[img]2894|right|||no_popup[/img]We have to wage a fierce battle against the ugliness in this world, but we must resist the urge to profile and become ugly ourselves. This battle is not about black people against white people. Or civilians against police. It is good people against bad people.
In an incident in Oregon, “a Portland police officer noticed a 12-year-old boy holding a sign that read 'Free Hugs' during a Ferguson demonstration. The officer started talking to the boy about the demonstration, school, and life. When they were done talking, the officer asked if he was going to get a hug.
“The boy teared up — and obliged.”
Chances are, that one encounter will color that young boy's attitude toward police for the rest of his life. I am sure that if the officer is ever in an encounter with a young black man, he will think about the young kid before he pulls the trigger. What we are talking about here is not one side against the other, but everybody dealing with our fellow human beings with a sense of humanity.
The Agenda Is Clear
Currently, the domestic enemy of the United States is appealing to America's emotions to circumvent our common sense. They are purposely instigating hatred, frustration, and division to promote their own single-minded agenda of power and greed. The agenda is destroying America. If we intend to maintain the kind of life we have become accustomed to, we must appeal to America's emotions, but with knowledge, wisdom, a sense of humanity. We never can out-scream fanatics. We must out-think them by reminding Americans of what we profess to believe in.
One of my first memories was of the police coming to my house in the middle of the night, shooting my dog, dragging my father off to the pen. When I was 19 years old I was busted at 3 a.m. with a briefcase full of drugs (hard drugs). That was after a prolific juvenile career of going in and out of institutions from the time I was 12 years old. (I was a precocious child). Now they finally had me as an adult. There was no doubt in my mind that nothing was going to beat me to the joint but the headlights on the bus.
At my sentencing hearing, up popped a cop, Sgt. Foster. He was not even involved in the case. It was not in his jurisdiction. However, he was the first cop who arrested me when I was 12. He harassed me throughout my juvenile career. Sgt. Foster and I had some kind of relationship. I saw him as the quintessential racist. He looked like he had stepped right off a movie lot, big, cigar-chomping brute who used to try to embarrass me in front of the fellows. If I has been suspected of something, he would not have bothered to come looking for me. He would just go up on the block and tell the fellows, “You tell Eric I want him in my office at 8 o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. Tell him if I have to burn up one drop of gas looking for him, I gonna stick my foot in his (tush).”
The fellows just loved that. “Man, Foster just came by here looking for you. He said you better arrest yourself and report to jail by 8 o’clock in the morning or he’s gonna kick your natural (tush).”
Was This Funny?
Everybody would fall out laughing. When I was 16 he caught me high on drugs. He embarrassed and manhandled me so badly that I got in a tussle with and reached for his gun. I would have been dead if that had happened today. He just busted me in the head with his club and subdued me. Instead of taking me to jail, he took me home and told my mother and stepfather what took place. “You better take him and have that head looked after,” he said. I had to get stitches in my head. I still feel the wound every time I comb my hair. Sgt. Foster was right back on me the next day: “Hey, E. You better get outta here. Here comes Foster to get him some mo’ (tush). Ha, ha, ha!”
When I saw Sgt. Foster in court, I assumed that he chad come to gloat. He had warned me at 16 that if I didn't change my ways that I would end up in San Quentin, or dead.
When they called my case up, I stood to see how many years I would get. The judge put the court in recess. They took me back to his chambers. In walks Sgt. Foster. He told the judge that I wasn't really a criminal. I was just stupid. I didn't like the idea of being called stupid, and protested, but Sgt. Foster told me to shut up.
He went on to convince the judge to give me an option of going into the military. If I came out with an honorable discharge, the adult charges would be dropped. My juvenile record would be expunged, which the judge did.
They changed my life. If it hadn't been for that one act, I would not be capable of writing this. Neither my daughter nor son, nor any of my grandchildren would be here. I would have been in prison during the time they conceived. I often wonder what my life would have been like then. I shudder to even think about it.
Sgt.Foster did twist the knife a little. I thought they were talking about the Army, but they made special arrangements with the Marine Corps to accept me in spite of the fact that I was a high school dropout with an extensive juvenile record. To this day, I don't know how they did that. Before the bus stopped rolling at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, the biggest, ugliest DI they had was jumped on the bus screaming my name. Within two days, I was fantasizing about how nice it would have been to be quietly relaxing in prison.
Eric L. Wattree is a writer, poet and musician, born in Los Angeles. A columnist for the Los Angeles Sentinel, the Black Star News, a staff writer for Veterans Today, he is a contributing writer to Your Black World, the Huffington Post, ePluribus Media and other online sites and publications. He also is the author of “A Message From the Hood.” Mr. Wattree may be contacted at Ewattree@Gmail.com http://www.whohub.com/wattree or Http://wattree.blogspot.com or Citizens Against Reckless Middle-Class Abuse (CARMA)
