals and access rights, call 800-514-0301 between 9:30 a.m. and 5:30 p.m. Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays or Fridays or 12:30 and 5:30 p.m. Thursdays.

(originally published Cape Cod Times 2013.04.03)
(and @ https://www.southcoasttoday.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130404/LIFE/304040311 ) 

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

.

Steven Xiarhos

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

@yarmouthpolice

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

The Donut Dilemma

Stop me if you’ve heard this one: a cop pulls a man over for OUI and says, “I know you’ve been drinking, your eyes are glassy.” The man responds, “I know you’ve been eating donuts; your eyes are glazed.”

Everyone knows a joke about cops and donuts. There are jokes about earning donut “merit” patches for saving lives and about cops revoking the drivers licenses of people who take too long in the Dunkin Donuts drive through. There’s a bumper sticker that reads, “Bad Cop, No Donut.” People send email pictures of a mock crime scene with police tape around a half-eaten donut. Most cops have gotten donuts as a gag gift. I got a lovely pink box with a dozen Boston Crème for my Academy graduation. My family spent years joking that I’d fix tickets for them in exchange for donuts. One of my brothers still insists that my line of duty injury involved falling off a stool at Dunkin Donuts. Firefighters get in on it, too, teasing officers about a new and improved donut, powdered with a dark blue sugar that won’t ruin their uniforms. And even cops joke about their five basic food groups: glazed, jelly, powdered, chocolate frosted, and “ghetto,” the donuts that are left over after a long meeting of the command staff.

It’s not really an addiction - cops can give up donuts any time, especially when their colleagues’ kids are selling girl scout cookies. Besides, it’s not really about the donuts. Not many cops even eat donuts. The donut jokes are what counts. Humor comes in handy when things get serious. When you’re a cop, things can get serious, fast.

Police play a one-sided game every day. It’s a violent game and the cops are the only ones who have to follow the rules. Experts often describe police work as long periods of mind-numbing boredom followed by moments of sheer terror. Every encounter could end with the officer’s death but he is expected to be polite and professional until that actually happens. A bad day for you might involve a fight with your boss, or a network crash, or maybe a missed lunch break. A bad day for a cop might involve breaking up a gang fight, or taking an abused child away from his parents, or spending a lunch break amidst blood and broken glass on the roadway. If one police officer doesn’t meet the media’s expectations, they’re all brutal, or racist, or bungling fools. If one officer does something heroic, the rest are still brutal, or racist, or bungling fools.

Civilians want to hear stories of shootouts, and fiery rescues, and bodies strewn along the highways but cops most often share the stories that involve breathtaking incompetence. A cop’s job security is an incurable disease called stupidity, and many people are carriers. When they don’t know who to call for information about the landfill hours or fireworks, they call the police. They dial 911 if they’re too lazy to look up the number. Why not? The little girl who’s drowning in a local pool won’t mind the extra seconds it takes for the operator to get rid of their call and take the call that might save her life. Indeed, many people call 911 for any threat to public safety – you know, a cable outage on the Red Sox’ opening day, or to report that their friend’s kid went swimming without observing the wait-thirty-minutes-after-eating rule. It’s a trend. Someone loaded your dishwasher the wrong way? Call the cops. Someone ate just one Lay’s potato chip? Call the cops. Left your really expensive stuff out in plain view in an unlocked car? It will be their biggest priority.

They don’t mind. Really. Your room temperature IQ will provide them with the humor they need after doing CPR on the infant who was left in a stifling hot car while his parents shopped for a big screen TV. The fact that you didn’t know there are inappropriate places to pee will keep them laughing when they are trying not to think about what your neighbor did to his own daughter. Cops don’t mind handling all of your problems. They like to say that they enjoy the challenge of being expected to immediately stabilize a situation that took years to deteriorate.

When there are three police cruisers at the donut shop, people complain that their tax dollars are being wasted. They joke that Dunkin Donuts is the “police substation.” Most likely, the cops inside are on a well-deserved break - relaxing, sharing a moment of peace with some colleagues and enjoying a warm, friendly, muted cup of coffee. It’s also possible that the manager called 911 when someone tried to use an expired coupon…

Donut shops and cops will always be a team, until, that is, someone discovers a way to administer coffee, and loyal camaraderie, with an IV. And the donuts? They are very tempting, after all, and the altar of truth, justice and the American way won’t collapse if a cop eats a donut.

George Orwell said "We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those that would do us harm."

Who cares if those rough men (and women) are clutching a frosted jelly donut with rainbow sprinkles in one hand?

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer.

She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

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This essay is copyrighted material;

no reproduction or excerpting is permitted without written consent from Jill Wragg (JKWragg@yahoo.com) 

***

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Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

@yarmouthpolice

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

Steven Xiarhos.

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/

Ein Weihnachtsgeschenk: Bekenntnisse einer Polizistin

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Liebe Mitbürger, Nachbarn, Freunde und Familie, mein Name ist Jill und ich bin Polizistin.

Das bedeutet, dass die Höhen wie auch die Tiefen meines Privatlebens oft von meinem Beruf mit beeinflusst werden.

Ich bedauere diese Vermischung, verwechsle jedoch mein Dasein selbst oft genug mit meinem Job, genauso wie ihr es auch tut.

Der Stempel „Polizist“ erzeugt ein falsches Bild davon, wer ich wirklich bin. Manchmal fühle ich mich, als schwebte ich zwischen zwei Welten. Meine Arbeit besteht nicht nur daraus, Freund und Helfer zu sein. Sie stellt den Puffer zwischen der Welt dar, wie Du sie kennst und der Welt, wie sie wirklich ist.

Mein Beruf ist nicht wie im Fernsehen. Die aufregenden Momente sind unregelmäßiger und viel plastischer. Es ist keinesfalls ein tolles Gefühl, eine Waffe auf jemanden zu richten. Blutlachen haben einen ekelerregenden metallischen Geruch und dampfen leicht, wenn die Temperaturen niedrig genug sind.

Herzlungenwiederbelebung ist kein Wunder aus der Tüte, und die Rippen einer alten Frau brechen zu hören während ich verzweifelt versuche, ihr Herz am Schlagen zu halten ist überhaupt nicht lustig.

Deine Neugier bezüglich meiner Arbeit schmeichelt mir nicht und ich führe auch kein Buch darüber, was am erschreckendsten, am seltsamsten, am blutigsten oder auch nur am lustigsten war.

Ich erzähle Dir nicht viel über meinen Arbeitstag weil ich die Bilder, die mich verfolgen, nicht mit Dir teilen möchte.

Aber ich möchte ein paar Bekenntnisse machen.

Ja, manchmal ist meine Anlage zu laut aufgedreht. Andrea Bocellis Stimme macht es mir einfach leichter, den toten Körper eines jungen Mannes zu vergessen, der alleine in einem angemieteten Raum starb, weil seine Eltern fürchteten, durch sein AIDS stigmatisiert zu werden.

Beethovens Neunte löscht die Erinnerung an die Krankenschwestern aus, die unter Tränen Schicht um Schicht den Dreck und Schleim von der Haut eines vernachlässigten Zweijährigen wuschen.

Der peitschende Rhythmus der Rolling Stones bestätigt mir, dass es nur pure Ignoranz gewesen sein kann, die die junge Mutter dazu brachte, Blut zu saugen als sie ihr kleines Kind in die Wange biss um ihm beizubringen, andere nicht zu beißen.

Manchmal gebe ich ein schlechtes Vorbild ab. Ich habe die Geschwindigkeitsbegrenzung überschritten, weil ich Probleme hatte, vom Adrenalinschub runterzukommen, der mir durch die Adern schoss als ich feststellte, dass der Mann, dem ich während einer Drogenrazzia Handschellen anlegte, auf einer geladenen Pistole Kaliber 9mm x 19 saß.

Manchmal wirke ich unhöflich. Ich war abgelenkt und habe vergessen zu lächeln als Du mich im Laden begrüßt hast weil ich gerade an das ängstlich geflüsterte Geständnis eines Teenies denken musste, der seinen ertrinkenden Bruder von sich gestoßen hatte, um selbst überleben zu können.

Manchmal bin ich nicht so mitfühlend, wie Du es gerne hättest. Ich zerbreche mir nicht den Kopf darüber, dass Deine fünfzehnjährige Tochter mir einem Achtzehnjährigen ausgeht, weil ich gerade versucht habe, die Eltern eines jungen Mannes zu trösten, der sich selbst die Kehle aufgeschlitzt hat, während sie im Nebenzimmer schliefen.

Ich war am Telefon kurz angebunden, weil es mich gestört hat, die Last der Entscheidung zwischen zwei Menschenleben tragen zu müssen während ich auf einen bewaffneten Mann zielte der nicht aufhörte zu betteln, ich möge ihn doch bitte erschießen.

Ich lache, wenn ich sehe wie Du vor dem Chaos im Zimmer deines halbwüchsigen Kindes zurückschreckst, weil ich den Widerwillen kenne, der mich überkommt, wenn ich fühle wie das Blut eines Heroinsüchtigen langsam an meinem Arm in Richtung einer offenen Schnittwunde läuft.

Ich war still als Du über Deine überbehütende Mutter gejammert hast, weil ich Dir wirklich gerne davon erzählt hätte, wie ich heute mit einer Schulfreundin gesprochen habe. Ich hatte ihre Mutter zusammengesackt hinter dem Lenkrad ihres Autos in einer luftdicht verschlossenen Garage gefunden. Sie hatte ihre besten Kleider angezogen, bevor sie die Autoscheiben runtergekurbelt und den Motor angelassen hatte.

Andererseits scheine ich das Blut auf meiner Uniform gar nicht wahrzunehmen, genauso wie die Schimpfwörter, mit denen ich bedacht werde oder auch die hasserfüllten Leitartikel. Das liegt daran, dass ich mich nur zu gut an das erinnere, was ich in meinem Beruf gelernt habe.

Ich habe zum Beispiel gelernt, mir keine allzu großen Gedanken über Kleinigkeiten zu machen. Traubensaft auf dem hellbraunen Sofa und ein Welpenhäufchen auf dem Orientteppich bereiten mir kein Kopfzerbrechen weil ich weiß, wie sich arterielles Blut und verwesende Leichen auf die Inneneinrichtung auswirken können.

Ich habe gelernt, wann ich die Welt Welt sein lassen und mir aus Rücksicht auf mein geistiges Wohl eine Auszeit nehmen muss.

Ich habe den vierten Geburtstag Deiner Tochter sausen gelassen, weil ich über die sechs Kinder unter zehn Jahren nachdenken musste, deren Mutter sie unbeaufsichtigt zu Hause gelassen hatte, um mit einer Freundin auszugehen.

Als die Dreijährige dem Hund Milch aus ihrem Cornflakes-Schüsselchen anbieten wollte, griff der sie an und zerfleischte ihr den Kopf, so dass der Sandkasten blutgetränkt war. Die Geschwister des kleinen Mädchens mussten dem Hund den Kopf aus den Fängen reißen – zweimal!

Ich habe gelernt, dass ich von jedem etwas lernen kann.

Zwei Mütter in einem Fürsorgestreit lehrten mich, niemanden nur nach seinem Äußeren zu beurteilen.

Die minderjährige Mutter, die von Sozialleistungen lebte schaffte es, nicht vor ihrem verängstigten Kind zu weinen, während die gut angezogene Mutter aus der sozialen Oberschicht ein regelrechtes Tauziehen veranstaltete, bevor sie mit dem schreienden Kind auf dem Arm mitten in den fließenden Verkehr lief.

Ich habe gelernt, dass nichts, was von Herzen gegeben wurde, wirklich verloren ist. Eine Umarmung, ein Lächeln, ein paar mutmachende Worte oder auch nur ein aufmerksames Zuhören kann eine verletzte oder verzweifelte Person wieder zurück in die Realität bringen und hilft mir selbst, mich wieder zu fokussieren.

Und ich habe gelernt, nicht aufzugeben. Nie.

Dieser Sekundenbruchteil des Schreckens wenn ich glaube, dass ich schlussendlich doch auf denjenigen gestoßen bin, der jung und stark genug ist, mich zu überwältigen, hat mir gezeigt, dass es für mich nur eine Beschränkung gibt: meine eigene Sterblichkeit.

Eine Woche im Mai wurde als „Police Memorial Week“ festgelegt, eine Zeit, während der man der Polizisten gedenkt, die es nach Schichtende nicht mehr nach Hause geschafft haben.

Aber worauf warten? Nimm Dir einen Moment Zeit, einem Polizisten zu sagen, dass Du seine Arbeit wertschätzt.

Lächle und sage freundlich „Hallo“, wenn er sich mal einen Kaffee holt. Beiß Dir auf die Zunge, wenn Du im Restaurant eine Geschichte über die „böse Polizei“ erzählen willst.

Noch besser wäre es, wenn Du eine Geschichte über eine gute Erfahrung mit der Polizei reden würdest. Die Familie am Nachbartisch könnte eine Polizistenfamilie sein.

Nichts, das von Herzen gegeben wurde, ist wirklich verloren. Es wird in den Herzen derer aufbewahrt, die es empfangen haben. Es ist Weihnachten. Gib von Herzen. Gib den Polizisten ein bisschen was zurück dafür, dass sie ihr Leben tagtäglich für alle riskieren.

Jill Wragg ist pensionierte Polizistin.
Sie kann erreicht werden unter JKWragg@yahoo.com

Ins Deutsche von Benjamin Lehnert.

 Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

Steven Xiarhos

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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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