My break up letter with Chicago

 When my star was pinned on my chest during the ceremony at the academy I had a great sense of pride and relief.  Relief that the academy was over and I had made it, and pride because I had joined what I felt to be the greatest department this profession has to offer.  Every kid at some point wants to be a cop…along with a firefighter, astronaut, soldier, racecar driver, and so on.  I just wanted to be a cop more than most; my closest friend, also a cop, was the one who pinned my star on my chest and a huge reason I even joined the profession.  The idea to become a cop was solidified at the funeral for 1st Deputy John Thomas as then Superintendent Terry Hillard talked about his friend.  I could see the respect and admiration in how he spoke of his friend and colleague and I wanted to desperately be a part of that fraternal feeling.

I knew the job would be hard, not just physically but mentally.  I filled my head with as much knowledge on the human reaction to stress, violence, opposition.  Just about everything I thought I would need to know as a cop.  Many times my early intuitions paid off, I felt very comfortable in chaotic situations, I even will tell people I thrive in chaos and can make decisions on the fly and adjust as needed.  I sought out mentors early on, one of those is now a Deputy Chief in the department and a man I greatly admire.  I read recommended books, sought out things that would challenge my views on policing and as a police officer.  I wanted to connect as best as I could to people who’s lived experiences and world views greatly differed from mine.

And then I was thrust into chaos….

I found myself for the first several years as a cop in the city’s most violent neighborhoods and district.  The west side was no joke, but I learned to rely on my gut instinct and the cops around me.  I learned that no matter how much you dislike or want to avoid another officer because of the way they do things, you still go when they are calling for help.  I watched and sat at the feet of great cops, asking questions and learning from them.  I took the things I wanted and ignored those which didn’t suit me.  I was able to develop my own style while remaining professional, and it paid off.  Any of my partners and myself were known as no-nonsense coppers.  We were fair and impartial; however we also set limits on what was going to be tolerated.  Nothing we did was extra-judicial or illegal, our limits were set by our ability to enforce the law and attempt to improve the quality of life for those in the community.  This earned us respect from those community members as well as the dope and corner boys on the street.

Then I was forced to move through a sticky consent decree where we as cops didn’t fully understand what was happening.  Many understood we were paying for the “sins of our fathers” in a lot of instances involving the decree, but we still tried our best to police our beats and continue to do good work.

Then 2020 happened and the bottom fell out...

I can’t say I place the blame solely on one person or group or profession.  I will freely admit I was (somehow) able to avoid a lot of the chaos and riots that took place, but was present at some protests.  I found the loudest voices during that time were usually the most factually incorrect and the demands made based on that had no root in common sense, it was just as if a toddler is fighting going to bed and says they’ll never sleep ever again.

But then extreme lawmakers started listening…

We began to see policies and laws set into place and put into motion that began to limit us in how effective we are as a profession.  This then allowed the same people to point to our “ineffectiveness” and say “see we TOLD you the police can’t/don’t do XYZ”.

Suddenly a career, a noble one at that, was the pawn in a political game of hot potato.  No one wanted to correctly deal with us, so instead they each cut a chunk out and passed us along.  By the time things came around for us within the profession to say anything we were just left with some dirty peel and not much else.  We were essentially discarded as a profession; line items on a city’s budget and completely expendable.

I’ve had friends shot, shot at, been in shootings, injured in fights, injured in car accidents, and in some instances came inches, literal inches on their body, from guaranteed death.

Then Ella French died…

While I wasn’t close to her, I did have the absolute honor of working with her on the west side.  Ella’s murder was a realization for me that the circle of violence began to draw closer to me.  For the years prior I watched other cops get shot or killed.  Commander Bauer was chasing a fleeing drug dealer, something I knew well and did often.  Officer Jimenez ran towards gun fire, something I’ve done with my partners, with the knowledge of what the snap or hiss of a bullet whizzing by sounds like.  Officer Conrad and Marmalejo ran after a criminal over train tracks, something I had done a few days prior to their deaths.

However the stark contrast between their deaths and Ella’s was we had people who cared in our upper ranks in 2018.  I watched as the procession for Ella into the Medical Examiner’s office was rushed by a wannabe playboy exempt member because we didn’t have time to honor OUR fallen.  Maybe had there been cameras and media attention I’m sure this would have been more solemn and the ambulance would have been “allowed” to carry Ella on her journey passed the entire length of officers standing at attention to pay their respects.

I applaud the officers who rushed home and back with their pipes and drums, who stood defiant and stalwart in the face of a tyrant exempt and allowed the procession to happen versus letting this him get his way and just have it drive into the lot like it was dropping off garbage.

I also want to thank the CFD ambulance staff for honoring her too and not being “persuaded” into driving straight in.

All I wanted to do was wear this uniform, be proud of my city and department, and be proud of what I do.  The last couple years I have felt the opposite.  I was ashamed to be a cop, especially a Chicago cop.  Not because of anything I’ve done or any officer I know, but because of how we are driven to feel.  It became obvious to me after Ella’s death that who we are as people was no longer important.  Constant days off canceled, 12 hour tours on end, and the blatant disrespect of the badge by bad bosses who live fully by the rule of “rules for thee, not for me”.  I’ve watched some of the very best cops this department has to offer get thrown to the wolves and dragged through the mud for doing their job to the best of their ability.  Sometimes mistakes were made, yes, and none of the cops who made them feel they should get away without discipline, but there is a stark difference between being disciplined for a mistake and learning from it as a department, to making a political statement on that mistake and causing our whole department to feel like we are complicit criminals.

I’ve watched great supervisors get beaten down so bad they gave up what made them great because it caused their head to be above the crowd.  What made them standout was stripped from them and they were cast aside.  I’ve watched terrible supervisors get promoted, awards presented to them, and lauded in press releases and from podiums.  The department has it’s priorities backwards and who it brings to light isn’t who needs to be.  Those of us in blue shirts don’t need to have bosses lie for us or cover things up, we need them to hold us accountable and help us become better cops.  There are still supervisors like that, but they are so cautious now because the rules change so often there is worry what they do today will be wrong tomorrow.  So many either avoid the extra responsibility and do the minimum they need to, or just allow tyrannical lieutenants and exempt members free reign of their officers.

Then that aforementioned circle of violence closed in a bit more…

I got word that an officer shot was someone I’ve worked with before, knew, and could call on when needed.  An inch more to the right and instead of hanging out at the bar throwing a few back with him, we’d be at the plumber's union hall throwing a few back for him while a beer and a shot sits next to a candle at the bar.  Right next to a photograph and a message of remembrance.

This was a cop that was larger than life.  More than once he’s rushed into danger, putting himself at risk for the community and his fellow officers.  He was always ready to go grab another bad guy, take another gun off the street, and put another criminal behind bars.  He has swooped in and gotten injured cops to the hospital and did so without any want of affirmation or an attaboy.  He got screwed over when he took a stand against one of the all-too-familiar supervisors, found himself off the team he was on, and put back on a beat car.

While I do not wish to sound elitist, every Chicago copper knows that being pulled off a team for political reasons and thrown back to a beat car is supposed to “send a message” to the other officers.  We all know we are expendable, whether in positions or in person.  It just blows my mind that they are no better than our cornball mayor who (I’d imagine) gets excited when she pulls out the white out or black marker and crosses off another officer who retired.

Or quit.

Or was killed.

Or took their own life.

It was in talking to this officer, remembering outside the M.E.’s office, and the emotion in Superintendent Hillard’s eyes and voice that something had changed in all those years (many of which I was not yet the police).  I found myself more than once standing, dejected, outside of a call where I was completely unable to take police action, and instead of going after the bad guy I told the victim to call 311 and file a report over the phone.  

I started to feel like I was failing my city, I couldn’t do the things that needed to be done.  I felt like I was breaking every single one of Sir Robert Peel’s principles, whether it was the excessive presence of crime or that every potential use of force would be misconstrued as excessive, and therefore erode away the public’s trust and approval of those who wear the uniform.

I felt ashamed as a police officer, but more so because of the uniform I donned and the patches on my shoulder.

I know many are thinking its a “me” thing, I’m the one with the problem, and I thought I was.  I sought out a therapist and described my thoughts, feelings, and emotions.  I described how I felt relatively useless, frustrated, and expendable.  I never hesitated to render aid to a victim of a crime or even an offender, I’ve run headlong into a burning building with my partner, I’ve written search warrants and kicked in doors…but despite all that.  All the awards I earned working with some of the best cops that Chicago had to offer, I felt small and out of place.

Then a retired, crusty old sergeant (I know you’re reading this), the same one who welcomed me on my first day in the districts on FTO (and the same one that may have put in a word or 2 so I could stay in 011) reached out to me.  My folks told him I was thinking about leaving and had started the application process for another department.  He said he was sad to see me leave but agreed it should be about my family (my main reason for the move).  I said that I was tired of watching good cops get screwed over, the nonsense from city hall and HQ, but I could always say I was a Chicago cop.  His response?

“You did it proud.”

I realized that that is all we’ve ever wanted to do.  As individuals within the profession, as coppers in Chicago, and as a profession as a whole.  I realized that in order for those outside of cop families and the profession to feel proud about us, they need to understand what they should be proud of.  But that was just it, there was nothing being done to showcase what the public should be proud of.  Most of our sense of accomplishment as cops came from the dwindling number of supervisors who gave enough of a shit to write a few lines in an award box and put us in for an award.  Eventually we got those awards printed on card stock and many (I know I did) got shoved into backpacks and duty bags and forgotten about.  It gave us a chance to don another ribbon or add another star to one.

I know I had fun poked at me when I was in court or my dress blues because yes, I wore my ribbons.  I didn’t do it to brag; when in court it was so a judge or jury could see I was a decorated officer and something a prosecutor mentioned would make me look good on the stand.  And when I wore it on my dress blues it was as a reminder of the cops I was proud to work alongside of.  None of my awards were because I earned them; every single one was a WE earned them.  Every single one was a story to tell, a memory to possess, and a testament to the men and women of the Chicago police department.

And that’s where it became hard for me wanting to leave.  I didn’t want to throw away those stories, abandon my brothers and sisters in Chicago, and I didn’t want to let down the great supervisors I worked for.  I talked to some close friends, mentors, my therapist, and family about my conundrum, and what I discovered was it was time to go.  My wife lovingly pointed out that many of my reasons for staying were things out of my control.  Much of my guilt was because I have such a strong desire to serve and an unwavering sense of duty.  But while I possessed those rough and dull traits prior to being a cop, it was the men and women of CPD that sharpened and brightened them on the street, during roll call, in the academy, or riding next to me in a blue and white.

It was with those traits that I was self blinding myself (I know you’re thinking Austin Powers right now).  I couldn’t be everything to everyone or everywhere.  Some of the young kids off the Ave were going to get gunned down and there was nothing I could do about it.  I couldn’t sit at Harding and Chicago all the time, and I just had to admit that I couldn’t be there for all my friends and coworkers.  When I whittled away the things I couldn’t control or be there for 24/7 I was left with my family.

I realized I had that same desire to serve and was duty bound to my wife and kids.  I needed to be there more for them, not deal with last minute extended tours, days off canceled, and bring a healthier balance to my life and therefore theirs.  I knew that despite the (basically unhealthy) attachments to Chicago and the department, it was in my best interest to leave.  I saw what happened to so many good bosses, and knew I didn’t want that.  I saw what happened to so many great officers, and knew I didn’t want that.  I saw what all that was doing to my family through me, and knew I didn’t want that.

If you’ve made it this far (ummm, yes, I typed a LOT) I just want you to know, whether you lived in Chicago, worked in Chicago, or just visited from time to time, I always put on my uniform (yes, sometimes there was bitching and moaning) with the thought of making you proud.  I knew I didn’t have to do it for my parents, my family, or my best friend who pinned that silver star on my chest, I always wanted to make Chicago proud.  

I wanted to represent the best academy classmates, the best instructors, the best supervisors, and the best coppers there are, because I was a culmination of their traits, their advice, their abilities, and their desire to serve and protect the city of Chicago.

When an old wardog sergeant said “you did it proud”, I felt like I did too, and I knew it was time to leave.  I won’t say what new department I went to, but the focus was on my family and what my wife and I felt would best suit our family’s needs.  I will say it is another big city department, and I’m sure replete with it’s own issues, but it isn’t Chicago anymore, and that’s a bittersweet thing.

To every cop I’ve ever worked with, every supervisor that has pulled me aside and let me know I’m being a dumbass, thank you for giving me the wherewithal and strength to be a Chicago cop, and the wisdom to know what was best when the time came.  The twitter handle will not be going anywhere, and I have several outlines of things I’ve been meaning to write for a while so this blog will keep going.  There will be snarky tweets and comments as always, but it will just be in a different color uniform, with a different shaped badge, and in a different, non-606 zip code.

I spent the better part of nearly 4 decades a Chicagoan, I went to her public schools, and walked her beats.  Everything I’ll be in my new department will be because of Chicago, and that’s a good thing.

And as always, my DMs are open if you need to talk or filter out your own thoughts about lateraling, just leaving the profession, or just need to vent.  No judgment at all, because I didn’t get that when I asked for advice and help.