Black Bands And White Gloves

It was the first time I had ever attended the funeral of a police officer. I had never met him, but for me, there was a connection.

It was more than the fact that we shared the same profession and worked not far from each other in the same state. His murderer and three co-conspirators had been on a crime spree in the days leading up to the fatal shooting. One of the robberies they had committed along the way happened in the town where I worked. I eventually had the honor and the privilege of booking all three accomplices and stood by as they were arraigned for the parts they played. What sealed it for me, I think, was that he had been shot on my birthday and died the next day.

Saturday Morning

After polishing my brass and shining my boots, I put on my Class-A uniform for the first time. The black mourning band and white gloves were the final additions to my uniform, reserved for occasions such as this.

We piled into department vehicles and headed for the staging area where we were organized into columns and rows. It had been a while since I marched — probably since graduating from the Academy. There was a large media presence and mounting spectators. I was nervous.

When it was our turn to right-face and forward-march we began our part of the funeral procession through the city. We were positioned somewhere within a miles-long brigade of police officers that wound through the city streets and beneath enormous American flags hung from fire department ladder trucks. There were countless people with their hands on their hearts that lined the sidewalks and uttered thank-you’s and God-bless-you’s as we passed by. I was choked up with every one that I heard.

Overwhelmed

I cannot begin to express the overwhelming confliction of pride and grief that welled up inside me as I marched along in silence with the distant rumble of police motorcycles and the mournful whine of bagpipes that came and went, carried by the wind. During that march I have never been so proud or so sad to be a police officer; not before or since. The experience was surreal.

The procession filed into a baseball stadium where the somber ceremony unfolded like the flag that covered his coffin. It was heartbreaking to hear from his friends and his family that spoke, all the while realizing that any one of us could be in his place and that our families would be the ones on stage. Though I understood that I cannot control what happens to who, or the time or the place, I couldn’t help but consider the possibility.

Lest We Forget

When the flag is folded and given away, when the ceremony ends and we leave our seats, when we go back to where we came from and the time of mourning is over, what will we do then? We will suit up, get back out there, and get back to work because there is much to do — but we cannot become distracted or forgetful.  We must stop and remember those who have gone before us and remember why we do what we do. We must stop and remember the black bands and the white gloves. As for me, this is the time of year to do it.

Stop and remember, lest we forget.
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