Listening and learning

I started noticing it a year or two ago. Whenever I heard or read the word police, it seemed to be paired with the word brutality. Police brutality, police brutality, police brutality. I heard it on the radio, read it on social media, encountered it at church. The noun police, turned into an adjective used to describe brutality, as if these two always fit together. I noticed it, and it bothered me.

Why did I notice, and why did it bother me?

My son was in college, studying criminal justice with a goal of a career in law enforcement. When home on school breaks, he’d share what he was learning, and I grew in understanding the kinds of sacrifices ahead of him. I learned about the stress put on the marriage and family of a police officer. We talked about how his trained hyper-vigilance might make it hard for him to relax when out at a park or restaurant. During an internship, he watched a group of young men yelling at the officer he was with, videotaping with cell phones, seemingly intent on starting a fight. Another time, a detective described what it’s like to habitually move towards danger instead of away from it, and to interact with people who are having bad days, maybe the worst days of their lives. This same detective mentioned that he’s limited his media intake because it was too hard to come home from those days and read negative generalizations about police. 

This has all been eye-opening for me. In one mother-son conversation, I expressed some of my growing realization about the high personal cost of police work. He acknowledged the sacrifice, and then said, “Someone has to do it. And I can.”

After college graduation and a thorough six-month application process, he was accepted in the police department he’d hoped for. He’s in academy training now, intense and strict, with lots of physical and academic work. 

My other son is also in rigorous training, in the U.S. Marine Corps. Soon he’ll be stationed and possibly deployed. In his voice, I sometimes hear the weight he feels of needing to be strong to defend his country. Listening to him, I understand better the personal complexity of being part of a chain of command that goes up to the President, and how your commitment to that structure is necessary so that the whole thing doesn’t fall apart. I feel it personally when I learn that he’s been advised to not travel in uniform, as a way to avoid being harassed or threatened. He also is making personal, costly sacrifices to protect others.  

Through listening to my sons, I understand better some of what it’s like to put your life at risk for others, including many who don’t understand or appreciate what you’re doing. Because of my  relationship with my sons, I appreciate the complexities of working in these high-stress fields more than I have in the past. Because of my relationship with my sons, I’m bothered by the careless use of language that propagates an idea that all police are racist and brutally violent. 

This isn’t a political blog: I’m not taking sides on a “Black Lives Matter” or “Blue Lives Matter” debate. Not all police are brutal and not all are honorable. And this isn’t a media rant: I do think that social media makes it easy to use words to belittle and undermine others, openly or subtly. But the expression of complex issues on social media is beyond the scope of this post. 

So why share this on a biblical counseling blog? As a mom, I’ve grown in understanding by listening to my sons. As a counselor, I also have the privilege of listening and learning as I hear the parts of people’s stories that aren’t always visible on the surface. I hope that this has made me a wiser person. I’m often reminded that generalizations, even when their intent is to advance positive social change, miss so very much. 

We are quick to make judgments. We categorize people based on career, education, political views, appearance. Sometimes we do this carelessly, such as by not thinking of the implications of saying police brutality and the many other generalizations that slip out so easily. 

“Be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to grow angry.” This advice is as wise today as when James wrote it 2,000 years ago, and so very pertinent for the highly-charged, emotional world of communication we’re living in.

This isn’t place to solve all of this.  I just had a little story to share. 

Also, I’m proud of my sons.