“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”
― Mr. Rogers
When Mr. Rogers was my favorite TV show, the cops were included in the list of people one could see helping others, but not so much any more. The last time I called the cops, I saw police racism first-hand, directed at my neighbors, but said to me with an isn't-this-awful-but-at-least-we're-all-white-folks-together kind of tone that made me want to puke.
April 14th, 2011, the day before tax day...
The spouse and I go out to my car to go to the accountant's to get the returns done. I go to put the key in the ignition, only to discover that some bastard had popped out my ignition cylinder to try and steal my car- prevented only by the fact that the key has a chip thing in it that prevents it starting unless the matching chip is in proximity of the key.
The guitarist in my husband's band picks him up and runs him over to the accountant, leaving me to call the cops to report the attempted theft. About 90 minutes after I call (and that was quick response in my mind) a cop shows up. He's short, a little stout, thinning ginger hair, freckles.
He takes all of my information down, gives me the card to look up the report for the insurance online, and then spends 10 minutes casually chatting with me about my neighborhood, which happens to be an historic barrio. Looking around at the houses, he makes several remarks about "these people." I wish I could remember them to quote, but all I remember was being horrified.
Why didn't I call him on it? Since I'm white, my primary reason was that I didn't want him to mess with my insurance report. White privilege for the "win," I guess. I wish I'd had the courage then to shame him.
Funny enough, it wasn't my neighbors who'd broken into my car. My then-next-door neighbor (whom I will call "Pedro," since he is currently serving at the pleasure of the county for freelance pharmaceutical sales, bless him) heard the story and waited on his porch with the light off the next night. Sure enough, the thieves (who turned out to be crusty transient "urban camper" types) came back to try again, and "Pedro" came up behind them, and encouraged them to walk out of the neighborhood backwards. I assume he was packing; I never ask. Of the two people mentioned in this story, "Pedro" is the one I bought a six-pack for. He was the one who cared more about his neighborhood than the cop who rode in to insult where I choose to live.
Is this a big story? Nah, it's a little one. I didn't get my rights violated, the cop did what he said he would do, and he was reasonably polite to me. It was the idea that my skin tone would presume agreement with his opinion that made me a little queasy.
But you know who was helping when I looked around to see? The "criminal" who cared about where his mom and kids live.
I wonder what Mr. Rogers would have to say to the Ferguson police force today?