How I Came To Be Known as "Badge 311"
By Deborah Chamberlain
Aie-yup! I bet you could tell just by looking at me (size 4, "back nine of life") that I'm a volunteer cop.
It began with a short article in our neighborhood newsletter seeking applicants for the auxiliary police force. I figured I'd go through a brief interview, provide a couple of references, and undergo minimal crowd control training. I was looking forward to being wrapped in one of those over-sized, oh-so-stunning glow-green vests so I could stand around crime scenes muttering, "Nothing to see here folks. Please move along." I was so naive.
While the process did start with an application, the next round of paperwork was gigantic: details about my parents, siblings, work history, educational background including providing transcripts (hmm, did I really cut that many days in junior and senior year?), criminal background (dang, I knew that long-ago speeding ticket would come back to haunt me), and more details than I think my ex-husband knew about my past.
The group interview was even more intense. I entered a room filled with cops who seemed eager to quiz the new recruit to see if they could get me to "give it up." Questions about why I wanted to be a police, what I would do if my friends were law-breakers (my answer - "not be friends with them" - sheesh, what kind of person do they think I am?), whether my family was aware of my application (not yet - not until I got in to avoid the inevitable sibling teasing if I failed). But I managed to bluff my way through the interview and was accepted into the force.
The uniform came next - a wonderful couple of hours spent trying to find pants designed for a man would at least make an effort to make my female butt not look ridiculous. While that didn't happen, we managed to find enough pieces to pull together a full uniform. The ID photo for my badge was selected based on the right balance of a not-too-angry/not-too-happy expression. As if a law-breaker would feel better if I had a slight smile in the picture.
A few days later, after being sworn in at City Hall, I was off to work. As I drove, I instinctively checked my speed when a cop car came up behind me. "Just my luck," I thought as he passed me by, "a speeding ticket right after becoming a policewoman."
My first stint as an officer was at one of our city's local festivals. Assigned with my partner Ken to monitor the railroad tracks (probably the safest duty for a newbie), I felt like I was standing outside myself looking at a stranger - someone else who was dressed up in a uniform with badge gleaming, duty belt clasped around the waist with stuff hanging from it that the real me didn't know how to use.
My musing stopped when Ken pointed out that I was not dressed properly. I was a little embarrassed, but I sure didn't want to argue with a policeman. He offered to tighten my pant belt so it rested on top of my hip bones, re-fitted the duty belt to keep my equipment from falling off, told me to move my whistle from the left to the right shirt pocket so I could use my right hand to pull it out when I needed it (duh), and finessed the other details I missed. Then - right there at the tracks, in public - he tugged on my pants to make sure they were properly belted so they could not be pulled down if we encountered "a situation." Yes, we bonded that evening.
The next day, a co-worker said a friend of hers saw me at the festival, and described me as "walking like a bag of chips and all that" - you know, the way cops seem to swagger. I explained, "There is no place to put your hands. The front pockets are too tight and the back ones are buttoned down!" The solution? Thumbs hooked on the duty belt, elbows out. If that's looking like a bag of chips, then that's me alright. And what, exactly, does that expression mean? Wouldn't cops be more likely to look like a bag of doughnuts?
Extensive training classes were next. We learned how to diffuse potentially dangerous situations. There were several classes on self-defense and arrest tactics (yes, "tactics," not "techniques"). We stood in the middle of a busy street for a traffic control session. We learned how to use the equipment: baton, hand cuffs, squad car ("Gun it, Chamberlain!"), and the worst one - pepper spray. It's an experience I will never forget. And I learned to shoot guns - hand gun, shot gun, machine-gun, rifle - something I hope I never have to do.
I plan to volunteer only for the seemingly safer events: visits to the children's hospital to play bingo and hand out stuffed bears, concert duty to reunite kids with lost parents, 4th of July parades, honor guard when needed - but I also accept the reality that I've been trained to act like a police officer when necessary. I feel a sense of awe that I am a part of this group who is sworn to protect the public. I always respected the police but now it's different - they are also my friends.
I have to laugh a bit when I think back on the way my daughter found out about my becoming a policewoman. I e-mailed her a photo of me getting pepper-sprayed ("Mommm … What are you doing?!"). While I have not lost the mushy side of me - someone who wrote a love-story memoir - I know I'm trained to call up my "warrior side" in defense of those who only want peace. I learned a lot - even at my age.
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Deborah Chamberlain is the author of her poignant memoir, Orange Picnic, which received a 5-star rating from Midwest Book Review. She is currently pursuing a certificate in Grief & Bereavement studies to facilitate her role as a speaker. Chamberlain is the principal of Donaldson Media & Marketing Services, LLC, an agency that provides advertising and public relations services. And, as a sworn auxiliary police officer, she is Badge 311. She can be reached at orangepicnic@gmail.com.
Source: September, 2010 Put Old on Hold Newsletter
Barbara Morris — Image F/X Publications
Barbara@PutOldOnHold.com
© 2010 – Image F/X Publications, All rights reserved
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