Is it War?

In July of 2007, a young man was laid out, bedecked in the dress uniform of a New York City patrolman but, instead of the traditional policeman's cap with frontispiece, he wore a paper headband inscribed with the words:

"Holy God, holy mighty, holy immortal, have mercy on us."

And so Russell Timoshenko, age 23, was laid to rest, with 10,000 in attendance to grieve the loss. And I wonder how many of those mourners wondered, as they climbed back into their patrol cars for the long drive back to their home precincts or their home states or their homelands, if war had silently been declared on their kind.

So far this year, fourteen police officers have died in the line of duty-- nine of them have been shot to death, and two incidents, both in Florida, resulted in the deaths of two police officers from the same department. Safety in numbers is often just an illusion, as is sickeningly demonstrated in this photograph below.

Oakland, California. There is no safety in numbers-- not in the game of cops n' robbers. And I think about how many of the thousands of mourners in Oakland wondered, as they filed into this stadium in March of 2009, wondered if it was war that was being waged against them in the streets.

Cop-killing is nothing new in America. It's been around since 1792, when a sheriff's deputy in New York was attempting to effect and arrest, and the suspect shot him through a closed door. Statistically speaking, a law enforcement officer falls or is felled in this country every 52 hours. That's an average, and there is no law to this average. There are spates, and spikes, and ebbs and flows. Random or premeditated, there is no way to predict or be sure. They say that Christmas Day is an exceedingly dangerous day to be a police officer in America-- but, in 2010, only one police officer died on December the 25th. He had a heart attack while struggling with an intoxicated 16-year-old female. Nothing to do with Christmas-- just happened to be that call on that day that brought those two people together in Uvalde County, Texas.

I bristle just a little bit when I read stories run by the Associated Press or Reuters or whomever it is questioning whether or not a "war is being waged" on police officers in America because a few pathetic, cowardly motherfuckers have decided to get themselves out of whatever trouble they're in by cutting down a cop or two. As I've said before on this blog, there was only ever one "war against the police" in this country, and it was bloody, and it was real, and it was organized. The Black Liberation Army, a violent off-shoot of the Black Panthers waged a campaign to execute random police officers from New York to California and many places in between from the late 1960s to the early 1980s, resulting in the deaths of dozens of officers and the wounding/maiming of many more.

What is happening now in this country? It's deplorable. It's sad. But it is not war.


As human beings with an often imperfect grasp on what is happening around us, we fear what we do not understand, and that's understandable. To call a few cop-killings that just happen to be clustered together during the month of January "war" is a knee-jerk, it is irresponsible and sensational journalism (at best), and it is, to my way of thinking, disrespectful to the memory of the police officers who died. Call it a tragedy. Call it the shame of the nation. Call it sad, because it is. But don't call it war. Or, if you want to call it war, fine-- but then every police officer who is murdered by a felon trying to flee in the night was a war hero, because this war, if that's what it is, has been raging since 1792 and, as long as there are armed shitheads who don't want to go (usually back) to jail, then police officers are going to die.

And we will continue to say, numbed and hurt and lost, "Holy God, holy mighty, holy immortal, have mercy on us."

Have mercy on us.

Limousine Farts: Part III

This is the third and final post regarding the passing of my Great-Aunt Mickey, last matriarch and "grand dame" of my family. If you haven't yet, and you'd like to, you may read Part I and/or Part II. There are two benefits, as I see it, to reading the two prior posts.

1.) It will give you some context about the woman and the circumstances surrounding her death.

2.) It will explain why I've chosen to honor an important member of my family with such a dubious-sounding blog title. Believe me, it's not just because I have no class and was raised in a family where "motherfucker" was a frequently heard coming from our dining room by people walking their dogs in the summertime.

Thanks.

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Nobody looks forward to a funeral-- except for Harold and Maude.

Even I, who looks for any opportunity to dress up, don't like funerals. The first one I ever went to was when I was eight years old. I skipped my great-grandmother's husband's funeral a couple months earlier, and so, I think primarily motivated out of guilt, I attended the funeral of Dr. Porter, our elderly neighbor. It was in the summertime, and I wore a short-sleeved green and blue plaid shirt, a white knit necktie, white pants and white shoes. I must have looked like I was going to a kid's golf tournament, but my parents didn't stop me. Nobody ever stopped me from doing anything.

I've been to lots of funerals in my life. As part of the research for the book I wrote in college on law enforcement fatalities, I started attending the funerals for slain police officers. While in college, I attended funerals for police officers who got shot, and two officers in two different cases in two different cities who were accidentally killed by other officers in car crashes while responding to calls for help. I've attended police funerals and/or viewings in several states, and the total comes to probably around fifteen or so. There are lots of rituals and everybody who attends knows exactly what to expect. With few exceptions, everything is pretty much the same. Interminable bagpipes, interminable motorcades, interminable platitudes, interminable young widows crying out in vain.

I hate police funerals, but I've shown up at lots of them-- usually in one of my dark suits, once in my EMT uniform, a respectful black mourning band partially covering my badge. I've stopped wearing white pants at funerals, and anywhere else. I suppose, in a few short decades, I'll start up again.

"You know you don't have to go to Mickey's funeral," my mother advised me, "I don't even want to go."

"Ma, nobody wants to fucking go, but we go because we have to go."

And fucking go we did.

When we got to the cemetery, no one would get out of the car. There we were, my father, my mother, my oldest sister, my wife and I, sitting there like little children in the parking lot on the first day of kindergarten-- not budging-- no way. You see, there were people standing by the gravesite, and, in my family, we don't talk to people, even if we're related to them. Well, except for my father-- he talks to anybody. So, he got out, and started schmoozing. We stayed in the car for another twenty-five minutes.

Car after car came. Some people, like my uncle, stopped at our car, peered in, and waved. We waved back, but we didn't move. People who didn't know us, and whom we didn't know, just walked on by us.

Aunt Mickey had specified that this was to be a very, very small affair-- for close family only. Well, Aunt Mickey had specified a lot of things. I could recount the whole dismal happening blow by blow for you but, instead, I think I'm going to go in a different direction. See-- for police funerals, there are actual manuals that dictate exactly what is supposed to happen, when, and how, down to the most minute detail. Behavior is also strictly regulated by commanding officers.

At civilian funerals-- all bets are off. There are no rules, and, as far as I know, there are no manuals, so, after viewing Aunt Mickey's funeral and, after having had some time to digest the various displays that were on, well, display there, I decided to create a sort of manual myself, not just for my family, but for all families.

It's called Funeral Rulerals.

Ready?

Here we go:

Funeral Ruleral #1: If you were actively suing the decedent until the moment of her death, it is generally regarded as poor form to show up at said decedent's funeral.

Funeral Ruleral #2: If you were actively suing the decedent until the moment of her death, and you make the ill-advised decision to ignore Funeral Ruleral #1, it is further ill-advised that you read a long, prepared statement at said decedent's funeral.

Funeral Ruleral #3: If you were actively suing the decedent until the moment of her death, and you make the ill-advised decision to ignore Funeral Rulerals #1 & #2, it is further ill-advised that you avoid blatant, provable lies in your long, prepared statement.

Funeral Ruleral #4: Crocs are not appropriate footwear at funerals, even if you are a child, and especially if you are an overweight, elderly Jewish man.

Funeral Ruleral #5: If the decedent has specifically requested that her funeral be entirely devoid of religious iconography, themes, overtones, music, and/or prayer, you should probably leave the Hebrew at home and take that wooden Star of David off said decedent's casket.

Funeral Ruleral #6: If the decedent has clearly stated that her funeral should be for close family only, and you were employed by her in the 1980s, you should probably stay at home.

Funeral Ruleral #7: If the decedent has clearly stated that her funeral should be for close family only, and you were employed by her in the 1980s, and you have disregarded Funeral Ruleral #6, don't make it worse by speaking at the funeral-- your being there is awkward enough.

Funeral Ruleral #8: If you are observably intoxicated, please refrain from attending a funeral. Though it is prehaps acceptable and, in some instances, expected, to be drunk at an Irish wake, people are anticipated to be sober at actual funerals as a general rule. On the decorum spectrum, showing up shitfaced at a graveside service is typically regarded as pretty low. On the practical side, some cemeteries are on sloping and/or uneven ground, and you may very well fall over.

Funeral Ruleral #9: If you are observably intoxicated and choose to disregard Funeral Ruleral #8, please do not make a speech at the funeral. The only person who ever had anything interesting or coherent to say while inebriated was W. C. Fields, and he's dead.

Funeral Ruleral #10: This one is for the officiant: you're being paid to be here. Everything at a funeral is the same except, generally, for the decedent's name. Please pay special, delicate eattention and learn the decedent's fucking name. Memorize it. Write it on your hand. Make up some sort of clever mnemonic-- just learn the goddamn dead person's name.

Funeral Ruleral #11: Also for the officiant: if you fail to heed Funeral Ruleral #10, then at least do not confuse the decedent's name with the name of her daughter who, up until the moment of her death, was suing the decedent. Because that's awkward.

Visiting Oakland

Most people who visit California from out-of-state generally don't choose Oakland as their destination.

San Francisco, sure. Los Angeles, possibly. Beverly Hills-- definitely.

Oakland? Probably not.

Today, though, Oakland is getting a tourism boom-- roughly 12,000 people are descending on Oakland, California today-- but they aren't exactly there to see the sights.

The people who are visiting Oakland today won't be staying very long, and, chances are they won't be doing a lot of shopping while they're there. They won't be taking pictures of famous Oakland sights, if there are any. They won't be dining in fine restaurants or hitting the museums either. And though they aren't there to see a sporting event, they will be spending a good deal of time inside a sports venue. These visitors will all file into the Oracle Arena to attend the joint funeral for Oakland Police Officer John Hege and Sergeants Mark Dunakin, Erv Romans, and Daniel Sakai, who were all killed last Saturday by Lovelle Mixon.

The people who are visiting Oakland today all have one thing in common: they are members of the law enforcement community, but that's pretty much where the similarities end. They're men and they're women, they're straight and gay, they're black and white and every shade in between. Didn't used to be that way, of course. If you were white, male, and Catholic, stood at least 5'10" and were 195 pounds-- you became a cop. If you weren't, you didn't. It's not that way anymore, and I have no doubt that, if you view any of the footage or the pictures from today's heart-wrenching service, you will see the diversity that is helping to make policing stronger and more trustworthy today.

The people who are visiting Oakland today are there to share in the shocking, searing pain that is felt by the Oakland Police Department. They are there to show their support. They are there to show the world that they give a damn, because all they'd want is for someone to give a damn about them. They are there to stand up to some of the negativity that has been spewed forth by some angry Oakland residents, statements made that these officers "had it coming" and that "the police are nothing but brutish thugs."

"The police."

What does that even mean anyway? Were Hege, Dunakin, Sakai and Romans "the police?" Are these twelve thousand individuals, people from all different ethnic, social, and religious backgrounds "the police?" Is any one department "the police?"

Just who is "the police" anyway?

The people visiting Oakland today are there to try and fill an enormous hole left by such a massive loss of life. Try as they might, they cannot. There is no groundswell, no outpouring of grief and solidarity large enough that can account for this calamity-- but that doesn't mean you don't try.

The people visiting Oakland today will all return to their own states and cities and towns and police departments and will resume their duties and their patrols and their lives. They will do their best to try to forget about the grief and pain that they will see today, but I expect that will be close to impossible. As they ride around in their cars and as they answer calls for help, they will be no doubt wondering if what happened in Oakland could ever happen in their town, in their city-- could this happen to them? The answer, unfortunately, is: sure. The circumstances that lead Lovelle Mixon to have a gun in his car and to turn it on those officers are no different than the circumstances of thousands and thousands of Lovelle Mixons all across America: on probation, a no-bail warrant out for his arrest, an illegal weapon, no hope, no future, no sense, nowhere to run.

Nothing.

The people visiting Oakland today will struggle to make some sense out of what has happened. They will be asking the question that has been on everybody's lips since these four men fell last week: Why? I would suggest that this is a waste of energy. There is no sense. There is no logic. There is no justification. As my very perceptive wife taught me long ago, there is no answer to "why?" questions.