Humor by John Christmann
Our Finest
Not too long ago, in my search for activities to occupy my kids, I discovered the Summit Police Youth Academy, a unique summer program run by the Summit Police Department to expose young adolescents to police work and training. Crime scene investigation, physical fitness, canine demonstrations—it sounded like a pretty cool camp to me, so using the time honored parental rationale “you will thank me for this one day”, I enrolled my son.
Although the program incorporates a significant amount of structure and discipline, the Sergeant in charge made it very clear at the outset that The Academy is not a boot camp for troubled kids.
My son was skeptical. So what is this camp, exactly? he wanted to know the night before he was scheduled to start.
“It’s a boot camp for troubled kids without any troubles.” I replied.
I believe it is important to set expectations.
Monday
I drop my son off at the police station in his official uniform: blue gym shorts, T shirt, and cap each with an insignia identifying him as a Summit PD youth cadet.
“Tuck in your shirt,” I say as he leaves the car. Why? he wants to know, then without waiting for an answer he adds, it looks stupid!
In the afternoon I return to pick him up. I am a little early. I can hear the barking commands of a drill instructor followed by a long line of marching cadets arranged by height. My son, tall and lanky in a uniform which exaggerates his features, brings up the rear. He is not happy.
After being released for the day my son storms into the car and slams the door. He refuses to talk to me. His expectations about this being a boot camp are dramatically exceeded.
Later I ask him if he is ever going to tell me what happened. He doesn’t answer. I try a different approach; I ask him to tell me something fun that happened. He looks me dead in the eye. There was nothing fun about any of it he says.
Finally he feeds me the information he wants me to hear. All we did was march and turn and drill and say yes sir and no sir all day long. It was a complete waste of time.
And then, rubbing his arms, he adds: And when we dropped our water bottles or did something wrong they yelled at us and we had to do pushups.
Tuesday
I am not going. You have to go. Why? Because you started it and now you need to see it through. Why? After the first day it gets better, I promise. I am not going.
I drop my son off at the police station. “Tuck in your shirt” I say as he leaves the car. He challenges me: Why should I? I ask him how his arms feel.
On an errand to the post office I see the cadets marching publically through the middle of town. They are holding their heavy water bottles upright against their wrists as they march through the sweltering streets. My son is in the rear. He is not happy. But his shirt is tucked in.
Here is something else he told me. We have nicknames. They call me Stretch because I look so skinny in this uniform. I hate it. It hurts my self esteem.
I remember when I was his age, when I was built like a string bean and wore pants that were too short and believed the whole world was looking at me through a magnifying glass, seeing me for what I really was: a 90 pound dork that couldn’t do a pushup. But when I was his age I didn’t really worry about self esteem because I had no idea what that meant.
On my way back from doing errands I notice the Union County Bomb Squad and the K-9 unit parked outside the police station.
In the afternoon when I pick up my son he storms to the car, slams the door, and says definitively: I am not going back.
Wednesday
Do I really have to go? There is only mild resignation in his voice. Then please don’t put ice in my water bottle. We have to carry it against our arms all day and it is really cold.
I drop my son off at the police station. As he gets out of the car he tucks his shirt in. He walks bolt upright through the front door carrying a heavy bottle of tepid water naturally against his arm.
Thursday
My son hasn’t talked much about camp for the last couple of days. But he hasn’t complained either. So I let it be.
At night he wants to watch CSI on TV. He forgets that I am in the room and at various points during the television show he excitedly offers some interesting commentary on police work to his younger brother.
When you pull over a car you should stand just behind the door leaning forward so you don’t expose your body through the window. And you always watch their hands.
They have to control the crime scene because one of the suspects might go to the bathroom and then come back in with a gun. That’s what happened to us yesterday.
They can’t go in with their weapons drawn like that. If there is not a threat you can’t pull out your gun.
When we were doing our drug bust with the video training simulator the kid I was with got freaked out and accidentally shot a barking poodle. Fifteen times.
It’s pretty easy to lose control of a fast moving vehicle. On the obstacle course I accidently drove a golf cart through a wall of cones and almost hit one of the police officers.
K-9 dogs live with their masters. If they think their master is in trouble they will break what ever command they are given in order to protect them. That’s how they are trained.
Just after a bomb explodes it creates a vacuum that sucks things back into the explosion.
Friday
It is evening and I am seated in the City Hall Court Room with other parents. In front of us are the Youth Academy Police Officers dressed proudly in their dress blues, flanked by the Mayor and a City Councilman. It is graduation.
From outside the courtroom I hear a crisp command followed by the tight musical sound of marching feet. The cadets enter the court room in a well-ordered single file line. My son is the last to enter. He is all scrawny knees and elbows in his uniform.
He doesn’t look happy. He looks calm and serious.
During a lighter moment of the ceremony my son is called upon by the Police Sergeant in charge of the program. He stands straight and tall and says loudly, Yes Sir! With eyes locked dead ahead he introduces himself without hesitation to the distinguished courtroom audience. Then he answers the question put to him direct and firm.
They call me Stretch he says proudly amid the camaraderie of laughter.
After a week of police camp he is still wrestling with issues of physical self esteem.
But after a week of police camp, he doesn’t see what I see.
© 2009 Dadinthebox.com