When Cops Take Your Parents Away

Source Note: I originally addressed this on a thread on Twitter but I figured I would flesh it out a little.

A Note on Privilege

This is my personal experience and recollection over 30 years later. Take it as you will.

As a white person, this does not reflect on the systemic natures of the way our police force targets immigrants, people of color, or native peoples. Though I grew up neglected in a household where drugs were sold during the 80’s drug war, white privilege remains.

I Was 4 Years Old

Funny story, really, getting ripped away from my parents during a drug raid.

My folks had friends over doing whatever it is that people do when they’re drunk and drug users. I was watching TV. It was an old even then console television with wood paneling. The movie on the TV was Cujo — which is the perfect movie for a 4 year old to watch. I noticed a bit of beer on the table. I hazard to take a sip. And that’s when the cops busted in.

There was yelling and screaming; I remember one person running off somewhere, maybe to flush something. I remember crying because everyone was yelling and even now, over 30 years later, loud yelling and noises shuts my brain down.

Somehow, some way, I ended up in the cop car. In the back. The lights were on and the cops driving wouldn’t tell me what was going on.

They brought me to the police station and sat me in an uncomfortable black metal and vinyl chair next to some desk.

The cops took me and fingerprinted me. They wouldn’t tell me where my parents were. They took my picture. They laughed.

I was not thrown in a cage. But I sat there for hours. I would ask where my mommy was and they wouldn’t say. I couldn’t leave. I just had to sit still.

I saw them carrying their guns and talking to each other and drinking coffee.

Would they hurt me? Would they hurt my mom? What was happening to my dad? And their friends? And me! Was I in trouble? Why am I here?

My life had been OK. I mean not perfect. I had my own room. I read books. I had a kitty. Now what happened? Some men just came into my house and took me away. Then my parents were gone. Would I see them ever again?

I thought about it more and more. Did they know I was watching Cujo? Did they know I drank beer? I cried more and confessed. I shouldn’t have tasted the beer. Watched the R-rated movie. I was sorry.

I don’t remember what they said to this. Obviously they didn’t care. Maybe they did. I asked where was my mom? I was looking for my mom. Because I am a 4 year old girl. Nobody ever told me what happened.

What was going to happen to me?

Nobody said anything. It was almost daybreak before my grandparents picked me up and took me to their house, where I lived several months, even changing schools.

They told me. Finally.

That night is some of my first memories. They are still with me. Whenever I see a cop trying to be friendly, I think about that. Did he take a kid away from his parents because of a misguided drug war? Was he just following orders?

If my brief — one single night — removal affects me to this day, I cannot imagine how the kids being ripped from their parents and put in cages, even Super Nice Fun Cages, are affected. For weeks? Months? Years? Will they ever recover? Some will. Probably most. But it is a terrible thing. One that I hope stops and is taken as a lesson to never repeat.

I doubt it.

The next year, I was back at home (likely because whiteness) and my father’s probation officer came to our apartment and handcuffed me. He laughed as I cried to get them off.

Since then, I have not had nice experiences with police. Though, thankfully, I do not have to worry much because my privilege isolates me. I still know that cops, by their very nature, are corrupt. It is best to not trust them. Work to end them. Or none of us are free.