Growing up in a predominantly black community, I have always sensed the mistrust between police officers and citizens. Officers, also referred to as “pigs”, are almost always seen as the enemy instead of people that can be trusted to protect and serve. I can definitely understand why my neighbors feel this way, considering how the long history of excessive force used heavily in communities like mine. But where is the line between those abusers and my father, a police officer of 30 plus years?
Being both pro-black and the daughter of a police officer was always a hard thing for me. On one side of things, I love my dad and am proud of all of the things that he does for the community. On the other, I see unarmed black men, who I’ve never actually met but who I consider to be my brothers, being killed in the street by men in the same uniform that my father wears.
As if publically being considered an affiliate of the “other side” wasn’t a hard enough thing for me to deal with, at times differing views and biased opinions caused sizable rifts between my father and me, affecting my personal life too. As one might expect, every time a killing made national news, there was always an argument in my house shortly thereafter.
Every job has its perks, though, and I have surely got off the hook for speeding and other traffic violations; however, those things are insignificant compared to the danger that my father faces every day. Though my father was loved by the community for treating all citizens with kindness and respect (here I go defending him,) he still deals with the day-to-day dangers that come with the job. From walking into burglaries or murder scenes to making sure that people are safe during the frequent hurricanes that hit Florida, my family and I have to be constantly prepared for bad news.
The horrible things that I witness across the nation in regards to police brutality cases have always reminded me that I am black before I am anything else. I could never take the side of a wrongdoer in an attempt to justify what goes on in my life and who my father is. As much as I respect my him, I often wondered if it meant anything for him to be one of the working parts of the broken machine that is our judicial system. I have always wondered if the community that I advocate for would ever be able to see past the uniform, and questioned if they’d even be wrong if they didn’t.
Being the daughter of a police officer may pardon me from minor traffic citations, but it does not rid me of my duty to stand up for humanity, especially persons of my own race. If anything, I feel that my experiences exemplify the fact that being pro black doesn’t necessarily mean anti-cop. Too often the media seems to pit the two against each other without acknowledging that many people belong to both groups. Overall, I feel in my heart that being the daughter of a police officer is a blessing and a curse. I am just proud to know that my father is one of the guys fighting both crime and negative stereotypes every day.
