How Do You Tell Your Kids About the Cops?

For the past two months, I haven’t had much to say about Occupy Wall Street. I mean, I agreed in principle with the protesters’ arguments: the inequality of wealth in this country is staggering, and rich people and corporations essentially control politics. And one day I even toured Zuccotti Park with DadWagon’s own Theodore Ross; it was interesting to witness, but it didn’t bring about in me much of an emotional response. Perhaps it’s because I’m deathly allergic to drum circles, sloganeering, and the human microphone. At best, the whole thing depressed me, because despite the media attention (and widespread public support) OWS has attracted, I couldn’t see it changing much in this world. I may be on their side, but I had to watch from the other side of the barriers.

But as of yesterday morning, I’m more than depressed. I’m frustrated and angry and nearly totally disillusioned. Of course, it’s not like I expected Mayor Bloomberg to allow the protests to go on forever; he’s too much of a classical tyrant for that. It’s just that I’d hoped that the NYPD would go about clearing the demonstrators in an even-handed manner. That was obviously an unreasonable expectation, and I knew it at the time, but still, having watched the videos, scanned the photos, and read the eyewitness accounts, I’m appalled at the fury and glee with which the cops cleared the park, as if they truly enjoyed knocking hippies’ heads and sending these spoiled, whining kids to jail.

What makes this ever more frustrating is that my daughter, Sasha, is now almost 3 years old—an age at which she can spot policemen and police cars on the street, and so is probably old enough that I can start telling her that if there’s a big problem, if she’s lost or if someone’s hurt, she should go fetch a cop. Which is absolutely what she should do. It’s what I would do, too.

Except that I absolutely do not trust the police at all. It’s not just the clearing of Zuccotti Park. There’s the gun-running, the needless arrests, the planting of evidence on thousands of people, and the assholish culture of impunity that pervades the force. My lack of trust isn’t exactly new: As a teenager, I was a skateboarder, and skateboarders in the 1980s and 1990s quickly learned that guys with blue uniforms were to be avoided at all costs. They were jerks, and jerks at our expense.

Now, however, I’m ever more conflicted, because I live in a small corner of Brooklyn that needs more police presence. Things aren’t apocalyptic here—instead of rampant murders and violence, we have teenage vandalism, drug-dealing, and the occasional gunshot. But those are precisely the things that an increased police presence would help prevent, if the local precincts were willing to send more car and foot patrols around.

Some (particularly those in the Bloomberg administration) might argue that it’s partly because of protests like Occupy Wall Street that the NYPD is stretched so thin. Which is bullshit. I’m willing to accept that the protest needs some police oversight (there have been crimes like theft and sexual assault in the encampment), but the protests have been largely peaceful—i.e., not deserving of a massive police presence capped by a clearing-out by cops in riot gear. If the mayor is really interested in preserving public health and safety, he could, you know, start in my neighborhood.

Except that now it’s too late. Who trusts the NYPD anymore? Certainly not the kids in the housing projects that bookend my block. And now not us concerned, progressive New Yorkers. When If I see the cops circling my neighborhood, am I supposed to feel safer? Given what happened Monday night—and over the past several years—I have to say the answer is no. Would I still call 911 in an emergency? Of course—what choice do I have? But would I expect prompt, reliable, professional assistance? Not really. By its actions, the NYPD has eroded whatever sympathies it might have built up in this era of historically low crime.

And again, how do you explain this to your kids? How do you convey the necessity of trusting authorities that you—equally necessarily—cannot actually trust? At 3 years old, Sasha is still too young for such a complicated discussion, but I know exactly what I’m going to do when she’s the right age: I’m going to give her a skateboard, and let her find out for herself.

He Reads!

I have on various occasions written of JP’s taste for both videogame playing and the use of e-readers, and described my at best ambivalent feelings about said pursuits.

Now, from the Demise of the Childhood Mind chronicles comes a story with a (relatively and likely temporary) happy ending: JP has become so engrossed with learning to read (on paper) that he has utterly forgotten about videogames and the Nook!

It’s kind of amazing, really: my child has forsaken Angry Birds in order to spend time reading the Biscuit book series. I didn’t expect this. I tended to think that the road into the world of electronic temptations ran but one way–down, my friends, down. Apparently not.

So, now, of an afternoon, instead of JP bitching that I don’t let him play his Nintendo DS enough, he’s bitching that I’m not reading enough books with him (and not playing enough chess, another obsession of late). This is good! My child still bitches–incessantly–but about things I believe are benevolent! Who knows how long it will last, but for the time being, I am pleased.

I will abstain for complaining for at least the next 24 hours.

My Son, Dopey

We’re all in a post-Halloween sugar crash right about now. You too. I saw you sneaking KitKats by the fistful last night.

But my crash is tinged with a little dose of further regret: did we knowingly humiliate our boy for Halloween?

Of course we did, you say. Every pre-sentient (and I’m still putting a 3-year-old in that group) Halloween outfit is at least half humiliation: “oh, how cute” but also, “What a ridiculous-looking, flabby lion you make. You can’t even hold your stupid head up.”

The costume setup was this: the kids have been watching a lot of Snow White. And despite her weird and warbly voice, Snow White has been growing on my kids. My daughter is a pretty fine approximation of Snow White (Half White?): ebony hair, ivory skin. So it was decided by her and her (very involved in Halloween) mother that she would be Snow White.

The boy, small and droll, was immediately chosen to be a dwarf. But not just the more regal of the dwarves. Not Doc, the boss of the group. Nor Grumpy, who was at least allowed his feelings. Not even the stricken Sneezy or Sleepy. No, we made him Dopey, the bald deaf-mute who doesn’t do much except pratfall comedy.

But he IS Dopey. He’s funny and sweet and–did I mention–small. We say Dopey with affection. But I think it wasn’t taken that way on the Halloween circuit last night. How many other costumes would’ve gotten this response from kindly candy-givers in the neighborhood?

“Hi there! And what are YOU for Halloween.”

“Dopey”

“No you’re not, don’t say that!”

The costume was a hit with most people. But those few teasing voices must’ve been confusing for the boy. I could sense a little bit of his pride, which was considerable (it was a fine homemade dwarf tunic-and-belt combo), wearing off over the course of the past few days. Last night he had decided he wanted to be a dragon, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he regretted not sticking to his guns.

But perhaps it’s all a sideshow from the humiliation that I haven’t even acknowledged yet: pairing his costume and his sister’s together like this was some kind of central planning society, or German-style Partnerlook. That may be the thing that really appalls them right about this time next year…