by Jim Geeting

     I have been trained extensively; for hours and hours—days and days, to use force effectively and quickly. I can, if my life is in the balance, shoot a half-dozen different firearms—both hand and long guns—at an expert level. Without the thought of your pain or suffering, I could, at an instant, send two or three flaming hot, half-ounce pieces of metal ripping into your flesh—the perforated hollow point slug tearing internal organs and bone as it come to a stop. Each bullet will expend all of its energy—the hydro-shock turning muscle into liquid. If you try to kill me, all of this awaits you. 



     I have trained at hand to hand combat, so that in the event you try to escape or harm me with your hands, I can break your bones, rip tendons from muscle or make you cringe in red hot pain so intense; you will beg me to stop. I can throw you to the ground and with a few quick and practiced techniques; you will be restrained in steel, reeling from the agony. 

     I can drive at speeds you have never dreamed of—legally—and never place you at risk as a fellow road user. I can deliver blood, medicine or a skilled medical professional anywhere I am told to take them at a velocity you can’t believe. I can deliver a death notification in the wee hours, with a gentle touch and somber, heartfelt sympathy of a clergyman. And, I can deliver a baby, with the skilled hands of a midwife. I can start your stopped heart, stop your bleeding wounds or, keep the blood circulating with CPR for an hour or more, until the doc tells me I can stop because there is no hope. 

     I can find a lost child, rescue a cat or sometimes, help you into your car if you’ve locked the keys—or your baby—inside. I can change your flat if you’ve never taken time to learn how or I can arrange for a tow truck if it’s more than a spare tire can fix.
 
     I can testify in civil or criminal court with the calm and certainty of a professional, while assuring the guilty pay or, the innocent walk away. I can reconstruct the scene of a crime or a traffic fatality with the skill of an engineer, painting the scene so a jury can do the right thing.

     I can calm a domestic fight, settle a business dispute and referee a neighborhood squabble so that everyone feels like they won, even when no one has. I can talk for hours to a group of senior citizens or a much more intimidating crowd—a room full of Kindergartners—and tell stories of bad guys, no-good-nicks and scoundrels. And fast, code runs, with lights and “si-REEENS!”

     I am not a policeman or policewoman—I am a police officer; deputy or trooper—with no preconceived gender in my title. Both women and men do what I do with equal skill and valor. Mine is no longer a profession of brawn—but of brains.
 
     Speaking of brains, I spend hundreds upon hundreds more hours in the classroom, learning the ever changing opinions of the courts, statute changes and more modern techniques for custody, control, pursuits, reports, detection, interdiction, interrogation and detention. My education never ends.

     I can use RADAR, UHF Radios, Alcohol testing instruments and video recorders; metal, collapsible batons and pepper spray. I know the national and state rules for the use of all of these and must prove that knowledge repeatedly.

     I am a Democrat, Republican, gay, straight, black, white, Hispanic, native-American, oriental, mid-eastern and Slavic. I am tall, short, young and, uh, not so young. I am Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, Atheist, pro choice and pro-life and everything in between. I do what I do without concern for where you may stand on any of these things.

     I am an American cop. My love for this country and its system of justice is solid and real—that should go without saying—it is obvious by what I have chosen to do with my life.

     What is not so obvious; what I try not to show, is that as I did this job, I saw what I saw and I laughed and I cried and I loved and I hated and I raged and I resigned, at the truth of what man does to himself. What we do to each other and how we continuously insult, a loving Creator.

     Then I fade away—hoping someone remembers me and that He understands, why I can do it, no more.

To learn more about Jim Geeting and his books go to JimGeeting.Com