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.

The Ex Files

In general, I am terrified of the police. In my life I have had a few occasions where I have had no choice but to engage with the law enforcement complex of the United States. The first time was during divorce proceedings for my Mother. The second time was in the 8th grade when I called the police because my best friend was on the phone with me, screaming, as her father hit her with a 2x4. The next time was when I joined the multitudes of Americans with a DWI (and I cried like a wee little baby the entire time). The last time was last night when I filed a police report documenting a sliver of the verbal harassment I have encountered from my roommate.

Almost a month ago to the day, I was attacked in my home. As I was preparing to lay down to sleep, David's ex, who is our roommate, entered the apartment with his current boyfriend Gary C. I said hello and let the guys know that I was going to lay down and take a nap. Frank, the roommate, began screaming at me about his right to play his music. I responded calmly, never raised my voice...then or as the conflict escalated. I asked him to keep it down, shut my bedroom door, and was followed into the studio. Over the course of the next 45 minutes I was screamed at for everything and anything that came into the man's head. I stayed calm. I asked them to leave the house. They both refused. Then, Gary, a man that I had met perhaps twice before...and had spent perhaps 10 minutes with total...began screaming at me calling me a slut and a whore. He told me I was a user and that he knew my type and kind. I remained calm. I responded to him with questions. I asked him what would make him think that I am a whore? How was I using David or anyone? He continued to reply accusing me of being a slut. Then suggesting that he would never sleep with me (I am sorry...but pot bellied gremlins are not my bag). Then, as he turned around and stomped out, he, a white Jewish man, accused me of being racist. At which point, I almost shit myself giggling.

Franklin I. continued to harangue me. And then, when he discovered Gary had left the apartment, his final response was to blame me for Gary's exit.

That is the abbreviated version of what happened a month ago. The details are much more gruesome. The result was that I calmly walked to the front room. I made sure the door was locked. David was out of town visiting his Mother. I finally got him on the phone, and I broke down. Never in my adult life had I ever been spoken to in such a manner let alone by two individuals that knew nothing about me. Academically I understood clearly that this was about Frank's jealousy. I understood that this was about Gary's anger that Frank was actually also fucking a man named Todd in North Carolina while lying and pretending that he was all about Gary. I knew that this was about Frank seeing David happy and doing things that David had always wanted to do with Frank but Frank would not allow or refused to participate. This was later confirmed during a period of calm when Frank came to me and admitted that he knew I made David happy and that he regrets not doing the things with David that David and I are now doing. A moment of clarity in his life. It did not last.

Several days ago, Frank had a very painful medical procedure. He is battling two potentially life threatening illnesses. The unfortunate truth is that the severity of this illnesses are a direct result of his ignoring medical advice. One illness has to do with with his liver. Years ago he was directed by his medical advisors to stop drinking. As late as December he was still drinking. I know. I saw him. Now, he is facing the failure of his liver and severe medical treatments to prevent that. I empathize with him and where he is.

The day he returned from his medical procedure David said to him that we would be as considerate as possible but that he needed to know that this is not a hospice. Frank sleeps on the couch next to the kitchen. David and I largely absented ourselves from the apartment into the late afternoon. We began preparing dinner...and, for the second time, were accused of chopping our vegetables too loudly. I was chopping mushrooms. I couldn't hear myself chopping let alone a human being on a couch on the other side of the room. But, I digress. Eventually Franklin got up, began slamming things around, and packed his backpack. At one point he was staring at me as if I had just slapped his Mama. I asked him if anything was wrong, and he said no. He then left the house.

He came back the next night. Immediately he began accusing us of being inconsiderate. Then he suggested that it was actually me who was the belligerent chopper and that he could discern from his Wolverine like hearing the difference between David and I chopping.

That was the beginning of the inexorable slide to last night. For the last two days he had slammed every cabinet, door, and dish he possibly could. Neither David or I had bowed to his self pity, and this frustrated him. Finally, yesterday afternoon, shortly after he slammed a door behind me almost hitting me...we were all trying to figure out why about half the apartment had lost power. A chopping board fell out of the dish rack. I put it away. I guess I closed the door to the cabinet where the dish resided with a little bit too much force. Frank responded by slamming another cabinet as hard as he could.

I snapped.

I turned to him and asked him, and I quote, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He began screaming at me and telling me that I better not curse at him.

At that point I became a person I never wanted to see and had never seen before. He stepped into my face and I stepped forward. I told him exactly what I thought about him. I told him he was pathetic. I told him that he needed to leave and go where people wanted him. I told him to go and be with people who loved him. Mixed in with that were curse words. I was not proud, but I also was not sorry. I meant everything I said to the man.

I allowed myself to be pushed to a place where many of the hurtful and mean things that were said to me in my life were put back on this human being. I forgot that he was a human being and in so doing I lessened my own humanity.

That made me even angrier.

David was there. He saw it. He told Frank that Frank created the circumstance and situation where this was made possible. He did. But he didn't force my reaction. It was the reaction he wanted. I gave it to him. I will not apologize to him for it. But I will need to find a way to forgive myself for going to place that I know exists inside everyone but Jesus and maybe the Buddha...but I never thought to have to look at it directly in the face. The face was mine.

David and I left and went to the movies. We saw Star Trek which was FRICKIN' AWESOME! The special effects, the dialogue, the story, and the set up for a new franchise were great. They did Gene Roddenberry proud. I maintain that George Lucas should never write, produce, or create another space adventure ever. Leave it to the real master.

We got home to find Frank gone. The house was still without electricity in many parts. And Frank, in his infinite juvenile nature, had locked the channels on the tv and hidden the remote controls (did I mention that the man is 46...I am 31...GOOD FUCKING GOD).

David opened his email to find that Frank claimed that he had filed a police report and that he was not leaving this apartment without a court order.

He made a mistake. Lord he made a mistake.

My remorse at my behavior hardened into a razor point resolved. I put away my dinner, put on my shoes, jazzed up my hair and put on a sweater. I walked with David to the police station and filed a report myself. I filed a report that included the April 18th incident and last night. A man may elicit sympathy and pity when he shows regard for his own behavior and acknowledges his role in creating an untenable situation. But when a man maintains his victim status while perpetuating injustice, abuse and claims massive privilege...then...there is no mercy that is not found in justice. This man believes that threats and intimidation will work with me. The road I have walked in this world is one where struggle and roadblocks have been much more prevalent than escalators and sliding sidewalks.

I don't back down for shit.

The one ray of sunshine in all of this was actually the police. You heard me right: THE POLICE!

When we walked in last night to file the police report, Joe the Policeman was at the front desk. I swear I thought I was in an episode of NYPD Blue. I was waiting for Jimmy Smits to walk through with that perky butt of his. Instead we got Joe...who was awesome.

He leaned in and asked us what happened.

We told him. We told him what had gone down. We told him about our relationship. We told him about David's previous relationship with Frank. This is what Joe the Policeman said...

“Wait a minute. You are the current boyfriend...and the ex is living with you two? How the hell did you pull that one off, mister.” He said to David...a crooked smile on his face.

“I mean...that ain't a good situation...and now you two want him out.” I nodded and smiled.

Joe looked and David and shook his head.

“What wuz you thinkin?”

In the middle of the Midtown North police department, surrounded by the spirit of Amadou Diallo and Oscar Grant, I wanted to laugh...I mean laugh out loud and let out all the drama and all the pain and all the ugly.

“Listen guys...that is a no good situation. Go over there to the window. Those ladies will take your complaint. Sign the book. Good luck.”

Thanks Joe.

Idjku: Russia Has Lost Its Mind So I Be Strokin'

News Update: Jackass head of the GOP says that gay marriage will HURT small businesses...what the fuck?

There are those songs in the world...that when you hear them...they just raise your spirits...they get your feet to tappin' and put a smile on your face.

This morning, as I thumbed through the news...and heard about the 40-80 queer activists in Russia arrested and treated brutally for daring to put on a pride march...I had to stop...take a moment...put in my earbuds...and find some musical joy. Right now, as I muse on the complacency that so many queer folks in the U.S. feel...I am finding joy in Clarence Carter's Strokin'..and A Brand New Day from The Wiz. At the heart of Clarence Carter's song is a celebration of sex and sexuality for the joy of sex and sexuality...in a Brand New Day...Michael Jackson and Diana Ross, Nipsey Russell and Ted Ross are celebrating triumph over Evilene...the Wicked Witch of West Harlem...and the joy that freedom promises.

The beaten and jailed activists in Moscow took to the streets last night against the Wicked Witch of the Kremlin for the right to love (and fuck) freely.

In the United States, in most (though not all) places, we take our right to freely assemble for granted. We take to the streets for Pride festivals as a matter of course. We know that if our festivals and demonstrations are denied, we have legal recourse that we can pursue. The road we walk isn't always easy but, in every major U.S. city, Pride parades and Pride festivals are generally found listed on city websites and generally raise few institutional eyebrows...though there are almost always pockets of religious fundamentalists on a couple of corners waving flags.



Nowhere in the United States in the last two decades have we had to worry about violent reactions from state authorities to our queer pride marches and rallies (the same can not be said for other more radical demonstrations addressing issues of racial and economic justice...America is better than some places but it also has a long ass way to go).

Each year, I endure the diatribes by people like Andrew Sullivan...that rail against the drag queens and leather daddies...the tit slinging dykes on bikes and the fetish queens as they march proudly down Mainstreet U.S.A putting sex in liberation and liberation in sex right out in public view and swirling all up in a gender stew. My blood boils when the regressivists and assimilationists get indignant and demand that we put our celebration and joy back in the closet.

(His Eye is on the Sparrow just came on....”why should I feel discouraged...” Truthfully...I don't).

It is in times like these, when I am reminded of how small our little blue planet really is..that I remember why...almost every year since 1995 I have marched in a queer pride parade no matter where I happened to find myself. While Minneapolis may be a welcoming place, and it might be chic to be a chick with a dick in NYC...there are plenty of places on this planet...where it is not.

When we fight for our own liberation and make ourselves visible...we are not just showing up for ourselves or our community...we are showing up for those that we have no idea are watching. We show up for those that are watching from behind the window shades or behind the old Iron Curtain. We are marching on a global stage to proclaim to a global family that no matter where you are...you have a right to be who you were born to be...without out apology and without violent repression from your government.

We take up arms, internationally, against the Word Trade Organization and unchecked globalization. We cry out against Buddhist monks being jailed and beaten in Tibet. We screamed loudly and with one voice against apartheid in South Africa, and when Slobodan Milosevic decide genocide was an answer....we posed a new question and went to the aid of Kosovo. It is about damn time that we show the same solidarity with those struggling for the right to love and fuck whosoever they choose without regard to gender or sexual identity whether or not they are on the next block or on the next continent.

This week has seen signing of a bill by the President of Uruguay to allow queers to serve in that nation's military. The NY State Assembly passed a queer marriage bill. And Russia struck down with a great fury on rights demonstrators. These things are part of one grand justice tapestry. When the weave is beautiful, but one part of the tapestry snags, the beauty of the whole is reduced. My heart goes out the Russian queer community. But, as Russia turns more and more to partnership with the European Union, it is incumbent on the EU to hold Russia to the same standards it holds its member states...namely requiring the elimination of state sanctioned oppression of queer and genderqueer folks.

Europe can not enjoy the immense resources of Russia while ignoring the human rights abuses of the Russian government and maintain any standing as a human rights crusader in other areas of the world. When economic interests trump human interests the gates of Hell open wider and the Devil rolls out the red carpet to all those involved and Heaven shudders on its foundations.

We are one family...let's act like one.

One Liner of the Week Award: Lara Stroud

So, today....my play cousin Lara Stroud sent out a real press release from Minneapolis. On Earth Day, Popeye's Chicken chains across the country were offering a chicken deal...eight pieces for $4.99.

When black folks showed up to get their deal in Minneapolis, they found handwritten notes on the door stating that they would not be honoring the national advertisement, but they would be offering nine pieces for $9.99. Ya'll do the math.

Folks were angry.

Indeed, there was a line out of the door and down the block...and six Minneapolis po po had to show up and quiet things down.

When Lara sent me this API story this morning, I had to commiserate with her and own that I probably would have rioted, jumped through the glass store front window a la Shaft...grabbed a bucket of chicken and a trough of dirty rice and headed deeper into the Southside.

Lara said she would have ended up shot or bitten by police dogs. She also stated that the story would have read:

"Two African Americans, one female one male, tasered and arrested while rioting for an 8 piece."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the One Liner of the Week Award.