In light of recent events, everyone has had much to say about law enforcement and its impact on the world today. Some people are positive, thanking them for all they do, but more often than not, I get the pleasure of reading negative, insulting and shameful things about police officers. They talk about how police abuse their power and have no boundaries, and how their lives do not matter.
Sitting here, reading those words or hearing people say things like that on the news causes a whirlwind of emotions. Most people are brought up with the belief that police officers are people who are trained to protect you. So hearing people say they abuse their power blurs the line of what we are taught and makes them seem shameful.
Now try reading those articles and hearing those words knowing that they are talking about your father. Thanks to people's generalizations about how cops' lives do not matter, that implies my father's life doesn't matter either.
I'm not sure if people can understand how that makes a daughter feel, but I'm going to do my best to explain, despite my shaking hands. My father is my hero, plain and simple. He has taught me right from wrong, he has protected me for 20 years and he has never faltered.
At 5 years old, I didn't understand what my dad did. I knew he was a police officer. I knew he left after we went to bed and came home early the next morning, usually tired but always with a smile on his face to see my brother and I off to school. At 8 years old, I would see kids in the Halloween parade dressed up as police officers and fire fighters and I remember thinking how my dad wore his uniform better. And being daddy's little girl, I used to love telling people that my dad was the one in blue who served and protected them, but then I was told not to. At 13, I would wear my sweatshirt with the police department logo on it, but then I was told not to do that, either.
At 15, I learned for the first time how dangerous my dad's job really was. I would see him come home with scratches on his hands and a couple of bruises, but I never thought anything of it. It wasn't until one morning, when I woke up to my mother going about her normal routine, but the worry lines were drawn all over her face. I later learned that there had been a seven-hour standoff, one that my dad had to stand through. It involved a shootout, made the news, scared my mother half to death, and undoubtedly took its toll on my father.
By 18, I was able to choose to wear clothing with the police department logo on it and choose whether or not to reveal what my father did for a living. I was told to conceal my father's occupation for my own protection.
So, instead of being proud of the man who worked 10-and-a-half-hour shifts, would be awake for hours on end just to see his kids before his next shift, missed countless holidays but would always try and make it up to his family, and who tried to hide the scratches from breaking in windows to save animals from a fire and the bruises from saving people's lives, I was supposed to conceal it. I was supposed to hide it.
And I refuse.
If I could wear blue every day of my life, I would. If I could put the police department logo on everything I own, I would. If I could express to anyone in this world how proud I am of the man I get to call my father, I would, but they don't make words for that kind of admiration.
I will not be ashamed to be a police officer's daughter. I will not let society shame me into hiding my father's occupation. I will not be afraid to tell people to become a police officer when they grow up because they can do great things with their lives when they wear blue. I won't be afraid to put the words "police lives matter" and "black lives matter" in the same sentence.
I am a proud daughter of a wonderful and incredible police officer who has given this country 30 years of his life. Even if this country chooses to be ungrateful for all that he and every other officer out there does, I will not be. I am proud, I am grateful, and I bleed red, white and BLUE.
