The Patriots

The night began like every episode of Hill Street Blues, in a meeting room full of blue uniforms shooting the breeze and waiting for the captain, who walked in a couple minutes late, rapped his fingers on the podium, and called the place to order. Once he got it, he listed the problems "out there" that night, got the beat cops up to speed (thirty or so in the room), and laid out some warnings about tough customers. 

Lasted maybe twenty minutes. The squad was all male, all white. It was 1982, long ago. It felt like a locker room, last-minute instructions from a husky coach who knew how to inspire if he wanted to or rattle cages if he needed to. 

But I knew I couldn't write what I heard. I was doing a story about the life of a cop in West Palm Beach. He got permission--and special instructions--to take this civilian along, so I rode with him that night, all night. As luck would have it, the squawk box happened to be abnormally quiet. The two of us were never in any kind of danger. Just a couple years later, he was shot in the line of duty.

What I couldn't write was that during that Hill Street Blues-like briefing, the racism was startlingly evident. I understood why even before I got into the squad car: if there was going to be action that night, it was more than likely going to take place in the middle of the city, not in the suburbs. Those cops talked as they did because they knew who was the enemy.

Was it wrong?--absolutely, and I knew it. I was shocked and knew I couldn't write what I'd heard. Was it understandable?--yes, especially from my point of view, a white man. Not for a moment did I envy their job.

Because I'm white, I suppose, I've never said anything about the juries who let cops who shoot black men walk. Maybe I should have. 

But because I once sat in a briefing room, I don't doubt for a moment that raw prejudice exists in the corps. What I witnessed was forty years ago now, and I'm quite sure that today West Palm's force has African-Americans and women. But back then, when the white guys in blue went out to their cars, they knew how to look at what they were going to see. What happened in that briefing room was racist.

Colin Kaeparnick lit a match when he took a knee last year during the national anthem. No one--not even Donald Trump--has the right to tell him not to protest the obscene deaths of too many black men at the hands of the police. We've all seen too many and too much.

Last week there was another. Here's the way Newsweek wrote up what happened in Salt Lake City--you read that right, Salt Lake City. 

The District Attorney’s office had previously said Harmon threatened officers with a knife as he fled, with officials also claiming officers were in fear of their lives. The footage, which was shared by local media, does not show the moment Harmon allegedly threatened the officers.

Mr. Harmon, fifty years old, was pulled over on a bicycle because he didn't have a light. A few minutes later he was dead.

That's why black men take a knee. They're not wrong and they're not unpatriotic.

Yesterday, the President of these United States told his Vice President to leave the game if any NFL players took a knee, so the VP did. He'd flown into Indianapolis from out west, told the chauffeur he'd be back quickly, took a seat in the stadium, put his hand over his heart at the playing of the national anthem, then marched out and took another plane west. Whether his reaction was heart-felt only Pence knows. But it was, clearly, a gambit, a stunt.

Watch the Salt Lake City video for yourself. Isn't protest inevitable? 

Yesterday the President of the United States threw gasoline on racial fires. Yesterday, when at least some of the conflict seemed to have been abating, Donald J. Trump made sure the hate didn't die by playing to his base, who see the racial protest as unAmerican. What he cares about right now is keeping his disciples in the faith.

"I could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and not lose any voters."

That's our guy. What a patriot.