Ohio Newshound

Honor and shame from no condition rise. Act well your part; there all the honor lies – Alexander Pope

When I was 6 I wanted to be a lifeguard. More than anything in the world.

My parents and I would vacation in Bethany Beach, Delaware. I’d carry beach chairs and blankets and this little yellow cooler we had for drinks over the dunes, take off my shoes and run across the hot sand. Throw the blanket down on a smooth spot and then head for the edge of the water where it was cooler on my feet.

I’d watch the lifeguards, in their reddish-orange trunks, muscular and tanned with sunglasses and those red floats they carried (“Baywatch” wasn’t far off from some of these folks). And I would want to be one of them.

Then I learned it wasn’t really a job. Not full-time, year-round anyway. It was more of a seasonal thing. Then you’d go back to being something else for the fall, winter and spring.

Okay, Plan B. When I was 10 or 11 or 12, I wanted to be a firefighter. More than anything in the world.

I wanted to help people by knocking out the windows of their burning houses from a ladder attached to a truck. To do all the stuff I saw the firefighters do when they fought house fires on my street or cut open wrecked cars in front of my house to free the injured. They had “wet-downs” when they bought new trucks, which were like big water fights only with hoses and turnout gear rather than water balloons and swim trunks. They gave away commemorative steins for these, had big pancake breakfasts or ham dinners at the volunteer fire department. They had a brotherhood, a sisterhood. They were smoke eaters.

Then I learned you had to cart around hoses, and most of the down time was spent training and not actually fighting fires or responding to car wrecks. And then there’s the whole thing about fire: I don’t like it. Run into a burning building? Crazy. I want a fire to be in my fireplace, and me sitting in front of it with wine and a good book, or in a fire pit with s’mores.

Plan C.

I went to college, and discovered a love and aptitude for writing. Writing that made people think. Writing that made people angry. Writing that was controversial but well thought-out. I had several awesome writing professors who showed me how to write better and a few lousy ones who showed me what I didn’t want to become. I made waves. This was fun. I got into journalism and I loved it. I was helping to embarrass and vilify criminals, find the truth, air dirty political laundry and tell the taxpayers how their money was being spent. Or wasted.

Then two things happened: I got laid off and I realized “I can write anytime. It doesn’t have to be my job. I can do other things and still write.”

But the equation A + B + C = the same vein of truth: I wanted to help people somehow. To aid humanity in some way. Being that my first thought upon being diagnosed with diabetes at age 14 (already an incredibly awkward age for anyone, much more so that I wasn’t allowed to eat ice cream or go on sleepovers for a while) was “I want to be a doctor,” it all fit.

I just wanted to do good things for others. Because it’s what we’re all called to do: To help each other out in hard times.That’s basic humanity.

So my dreams were consolidated and woven together and fed through the filter of one-hour police dramas that were a staple of my childhood TV diet. And out the other end came the final product of my dreams and grandest wishes:

I wanted to be a cop. More than anything in the world. To wear a uniform, carry a badge and a gun and be that person that when 911 is called, is the first to step on the scene, evaluate the situation and decide the next course of action to keep everyone else safe.

The government won’t let me be a soldier. I wanted to join ROTC in college but they don’t accept diabetics. But what cop needs a fully-functioning endocrine system to solve a burglary or arrest a suspect? I can’t imagine that’s a requirement.

I have it in my blood. There’s one in my family, from way back, a high-ranking officer in a New Jersey department. I idolized our township cops growing up. They came to my career days at school, let us mess around with their cruiser loudspeakers in the pre-school parking lot and taught us during D.A.R.E. class. They showed up when I got that threatening phone call when I was 15 or 16 and home alone for the night, and they ate breakfast and shot the breeze with my dad at the General Store. At a young age I read the Richard Scarry books and pretended to be the dog police officer, Sgt. Murphy.

I’m currently jobless and looking for direction, and what better direction, what better, higher calling than law enforcement?

I can think of few.