An Open Letter to Officer Joe

Inspector William Matusiak
18th Precinct
306 W. 54th Street
New York, NY 10019

An Open Letter to the 18th Precint
Midtown North

Dear Inspector Matusiak:

A couple of months ago, I had the unfortunate opportunity to step inside of your precinct. It was unfortunate in that the situation that prompted the need to go to the police was difficult. For the second time in a month period, the same individual verbally attacked me in my home.

There was no danger of physical violence; indeed, if it ever came to that point, this particular man would be calling you for support, as the difference in our physicality is such that I could easily and heartily defend myself. Thank God my Mother raised me right.

I digress.

I am writing to you because the choice to walk the few short blocks to the precinct wasn’t an easy one. I am a person of color, and I am gay. Every aspect of my life, for my basic survival, has been influenced by a rule: steer clear of the police. While elementary school taught us the men and women in blue are there to help us, life taught me that more often than not the men and women in blue were enemies, people to avoid. As I grew older, I realized, of course, that for every Amadou Diallo incident, there were a thousand incidents of good cops doing the right thing, unfortunately, the bashings and beatings and Oscar Grant shootings are stories that make the news. And the stories happen frequently enough, and are substantiated often enough, that to err on the side of caution is to err towards a course of survival.

Let me be clear, I present to the world as a well educated, well groomed, individual. I have never been subject to harassment by the police. As a matter of fact, my one run in with the cops was leaving a bar and making the stupid decision to drive. I received a DUI, and I have to say that through the entire incident, from the arrest to the police house, the deputies on duty were not only kind but extremely supportive. Never before and never since have I had any violation on my record. My personal, direct experience with the police has been quite positive.

Yet not all of my indirect encounters have been quite so upbeat. I quite literally have been walking down the street, in between two black men that presented “thuggish,” and though these two men did not know each other, based on their appearance, they were called over and harassed by the police, while I was waved on.

My little brother, who is engaged with Hip Hop culture, was regularly targeted by the police as a teen for doing nothing more than looking a particular way and standing on our front porch.

So to choose to make a complaint, against a white man, as a person of color, and as a queer person in a domestic dispute (the man was my partner’s former partner), I was nigh on terrified to make a complaint that I had a legal and moral right to make.

Then I met Officer Joe.

In hindsight, I should have asked for Officer Joe’s last name and badge number. All I can tell you is that this particular evening, he was working at the front desk when we came in. I was with my current partner, and we approached the officer to ask him how to file a complaint. Officer Joe asked what happened, and I told him the story. Not only was he emphatic but also he directly asked my partner how the heck he could get away with having his current partner and ex-partner living together. He added a moment of levity to a difficult situation, and my assumption is that Officer Joe is straight, has received great training, and is comfortable in his skin. Officer Joe’s demeanor, engagement, and respect did more to change my perception of police than all of the posters hanging in the precinct that, frankly, come across as slightly condescending in their attempts to downplay the role of police violence.

Police violence against people of color and queer folks, particularly trans folks, is real and has a long history. Posters will not change the minds of those impacted by the actions of a few, rotten cops. The thoughtful, jovial, and forthright actions of individuals such as Officer Joe will.

I worked on a political campaign, once, for Deputy Chief of Police Lucy Gerold. Lucy was the first civilian Deputy Chief in Minneapolis. She then chose to go to the academy and now serves as the Third Precinct Captain. I once told Lucy that she was the first and only cop that I had ever met that I trusted. I now trust many more. I have confidence, at least, in the 18th Precinct. I appreciate the training that your officers have obviously received, and I apologize to you and your men and women for the fears I have had related to police, generated by the actions of a minority of officers, yet none the less projected onto folks that are just trying to do good work in our community.

I appreciate you all, and the work that you do. Please note, I will be posting this letter to my blog, www.myfeetonlywalkforward.blogspot.com. My blog receives roughly 2,000 to 3,000 readers per month. I am happy to be able to offer a story of cops doing good in a time when most of the news about people in uniform isn’t the best.

Thank you.

Rookies versus Saints: Parking Ramp Softball

Yesterday morning, before the cock crowed, and before my morning wood had time to fall…I was already up, showered, slathered up in Icy Hot, and on a train heading down to Hudson Park to play some gay softball.

I followed the directions from the softball league’s website, which led me first to the Spring Street stop off of the C/E. Let me tell you, the far western edge of Manhattan, at the northern border of the West Village and the Southern limit of Chelsea on a Saturday morning is as dead as Walter Kronkite. God rest his soul.

Walking a block off the West Side highway and it being quiet enough to hear the voices in my head scream at one another was damned spooky.

Now, I have to begin this by saying thank you to Rookie Joe who had the foresight (I almost typed foreskin) to warn the Nookies on our team (aka me and Vinnie)…that the fields we would be playing on this week…were on the piers…meaning actually sitting above the river…and indoors.

Huh?

Sure enough, as I turned down Houston, I caught sight of what looked like a giant parking garage that had Pier 40 emblazoned across the top. I asked the bored looking female guard in the security station where I might find a gaggle of softball players, and you could see the visible strain and summoning of energy it took for her to thumb over her shoulder deeper into the parking garage.

I thought she might be high, which, considering she was on security detail, would have been very irresponsible of her.

But, sure enough, when I looked down what I had thought was a parking ramp but turned out to be a broad pedestrian tunnel, I saw that the parking ramp was hollow in the middle and contained a massive chemical green Astroturf multi-use field. One of those rubberized numbers, with the fake grass growing up out of the Dupont dirt that had all kinds of lines crisscrossing it so that it could be any number of sporting surfaces. Like me, it was very very versatile.

Only a tiny bit tardy, I showed up (before the coach I might add), and immediately fell in love with Rynnie…Scott’s adorable niece visiting her uncle. Rynnie was a softball player, a cutie patootie, a fierce Southern Baptist that had a wicked giggle and loved her big old gay uncle. How could one not fall in love with her instantly?

Immediately, folks asked me where oh where was Vinnie. To which I said…am I my neighbors keeper?

The bitches said yes.

It was then that I checked my phone and discovered that Vinnie hadn’t woken up until around 8:30 am (the games started at 9)…he said something about an unfortunate wax accident involving the dining room table, some candles, and lots and lots of Grey Goose.

Vinnie should have brought the candles to light a fire under our asses cuz we could not wake up for that first game.

We were playing the Saints, and, bless their hearts, they are the last place team in our division. They have solid fundamentals, but they just don’t have much power. Well…Saturday morning they were the motherfucking Electric Company and shocked our asses by pulling out a win in the first game.

Alas, they had no idea that once the sun truly passed over the Prime Meridian that all their earlier victories would come to naught. Once the sunlight cleared the horizon…the Rookies were on that ball like Reggie on…well…balls.

First of all, Noah had returned from exile in New Jacked Up Unemployment Rate City aka Detroit. And you know Miss Noah may wear a corset, but instead of the vapors she channels her antebellum feminine oppression into her bat. Combining that with Tom Ward, who was once again acting like Derek Jeter was a bitch compared to his batting, and with some 50 and loving it acrobatics by Joe…we were feisty and swinging our low hangers way out into the field.

In one inning we scored 10 runs. I almost peed on myself with joy. As a matter of fact, I did. But I blamed it on Noah’s dog Ludo. Them’s the breaks when one person can talk and the other one can only bark and look guilty.

In the end, we had a blast. Rookie-in-Absentia Eddie Buggie was with us, cheering us on, and base coaching. And everyone acquitted himself mighty well. Great games Rookies. Heyyyyyyyyyyyy.

The Lord Works in Mysterious Ways

Do you ever have those days when you know, without a doubt, that the Hand of God has been on you?

Yesterday was one of those days. I started the day happy as a dung beetle in a pile of horse shit. It was a sunny day in Manhattan. I was off to the gym where I had a great cardio work out. I came home, made a delicious lunch, finished a couple of things I needed to get done online...was preparing for a well deserved nap...and then my partner's ex and his boyfriend came home. I let them know that I would be laying down, and my "roommate" starting cursing at me about me taking a nap and how he wanted to play his music. I again stated, respectfully, that I would be taking a nap and they were welcome to play music, but if they would keep it down, I would greatly appreciate it. I then closed the door and prepared to take a nap.

Then World War III broke out.

I won't go into details, but suffice it to say that these two extremely wounded human beings nearing 50...knowing that my boyfriend was out of town...ambushed me and basically took turns screaming at me and hurling vileness at me with such a deep hatred...that it was obvious...even during it all...that what they were projecting at me was what they were really feeling towards each other and about other circumstances in their lives.

I used every single training experience I had ever been given to de-escalate the situation. I never raised my voice...I spoke calmly...I listened to what they had to say even when they were screaming, even when I was called out of my name. Finally, they left. That is when I broke down.

Knowing that what had gone down was not about me didn't matter. For real...my boyfriend's ex's current boyfriend and I have met two times...and we had never exchanged harsh words. Nor had I ever spoken unkindly about him in any way.

I have never felt so unsafe in my home as an adult.

The fact that I stayed completely calm, acted with absolute integirty, did not demean or debase the people that were attacking me, and showed them respect even as I was being disrespected was a gift from God (and a credit to those fantastic people in my life that have taught me what it means to be in conflict and how to be in conflict without losing myself...I am not always good at it...but yesterday I was flawless...and that fact alone is proof that God was with me).

The rest of the day also was God touched.

I went to softball practice, and I hung out with my new team for the first time. I adore them. I think I remember most of their names, but I sure as hell know that I couldn't attach their names to them all. We had a great practice...my pitching was decent (it can always use improvement)...and then I batted. Now, I have never had a problem hitting the ball. But I have also never been a Herculean hitter. Yesterday, almost every ball I hit was, at the very least, deep in the outfield...a couple of times they would have been straight up home runs. I was in awe of myself. Either the bat was magical or I had an angel swinging along with me. I refuse to take credit for it until I actually do it in a game.

My coach is hilarious. The guys were super welcoming and sweet (and crass and hilarious....sweet God I felt at home). We went to the ultra-bear bar for super cheap drinks. I met Danny O'Donnell...Rosie O'Donnell's brother who is also a NY State Assemblyman...he is a very nice man and very...friendly. He also took me to task for talking smack about Jennifer Holiday's duet with Jennifer Hudson...sorry but the woman was terrible.

I then hightailed it to a borough to a secret location to hang out with some friends plotting an electoral revolution...more to come on that in the future.

It is rare that you have the opportunity to see, in different ways, the good Lord working in such diverse ways...but from the support of my partner, to my conduct during the conflict, to new friends and a great team, to a great evening with my co-conspirators, it was obvious that even though some of the day was extremely difficult and called up memories from childhood that I thought were laid to rest...that I was not doing any of it alone...and that God himself and an assortment of characters that sometimes took the shape of cute Greek first ladies and old friends in new places were right there with me.