And, the clincher: Officer Sheri and I shared the same name, although her parents were apparently unaware of the correct spelling.
The one glaring difference? I was a chicken shit hoping to feign eight hours of courage, while she was a legally licensed badass.
I had never sat in a police car before, not even in the back-seat while clad in cuffs. While riding shotgun in the squad car that afternoon and evening, I was pumped with both benevolence and bravado. Oh, the respect and power I possessed, even if by proxy! When heavy-footed drivers spied us and pressed their brakes, I grinned at their reactions. When young children waved as we passed, I smiled and waved back.
“Yeah, the kids are usually pretty sweet,” Sheri said. “But last week, I waved at a little boy—maybe six years old—and he flipped me off.”
Clearly, the concept of respect wasn’t something only earned; it was also learned.
Minutes later, we received our first radioed-in call. When Officer Sheri suggested I get out of the vehicle to enter a small bungalow in a lower middle-class neighborhood, my pumped-up bravado burst wide open into panic.
I wasn’t sure all my training—and by that I mean a full amount of none—had prepared me for a custody dispute between a husband and wife in the midst of a tumultuous divorce.
“I hope this isn’t a repeat of my last experience like this,” Sheri said. “The guy punched his fist through the front door.”
I crept out of the patrol car and glanced at the father, standing with his arms crossed, next to his SUV. He glowered at us. Was he angry in an “I’m-calling-my-attorney-in-the-morning way” or angry in an “I’m-taking-care-of-this-right-now-with-the-.45-in-my-glove-compartment way”?
If things got really ugly, I figured I’d duck for cover behind Officer Sheri. She was tall. She was tough. She was the only one wearing a bullet-proof vest.
We spent more than a half hour questioning each of the parents and attempting to engage in thoughtful and calming discussions with their two frightened children. Finally, Officer Sheri’s good sense and sensitivity safely resolved the situation. At least for that night.
At the next call, with a few hours of successful law enforcement under my belt, I climbed out of the car more confidently. It was another domestic dispute, this time between a woman, her eighteen-year-old son, and the young man’s step-father. At least I might know what to expect this time.
My courage was quickly snuffed out by the ubiquitous smell of alcohol in the party garage where the parents were watching football. I soon discovered that even more frightening than mediating the heated conflict of a divorcing couple was finding oneself in the middle of a family fight involving enraged drunks.
According to the boy’s mother, her son had withdrawn to his basement bedroom for his nightly ritual of smoking: both cigarettes and weed. This disrespect of house rules infuriated the mother and stepfather, who made it a point to sit at the bar in their attached garage to drink beer and smoke their own cigarettes. After we talked with the young man, my gut feeling was his recurring routine of retreating downstairs was usually preceded by the parents’ nightly drunken rage.
As Officer Sheri questioned the parents, the mother admitted the stepfather once had been charged for hitting the boy. The episode left bruises, but she quickly noted that her son, who was thirteen at the time, “deserved it.”
I was simply a ride-along civilian. I had no authority or any training in these matters. I stayed silent, while protectively folding my arms across my chest and shooting my partner concerned looks.
I wasn’t certain a definitive right way or wrong way existed for handling this kind of situation. My anxiety and heart rate soared. If firearms were stored anywhere in the house, I prayed Sheri would prove quicker on the draw.
We left an hour later without a punch thrown or a gun fired. While Officer Sheri managed to defuse that night’s conflict, I doubted it would be the family’s last.
Parenting is a universally complicated and difficult occupation. I’d experienced, firsthand, my own trials of raising sons as a divorced mother. I was empathetic about the challenges. Yet as we drove away, I felt distressed for this not-quite-a-boy, not-quite-a-man. He showed signs of being rebellious, unambitious, and self-medicated, but I felt certain he’d also spent most of his life neglected and abused. I feared he never stood much of a chance.
In between my panic during these two domestic calls, which Officer Sheri referred to as “fairly routine,” our day was punctuated by the still lingering paperwork from a non-injury traffic accident earlier that afternoon. The only noteworthy part of this minor incident was that the young man appeared polite, apologetic, and mostly concerned about disappointing his parents. As I told him I thought they’d understand, I wanted to hug him. I hoped his parents, after seeing him uninjured, would do just that.
After Sheri was forced to spend yet another chunk of time finishing the accident form, she leaned toward me and apologized.
“I’m sorry this accident report is dragging on so long,” she said. “It’s a brand new form, and it’s the first time I’ve had to fill one out. Sorry if the day’s been kind of boring.”
Boring? I reassured her that was not the case.
“Here’s a thought,” she said. “How would you like to go on a drug raid tonight?”
Was she joking? A first-time patroller taking part in a raid? Holy Toledo! I had hit the crime-fighter lottery!
I bounced in my seat. “Absolutely!” I answered. And then I hyperventilated.
Officer Sheri had all the connections to make it happen. A few hours later, we found ourselves at the downtown Toledo building where the SWAT team and vice squad met covertly to plan raids.
Sheri and I took seats in the back, and I gawked at the SWAT team. My admittedly sexist stereotype didn’t miss its mark. Every SWAT guy was toned and exceptionally attractive. Each was attired in a pair of black cargo pants and a form-fitting black T-shirt, with the ensemble later completed by a dangerously intriguing armored vest. For those readers familiar with the Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich, just picture the character Ranger. And then swoon.
But this was real life, not fiction. What lie ahead that night was a serious and potentially dangerous reality, not an adventure scene within a romantic comedy. I dismissed my daydreaming so I could focus on the plan at hand.
The team leader presented a layout of the targeted house and discussed what we might expect that evening. They’d thoroughly researched and rehearsed their plan. They were familiar with the neighborhood, the home’s occupants, and the level of danger.
I learned in my crash course that, depending on a particular raid’s perceived level of danger, metro police categorized raids into two types: the “Knock” or the “No-Knock” variety. My own experience that night would best be classified as the “Knee-Knock” kind.
Our caravan of vehicles—vice squad car, SWAT van, and the patrol car carrying Sheri and me—entered one of the roughest parts of town.
I knew the area, especially since it had been featured for weeks in the national news as the neighborhood of a missing toddler. Just hours earlier that evening, while Officer Sheri and I were in the midst of filing that accident report, Toledo Police had finally found Baby Elaina’s body in her family’s garage—only a couple blocks from the house we were about to enter.
As we grew close, we shut off our headlights. We stopped in front of the targeted house.
If I’d felt trepidation about leaving the patrol car during our earlier domestic disputes, it came nowhere near my fear of even cracking open the car window in the midst of a nighttime raid.
The SWAT and vice guys knocked once before pushing in the front door and rushing inside. At Officer Sheri’s encouragement, I crawled out of the car.
Minutes later, we heard the shout, “All clear!” This was only vaguely comforting. Sheri had to nearly pry my hands loose from the side of the police car.
I followed her closely, nearly a shadow behind her bac
k as she headed toward the front porch. Sure, we’d been given the word that it was safe to enter, but I knew twists and turns in these kinds of events were always possible. A second perpetrator could round the corner of the house at any second, grab me, and hold me hostage.
I’d watched my share of crime TV shows.
As we made our way into the house, my eyes spun across the room. I spied the suspect sprawled facedown on the threadbare carpet, his cuffed hands behind his head. A few feet away, a tiny auburn-haired girl sat on the couch, watching The Little Mermaid.
While the SWAT team and black-hooded vice squad tore apart every cupboard and closet in the filthy and disheveled house, the little girl chatted casually about the movie with one of the SWAT guys and me. She appeared oblivious to everything happening around her. Apparently, for this smiling, blue-eyed kindergartner, the night’s events were nothing out of the ordinary.
I gazed down at her, unable and unwilling to comprehend a childhood that could result in such nonchalance in this kind of situation. If I’d ever questioned the parenting mistakes I’d made, and I knew I’d made plenty, I was overcome with gratitude that my children’s lives had never come anywhere close to this.
As heart wrenching as it was to watch this tiny girl sit there amidst this chaos, the saving grace was she made it through the night with no physical harm. As did the raid team, Sheri, and I.
And the girl’s father? I figured he got really lucky, especially after he yelled, “Give me a break. I’m doing the best I can!”
One of the SWAT guys bent over him and said, “The best you can do? This is the best you can do? You’re dealing dangerous drugs, with your six-year-old daughter sitting right here. No, you’re not doing the best you can. Just shut the hell up.”
Besides fearing for my own safety and the welfare of all the people on site, I had also remained worried all night about a dog that was presumably in the house. Having prior knowledge of the dog, the SWAT team had mentioned at our planning meeting that they were prepared to shoot it, if necessary. I understood the safety issues presented by a charging and vicious animal, but my heart sunk at the thought of shooting a possibly innocent pup who may simply be a victim of circumstance.
Thankfully, even the cowering half-grown boxer, who had the fortune to be locked inside a cage when we entered, survived the night.
While the team finished its search and wrapped up other details, Officer Sheri and I headed out the door. I beamed at the SWAT team and said, “You guys are my heroes.”
As apparent by the subtle round of eye-rolls, The Avengers weren’t impressed by my adoration. I shrugged this off. What mattered was the perp had been apprehended. Justice was served. And, most important, to quote Doctor Who: “Everybody lives!”
I’d think about the families, especially the children I met that night, for months to come. No police officer could solve all the issues they would likely continue to face.
On my drive back home, I called my mother and my two sons to say I was safe and I loved them.
And then, I made a detour to Dunkin’ Donuts. Apparently, Officer Sheri and I had been far too busy that day to stop there. I celebrated my survival—and my very loving, if sometimes imperfect, family life—with a hot mocha and a chocolate-frosted doughnut.
The next time I rode shotgun with a police officer, I’d be certain to request a doughnut stop, along with a bulletproof vest.
And I’d be damn sure to wear a pair of Depends.
Chapter 18:
A COULDA-BEEN OR A WANNABE
I’d been a professional singer most of my life. By “professional,” I mean the kind who belted out Jackson 5 tunes while driving alone or before my car-captive children grew old enough to object.
I never participated in a choir nor tried out for a high school musical. In fact, my only public singing appearances had entailed swaying on top of a bar booth while I bellowed the song “American Pie” along with the jukebox.
Inexperienced a singer as I was, I always dreamed I could have been another Barbra or Adele, if only I’d given it a shot. I wondered if, deep down, I had what was necessary to take my vocals to the next level. Even if I didn’t achieve phenomenal success, I wanted to believe I could at least keep a tune.
By never pushing myself to test my talent or open myself up to that possibly personal—or very public—failure, I kept that hope alive well into middle age. I believed in this latent talent of mine. I truly wanted this.
And so, I finally gave in to facing my fears and risking disappointment by attempting to discover if I was a coulda-been or just a wannabe. This 52/52 venture, taking singing lessons with a professional voice instructor, would either lift me up or smack me down.
My friends and family, who’d all heard my rendition of “American Pie” and yet only complimented me on knowing every line of the lyrics, seemed to be betting on my failure. Whatever. They wouldn’t get a dime from the royalties off my first hit single.
If I was completely honest though, any humor or courage I tried to embrace while facing this item on my list masked my true apprehension. As I stood before my instructor at my first lesson, I visibly trembled. My feelings of self-consciousness, exposure, and vulnerability could best be likened to standing naked in front of a total stranger. As it so happened, I would experience that, literally, a couple months later.
We started off the lesson with breathing exercises. My teacher, Joan, waved her arms below her breasts, urging me to breathe from my diaphragm. I last contemplated something called a “diaphragm” during my twenties, when I researched birth control methods. I felt fairly certain that wasn’t what this music maestro had in mind.
I tried to conjure up tenth-grade biology images of the human body. Even after Joan poked the bottom of my rib-cage, indicating the location of this muscle, I still couldn’t master the art of breathing or vocalizing from it. This was the most basic tool in singing, yet it continued to elude me.
My savvy instructor sensed my frustration. Possibly because by my fifth attempt, I clenched my hands and shouted, “Aargh! I can’t do this!” She assured me this ability would come, in time. I hoped she was right. Secretly, I pondered the possibility that I didn’t actually have a diaphragm. Maybe, when the doctor performed one of my C-sections, she inadvertently plucked out this essential singing organ.
Joan handed me printed directions for breathing exercises, which noted that I should place my hands on my diaphragm and “pulse short hisses for 30 seconds.”
Right. I hissed a “thank you” right back at her.
We moved on to singing scales.
Warming up by singing scales, Joan told me, was the best way to exercise my voice and also learn to control it.
After hearing me through a few rounds of “Do-Re-Me,” she cocked her head. She nodded. “Well,” she said. “You’re very loud.”
I would assume this was a compliment. After all, she didn’t openly cringe or cover her ears. Regardless, singing scales and practicing breathing techniques hardly seemed a true measure of one’s vocal talents. She promised we’d move on to actual singing during my second lesson.
Hearing her mention a second lesson buoyed my confidence. If she considered me hopeless, surely she wouldn’t even suggest that I return.
I researched dozens of songs to perform at my next lesson. They had to be ones with which I was well familiar and which weren’t too vocally complex. Eventually, I decided upon “You’ve Got a Friend” and “Moon River.” They had always been two favorites in my car-ride repertoire. As a bonus, both appeared to be within what Joan had concluded was my “tight” vocal range. If “Moon River” was good enough for Audrey Hepburn to pull off as an Academy Award-winning song—even with her own reportedly narrow range—it was good enough for me.
Over the next week, I listened to recorded versions of both songs and practiced them every available chance: while driving in the car, chopping vegetables in the kitchen, and sitting in my office—behind closed doors.
I ar
rived at my second lesson with the lyrics and sheet music for both songs in hand. If I had been nervous about my first lesson, I could only describe my feeling about this next class as something along the lines of “totally freaking mortified.”
I’d like to say my voice instructor stopped me halfway through my song and shouted, “Stop right there! Get thee to America’s Got Talent, STAT!”
At the opposite end of the spectrum, she could have shaken her head, eyed me with a pitying gaze, and mumbled, “Stop. I might suggest—nay, insist—that you never sing another note.” Maybe that would put a simple end to a ridiculous lifelong notion. After all, there is something to be said for closure, however disappointing it may be.
But, no. My second lesson just rather sputtered and fizzled and went—nowhere.
I didn’t believe my singing skills that day proved at the far end of abysmal, but I had a hunch I didn’t display great promise either. My teacher’s physical and verbal reactions were best described as ambivalent, erring on the side of “Hmm.”
Joan suggested I continue practicing “Moon River” and that I inquire among local jazz vocalists to see if one might be willing to work with me on it. She didn’t mention that I return to her for a third lesson.
“So,” I finally asked, “should I come back for another lesson with you, too?”
She shrugged and smiled. “Sure, you could,” she said. “Why don’t you think about whether you’d like to do that and get back to me,” she said.
Although she didn’t officially answer my question, I concluded the decision was already made.
I told myself not to take this personally. After all, I had explained to her my series of one-off ventures for The 52/52 Project. Perhaps she assumed I wasn’t in this with any long-term desire or serious commitment. In addition, I discovered during that second lesson that Joan was formally trained as an opera singer. My interest in modern music was outside her focus and expertise. She wasn’t even familiar with the song “You’ve Got a Friend,” which I considered a contemporary classic. Maybe she didn’t feel we were a good musical match.
Finding My Badass Self Page 8