Military Police Belong in the Military

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I was out in New York City a few times during the height of quarantine. I work part-time at a hospital and that makes me an essential worker. Manhattan was barren, empty, quiet, transformed into a stunning scene, people say it was like that Will Smith movie — I Am Legend. They’re not wrong. The only people out were the people who had nowhere to go, and that was really eye opening against the backdrop of a city in hiding.

It also brought to the foreground some serious discrepancies in our society. As I crossed town, a singular theme evolved in my mind, we’re leaving people behind. Our intertwined cultural and economic divides are making the American dream unattainable for so many people. These aren’t “lazy” people. Some are veterans, many are victims, but they all deserve our attention.

I’m not saying those who scrounge would benefit from a handout though. They need access to services, the first step in lifting them up is getting them to soup kitchens, shelters, and yes, even mental health care. These services are clearly out there, however there’s some flaw in connecting them to the underserved in need.

From home to hospital, the tragic scene weighed on me and my empathy. The quiet, solitary commute was interrupted by the sound of my own thoughts as I argued internally that I couldn’t help them all, especially not alone. I was crossing more and more homeless, and it was crushing my spirit until I realized I wasn’t alone with them. The only other people I crossed were the city’s police officers. This new backdrop painted those officers in a different light. Temporarily on pause as the protectors of a bustling society, I could now see them as symbols, contrasting the poverty and despair.

In that moment, those two cultures were unmistakably partitioned by their hands and hair. One group, clean and clipped, the other disheveled, greasy and grimy.

Quickly assessing people who do and don’t fit in is a habit I picked up while serving overseas. Usually when I cross the despondent in New York City, I give attention to hands and hair. Many people take for granted the ability to wash your hands or hair, yet it’s usually apparent when you don’t have that luxury. I don’t typically equate clean hands with the homeless, and this was not my normal commute. Regardless of normalcy, or the assessment of my surroundings, these two groups fit in with their crowds. But on the subway platform, their cohorts were on opposite ends of the spectrum.

Oddly, in the New York City subway, it was the officers who looked out-of-place. It was a segregated look, representing barriers and bias. As a veteran I have great respect for police and the demands of their service. So when I looked at them in this subway station, I saw them as myself. They were immediately relatable to me as sister service members, and I couldn’t help feeling as though they were disadvantaged by a clear failure on the part of their leaders.

Our government has such a big emphasis on interacting with society through policing efforts, and the public health crisis made it clear some people don’t need law and order as much as they just need help fitting in to society.

I was never a police officer though, military or otherwise. I served as a Civil Affairs non-commissioned officer in the Army. That military occupation brings with it certain expectations. We’re

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