The first time I was ever picked up, hauled down to a police station, and nearly framed for some crime was when I was around 12 years old.
And my parents weren’t home–imagine what a kid would feel like in such a situation? An innocent kid, threatened with incarceration, coerced into a possible confession, and unaware of his ‘rights’ because those who should have informed him of those rights routinely disregard ‘rights’ when no adults are present to actually protect the child…
And imagine the ethics involved in trying to frame a child for a crime? There are none–but at least one of us had them then-me. What a lesson-it stays with you for life.
I was a boy, on a bike, out with another boy, late at night. No doubt, that is cause for suspicion in any neighborhood. Any rational mind would red flag that and wonder “where are their parents?”
Others might see it as a crime of opportunity–kidnappers, rapists, and dirty cops.
Decent people might even call home for those boys. Good hearted people might even say “fellahs, it’s too late to be out at night–you should go home!”
Or even “hey kids, I am concerned thatyou are out so late at night!”
But what actually happened was this: we were stopped by the local police, and questioned as if we were suspects. In those days I did not know what a ‘suspect’ was, or what line of questioning cops use on ‘suspects’–and how that line is directed at gaining knowledge about how to frame you, or otherwise document you –or intended to provoke you to a crime, or in the very least, insult your intelligence–and your whole sense of self worth.
But it went like this: what are you boys doing? Why are you here? What were you doing BEFORE you were here? Who were you with today? And then where did you go?
…and all the other sort of questions that are intended to frame you into something, rather than to CARE about you, or truly have CONCERN for your well being–or even that of society. They were “making a case,”, which in their jargon, means getting someone–anyone, charged with something, rather than to actually help people, or kids.
Nope. None of that in this line of questions at all–just straight out “intelligence gathering” intended to tie you to a place, and time and eventually if they can make it happen–a ‘crime’ of some sort–even crimes that they and others like themselves perpetrate (think “Trayvon Martin“, who was killed in cold blood blocks from his home, and the cover-up that happened right after he was murdered in cold blood by a gangstalking police school graduate). You get the idea.
The next morning, some five hours later, I am awakened from my sleep and dragged to the police station, where I was accused, and coerced, and blamed for what turned out to be a string of break-ins and robberies that had occurred that very night. Apparently, enough stuff had been stolen to fill a few cars. AND which were later discovered to be committed by a ‘band of gypsies’ in cars, or so the story went.
I won’t describe the banal tactics that were used on me, a twelve year old kid, but sufice it to say that official literature calls it “the good cop, bad cop” routine. The official literature fails to mention that during this routine, cops will threaten you with rape, threaten your family, or threaten you with physical violence if you do not confess. Nor does the literature describe the effects of this type of violence directed at the mind of a young child, whose only crime was curfew (a ‘crime’ that was never mentioned that night, nor enforced–because when police frame someone, they do not ask pertinent questions, they ask directed questions that ‘frame’ you into their schemes, rather than vindicate you in any way)
Fast forward five years when I am being assaulted in downtown Los Angeles: there’s me, sitting on a corner, large sketchbook folded wide open, and several pencils in hand, drawing a cityscape when an unmarked Plymouth Fury pulls up, suddenly, and fast, hopping over the curb, tires squawking to a stop, and its bumper less than two feet from my bespectacled face.
The ensuing assault that occurred lasted less than five minutes, It left no blood, no visible bruises, and only a soreness in my head and scalp from my neck being pulled back, face slammed onto the trunk of the car, legs kicked and arms twisted–and only after them realizing that they had nothing–after they dumped my bag of pencils, paper, books, and Mexican pastries onto a shit stained sidewalk in the bowery– was i made aware of why they did this to me: “Look, we are just doing our job. If you have a problem with that, you can call the police.”
They jumped back in the Fury, and pulled away so fast I had no idea what a cruel, and brutal “joke” had been played on me. I guess that’s why art is always a threat to the ideas that control our world–and the idea that some people have the right or the duty to do such things to “keep US safe.” And, art–the art of documenting the ‘reality’ around you, is not often funny, like beating an innocent person.
I haven’t felt safe around them since, and they seek, and make every opportunity to recreate my nightmares of their brutality–which I will get to later.And I did not know then how to document, or otherwise rsist their constant and unwarranted incursions into my reality. Most young people don’t.
So, for now, I would just like to say “hello world” in wordpress fashion, and leave you with this quote from a news article i recently stumbled upon:
“”Being a police officer was in my blood,” former Fairfield cop Nicholas Vanghele told a state Superior Court. “My mother was a probation officer, my brother is a police officer. I always felt I would go out in a body bag with honors.” Instead, on Oct. 21, 2009, Vanghele was caught peeping into the window of a fellow officer’s home to ogle his wife”
I couldn’t have described the root of the sorts of violence and perversion that has been perpetrated on me and millions of others–a mindset of inter generational privilege, an endemic, cloaked, hidden police personality trait-any better than that.
No, really, I couldn’t, even if I tried. Because window peeping isn’t in my nature, but it is in their “job description.” Imagine that. I guess that’s why so many of them ‘just love their jobs’.
- In fact, I was erased decades ago, and repeatedly forced to ask the question “what is wrong with these people?” every time they tried to drop yet another false charge on me-“I” was replaced with an obsessive, constant need to do just that– a projector rolling in my head, and constant arguments surging through my mind at all times–that tried for decades to understand why they are like that–or to vindicate my rightful, unmarred, and unmolested sense of self. More on that later…