My dad is a police officer.
My dad is a hero.
My dad is my hero.
I was in fourth grade the first time that I understood how dangerous my dad’s job was. There was a phone call made to my mom, and I remember being told that Dad had gotten hurt at work but he was okay and coming home early tonight. His arm was in a cast—a suspect had twisted his wrist in a confrontation and torn ligaments. That was the first time he had ever gone to work and not come home in the same condition. It never occurred to me until then that such a thing could happen.
For as long as I can remember, my dad worked the 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift in the summertime so that he could be home with my brother and me during the day while my mom was at work, and then she could be home during the night and my dad would work. At 2 p.m. sharp, I’d watch from the couch as he got ready for work. Boots on his feet, bulletproof vest secured around his torso, button-up uniform shirt over the vest, badge on the breast pocket, and heavy belt around his waist.
I’d sit, watch, and ask questions. Why is this on your belt? What do you use that for? Where is your gun? Have you ever used it?
Patiently, he’d sit down next to me and explain it all. Then he would kiss my forehead, tell me that he loved me, and leave. My eyes would follow him as he walked out the door, watching him get in the car and drive away. I always knew that, when I woke up in the morning, he’d be sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee and the newspaper.
It didn’t occur to me until I was in fifth grade that there was a chance he wouldn’t come home every time he walked out the door. When I was ten years old, a police officer in my dad’s department was killed while on duty. It was then that I finally realized exactly how much my dad was really risking every time he went to work.
Growing up, I proudly told everyone that my dad is a police officer. Often the only effect of this was that it scared boys away. In light of recent events, however, saying that my dad is a police officer results in association with a small group of police officers that have not done their jobs as they have promised, a small number of police officers that have acted wrongly in specific situations. Saying that my dad is a police officer elicits a negative reaction now more often than a positive one.
And I want to know why that is.
As far as I am concerned, nothing has changed since I was a little girl. My dad still goes into work with the risk of him not coming back the same or not coming back at all just so that he may protect others from harm. When he works specific events, I still ask where he will be, when he will be home, and I make sure that my last words to him always are “I love you” just in case, because you can never be too sure in today’s world.
My dad is still hero. My dad will always be a hero.
My dad is the reason that a city of people can go to sleep at night and take comfort in the fact that they are safe.
Yes, some police officers have not protected. Some have not served. But the key word is some. A select few.
My dad protects. My dad has served. The next time you consider generalizing about police officers, remember my dad. Remember the sacrifices he has made and all that he puts on the line every day when he goes into work. My dad is a selfless man who places civilian lives above his own. My dad is my hero. Regardless of what anyone may think, I am so incredibly proud to be the daughter of a police officer.
