Joining The Forces

From the day I was fifteen months old, my country was in a state of civil unrest.

Heavily armed soldiers and police officers roamed the streets. Helicopters protected them from above. When they weren’t on foot patrol, armoured vehicles took them where they needed to go. Heavily fortified barracks and police stations with lookout towers and high walls protected them when they weren’t patrolling.

Murders, shootings, bombings were an almost daily occurrence, perpetrated by those who sought to change the political set-up through terror. The targets were the police officers and soldiers, and anybody who assisted them in their daily duties, including mailmen, janitors, maintenance staff?and even those who provided food for them. Then of course, like any conflict, there were retaliatory actions by the “other side”, who sought to maintain the status quo.

This wasn’t Afghanistan or Syria - this was within the United Kingdom, less than a one hour flight to London. This was my normal.

Living in our family home I experienced another kind of normal. My dad was a cop and therefore, in the minds of the terrorists, he was a “legitimate target.” For this reason, we had a few well practised drills at home.

For example, I couldn’t answer the front door in case it was a gunman wanting to kill my dad. My dad would answer, and he would always be armed. The rest of the family would have already been ushered into the back of the house away from the hallway to a safe place.

I couldn’t tell anybody what my dad did for a job, in case I told someone from the “wrong side.” I have no doubt that as a kid I messed up and told a few people for the simple fact that I was proud of my dad. I wanted people to know how brave he was, and in my mind that was something to be celebrated and not ashamed of. I guess I didn’t see the big picture back then.

Just like in his chosen profession, my dad did his best to protect his family too. I couldn’t go near our family car in our driveway until he had thoroughly checked under it for improvised explosive devices. As a kid I really didn’t know what the words “device” and “improvised” meant, so I just referred to them as bombs, knowing that it wasn’t too unusual to find them, primed and ready to go, underneath the personal vehicles of police officers. All that was needed was for the vehicle to move for the devices to injure or kill the unassuming driver and their family. It was a fate that other police officers and their families had faced all too often. Thankfully this wasn’t a fate our family had to endure.

In 1994 Northern Ireland, the most dangerous place in the world to be a police officer, I made the decision to follow in my dad’s footsteps and joined the police. I was 26 years old.

The chances of being murdered were pretty good and being hyper-vigilant was a 24-7 job. So naturally, that would be my first career choice, right? Even with the dangers, the job security was at its best. We didn’t lack protection. And it was a job for life, however limited that life duration might be.

For a long time I told myself I joined the force because my dad was a cop. I also told myself I wanted to give something back to the organization which, thanks to his salary, my dad provided for me everything I needed growing up. I had a great education in one of the best schools in Northern Ireland. I was widely travelled by the age of 18. I didn’t want for anything.

The truth is that I became a police officer, not because my dad did it and not out of some misguided loyalty to an organization that paid my dad’s wages. I became a police officer because I really didn’t know what else to do. It might sound sad and unambitious, but that’s the way it was. I applied out of hope that a career in policing would take me out of the situation I found myself in - I had no ambition, no goals or direction, and I was drinking too much. I also hoped that it would give me a sense of belonging. I don’t think I realized it back then, but I was lost, and really needed an anchor to prevent me from drifting even further. Joining the police gave me a sense of purpose and of course an income. I went into it with no expectations, other than that I knew it would be difficult to get through basic training, and that I was exposing myself to a lot of danger, the same danger I had grown up with, and which my dad had endured, and ultimately succumbed to.

I was late for my first morning and when asked in front of my squad why I was late, I responded with: “I suppose if I had got up earlier, I would have been here on time.” Great answer, and one that set the tone for my six months of residential training.

It was clear I didn’t really fit in from that first morning with my squad but I got through it; I made myself fit in. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was sacrificing my sense of self and my true identity in order to be accepted. I’m pretty sure that the need to belong to a group was at the heart of my “decision” to become a police officer.

There was nothing about me which screamed “I’m a cop!” I didn’t look like one and I didn’t behave like one. Those two things worked very well in my favour in that environment. Other than when you were on duty in uniform, the rule of thumb was that you never made any overt displays that you were a police officer.

Sometimes we think we make decisions, without, in my opinion, realizing that they have actually already been made for us. I have no doubt now, at this stage in my life, that a career in policing was already mapped out for me, and there was really nothing I had to do to influence that. So why did I stay in a world where I didn’t fit in and I couldn’t be true to who I am? Truth is, policing has been a great vehicle for me, and I wouldn’t change anything that has happened. It gave me the purpose, stability and direction that I needed in my life. I have been able to make a positive difference in the lives of others, and in turn, those experiences have had a positive impact on my life. Even through the worst or most painful times I have been able to find opportunities for growth and learning, either for myself or for others.

As much as I have felt an outsider in many of the policing roles I have played, my personal and professional journeys so far have helped me understand the words “force” and “service”. When I started policing in Northern Ireland, I was very much part of a paramilitary force; dictated by the environment and the constant threat. It was the only way we could operate and survive. I, too, forced myself to survive and operate in that environment, knowing all the time that it really wasn’t me. I wasn’t like my colleagues. I fought, but I wasn’t a fighter. Without being true to myself, I got the job done.

I distinguish between force and service as follows. Police force, according to Merriam- Webster, deals with “the maintenance of public peace and order, enforcement of laws, and the prevention and detection of crime”. This is and will always be our primary function.

Service can be defined as “the contribution to the welfare of others.” My own experiences have taught me to recognize that behind every call for help is a human being, and that human being is on their own journey, not always through choice.

It’s so easy to label every troubled youth, every homeless?person?and every addict as “a bad person.” When they hear it often enough, they start to believe it, until they don’t want to talk to you anymore because you are bringing nothing to their life.

It becomes a vicious cycle when police officers take personally the negative reaction of these people and as a result sometimes shut the door on helping.

Viewing things through a more human centred lens would be beneficial, because the vulnerable people in our society are not just the victims of crime, they are also the victims of their circumstances and their choices, self- imposed or otherwise.

Does this attitude make me soft or ineffective as a police officer? I think not, rather the opposite. I get the “force” part of the job done because that is my primary function, but I always try, where possible, to find the time to connect with the individual to hear their story. A uniform should not be a barrier to that. I have found the opposite to be true. Most people just want to be listened to and to be valued, and to know that someone has their back. When you have your own story to share, that conversation can take on a deeper meaning.

I know what it feels like to not fit in. I’m still not a “typical cop”, but thankfully now, twenty-six years later, I am in a place where I am being more true to who I really am.