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Learning Respect for Father's Badge
It was 1964 when, as an eight-year-old boy, I first saw my father in uniform. I remember him walking down the street and my first thought being that he was a bus driver. At that time, the style of the "bus driver" hat was worn by most policemen. However, as I continued to look at him, my eyes became transfixed on the shiny piece of metal on his shirt.
Even though my father had explained that the shiny piece of metal was his police badge, I had no idea the amount of responsibilities and ramifications that the badge would bring to my family. This newfound connection to law enforcement brought a whole new meaning to the childish games of cops and robbers that my brother and I played.
I later learned that the badge would hinder my father from coming to watch me play baseball, football or any other activity that I was involved in at the time. His absence during my younger days was due to the fact that he worked the midnight shift for many years and slept most of the day so that he could patrol the streets at night.
Watching that shiny badge come and go was the main memory I had of my father during those years. While I never doubted my father's love for my brother and I, I never really understood why he never had time to do the things that other fathers did. Despite his frequent absence, however, I still felt very proud each time I would see him.
However, this infatuation with the badge turned somewhat sour over the years as I watched him come home day after day, sometimes bruised and often in a bad mood. What was even more interesting was that he never complained. As a matter of fact, he hardly talked about his job at all.
I remember the incident when three Gwinnett County Police Officers were handcuffed together and killed with their own weapons. One of the ones who had been killed was responsible for getting my father his job in law enforcement. As I approached my teens, stories such as these made me determined that I would not follow in my father's footsteps. My resentment, however, was not because of my father, but for all that the badge stood for; or at least, what I assumed it stood for.
I often felt sorry for myself for being the son of a police officer, which my friends were quick to remind me of. Thankfully, as the completion of puberty often does, my emotions began to settle and my thoughts began to mature. No one was more surprised than me when, I too, became a police officer at the tender age of 21. The only one to object to this idea, however, was --- you guessed it --- my father!
While somewhat tarnished over the years, the initial glimmer of the badge always stayed with me. Now, after 23 years of carrying the badge, I am dedicated to all that it stands for. These are not the sad memoirs of someone who feels cheated from his childhood, or the bitter recanting of having to defend my father's profession at a time when it was not the most popular of jobs. Quite the contrary, these are the remarks of a police officer's son. He was my hero then and remains my hero today.
Some of the bravest men that I have ever known have worn, and continue to wear, the badge. Now, each day as I walk out the door with the badge close to my side, I look to my own child and pray that I can give it the respect that my father once did. Tough shoes to fill!
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