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Prelude | welcome to this…
Fade to 11:22pm and here I am… sitting here.
I look to my right to see my Airbnb walk-in closet filled with two suitcases that store belongings from my car, my hanging closet clothes flaps that I bring everywhere I stay, and a laundry basket screaming at me to do. laundry. now. I want to scream back, “I have enough clean underwear and clean socks… please calm down.”
But it’s late. It’s quiet hours. I have an itch to distract my thoughts with disgusting habits from the past few nights: we’re talking lying half-awake with “How I Met Your Mother” playing in the background, and then a mid-break by watching something that makes me feel really, really guilty… but no.
An hour and a half ago a a wonderful human (who currently resides in Washington) woke me up from my nap and she gave me life. It was great to hear her voice. She’s warm. Her laugh so infectious that it snapped me out of everything. I’m extroverted. I steal people’s positive energy to fuel mine. In this moment I am awake and I want to use this clarity now.
This is why I sit here.
In the cold.
On a miniature desk.
It’s time to start to this thing.
This is my first newsletter here. My first public writing sample in long time: who knows if I’ll be consistent. The only thing I do know is that I want to write. Luckily, newsletters aren’t pieces of journalism or coherent flowing articles. You can let things flow and start how you want to start without a thesis.
It is what it is… So hi and welcome to this thing. How are you? I hope you’re doing well. Okay, enough with this intro… right?
You’re probably at this point saying, “aren’t you going to talk about police? Please for the love of God! Get to the point already!”.
I hear you. I understand. This is how I warm up…
When Is It Okay to Call the Police?
1:30pm-ish. Beverly Hills, California.
I’m walking from Shake Shack, back to my parked car on Camden Drive. I just finished a delicious hamburger so the only possible plan is to open the trunk of my Toyota Sedan, zip open my backpack, take out some floss, and begin the process of cleaning my teeth before popping the invisalign back into my mouth.
The plan is simple.
The plan is on cruise control.
When suddenly I look to my right, building 420A, and there this man stands. I could say late-20s, early 30s, dark green beanie, sunglasses, grungy hipster clothes… from the looks of it talking at himself, while screaming at me from the glass door window.
He locks the bottom lock of the window door, moving vertical-like wooden pieces against the glass, it is apparent he assumes I was going to go inside the building. I look up to see the circular camera “recording” everything… I think, I’ll be okay.
Let me explain…
In my younger days, I’ve been attacked and mugged both day and night, on a few occasions, by people in Oakland. I’ve been accosted by grown-ass frat bros during college days. I’ve been in physical fights. I’ve stopped physical fights.
But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve been able to take all of these experiences to help me spot danger and stop oncoming disaster through words and/or quick collected action. Yes, I’m going to be egotistical right now, and say that I now am fortunate enough to have a good understanding to know how to wiggle-wiggle out of danger and conflict altogether.
I thank the foundation to these skills to the batterers who lived in my childhood home: they taught me to be hypervigilent (thanks dad haha).
This is all to say that I’ve seen men like him before, I know the possibility of what might come. I’m CCC (calm, cool, collected) and even for safe measure I put my hands up (to show I am unarmed) and look away.
I unlock the door and get in the driver seat, when suddenly I look to my right and this man… this man… grasps in his hands a white step ladder.
He flings the step ladder at my passenger door.
The ladder smacks the door as the side mirror snaps back.
I see red paint chip upwards.
The ladder ricochets onto the sidewalk.
He closes the glass door.
Screams at me again.
Turns around.
Disappears into the building.
I sigh.
First thought - Why?
Second thought - What the fuck?
Third thought - what’s the damage to my car?
I look straight ahead and see a young middle-class couple witness the entire thing. They’re stunned, but it’s not their problem. Who wants to get involved? I’ve learned no one wants to get involved. It makes sense. They get in their car and drive off.
I’m shook.
I finish flossing. I have to finish flossing.
I pull up ahead to get out and view the damage.
My passenger side has a white marks on it - paint is chipped.
It’s dinged. There is a bevel where there shouldn’t be a bevel.
Then it all hits me how much I’ve recently spent on the repairs with this car in the last year. New everything. $3,000+. I shake my head. oh boy.
Unlike when a friend says they’re engaged or best, pregnant, usually in these disastrous moments, I’m CCC. It’s expected. It’s my life.
But this time, it just hits.
Can I be honest with you?
I’ve had a really strange mentally unstable last 30 days. Like most of us, we deal with what we deal with, and oftentimes life makes us interact with shitty people and deal with horrible events. Oftentimes these people and events can distract us from the good. It’s painful, it can lead to depression while we question everything.
I’m not going to get into it yet… but the last 30 days finally overloaded out of the pot, from this one moment. This man. This guy. His actions triggered all this bent up pain into what I did next.
I call 9-1-1
Operator: “Hello this is 9-1-1 what’s your emergency?”
Me: “Hello. My name is Jonathan. I’m currently on North Camden Drive, near the building 420A. I’m a little shoo-ken up to what just happened. If I can explain.”
I explain everything… and then she asks this one question.
Operator: “Can you please give a description of this man?”
Me: “Late 20s or early 30s. Sunglasses. Dark green beanie. Hipster clothes”
Operator: “What’s hipster clothes sir?”
Me: “Dirty. Vintage. Not clean. I don’t know. Hipster.”
Operator: “Okay?”
Me: “Hipster.”
Operator: “What is his race sir?”
What’s his race? This is when I think of this one word… “complicated.”
I understand the climate that we’re in, and the unfair system that we as America have created for so many. Police corruption. Stop and frisk. Profiling. The vast disproportion of how certain ethnicities on a larger percentage scale get treated inequitably compared to other ethnicities by police.
I’ve seen it first hand with innocent friends who have been profiled. I even recall a flashback to my father being arrested for something he didn’t even commit (oddly).
I begin to backtrack in my head… was I right to even call 9-1-1 for this? It’s a ding?
It’s fucking nothing. Right? He’s just a mentally unstable man who needs help.
Hell, it’s only me, no one else. If I was with a family member, a friend, a girlfriend… especially a girlfriend, then of course handling the situation as a whole would have been different: I’m talking making sure everyone is in a good and safe place nearby, then going through the motion and feeling to see if 9-1-1 is even the right call.
But I, again… I’m alone. My brain begins to then remind about the instances where I’ve had great experiences with police officers. It’s complicated. I’m shook. I’ve had a bad week. My car is expensive. I’m confused. I just want answers.
I hesitantly answer the operator. “he just so happens to be black.”
Operator: “alright sir, please stay put, officers are on their way.”
No more than 5 minutes later, the first police SUV arrives: white guy, clean cut, early 30s, looks like he just had a morning run. He introduces himself as “Adams” and as evidence I show him the step ladder laying on the ground, and the camera that has a clear view of everything.
Adams: “My partner is behind the building and he has someone in the back who is complying. Can you explain again the description of this man?”
I explain.
Adams: “What do you mean by hipster clothes?”
Do people not know hipster clothes?
Me: “I don’t know. Vintage? Things you buy at a thrift shop but it’s dirty… pants are not jeans. They’re not torn up. They’re dirty but liveable.”
Adams: “My partner took a picture… is this the man?”
Adams shows me the picture and sure enough there is a man. He’s black. Jeans. Sunglasses. Though, instead of wearing a dark green beanie, he’s wearing a bright green beanie. What are the odds?!?
Me: “Woah no! That’s NOT him!”
Then it hits me again. The complications. Fuck. I want you to imagine being that black guy, you’re stopped because you just so happen to match the exact description that some kid gave to the police. This isn’t good.
First, again, what are the odds? Secondly, holy shit… I could’ve ruined this innocent man’s life. Thank god they showed me the photo. I am asked…
Adams: “…the guy who threw the stepladder, we’re going to check if he’s in the building. Before we do, do you want to press chargers?”
Me: “I don’t think so officer. No. Personally, I don’t know what I want right now. I’m just shook. I’ve had a week. I just want answers.”
Sometimes there are no answers and that’s okay. But I wasn’t being okay.
Adams: “Well think it over, because we can’t prosecute if you don’t want to press charges.”
Me: “I don’t know. I don’t think I want to press charges.”
Suddenly another cop car arrives, it’s Adams partner. Late 30s. Mustache. It’s what you see when you imagine a cop on primetime television show. Both Adams and him knock on the 420A glass door, it’s open, they step inside.
Both Officers: “Hello. This is the Beverly Hills PD. Is anyone here?”
There is no response. They step in further. I can see from a distance they begin to move a few pieces of the wood, slide open another screen door, they’re being careful… and I see them holding their guns to the side.
Yes. Cupping their guns to their holster.
Fuck.
fuck.
fuckkkk.
Why did I call the police?
Another SUV arrives, it reads K-9 on the side of the car, this time what steps out is a white man in his late 40s with a shaved head and mustache. Then!!! another SUV arrives, a short stout white woman walks into the building followed behind a man wearing a suit because as they clarify, he’s a “LAPD ride along”.
Moments later another SUV arrives. Yes, another. It’s a black cop, I feel a little less stressed until he pulls out an orange rubber bullet shotgun.
Holy. Fuck me.
But that’s not at all because finally a police officer on a motorcycle, late 40s, early 50s… Asian American man gets off the bike and walks towards me. His name is John.
His smile is kind. His eyes are familiar. His freckles show signs that he could be hapa. He’s been a police officer for a long time, you can tell he’s there to calm me down: good cop, or at least playing one.
John: “Let’s walk back to your car, are you okay?”
Me: “Yes… what’s going to happen to him?”
Then he says the magic words.
John: “Before we get into all of that? How are you feeling?”
How am I feeling? How am I fucking feeling? I’ve spent over $7,000 in therapy last year. I recently lost a friend a month, gone too soon. I was recently told by a girl I liked, say she really liked me but was hesitant because she has trust issues… even though I have no idea where that reputation came from… Confusing!
I’m worried about bills. I’ve been traveling a ton for work. I have deadlines. I haven’t slept in days. I’m trying to get it altogether. I have a laundry basket screaming at me to do laundry! Jesus! The laundry will get done!
And here. Here I am on the sidewalk of Camden Drive. I just called 9-1-1. They profiled the wrong guy who just so happens to match a description. All these fucking police officers are entering in the building.
I understand the system we live in… I break.
I fucking tear the fuck up.
God damnit. I cry.
Me: “I just don’t want anything to happen to him officer. I can’t believe I put him in this situation where - where” I take off my glasses to wipe tears.
“Now you’re all here… please you better not have anything happen to him. I can’t believe I call the police. It’s a fucking ding on my car officer. It’s a fucking ding on my car! Nothing better happen to him. Why did I call you guys? I’m sorry. I can’t believe I called you guys. Shit I can’t believe I’m crying. Fuck.”
John: “It’s okay to cry. I get it”
I look up and I get a sense that he’s trying to understand me. But I’ve seen the shows with these “good cops and their tactics” so I try to stay hesitant… but his energy feels good. Honestly, I feel understood. I allow him to open up as I open up to him.
John: “I get what you’re getting at… public perception of police officers are not good right now. There’s a lot of fixing that needs to be done. And, it’s clear you have a lot of empathy and that’s a great thing. We know you don’t want to impress charges. You can. It’s vandalism. If he broke your window that would be more.”
Me: “I’ve just had a week. I just wanted answers. I’m sorry I called you guys. Usually I just let it go, but I don’t know. I couldn’t today. I can’t believe I called 9-1-1.”
I slowly dry my tears.
John: “If you’re wondering if you were right to call us, you were right to do so.”
I stand there as he tells me why each individual officer is there: from the K-9, to the other cops, to rubber bullet gun, all the way to an officer who is arriving with a drone.
Oh yes… did I not mention a drone? The man who threw the step-stool at my car, is responding, but not complying by locking himself in a corner room. So, the drone is there to crawl underneath the door and take a look around.
John: “…all this to say that we’re here for your safety, safety for the public in case he were to hurt someone else… we’re not using a K-9. Instead, the drone is to see what he’s up to get a look around, and the rubber bullets are for our safety.”
I just stand there. I hear him. I get where he’s coming from. But, I can’t stop thinking about where our society is currently at at the moment. I especially can’t get over the fact to how I got an innocent man to be stopped and questions due to my description.
It’s complicated.
Then I faintly hear from the police radio, “we got word from the owner of the building that the man’s name is S***, he was supposed to be evicted but the owner is having a hard time getting him out. S*** has responded and told us he is currently calling his therapist. He is complying but has yet to let us in…”
John: “You hear that?”
Me: “Yes.”
John leads me to one of the commanding officers. This officer doesn’t have a good vibe, doesn’t even look me in the eye. The commanding officer explains to John that I’m free to go and that they’re handling the situation with the owner of the building.
It’s an eviction issue or something.
I’m not going to lie to all of you, this man’s situation is complicated. It’s obvious he’s going through so much and it’s clear that the system doesn’t know how to help him. I will say that because I was alone and no one in the vicinity who I knew or loved was in harms way, I wonder if there was an alternative route… as in if there should have been someone else I could have called.
Or maybe the right move was to let it go? You can call me a coward, a pushover, a vacillating bee, or whatever name in the book. But regardless in the moment, I made a choice. I have to live with this choice.
John: “You’re free to go. Do you want me to walk me to your car?”
Me: “I’m good officer. Thank you and have a nice day.”
I’m in my car. I’m supposed to drive off, but instead I input all of my siblings contacts in a group chat. I tell them a short snippet of what happened and then say, “thanks for listening. I’m leaving again. good bye, love you.” and abruptly leave the group chat.
Moments later my siblings individually reach out.
My youngest brother gives me a call and I do my best to stray away from the conversation because “enough about me”… but he reminds me that I had just gone through something and it’s okay to be vulnerable with him. My other sisters call and text to check up for a few minutes. My other brother who is at work, texts me individually to say if I’m okay.
In this case with them, it’s not complicated. They’re there. No tactics, no strategy, not here to calm me down. Instead, they’re on the phone with me, even if for a short few minutes, to remind me that they love me and that they are open to listen.
—
Thanks for listening to this story that happened 1/2/2023.
Finished writing at 3:01am. Jan 4th 2023.
Location: Some tiny desk and now a bed - in a Los Angeles, Airbnb
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