Recommended Reading: My Career As A White Police Officer

Happy Labor Day Deplorables! Here is an article that is well worth the time spent to read it which describes the experiences of a white police officer and his interactions with a certain privileged minority group that all white people are now expected to bow down to.

Normally I would include such articles in the morning Breakfast For The Brain postings but this is much longer and the insight is too good to do it justice without letting it stand alone on its merits.

The author details his work as a white police officer and the taboo practice of being honest about black people which is absolutely forbidden in an America that has been turned upside down since the tenure of Barack Obama who opened the door for the destruction of decades of progress in race relations. Obama’s treachery has led to the current climate where media, celebs, athletes, and politicians along with violent thugs have put targets on the backs of police and exposed white people to the possibility of having extreme violence used against them because of their skin color.

Via The Unz Review, “My Career as a White Police Officer”:

I was born and raised in a small suburb east of a major southern California city. I went to the local Catholic school and had the standard blue-collar, lower middle-class childhood. My only significant experiences with black people were during Pop Warner football games, when our team traveled to the “urban” parts of the city. What I remember most was the awful condition of the “field.” Hardly a blade of grass lived on the gridiron, and the yard markers were upturned plastic waste baskets with the yard lines spray painted on them.

Our black opponents would intimidate us by their noticeably larger size and by warming up with thigh-pad-slapping pre-game chants. The shouting and hollering were nothing any of us had ever seen before. I remember their imposing size and demeanor almost as much as I remember the spitting, pinching, and groin punching in the scrums after a play.

In what was perhaps a peace offering on my part, I remember picking up the loose helmet of one of my imposingly large opponents and handing it to him. The inside was greased up to the point that I could barely get a grip on it. I was unfamiliar with the black ritual of applying chemical straightener to hair. I could see the boy’s shiny hair under the clear shower cap they all seemed to wear beneath their helmets. That was my first real experience with blacks.

My childhood was good, and I grew up doing the usual things: tackle football, playing army, and shooting BB guns. I never experienced violent crime. I went to an almost all-white high school with about 1,500 students. There were so few black people, I can still remember their names. There were occasional fistfights, but they were almost always between white students. There were rules: Fights were always one-on-one — no “jumping in” — and no weapons. Once a boy was defeated, there were no cheap shots or dirty moves. The crowd that always gathered would have punished any violations. Years later, I was disgusted when I first saw large mobs of blacks attacking each other and passersby in dirty, cowardly ways.

During high school, I had the usual menial jobs: paperboy, fast food, roofing, construction site cleanup, etc. By a stroke of luck or fate, I entered law enforcement at the age of 18 and became a cadet for the local county court agency. As an unarmed cadet, I had several jobs. I was responsible for county courthouse interoffice mail delivery, monitoring the X-ray machine and metal detector at the courthouse, and serving court documents on people.

It was during this job that I first began to experience blacks and what I would later learn was their distinctive behavior. When I worked security at the courthouse, I was, first of all, astounded at the number of blacks coming into court. If I ever ventured up to the actual halls upstairs, they were choked with black men and women, shouting and roughhousing. The sanctity of the courtroom and its procedures were lost on them.

Many blacks seemed not to understand what a metal detector does. They would walk through with large knives in their pockets, fistfuls of change, huge belt buckles, and the like. It got to the point that I would stop them before they went through and remind them what counted as “metal.” I remember a black woman who put her infant car carrier on the X-ray machine conveyor belt with the baby still soundly sleeping inside. Blacks often put full coffee cups on the belt.

One of my duties was to serve eviction notices. I will never forget one street, where I served several eviction notice each day, five days a week. The public housing buildings were pale green and there was not a blade of mowed grass and every window seemed cracked or broken out. No matter the day of week or time of day, there was always someone home to accept service. There were always big crowds of able-bodied black men from about 17–40 years of age roaming around. I remember naively thinking, “Wow. They must all get Tuesdays off of work.”

Once, when I knocked on a door, a gigantic, muscular black man answered the door. He yanked the paperwork from my hands and slammed the door. At the end of my shift, my sergeant summoned me to his office. He was aghast to learn that I, a baby-faced cadet wearing a “badge” and a uniform, would go down that street. I was forbidden from ever going to that location again. I was made to understand that my naiveté about black people had nearly got me killed.

When I was about 20, I went on a ride along with an officer who worked for the largest police agency in the county. He worked in the division that was known to have the highest black population and therefore, the highest level of violent crime. Ironically, it was the same area where I had played pee wee football games. The ball fields had only gotten worse. As I rode along with the officer, I was immediately struck by the large groups of blacks near liquor stores, convenience stores, and on street corners. Almost without exception, when the police car came into view, they would all take off running in different directions. I remember following behind the officer as he tried to catch stragglers. I watched in awe as he pulled out large bags of crack cocaine and/or handguns from their pockets.

Later, the officer took me with him to serve a narcotics search warrant. I was allowed inside (that would be forbidden today). After the warrant was served, I saw bits of crack cocaine scattered all over the living room floor where the suspect had thrown them when the officers came in. There were three little black kids in the house. They were filthy and in diapers that were long past changing. The excitement and adrenaline of that ride-along encouraged me to go into law enforcement.

Something else I noticed: The sparsely furnished apartment was ridiculously hot. All four burners of the stove were on, and the oven was at 400 degrees with the door open. As I later learned, the apartments of blacks were, without exception, ridiculously hot. In Southern California, it was rarely necessary to need heating, but blacks always had their living spaces heated well above the comfort level for most white people. I later learned that blacks used the stove for heat so often that they referred to chilly nights as “four burner nights.” Maybe they wanted their places hotter than the heating system would get it, or maybe they were saving on heating bills. Either way, this practice of using the stove for heating often led to house fires.

—

I will never forget my very first radio call for service. I responded to the local 7-Eleven with my training officer. The 60-year-old clerk was bleeding from the top of his head and showed us security camera footage. Four large black men, all clad in matching purple sweatshirts and sweatpants, came in, each armed with a full-size shotgun. I watched the footage and saw the elderly clerk hand over the money. After getting $80, one of the suspects hit the man over the head with the barrel of his shotgun. As a naive young officer, I wondered, “Why did he feel the need to hurt him after getting what he wanted?” It was at this moment that I became aware of the violent tendencies of blacks.

I remember a call after a customer tried to enter a video rental store and called police because he found it strange that the store was locked at 5 p.m. After the owner showed up and let me in, I found the four employees bound and gagged in the back office. Two armed black men had come in and robbed them. After tying up the employees, they took their driver’s licenses and told them they would kill their families if they cooperated with police.

I will never forget the look of fear on the employees’ faces when we found them. They were terrified and crying, pleading with their eyes to be untied. There were three men and one woman, and I started with the woman. I was mortified to think of the horror they had gone through. Did they think they were going to be shot and killed? Was the woman afraid she would be raped? Were they thinking of their loved ones; begging for their lives? I couldn’t stop thinking of all that agony — and for what couldn’t have been more than $1,000 in the till.

The suspects were later caught doing the same thing in a different part of the state. This kind of crime is called a takeover robbery — a gang of men bursts into a store and “takes over.” As in the movies, they may fire a shot through the ceiling. The idea is to terrify people and take complete control.

One day on patrol, I saw two blacks sitting in a Volkswagen Jetta with Vermont plates. This piqued my interest, so I turned my car around and stopped them. The driver parked and the two walked away in different directions. I found one of the men hiding behind a dumpster in an alleyway and my partner detained the other in a trailer park across the street. The car was not reported stolen and neither of the men had warrants for arrest. The driver was unlicensed, but we did not ordinarily tow a car unless the driver’s license was suspended.

My intuition told me something was wrong — call it racial profiling if you like — so I let the men go but took the risk of angering my sergeant by having the car towed. I still remember thinking I was rolling the dice on that one. I returned to the station to finish paperwork and was paged over the intercom to call dispatch right away. The car had just been reported carjacked by two blacks.

We rushed back to where I had left the two and, astonishingly, they were still there, so we arrested them. The carjacking had taken place in the eastern part of the county. The men kidnapped the owner and took him to several different ATMs to withdraw money. Then they put him in the trunk and drove towards my city. They stopped along the freeway, took his shoes, and let him go. The man had to walk to the nearest freeway exit to call and report the crime. Later, I told one of the suspects that he was being charged with kidnapping and robbery. “Kidnapping?” he asked. “How can it be kidnapping if we let him go?”

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One incident with an elderly couple affected me deeply. The gentleman was a WWII veteran. He told me that he couldn’t sleep, so he went into the kitchen for milk and cookies. He saw candle wax on the kitchen floor and followed it to his wife’s room (they slept separately). He found his 75-year-old wife raped and severely beaten. She described her assailant as a black man and I was required to ask her vile, embarrassing questions: “Ma’am, what was he saying to you? Did he ejaculate? What did he do when he was finished?”

I will never forget that interview. As is customary with black-on-elderly rape, the assailant stole the woman’s jewelry. I’m not sure why the woman did not cry out for help; maybe the man threatened to kill her and her husband if she made a sound.

We often hear that all black families have “the talk” with their children — especially boys — to explain that any white officer is looking for any excuse to kill them, so they must always cooperate and be polite. If there is a “talk,” it must be a mother telling her children (fathers are almost never around) that they don’t have to do anything the police say or follow any of our directions, that they should talk back to us and be as hostile as possible. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of black suspects who have been “meek, calm, and cooperative.” From the beginning of my career in the early 1990s to today, almost every time I have dealt with a black suspect, he or she has been confrontational, complaining of “racism” or “profiling.”

Even victims are hostile. Either they are angry that we have not immediately caught their attacker, or they refuse to cooperate. I have stood over black or Hispanic shooting victims, moaning in pain, as paramedics work on them, asking basic questions: Who did this to you? Who were you with? Where were you? The answer was almost always, “I dunno” or a shrug of the shoulders. They wanted to “handle the problem” on their own with street justice, and they saw any type of cooperation with the police as a sign of weakness. I took many attempted murder reports for which there was absolutely no suspect information or leads to follow up on — because the victim or witnesses refused to give us any.

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In my nearly 30 years of police experience, I have never mistreated a suspect because of race. Today’s anti-police hysteria would have you believe that police start and end their shifts hunting for black people to stop, but the reality of police work is simple. We have radios and computers in our cars that dispatch us. We don’t just appear where black people happen to be. We are sent there. We don’t control who commits crime. We don’t control the victims or witnesses who call 911. We stop, investigate, and arrest blacks disproportionately because of one indisputable fact: Blacks commit more crime.

If the radio or computer in our car tells us a green Martian wearing a silver spacesuit just committed an armed robbery, we go to the location and look for a green Martian wearing a silver space suit. If the radio or the computer tells us that a black man just shot several people, we flood the area and look for — you guessed it, a black man. George Floyd, Michael Brown, Rayshard Brooks et. al. weren’t randomly chosen. In every incident, they were committing crimes that had been called in by victims or witnesses. The fact that they chose not to cooperate or to attack the police was entirely their choice.

Our job is to enforce the law. If a suspect resists, we are allowed to use force. Each of those black men would be alive today if he had followed lawful commands and had submitted to lawful arrest. There is no disputing that fact. Police officers want to arrest dangerous criminals to protect their community, and we will go wherever that call for service takes us.

Unfortunately, the city where I now work is destroying itself in the name of “diversity.” As the federal government foists hundreds, if not thousands of African refugees upon our town, crimes that were unheard of are becoming common: children stabbed to death, gun crime, and murder for hire. I now see sub-Saharan Africans walking down Main Street with 40-pound bags of rice on their heads. People from Third-World countries full of squalor and corruption come to our city and demand special treatment while contributing nothing. No politician can complain without committing career suicide. I am now in a supervisory position and can say, without hesitation, that every major crime here involves a black person. The most dangerous service call of each shift for the last several months has involved a black man with a gun or large mobs of violent blacks.

As the “defund the police” movement gains momentum, police officers are leaving the profession in droves. My agency is no exception. Soon, very few people, if any, will apply for this job. In order to fill vacancies, agencies will have to eliminate written tests, lower hiring standards, and look the other way on questionable backgrounds. This has all been tried before in the name of “diversity,” and led to incompetent, untrustworthy, corrupt officers. This is a disaster for any society.

White people are too frightened to talk about the rampant black crime that is documented every day. Whites have become the “silenced majority,” in order to protect their livelihood and to avoid being called the word against which there is no defense: “racist.” This police department is full of men and women who can tell city council exactly what happens when a city submits to the corrosive grip of the black hand. Will they listen before it’s too late?

Read the entire article HERE.