You're Not Dead Until I say You're Dead!

** This is the continuing story of my adventures at the police academy after suffering a mid-life crisis in my forties. It's best to start at the beginning with the first post.

I wish I could say the next two days went as smoothly as the first, but they didn’t. I struggled with two of the scenarios, and completely failed one of them. In the one I failed, I was driving a patrol car and came upon a vehicle pulled to the side of the road, with its hood up, and a man standing with his head buried in the engine. I pulled over behind the vehicle, activated my emergency lights, and called dispatch with my location.

I approached the man, asking if I could help. He straightened up and began shooting at me with a cap gun. It sounded real and scarred the shit out of me. I stumbled back trying to remove my gun from my holster as the man continued firing. I probably took six bullets directly to the chest, when I turned to the instructor and said the fatal words, “I’m dead.”

All hell broke lose. Sgt. Dickens was standing to the side of my vehicle, and he blew a gasket.

“You are not dead, you never stop fighting. You’re a fucking loser Cadet Ivy, and I should kick your ass out of the academy right now.”

I stood frozen. I wanted to bury my head in the dirt and cry. Sgt. Dickens told me to get the fuck out of his site and I left. What a disaster. I didn’t fail the remedial but the mental damage was done. It wasn’t until I found out that three quarters of the class failed that specific practical, that I felt somewhat better. I’m surprised Sgt. Dickens had a voice left; apparently he yelled at all of us and threatened to kick everyone out.

I also missed a small gun while searching a suspect. The gun was on a chain around her neck, in her cleavage. I managed to grab the gun as she was pulling it out to shoot me, but I was pissed off at myself. I had performed a bad search on a female suspect of all things. After that incident, my searches were extremely thorough and I found two additional guns during the following scenarios. One was literally underneath a suspect’s penis. I found it, removed it and then washed my hands when the scenario was finished. I did find some satisfaction in shaking everyone’s hand before I was able to wash.

My last scenario on Friday was with simulated weapons (SIMs). A small group of us were waiting outside the driver’s track building and we were able to pick partners. Rocco was in the group so we partnered up. We then geared up with head, chest and groin protection. I could barely breathe in my face mask. We were also handed SIMs guns with rubber bullets. These guns fire and launch a rubber bullet and leave a colored chalk mark on what they shoot. We were also told it would be painful if we took a hit.

When it was our turn, we walked to the front of the building, and were told to enter the abandoned building to search for a trespassing vagrant. Rocco and I began the search. The building was dark and we used our flashlights. We had our guns drawn, looking and listening, although all I could hear was my loud, too fast breathing. We searched room by room. There was a small closet and Rocco opened the door as I peered inside. My gun came up and I began shouting commands. There was a man standing inside, next to a water heater. He had his weaponless hands, visibly crossed, in front of him. He put his hands up and complied as we talked him out of the closet. The scenario was over and so were the practical tests.

Rocco and I went back to the classroom and it took about an hour for everyone else to finish up. We were all telling each other what we had passed and failed. Every one of us made mistakes. We were all upset over the pop gun incident and no one felt as if they’d aced it. Donna had not returned and I didn’t find out how she did until we were released, she came in and sat down right before our scolding started.

Sgt. Dickens came into the room after we were all assembled. He was pissed off and stated there were forty three guns missed in searches. He asked everyone that missed a gun to stand up. Everyone stood. Some missed more than one. We were given forty three hill runs to be completed the following Monday.

The judges reviewed their scenarios, and the good job I did on the domestic violence tests was pointed out. Cadets having problems were to work with me if they felt they needed help. I could tell this pissed off Sgt. Dickens. I glimpsed his way as I was being praised and he never acknowledged me at all. Other cadets were praised for different scenarios and we would have been proud of ourselves if it wasn’t for the angry look on Sgt. Dickens’ face.

Donna and another cadet were called to the Sergeant’s office when we were given permission to leave for the weekend. I waited for Donna before taking off. She was crying when she entered the room.

She told me she shot the unarmed man in the closet with her SIMs gun. She was one of two cadets who fired. Sgt. Dickens told them they both needed to think long and hard over the weekend about being police officers. I consoled her and said Sgt. Dickens was an ass. We both packed our laundry and took off for our homes.

Donna called me that weekend and told me she was not returning. She was sorry to leave me alone, but she could not take it any more. Her mind was set.

My son also announced he had taken a job in Phoenix and would be moving out in two weeks. He barely spoke to me and refused to ask about the academy. I love him dearly but his attitude hurt. I didn’t know if he would ever see me as my own person and not just his mother. My daughters were both proud of me. Letty, my oldest had announced her wedding date a few weeks earlier. She already had an apartment of her own. Cassie, the youngest, was doing well in her first semester of college. She had left for Tucson when I left for the academy.

With Roger moving out, my house would finally have just my husband and me under the roof. In some ways this was a blessing but it was sad as well. My husband would be alone during my last six weeks at the academy. I worried about him. He said he would survive but was counting the days until my graduation. Now that I was at the academy, he never seemed to doubt I would succeed.

Driving back to the academy that Sunday was hard, and I had a heavy heart. My friend would not be there waiting for me. I cried for her and myself. I realized becoming a police officer was about inner strength and heart. I made the drive slowly not wanting to face my empty dorm room.            

Hell Week Begins!

** This is the continuing story of my adventures at the police academy after suffering a mid-life crisis in my forties. It's best to start at the beginning with the first post.

Our midterm was long and grueling. It took half the day. We all attended the previous evening’s study session and I had a review at my breakfast table that morning. For the first time two other tables were pushed closer and about half our class participated.

Everyone passed. Cadet Rodriguez actually did very well and was twenty-second in the class. I was ninth and not very happy. Our academic rankings were posted on the wall and I wanted more than anything to be in the top five. I guess I should have been satisfied with it being the only academy testing where I wasn’t in last place, but I wasn’t.

Tuesday was POPAT and our schedules showed no morning inspection, but we were to be at the training field at 0800. We double timed it over and our testing began.

Police Officers Physical Agility Test (POPAT), I’ll break the test down for you. It begins with running a ninety-nine yard obstacle course. You next move on to the six-foot fences, followed by the body drag and then when you’re good and tired you get to run four-hundred meters.

We had POPAT testing until lunch. The results would be available that evening. I didn’t know if I’d made it or not.

The rest of the day was spent on defensive tactics to help prepare us for the practical tests beginning the next day. We were made to stand with our arms at our sides, with an attacker twenty feet away holding a large rubber knife. As soon as the attacker starts running towards us, we draw our guns and fire (this is done by making the bang bang sound). We were all stabbed. Twenty-two feet is considered the safety zone for a suspect with a knife. Even when you know he’s going to be coming at you it’s almost impossible to pull your gun and fire at the twenty foot range. Twenty-two feet is not easy either but we all managed to do it. There is no room for error.

Speaking of being stabbed, I did not say “killed” for a reason. For the past eight weeks it was drilled into our psyche we would never die. No matter what happened we were to continue fighting. This mind set is what will save your life. People have died from non-life threatening gun shot wounds simply because they knew they’d been shot. The only acceptation to this rule had been our fight for our guns and the death letters written to family.

That evening we gathered in front of our dorms when we heard the results for POPAT were in. Cadet Clark made the announcement that all but one of us had passed. My heart sank.

“Cadet Chavez, can I speak with you in my room? All the rest of you did a good job, and scores will be posted tomorrow in our classroom.”

I’d passed. I couldn’t believe it. This was the one thing I’d been most worried about. If I was injured and could not complete the final POPAT this score would stand and I would graduate. I passed on my first try.

I waited for Rocco and we cried together. He missed the magic score by twenty-four points. He told me he needed to lose more weight and he was determined to pass. He wouldn’t be given the chance until a week before graduation. If he didn’t pass in week seventeen he would go home. It was heartbreaking. I told him we would work at POPAT every night and I was not graduating without him. We’d made that deal the first week at the academy.

Non-academy personnel began arriving that evening for the practical tests beginning th following morning. Some would be staying in empty dorm rooms. They were all police officers volunteering their time to help us train. They were nice and relaxed. It was strange after weeks of being treated like cadets. One told me I didn’t need to call him sir. It was impossible.  I said, “Thank you sir,” at Starbucks on my weekend splurge. I hoped if I made it through the academy, I would be given the opportunity to come back and help other cadets.

Wednesday morning it began. We were divided into different groups and placed in separate waiting areas. My first test was behind our classroom. I was given a police radio and dispatched to an unidentified man standing on our parade deck. I was told a neighbor called him in because she could see him out her front window and he was making her nervous.

I approached. The man had a large boom box in his hand. I identified myself and asked what he was doing in the area. The man simply stared at me. I asked him for some identification. He lay the boom box down and placed his hand in his pocket. I could see a bulge in the pocket and I asked him to keep his hands where I could see them.

He finally spoke, “Then how you spect me to give you identification?” (He even had the lingo)

I asked if I could pat him down for my safety and explained I just needed to feel the outside of his pockets for a weapon. He complied and I asked him to turn around, keeping his hands where I could see them and spread his legs apart. I stepped forward and performed the pat down. My hands were shaking. He had a large wallet in his front pocket and I asked if his identification was inside. He told me it was. I stepped back and asked him to retrieve his wallet. He gave me his identification and I told him a neighbor called because he was making her nervous.

He then told me he lived down the block and a friend was picking him up here, on the street corner. The scenario was ended. The two judges came forward and told me I did a good job. I was told I should have noticed the bulge in the pocket earlier but I passed and they liked the way I spoke to my suspect. This was meant to be a non-violent confrontation but it would have turned aggressive if my demeanor warranted change.

           

I was next sent to our dorm room meeting area. There was a television, couches and small kitchenette with a microwave and toaster oven. We didn’t enter this area often because the college kids used it to hang out. Several of my fellow cadets were present and we watched a movie (we were too nervous to really pay attention) while waiting for our names to be called. We were not allowed to talk about any scenarios we’d finished so none of us would know what to expect.

There were two scenarios taking place at this station. I was only able to complete the first before lunch. It was a man with a baseball bat threatening to kill his ex-wife, while he was pounding on her apartment door (an empty dorm room).

I drew my gun upon seeing the bat, and had to talk my suspect down from there. I made an arrest and placed him in handcuffs.

After the completion of the scenario I was asked why I drew my weapon. I explained my suspect had a bat and it was a deadly instrument. I was asked if I would have fired if he came towards me with the bat. I said yes and was given a pass on my second scenario.

It was time for lunch. I was excited but several cadets were upset and said they failed their morning practical tests. I couldn’t ask which ones they’d taken, but it made me more nervous about what might be ahead of me. I thought both my scenarios had been rather easy.   

After lunch, there was another domestic violence scenario at the dorm rooms. I passed it with flying colors. I’d finished the day and did not need to perform any remedial training. It had been a good day for me but too many cadets had failed scenarios and I knew I probably would not be as lucky on the second day.

Is Dickless A Bad Word?

**This is the ongoing story of becoming a police officer in my forties and then becoming The Bad Luck Detective. It’s best to start with the first post.

After more torture at morning PT, we went to breakfast, had inspection, and sat down for our first test. Bubble sheets again. It was a multiple choice test, but for every question there were at least two possible answers. I felt I had done well though, and we were able to leave the room when we finished. I was the third one out the door. Cadet Clark our classroom leader, who we had elected the previous week, was the first to finish. There was a machine for grading in the secretary’s office outside the classroom. When approximately ten tests were turned in, they were gathered and run through the machine. My test was handed back and I only missed three out of eighty six. It was a good feeling.

We all managed to pass but there were quite a few scores in the seventies. We were told this was the easiest test we would be given and we needed to study harder. Class began and we managed to make it through the day. We had eight hill runs after class and they were easier than the week before.

Each squad had been given a package of stencils and one black marker earlier that day. We were told we needed to stencil our last names on the back of our white physical training (PT) t-shirts. It was a disaster. Mistakes were made left and right by the male cadets and t-shirts were thrown in the garbage. When it was my turn to stencil I had no problems. It was easy. I wasn’t a housewife and homemaker for nothing. Word got out. It was decided I would stencil while cadets shined my boots. What a trade off.

The next morning for the first time Sgt. Dickens said, “Nice boots cadet.”

We could carry a backpack for our binders and classroom supplies. I carried everything but the kitchen’s sink in mine. Ibuprofen, Kleenex, band aides, sun block and chemical icepacks were only a few of the items. The word also got out on this. Cadets raided my supplies endlessly and I earned the name Momma Ivy. I think we nicknamed everyone. We were proud of those names and it was our own way of making us a family.

Tuesday and Thursday mornings were Defensive Tactics (DT). We had Sgt. Tillman for our instructor. He was in his late forties, in fantastic shape, and basically kicked the shit out of us. We were hit, knocked down and handcuffed until our wrists were raw. I had bruises everywhere and icepacks were my best friend. My roommate and I bought a small refrigerator for our room and I was able to keep the packs frozen. It was cheaper than the chemical packs though I carried those for emergencies.

During the first and second weeks of DT we learned how to fall. We were tested on falling forward from a standing position, turning our heads to the side (so we didn’t break our nose), and landing just on our palms and toes. It’s hard not to use your knees to break your fall, and some of the cadets had difficulty but we all passed.

We began learning pain compliance techniques; wrist locks and joint control. The painful part for us was practicing on each other. We learned proper search techniques. I learned men like to hide things in their “junk.” This means I had to search their “packages” thoroughly. The male cadets had a harder time searching the women than we did the men. We all had to get over our mental rebellion and learn to grope each other.

My arms were twisted and I was thrown to the ground too many times to count. I would limp to my room after DT, take some Ibuprofen, apply ice packs while changing my cloths and then head to breakfast. Rocco and I began skipping dinner, eating a power bar and working out. We were barely keeping up in PT and our POPAT training was beginning the following week. By the end of my second week I had lost ten pounds and Rocco lost twenty-three.

My roommate Donna and I were becoming good friends as well. She had been in the army for ten years and worked at a grocery store before coming to the police academy. She was thirty-two and wanted a better life for her son. She was single and her mother was keeping her son while she attended the academy. She told me she didn’t really like the military but dreamed of being a police officer. She was getting her asthma under control and had moved to the middle of the pack when running. Once a week we did a personal best run and did not run together. I was proud of Donna but this put me dead last. Rocco finished about a quarter mile in front of me and everyone else was able to cool down until I crossed the finish line. I was then given two minutes to rest before hitting the weight room. PT was my worst nightmare.

I was also struggling with my pushup. Sgt. Dickless, I mean Dickens, had pin pointed me as a weak link for his class. He seemed to spend more time on my morning inspection than on other cadets. He loved giving us all pushups for my infractions. I didn’t get his exclusive attention but it was apparent he had it out for me.

The entire class referred to Sgt. Dickens as Sgt. Dickless when we were out of his hearing. It became second nature to call him by his nickname. I was also incorporating the “F” word in my vocabulary. It seemed to be how every cadet talked and it was becoming just another word. I never swore a lot before the academy but the only way to describe a hill run was to call it a “fucking” hill run. No other word did it justice.

Sgt. Dickens decided I was doing improper pushups and not going down far enough. He told the class he was adding five hill runs everyday until I could do them correctly. The class was pissed and I was getting angry glances. Class leader Clark said he would help me out that evening. He showed me a proper pushup and I could barely complete ten. If Sgt. Dickless was going to be watching me the entire class was in trouble. I added pushups to my nightly workout routine.

That week we did five extra hill runs everyday with Sgt. Dickless screaming at the bottom about whose fault it was. We were again released on Friday at 1600 hours. We all trudged to the bottom of the water tower and began running upward. We finished and cadets began heading to the dorms to collect their things for the weekend.

I was walking with Rocco and said, “Sgt. Dickless is a fucked up piece of shit.”

I had no idea Sgt. Dickens was behind me. I was grabbed by my arm and spun around.

“I will see you immediately in my office!”

Rocco gave me a look of complete terror and I gave him a small push in the direction of the dorms. I went to the office. This was like being in grade school all over. I was forty years old and being sent to the office. I swore I would not cry.

Sgt. Dickens was staring at his computer and waited about five minutes before speaking to me. I knew this drill. I’d used it on my own children.

His voice was low when he finally spoke, “Why are you here Cadet Ivy?”

Before I could answer he went on, “You can’t run, you’re overweight, too old and you are not cut out to be a police officer. Is this a joke to you? Will your social club give you a certificate if you complete two weeks of the academy? How about make it easy on everyone by going home today and not coming back on Monday. Let me add this, if you come back on Monday I will make your life a living hell.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “I became a police officer because I can do the job. I apologize for my lack of respect today but I will be back on Monday.”

He shook his head and told me I would have ten personal hill runs on Monday. He then dismissed me. I didn’t cry until I was in my car and heading home. I had made the worst enemy possible.