Scars of Blue - A story of Policing, Corruption, Mental Health, and Survival

Chapter 2

From Whence I Came

For anyone who knew me as a kid, my becoming a police officer is the last occupation anyone would have suspected to be what lie ahead in my future. As a boy, I was a skinny, scrawny, hyperactive, ADD-inflicted smartass with a big head of blonde curly hair. I had a loud mouth and a lot of attitude, but not much to back it up. Why was I like this? It took me a long time to figure that one out. Eventually, I realized it was because I have always felt as though I never fit in anywhere, so I would lash out. I still feel very much like that today, like I often don’t fit in. I may be smiling and socializing when I am someplace, but inside I feel like I am the odd man out. I assume it was because I was never a part of any particular group, nor was I very close with any one person in particular, except one girl–Tina. She was my version of a “best friend” through high school. Sadly, she passed away after being ravaged by cancer.

I didn’t have much family outside my mother and brothers. What little family we did have didn’t really speak with each other anymore once my parents divorced. Nonetheless, I have had ample opportunity to make and maintain close friendships, but I have failed to do so. I imagine it’s because I never created those feelings of obligation, or a sense of duty one develops with friendships. I was never bitten by the “best friend bug,” so to speak. I am the oldest child in my family of four brothers. Older than my next brother by almost six years. Quite an age gap. So, while growing up I wasn’t able to have any of my brothers’ act as my “best friend” with whom I could confide in, because they were too young. To make matters worse, I had a father who really didn’t want anything to do with parenting, let alone being part of a family. This helped to create my sense of being alone and on my own very early on. Detached may be a better way to describe it. Either way, I sometimes feel as though I am better off just staying at home, rather than going out and trying to socialize. This may sound like a pity party, but trust me, these are not good feelings, and they are feelings I wish I didn’t have to live with.

As a kid, you don’t know how to rationalize these emotions or how to navigate them. So my reaction, or my defense to pretty much every slight or criticism was to be a little sonofabitch. When we moved to Brooklawn, I had a hard time making any friends for the first couple of years. The town was very insular, and everyone seemed to be related to everyone else. I really only made one real friend early on, Michelle, with whom I miraculously still keep in contact with until this day. So, I guess I’m not completely awful at friendship after all.

Upon my arrival in Brooklawn, I was quickly labeled by the neighborhood kids as “the dirt bag Philly kid.” Being branded, along with being a complete outsider with no ties to the community whatsoever, made my integration that much more difficult. I spent more time fist fighting those first couple of years (and getting my ass kicked) then I did playing with the any of the neighborhood kids. It certainly didn’t help matters any with my being small in stature and completely insecure, while having a big mouth and cocky attitude. I didn’t exactly endear myself to many people. That list included kids, teachers, and other parents. To top it off, I wasn’t a good student. It wasn’t an intelligence issue. It was because I was so hyperactive and so out of control that I could barely sit still in my chair, let alone settle down enough to focus and learn. Today, I would have been diagnosed as ADD or ADHD, along with ODD (oppositional defiance disorder). Back then, I was just a smart mouth pain in the ass!

Another problem I had was I hated being told what to do. Especially, by the teacher when I was in front of the entire class. It embarrassed me to be corrected in front of the same kids who were just looking for a reason to hate me. “Sit down,” “Stand over here,” “Go stand in the corner,” “Go to the principal’s office,” “Stop talking,” “Stop fidgeting,” etc. I drove my teachers crazy! Then I would make everything worse with my attitude and my big mouth, my defense mechanisms. More than one person from those early years has told me they found it ironic that I became a cop—the portrait of authority—since I always displayed resentment toward authority.

I particularly resent authority when it’s in the hands of someone I deem doesn’t deserve it. Someone who only got into the positon because of who they know are the worst in my eyes, and I despise them. These feelings of resentment had manifested during those early childhood years, and they would continue to grow. My apathy of power would also cost me professionally later on down the line. To be frank, I still have these feelings from time to time, as I now work in the corporate world. I have a habit of comparing the corporate desk jockeys, keyboard warriors, and telephone tough guys I now deal with to the heroes I worked with on the street. Needless to say, the comparison often falls short for obvious reasons, and I tend to lack respect for those I am around in the business world. My negative outlook toward those in charge has caused me to have blown through a series of jobs since I retired from law enforcement. This is not something I am proud of.

My first year in the New Jersey school system was horrible. Not only was I fighting and getting picked on all the time (today it would be called bullying), but the curriculum in my new school was so far advanced compared with that of the school I attended in Philadelphia, that I wound up having to repeat the grade. Of course, this just added to my feelings of ineptitude. Not only was I an outsider who already felt hated and constantly picked on, but I felt like I was stupid when comparing myself with the other students. Let me clarify one thing. It was not in any way, the fault of my teachers’ that I was lagging behind. I was simply the product of a school district that was running about two years behind the curriculum of my current school. By January of my first school year in New Jersey, it had already been determined that I would have to repeat the grade. So I sat in a classroom every day knowing that I didn’t have to do a damn thing, because nothing I did mattered. This idle time was not a good thing for a hyperactive and frustrated kid. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time in detention or in the principal’s office. I acted out purposely in class out of sheer boredom, and just to get tossed out. Once the other students found out I was going to have to repeat the grade, I became “the retarded kid from Philly.”

At home things weren’t much better. My father worked at an oil refinery. He was verbally, mentally, and physically abusive toward my mother, and toward me, especially.

He eventually left my mother and their four sons for a woman he worked with at the refinery when I was fourteen years-old. Sadly, I remember having feelings of relief when my dad finally left. He constantly belittled me, while almost taking joy in getting me upset. He took zero interest in me as a son. We never played sports together, or did anything father–son related. We hardly spent any time together at all. Although, he was not violent, or overly physically abusive per se, he wasn’t shy about smacking me around when the opportunity presented itself. Often, he would poke me, or flick my cheek with his finger. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to hurt me. It was more the mental abuse with his constant put-downs and disparagement that wore me down. The only time I can say he was actually physically violent was about a year or so after he had left.

One weekend, my mother and my brothers were away at her new boyfriend’s campground. I was at home alone when my dad showed up and walked right in the front door of the house, as if he still lived there. He was obviously drunk, and we got into it right away.

It started out as yelling and screaming at first. Then, at one point, he cracked me pretty good across the face with the back of his hand. A “back hand” as he would call it. His go-to move when he did lay heavy hands on me. Enraged, I picked up one of those miniature baseball bats you would get at a baseball souvenir stand. My brother had been playing with it the day before in the living room, and he had left it on the couch. I picked up the mini-bat and swung it at him, right at his head, but I missed. Now furious, he stepped forward and nailed me good with a closed fist to the face. He then took the bat from my hand and hit me with it about five or six times in my head and shoulders. I was able to somewhat block about two of the blows with my forearm as I fell to the floor, but two or three of the other blows got through. I was hit in the face and the head.

In order to get my father to stop hitting me, I thought it best to act like I was unconscious. He stopped swinging the bat at me, and after a second or so of standing over me and mumbling something I couldn’t understand (mostly because of the ringing in my ears), he dropped the bat next to me and onto the floor. He then stumbled out the front door. For a quick second, I thought of picking up the bat, running up behind him, and giving him a blow to the back of his head. However, the second I tried to stand up I almost fell onto the floor face first. I was concussed and so dizzy. I laid on the floor for a few minutes trying to gather my wits. I didn’t know what a concussion was at the time, but I know now that’s...