13 Sep 2007, ST
A New York police officer pens a rare insight into the oft-misunderstood world of the men in blue
By June Cheong
POLICE work runs in American writer Edward Conlon's blood.
The 42-year-old Bronx native is a fourth-generation New York City Police Department (NYPD) cop and currently serves as a detective.
He joined the NYPD in 1995 and started by patrolling the public housing estates in five South Bronx precincts, documenting and picking up all manner of criminals and victims from two-bit drug dealers to 10-year-old rape victims.
A Harvard graduate, his career choice was met with vehement disapproval from his father, himself a World War II officer who left the NYPD to become an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
In his memoir of police life Blue Blood, Conlon delves into the noble, oft-misunderstood occupation and the sacrifices of blood, sweat and tears needed to keep the gritty streets safe.
In the excerpt below, he speaks of his childhood friend Mike Kelly, also an NYPD police officer, and the latter's unwavering belief in the value of his work:
'Mike's belief in the white knighthood of the Job never abated.
That belief was what Mike was most afraid of losing, I think - I never heard him talk about his personal safety, as a real concern that lasted beyond a few moments of danger, fighting an EDP (police shorthand for an emotionally disturbed person), facing a volatile domestic dispute, and so on.
The threat was to his faith in the Job - what the Job meant, as a whole; what it would do to him, and with him, in the event of some crisis. And the crises we read about usually came in the form of racism or corruption.
In a sense, he expected to encounter them in the NYPD not because it was an especially crooked or racist institution, but because these evils were part of the human condition, and to be a cop meant you would experience humanity at a level of skinned-alive intensity.
The fact that a Brooklyn neighbour was one of the cops involved in the 'Buddy Boys' scandal, which involved a ring of drug-dealing thieves and became a book by journalist Mike McAlary, didn't make him rest any easier. But the fact remains that he never saw any corruption, never saw a cop take a nickel or even heard of any who did.
Racism was another matter, not nearly as simple, and if what he saw wasn't enough to shake his faith, there was much to challenge his reason.
Mike was from a part of Brooklyn that had reconvened from other parts that had 'turned' - turned bad, or turned black, which to the shame of the liberals and the bitter delight of bigots often meant the same thing.
But in the aftermath of racially charged killings in Bensonhurst and Howard Beach, the attitude of simply being fair in how you dealt with people, and figuring it out as you went along, didn't seem to be quite enough, either.
After Mike went to the Two-Three (a patrol area which covered 96th to 116th Street and Fifth Avenue east to the river), he was sometimes partnered with an old-timer who used racial slurs almost as if they were punctuation marks. Mike didn't like it, and tried to explain why as best he could - which, in a rookie-veteran partnership, is somewhat like an altar boy preaching to the Pope.
In most ways, the old-timer was a plainly decent guy, and his treatment of people was respectful, no matter if it masked an abstract contempt. On the street, or responding to a job, he handled matters with the amiable pragmatism of the veteran city cop, and face to face, he was an effective public servant.
But once they retreated to the car, it was all colour commentary, so to speak: 'Would you believe how these niggers...' and 'It reminds me of the time this spic...'
Suffice it to say that they agreed to disagree, Mike being a fair guy who figured it out as he went along. And then came a day that made it all the more confusing.
Mike was at court or on vacation - not on patrol, in any case - when his partner went into a burning building, alone, and saved an elderly black woman.
Mike was never able to reconcile his partner's constant and audible prejudice with his act of colour-blind heroism.
In the old-timer's case, the divorce between word and deed was wide enough that there's at least one black person who is grateful he worked as a cop.'
# Blue Blood by Edward Conlon is available for US$12 (S$15) from www.amazon.com or on loan from library@orchard. The book's call number is English 363.2092 CON.
A New York police officer pens a rare insight into the oft-misunderstood world of the men in blue
By June Cheong
POLICE work runs in American writer Edward Conlon's blood.
The 42-year-old Bronx native is a fourth-generation New York City Police Department (NYPD) cop and currently serves as a detective.
He joined the NYPD in 1995 and started by patrolling the public housing estates in five South Bronx precincts, documenting and picking up all manner of criminals and victims from two-bit drug dealers to 10-year-old rape victims.
A Harvard graduate, his career choice was met with vehement disapproval from his father, himself a World War II officer who left the NYPD to become an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
In his memoir of police life Blue Blood, Conlon delves into the noble, oft-misunderstood occupation and the sacrifices of blood, sweat and tears needed to keep the gritty streets safe.
In the excerpt below, he speaks of his childhood friend Mike Kelly, also an NYPD police officer, and the latter's unwavering belief in the value of his work:
'Mike's belief in the white knighthood of the Job never abated.
That belief was what Mike was most afraid of losing, I think - I never heard him talk about his personal safety, as a real concern that lasted beyond a few moments of danger, fighting an EDP (police shorthand for an emotionally disturbed person), facing a volatile domestic dispute, and so on.
The threat was to his faith in the Job - what the Job meant, as a whole; what it would do to him, and with him, in the event of some crisis. And the crises we read about usually came in the form of racism or corruption.
In a sense, he expected to encounter them in the NYPD not because it was an especially crooked or racist institution, but because these evils were part of the human condition, and to be a cop meant you would experience humanity at a level of skinned-alive intensity.
The fact that a Brooklyn neighbour was one of the cops involved in the 'Buddy Boys' scandal, which involved a ring of drug-dealing thieves and became a book by journalist Mike McAlary, didn't make him rest any easier. But the fact remains that he never saw any corruption, never saw a cop take a nickel or even heard of any who did.
Racism was another matter, not nearly as simple, and if what he saw wasn't enough to shake his faith, there was much to challenge his reason.
Mike was from a part of Brooklyn that had reconvened from other parts that had 'turned' - turned bad, or turned black, which to the shame of the liberals and the bitter delight of bigots often meant the same thing.
But in the aftermath of racially charged killings in Bensonhurst and Howard Beach, the attitude of simply being fair in how you dealt with people, and figuring it out as you went along, didn't seem to be quite enough, either.
After Mike went to the Two-Three (a patrol area which covered 96th to 116th Street and Fifth Avenue east to the river), he was sometimes partnered with an old-timer who used racial slurs almost as if they were punctuation marks. Mike didn't like it, and tried to explain why as best he could - which, in a rookie-veteran partnership, is somewhat like an altar boy preaching to the Pope.
In most ways, the old-timer was a plainly decent guy, and his treatment of people was respectful, no matter if it masked an abstract contempt. On the street, or responding to a job, he handled matters with the amiable pragmatism of the veteran city cop, and face to face, he was an effective public servant.
But once they retreated to the car, it was all colour commentary, so to speak: 'Would you believe how these niggers...' and 'It reminds me of the time this spic...'
Suffice it to say that they agreed to disagree, Mike being a fair guy who figured it out as he went along. And then came a day that made it all the more confusing.
Mike was at court or on vacation - not on patrol, in any case - when his partner went into a burning building, alone, and saved an elderly black woman.
Mike was never able to reconcile his partner's constant and audible prejudice with his act of colour-blind heroism.
In the old-timer's case, the divorce between word and deed was wide enough that there's at least one black person who is grateful he worked as a cop.'
# Blue Blood by Edward Conlon is available for US$12 (S$15) from www.amazon.com or on loan from library@orchard. The book's call number is English 363.2092 CON.
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