I mourn for the NYPD of my youth

A few years back I was sent an email called “I mourn for the NYPD of my youth” by Sgt. Christopher J. Porcu, (NYPD Retired).  The other day I was speaking to a friend of mine who is still on the job back in New York City. We came on about the same time and we were talking about what things were like and how far they have come.

I was going to share the original email, but decided that I would amend it to share things from my perspective.

“I mourn for the NYPD of my youth” (Revised)

I remember what it was like when I first became a New York City Police Officer back in 1985. For a kid who had dreamed of being a New York City Cop since the age of five it was like making it into the major leagues.

I remember the academy and wearing the “Sister Mary Agnes by the Sea” parochial school uniform. The academy was day tours and 4X12’s and we rotated days off. We were thankful for the weekends because traffic and parking was “slightly” easier.

I remember the first time I wore my reefer coat with the double row of brass buttons.

I remember those first weeks of walking a foot post and learning to twirl my nightstick and not take out a storefront window or my kneecap.

I remember my Smith and Wesson Model 10 and my first RMP “swivel” holster. We all carried backups because it was easier to draw a second gun then to try and reload from the dump pouches.

When I first came on the job, there were old timers, real honest to God cops, who shared their war stories with me and told me about the “Good Old Days.” The war stories were real. We were told how cops were being assassinated simply because they were cops. I remember with reverence the names of some of those fallen, including Piagentini & Jones, Foster & Laurie, and Cardillo.

I remember all too well Scott Gadell, who I worked with, EddieByrne, who worked in an adjoining precinct and so many others who paid the ultimate sacrifice while I was on the job. I remember responding on September 11^th and not prepared for how that day would end. I mourn those lost on that day, and those we continue to lose, all these years later.

In my career I went to too many funerals for too many brave young men and women.

Only someone who has worn the uniform can truly comprehend, and appreciate, the sound of bag pipes.

We went to work everyday and we actually enjoyed the job. We considered ourselves to be among the lucky few who could count themselves as part of something bigger. There is an inherent pride that goes along with telling someone that you are a (or retired from) NYC Cop.

It’s the job they write books about, make movies and TV shows about. Like the old Sinatra song they blame at every graduation goes “if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.”

As rookies we sat on DOA’s, hospitalized prisoners, and EDP’s. We flew to details, a lot of details. We counted ourselves fortunate when he had enough time on the job to take vacation during the West Indian Day parade. Back in the day when that parade never did seem to end and gun shots were just part of the celebration.

I remember being able to smoke in the station house and the RMP’s.  

I remember the Blue Flu.

I remember walking foot posts for six straight months and how important a piece of cardboard could be on a cold winter’s day. I remember making sure I was visible and got my scratch without making the Sergeant track me down.

I remember the first day I rode in an RMP for the tour. The old blue and white Plymouth Gran Fury’s that had no air conditioning and an AM radio. The light bar was controlled by a toggle switch under the steering wheel. The radio was a portable “brick” and you didn’t touch it unless you were told to. You knew you had reached a milestone in you career when the operator looked at you, nodded to the radio and said “their calling you.”

We were fortunate enough to be allowed to be “Cops”, and we were taught how to handle damn near any job without getting the boss involved. We may have been young, but we were the “Police” and we were expected to do our job no matter what it involved.

Sergeants were like God’s and Lieutenants were somewhere just above that. They ran the command as they saw fit. I remember square bags, and making sure the Lt’s were taken care of. We felt bad for them because they were stuck on the desk.

Captain’s worked M-F from 9-5, and very rarely came out of their office, except to address a roll call on occasion. They didn’t need Compstat to tell them what was going on in their commands. If there was a problem we were told to fix it, and fix it we did.

I remember getting assigned rings and making damn sure we made them. I remember being a Sergeants Op. We went to the jobs we needed to, but always after giving the sector enough time to take care of it. I remember being the assistant Desk Officer and running the command when the Lt. was otherwise disposed of.

Collars were made, and summonses were written “when appropriate”. October Collars brought Christmas Dollars, and many of us made collars for dollars. I remember the “church pew” benches in Central Booking and being in the system for days.

If you worked hard, you got to go into anti-crime and wear a field jacket and drive around in the “taxi.” Everyone knew what the color of the day was.

The nine squad chart allowed everybody to get to work with each other, and we “policed” ourselves. Every sector (or foot posts) handled their own jobs unless they were tied up with a collar who heavy job. Those “milkmen” that goofed off, soon found subtle reminders from the others on how to properly handle their jobs. They didn’t goof off often, and certainly not repeatedly.

The job was definitely tighter back then as well. The “Blue Wall” was alive and well and professional courtesy was the order of the day. We came to work to be with our friends, and you rarely took a day off because you didn’t want to miss anything that happened at work, or when you went out afterwards. 4x12’s were generally 4x4’s.

I remember beds in the station house and guys using them when going home wasn't an option, for a variety of reasons.

I remember thin cardboard PBA cards and that professional courtesy was the rule of the day. We were family and we expected nothing less.

We all understood the meaning of what is was like to work in a “paramilitary organization.”

We all wore one uniform too and that included a hat every time you got out of the RMP, unless it was a heavy job. But you better have it on when things quieted down.

We were cops and we dressed like cops. Uniforms include trousers that had the extra pocket for the day billy or sap that most of us carried. “Out of uniform”, usually meant that a guy was wearing a short sleeve shirt before the weather warmed up prior to them being authorized, not the guy that chose to wear whatever he felt like on that particular day. Sergeants conducted inspections at roll call and woe to him that wasn’t in proper uniform. We marched out before the desk officer before beginning our tour, nightsticks at the ready.

Recruitment & retention problems did not exist either. People paid to take the police test when it came up. Granted we didn’t make a fortune, but we were higher paid than Nassau, Suffolk, Port Authority and the New York State Troopers, all of whom surpassed us over the years. You took the test because your friends and family, who were already on the job, told you that it was a job worth taking. Similarly, you passed that information on to your friends and family as well, and were happy for them when they too were sworn in. Now, nobody in their right minds would refer this job to a friend or family member.

Everyone knew that there were certain jobs that you needed a hook for and you never saw them advertising openings in Intel or ESS! You were asked to go there, not the other way around. Everyone remembers their first Rabbi.

I remember the pride of walking across the stage at 1PP when I was promoted to Detective and later Sergeant. I remember how hard it was when I had to turn in my silver shield. It had become a part of me. I would feel the same all those years later when I turned in my Sergeants shield the day I retired.

All in all, I think back on those days and find myself referring to them as “The Good Old Days”, and they truly were.

I wonder if the cops retiring in twenty years will think back upon their first days on the job as “The Good Old Days”, and how they will describe “The Job” to those rookies at that time.

I can honestly say that I didn’t hate the job. I’m proud of my career and the cops I had the pleasure of working with. I actually loved the job.  Unfortunately, it is the politics and ensuing correctness of the department that has steadily ruined it over the years. Rather then bring everyone “up” to the same high standard; they lower everything to the lowest common denominator.

That being said, I mourn for the NYPD of my youth!