Like several thousand other locals, today I went to the Oakland Memorial service for the four police officers that were killed in the line of duty last week. I kind of felt I had to as some sort of closure on the Cincinnati police killings in my childhood. I have vague memories of that which still haunt me, images of funerals on tv, of police families protesting to get kevlar vests the city wouldn't pay for and of an almost complete lack of community empathy for the situation. They're almost like photographs in some morbid album that I can call up just by seeing black electrical tape and remembering how it was used on badges and on paperwork cubbies at the district. So, when this happened last weekend, all I could think of was; "Not again." There was a news picture that summed that old maelstrom of feelings up perfectly, depicting the graphic remnants of violence and a big gaping space where the subject of the photo was supposed to be. I used to have nightmares about that- of dad suddenly ripped away from the family to a closed casket with nothing left but that emptiness.
It's been 30 years almost to the day since I discovered the concept police mortality- and I've been carrying that around with me as background noise ever since. This week while reading articles about the Oakland incident, I kept getting confused because I was sure the gunman was shot at the traffic stop. It was only last night I realized that 30 years ago Dennis Bennington shot his killer even while mortally wounded and that's what was confusing me. He and Dick Seifert died that night, devastating their families and sending ripples that spread through the Cincinnati Police Department, ripples that can be felt today every time an officer straps on his armor under his uniform. I feel those ripples, too, as I sit here in a row of Oakland PD officers, laying to rest these four officers killed last weekend and two more who have been haunting me for much longer. I wish I could believe in an afterlife with peace and love for all. But I don't. The best I can do is to recognize all of these officers knew the risks and the possibility and went ahead with their duties anyway because that was their choice- something in their makeup that rose them out of the rest of us, to make them willing to one day take a bullet in exchange for someone they might never meet. I realize now that they considered it a bargain, and I'm a bit ashamed of how often I cried at the thought of my father making that same choice. It took me until today to understand that he'd already made it.
Today is a beautiful day in Oakland. The sun is shining and the wind is mild. The arena is full and the coliseum is holding the overflow of mourners. The community of Oakland and the community of police have come out in a measure of support I have never personally witnessed before. Truly, these officers are being laid to rest as heroes. And I'm laying things to rest, too. I came out today to examine old scars and found that in the full sun of an Oakland spring, they aren't nearly as deep as they looked in years of late night shadows. I've always heard that funerals were for the survivors but I've never really believed it until today. It's just sad that it took an event like this to prove it to me.
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