Like many stories about members of Generation X, this one
involves Facebook. Danny Hyman and I both grew up in the town of Ramapo, New York.
We went to junior high and high school together, but we didn’t really become
friends until the summer of 1984. That year we were both 17, and worked as
junior counselors for the youngest boys at Surprise Lake Camp, a sleepaway camp
just over the Bear Mountain
Bridge in Putnam. As
co-workers we shared a cabin with two other junior counselors.
I could
have told you then that Danny would become a cop. One Friday night, when we
were both off work Danny and I took two of our female colleagues in his car for
a trip out of camp. As the driver he got to set the itinerary, so we went back
to Ramapo to show off our home town. We encountered a car crash on Route 45 and
Danny pulled over to help, springing into action (deploying his training from
the Spring Hill Ambulance Corps, for whom he was a volunteer) with a first aid
kit that he kept handy for just such occasions. We never got another date with
those two young ladies, but it was a memorable evening.
Danny,
following in the footsteps of his dad, a NYC firefighter, joined the NYPD, and is
now Captain Daniel Hyman of the Town of Ramapo Police Department. My life path
meandered a bit, but I eventually settled nearby. I live with my wife and
daughter in New Jersey and teach in the
History Department at Brooklyn College (my specialty is the history of China). Danny
and I have only seen each other two or three times in 3D space since high
school, but like many fifty-somethings we have seen a lot of each other on
Facebook in recent years.
That is how
I got the invitation to come ride along on patrol with one of Ramapo’s finest.
As is true of many college professors, I am liberal in my politics and free
with my opinions. I shared the widespread sorrow and outrage of much of the
nation at the murder of George Floyd. Those feelings, and the larger movement
for police reform that grew out of them, inspired the Facebook post that
brought Danny and I together in non-virtual space again.
On December
5, 2020 U.S. Army Second Lt.
Caron Nazario was pulled over by Officers Joe Guttierez and Daniel Crocker of
the town police force in Windsor,
Virginia. The officers had
signaled Nazario to stop because they did not see the dealer plates taped into
the rear window of his new vehicle. Nazario, who is black, on realizing he was
being pulled over, led the police for a mile until he could pull into a
well-lit service station. Gutierrez and Crocker approached Nazario’s stopped
car with guns drawn and began to dress him down in very belligerent, blatantly
disrespectful tones. Despite the fact that Nazario remained calm and respectful
at all times (he persistently asked why he had been pulled over, but never
raised his voice or directed insulting remarks at the officers themselves), he
eventually was pepper sprayed, thrown to the ground, and handcuffed.
Video of
the incident became public in April of last year, as a result of a lawsuit that
Nazario brought against the police. At one point in the video Nazario tells
Officer Guttierez that he is afraid, to which Guttierez responds “You should
be.” On seeing the video, I posted to Facebook: I can think of many
appropriate responses a police officer might offer when a citizen says, “I’m
afraid.” “You should be” would top the “don’t” list.
Danny
commented on that post. He didn’t defend any of the conduct depicted in the
video, but warned against leaping to conclusions or accepting facile arguments
to “defund the police.” At the end of a friendly exchange he extended an
invitation for me to join one of the officers of the Town of Ramapo police on patrol: “I think you will have a new perspective,
and so will the officer.” I didn’t need any convincing.
That
was how I found myself putting on a bullet-proof vest to join Officer Sean
Baird on patrol at 4:00 PM of Friday, August 6, 2021. At the roll call for that
evening, near the lieutenant’s podium, was a plush toy raccoon with a coffee
can on its head, a gag teasing one of the officers who had been acknowledged by
PETA after rescuing a wild raccoon found in just that condition. Most of the
discussion at roll call involved the ins and outs of a new computer reporting
system that the department had just adopted and that many of the officers would
be using for the first time that night.
As we set out in his cruiser after roll
call, Sean explained that Friday nights in Ramapo, the beginning of the Jewish
Sabbath, are expected to be quiet. Much of the town belongs to what the police
refer to as “The Community”: the patchwork of Hasidic and Modern Orthodox
Jewish groups that have settled in and around the village of Monsey,
which houses the Hasidic settlement known as New Square (i.e. New “Skver,” the shtetl
from which a former chief rabbi first led his followers in the last century).
The Community has all but displaced the
society of non-orthodox Jews among whom I grew up. The Pomona Jewish Center, a
Conservative synagogue in which many of my high school friends became bar
mitzvah, has been sold and converted into a Zoroastrian fire temple. Temple
Beth El, the Reform synagogue that I attended, has been razed and the property
converted into multi-family dwellings. Across the street from where Beth El
used to stand, Ramapo
Senior High School, my
alma mater, is in an advanced state of decay. Once one of the finest public
high schools in New York
state, now trees are growing through the broken bleachers on the athletic
field.
The town is much changed since I last
lived there, and at times while Sean and I drove through on patrol I did not
recognize stretches which had been old haunts when I was a teen. One thing that
has not changed is the social and economic diversity of Ramapo as a whole.
Though the Community now accounts for a full half of the town’s population, the
rest of its residents form a vibrant mix of Haitian, Asian, and
Spanish-speaking communities. On the wealth scale Ramapo contains some of the wealthiest
families in America
and some neighborhoods that have persisted in poverty since I was a child.
Early signs pointed to an atypically busy
Friday night. Sean responded to a domestic disturbance call, a woman who, it
turned out, wanted the help of police in disciplining her son. As I waited in
the foyer and watched Sean and his colleagues deal with the situation patiently
and courteously, I had my first window onto another world. For the police, none
of the boundaries of privacy or intimacy that we ordinary citizens take for
granted apply. Their experience of living in a community is completely
different than almost any of its other residents.
This was reinforced for me as I drove the
town later with Sean as my guide. “A teenager was shot and killed over there,”
he said, pointing to a makeshift memorial set up at a stop sign on a street
that looked almost identical to the one on which I grew up. I wondered what the
police could have told me about what went on in the houses in my neighborhood,
back when I was in grade school.
The
most illuminating moment of the night for me was when we responded to a
distress call at a public housing project in one of the town’s low-income
neighborhoods. An older woman had been trying to contact her sister without
success. We arrived with another officer to find the woman waiting outside the
door of her sister’s apartment. Neighbors reported that they had not seen or
heard from the sister in several days.
Other
officers arrived, including Lieutenant Dolan, the squadron commander. While we
waited for the building superintendent to bring a skeleton key, Sean made a
point of taking down the woman’s contact information. It was a keen instinct.
When
the super arrived, Sean and other officers entered the building as the Lieutenant
and I waited outside with the woman. The Lieutenant’s personal radio registered
a call for a medical team, and he ran in to join the others. Emerging from the
building a few minutes later, he urged the woman who had placed the distress
call to sit down. Her sister had passed away.
The
moment was not loud or flashy. It would not have been deemed worthy of an
episode of Cops. But it was about as good an embodiment as one could ask
for of what the job of policing entails, and of what the police mean for our
society in the abstract.
As
the woman began to weep and the officers around her consoled her, I was seized
by the distress of having intruded upon a stranger’s private grief, and having
little to offer by way of help or comfort. I realized that this is a small
taste of what the police deal with constantly. Much of the general discussion of
police work focuses on the risks officers face, but what distinguishes the job
more than danger is the virtual certainty that your working days will bring you
repeatedly into contact with people you do not know at some of the worst
moments of their lives.
That type of pressure requires a particular kind of temperament, skill
set, and training. It may seem a small thing, but think of how much worse the moment
would have been for the woman who had placed the call if Sean had not taken her
contact information before she had learned of the loss of her sister.
Extrapolate from that to a scenario in which a citizen, rather than grieving,
is confused, violent or even dangerous, and you can appreciate how much of a
difference the training and character of an individual police officer can make
to the life of a community.
In a more abstract sense, the scene encapsulated a basic truth about
police work: often the law needs to be enforced even when no law has been
broken. There will always be a need for some authority that can guarantee the
rights, privacy, and dignity of those who cannot do so for themselves. In this
sense, a civil society without police is more than a fantasy, it is an
impossibility. Moments like the one I
witnessed expose the moral and intellectual bankruptcy of calls to abolish the
police, or slogans such as “all cops are bastards.”
One
of the best opportunities the night afforded me was to spend time with Sean and
get a sense of his impressions of the job. Though he is fifteen years my
junior, we share much in common. Like me he grew up in Ramapo and studied
history in college, even working for a time as a teacher after graduation.
Sean told me he loves his work, and
nothing I saw that night made me doubt that. When I asked him what aspect of
his career made him most proud, he spoke of his involvement with community
policing, especially his contributions to programs that educate children about
safety and civic life. When I asked him about his greatest regrets, he
described the many occasions on which he was confronted by teens who committed
serious crimes. This aspect of the job weighed heavily on his mind, and I would
be surprised if in this he is not very typical of many career police officers.
In
the same way that police officers are confronted with tragedy on an almost
daily basis, in the natural course of their work they are guaranteed to be
asked to deal with the worst problems of the community at large. The point at
which a seventeen-year-old is holding a loaded handgun is a moment of total
social failure. There is no happy resolution to that crisis: the best that the
police can do is to work toward the least bad outcome. Here again character and
training make all the difference.
All
of these aspects of police work explain why the current moment of tension is no
surprise. The police exist at a boundary where many of the problems and
pressures of our society converge, so it is no wonder that their work has the
potential to become politically fraught in the best of times, much less in a
period of rising tension and conflict. This is not to minimize the current
problem. My time with the Ramapo Police did not change my sense of the need for
police reform. But it did confirm me in an impression that had been building in
my mind for some time.
We
ask police to combine some part of the expertise of a lawyer, a soldier, a
social worker, and an emergency medical technician. This obviously makes it a
job of above-average difficulty and skill, yet the average salary for police
officers is $67,000/year, the exact average of that for professional workers
generally. Opportunities for overtime pay can make a police career more lucrative
than average, but relying on overtime as an incentive and reward comes at a
cost. Is it fair to demand that an officer work overtime to attain her work’s
fair worth, and then expect that she will consistently give us “the least bad
outcome” when she is called upon to deal with the kinds of tragic social crises
that are part and parcel of the job?
In
the end we have to get beyond the narratives that cast police officers as
either heroes or villains. They are people, and as a society we need them to do
a difficult job. Any movement to improve the parameters of police work
nationwide thus must come at the problem from two directions at once. Reforms
to increase police accountability, such as body cameras and changes to rules
governing police immunity, are sensible in principle. But any program that
neglects the need to boost recruitment and improve the basic conditions of
police work is fundamentally misguided.
I am not certain how far apart Danny and I were in our exchange on
Facebook in the spring, or whether my night on patrol brought us any closer. If
forced, I would guess that I remain slightly more enthusiastic about the idea
of police reform than he is. But of one thing I came away firmly certain: anyone
interested in police reform could do worse than going to the Town of Ramapo and studying what
they are doing right.