The day my wallet was stolen was the first time I had to bond with the men and women in uniform. Tasked and armed with the mission to protect and serve.
Protect and serve. Empty words that are weightless and defenseless against the owners who swore to abide by the law.
Law. Exactly how do we begin to define the relevance of such a thing. It’s complicated and intimidating when you consider that being inflammatory even in vague terms is a valued asset.
The lawful celebrate lawlessness in basic forms of oppression and the blueprint for such appalling tendencies were always instituted by those in power.
The law didn’t work in my favor when I tearfully explained the process that could’ve led to my wallet being stolen.
The questions asked and the cold stares. The accusations that I played a major part in my plight.
The unsatisfactory way in which my case was processed. The fear that if I said the wrong thing I could possibly end up losing more than my credit cards.
I wanted justice to be served in the form of reclaiming what was taken from me. It was clear that would be a tall order. There was an inherent callousness in the way I was treated.
You’re not a victim. You’re a dumb ass for making the poor decision that led you to this place.
I never got my stuff back. The police did end up apprehending the employer at the gym who used my debit card at Macy’s and credit card at The Gap. Thanks to my acute identification.
I almost testified against her but didn’t for reasons I can’t recall. 2009 seems like forever ago.
What I do remember is how convinced I was during and after my ordeal that law enforcement doesn’t seek to provide justice in all cases or for all people. Not because I felt I had lost more than my wallet which in a way I had.
But because there is an exhaustive spirit that clouds the communication between the police and citizens. The disconnect is overtly offensive and disqualifies any hope of a decent encounter.
I conducted myself with care and diligence and still felt like the walls of the precinct were caving in on me.
All I needed was to be dismissed so I could breathe again.
When I was finally released from reporting the crime against me — I remember walking out into the thick folds of the sweltering summer air.
I took a gulp of it and immediately unclogged my pores. And as I ventured further away from the police station I noted my updated stance.
When it comes to the police — I would rather sink then extend my weary hand. For help.