White people are too frightened to talk about the rampant black crime that is documented every day. Whites have become the “silenced majority,” in order to protect their livelihood and to avoid being called the word against which there is no defense: “racist.” This police department is full of men and women who can tell city council exactly what happens when a city submits to the corrosive grip of the black hand. Will they listen before it’s too late?
Perhaps more
important, will the officers themselves speak up? No one wants to be the one
who stands up and takes the heat. Officers all over the country are trying to
protect their pensions and their very livelihood. And would it even make a
difference if they risked their careers and told the truth? There is no easy
way out.
I was born and
raised in a small suburb east of a major southern California city. I went to
the local Catholic school and had the standard blue-collar, lower middle-class
childhood. My only significant experiences with black people were during Pop
Warner football games, when our team traveled to the “urban” parts of the city.
What I remember most was the awful condition of the “field.” Hardly a blade of
grass lived on the gridiron, and the yard markers were upturned plastic waste
baskets with the yard lines spray painted on them.
Our black
opponents would intimidate us by their noticeably larger size and by warming up
with thigh-pad-slapping pre-game chants. The shouting and hollering were
nothing any of us had ever seen before. I remember their imposing size and
demeanor almost as much as I remember the spitting, pinching, and groin
punching in the scrums after a play.
In what was
perhaps a peace offering on my part, I remember picking up the loose helmet of
one of my imposingly large opponents and handing it to him. The inside was
greased up to the point that I could barely get a grip on it. I was unfamiliar
with the black ritual of applying chemical straightener to hair. I could see
the boy’s shiny hair under the clear shower cap they all seemed to wear beneath
their helmets. That was my first real experience with blacks.
Cleveland
Browns defensive end Myles Garrett 95 swings at Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback
Mason Rudolph 2 with Rudolph’s own helmet with 0:08 seconds left in the fourth
quarter of the National Football League game between the Pittsburgh Steelers
and Cleveland Browns on November 14, 2019, at FirstEnergy Stadium in Cleveland,
OH. (Credit Image: © Imago via ZUMA Press)
Cleveland
Browns defensive end Myles Garrett 95 swings at Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback
Mason Rudolph 2 with Rudolph’s own helmet with 0:08 seconds left in the fourth
quarter of the National Football League game between the Pittsburgh Steelers
and Cleveland Browns on November 14, 2019, at FirstEnergy Stadium in Cleveland,
OH. (Credit Image: © Imago via ZUMA Press)
My childhood
was good, and I grew up doing the usual things: tackle football, playing army,
and shooting BB guns. I never experienced violent crime. I went to an almost
all-white high school with about 1,500 students. There were so few black
people, I can still remember their names. There were occasional fistfights, but
they were almost always between white students. There were rules: Fights were
always one-on-one — no “jumping in” — and no weapons. Once a boy was defeated,
there were no cheap shots or dirty moves. The crowd that always gathered would
have punished any violations. Years later, I was disgusted when I first saw large
mobs of blacks attacking each other and passersby in dirty, cowardly ways.
During high
school, I had the usual menial jobs: paperboy, fast food, roofing, construction
site cleanup, etc. By a stroke of luck or fate, I entered law enforcement at
the age of 18 and became a cadet for the local county court agency. As an
unarmed cadet, I had several jobs. I was responsible for county courthouse
interoffice mail delivery, monitoring the X-ray machine and metal detector at
the courthouse, and serving court documents on people.
It was during
this job that I first began to experience blacks and what I would later learn
was their distinctive behavior. When I worked security at the courthouse, I
was, first of all, astounded at the number of blacks coming into court. If I
ever ventured up to the actual halls upstairs, they were choked with black men
and women, shouting and roughhousing. The sanctity of the courtroom and its
procedures were lost on them.
Many blacks
seemed not to understand what a metal detector does. They would walk through
with large knives in their pockets, fistfuls of change, huge belt buckles, and
the like. It got to the point that I would stop them before they went through
and remind them what counted as “metal.” I remember a black woman who put her
infant car carrier on the X-ray machine conveyor belt with the baby still
soundly sleeping inside. Blacks often put full coffee cups on the belt.
Credit Image:
PQ77wd / Wikimedia
Credit Image:
PQ77wd / Wikimedia
One of my
duties was to serve eviction notices. I will never forget one street, where I
served several eviction notice each day, five days a week. The public housing
buildings were pale green and there was not a blade of mowed grass and every
window seemed cracked or broken out. No matter the day of week or time of day,
there was always someone home to accept service. There were always big crowds
of able-bodied black men from about 17–40 years of age roaming around. I
remember naively thinking, “Wow. They must all get Tuesdays off of work.”
Once, when I
knocked on a door, a gigantic, muscular black man answered the door. He yanked
the paperwork from my hands and slammed the door. At the end of my shift, my
sergeant summoned me to his office. He was aghast to learn that I, a baby-faced
cadet wearing a “badge” and a uniform, would go down that street. I was
forbidden from ever going to that location again. I was made to understand that
my naiveté about black people had nearly got me killed.
When I was
about 20, I went on a ride along with an officer who worked for the largest
police agency in the county. He worked in the division that was known to have
the highest black population and therefore, the highest level of violent crime.
Ironically, it was the same area where I had played pee wee football games. The
ball fields had only gotten worse. As I rode along with the officer, I was
immediately struck by the large groups of blacks near liquor stores,
convenience stores, and on street corners. Almost without exception, when the
police car came into view, they would all take off running in different
directions. I remember following behind the officer as he tried to catch
stragglers. I watched in awe as he pulled out large bags of crack cocaine
and/or handguns from their pockets.
The
intersection of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X Ave. in Washington, DC.
The
intersection of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X Ave. in Washington, DC.
Later, the
officer took me with him to serve a narcotics search warrant. I was allowed
inside (that would be forbidden today). After the warrant was served, I saw
bits of crack cocaine scattered all over the living room floor where the
suspect had thrown them when the officers came in. There were three little
black kids in the house. They were filthy and in diapers that were long past
changing. The excitement and adrenaline of that ride-along encouraged me to go
into law enforcement.
Something else
I noticed: The sparsely furnished apartment was ridiculously hot. All four
burners of the stove were on, and the oven was at 400 degrees with the door
open. As I later learned, the apartments of blacks were, without exception,
ridiculously hot. In Southern California, it was rarely necessary to need
heating, but blacks always had their living spaces heated well above the
comfort level for most white people. I later learned that blacks used the stove
for heat so often that they referred to chilly nights as “four burner nights.”
Maybe they wanted their places hotter than the heating system would get it, or
maybe they were saving on heating bills. Either way, this practice of using the
stove for heating often led to house fires.
In the early
1990s, when I was trying to get a job as an officer, affirmative action was in
full swing. Whites all assumed that it would be nearly impossible for us to get
a job in this “climate.” The lines just to take the written exam were hundreds
of people long, and almost everyone was white. Most of the applicants were
recently discharged military, and I remember everyone was well dressed and
carrying himself in a professional manner. We knew that the proctors of the
written test were members of the agency to which we were applying. Affirmative
action made it an uphill battle, so we wanted to make as good an impression as
possible. I still remember, almost 30 years later, sitting in my truck in a
suit and tie, pouring over my study guide one last time before going in to take
the test.
I tested for
four different agencies, scoring in the top 5 percent each time. I never got an
offer. Finally, three months after I turned 21, I was hired by an agency to the
south of the major city in the area.
I attended the
academy with about 125 other recruits, and whites were the minority in a class
with many blacks, Hispanics, and Asians. I was amazed to see some of the black
candidates drive up in cars with hydraulics and booming stereo systems blasting
“gangster rap.” I took my training seriously, and was the top shooter and one
of the top 10 runners during physical training. I clearly remember four groups
for physical training: “gold,” “silver,” “silver two,” and “bronze.”
The “bronze”
team was almost all black, except for a few obese white officers. I remember
watching blacks feign injury or intentionally run into things to hurt
themselves and avoid running. Time after time, they would be excused from
physical training. The 10 members of the “gold” group — the top runners — were
all white men. We worked harder than the others and held ourselves to a much
higher standard; we wanted to be the best. One of the other men in “gold” was a
former drill instructor for the Marine Corps. One of my fondest memories of the
academy is hearing him call cadence as we ran.
Blacks were
subpar in report writing and shooting skills as well. Time after time, my
classmates and I noticed obvious failures on the shooting range, in the
classroom, or during practical exercises, yet nothing was ever done. I
graduated near the top of my class; I was not yet 22. Many black officers who
should have failed out of the academy were put onto the streets.
We all started
in the FTO or Field Training Officer phase. For several weeks, we rode together
with experienced officers, who thoroughly documented and critiqued every move
we made. Only after successfully completing the FTO program did we become
one-year probationary officers who could ride alone in a squad car.
I will never
forget my very first radio call for service. I responded to the local 7-Eleven
with my training officer. The 60-year-old clerk was bleeding from the top of
his head and showed us security camera footage. Four large black men, all clad
in matching purple sweatshirts and sweatpants, came in, each armed with a
full-size shotgun. I watched the footage and saw the elderly clerk hand over
the money. After getting $80, one of the suspects hit the man over the head
with the barrel of his shotgun. As a naive young officer, I wondered, “Why did
he feel the need to hurt him after getting what he wanted?” It was at this
moment that I became aware of the violent tendencies of blacks.
I remember a
call after a customer tried to enter a video rental store and called police
because he found it strange that the store was locked at 5 p.m. After the owner
showed up and let me in, I found the four employees bound and gagged in the
back office. Two armed black men had come in and robbed them. After tying up
the employees, they took their driver’s licenses and told them they would kill
their families if they cooperated with police.
Credit Image:
Mark Allen Johnson / ZUMAPRESS.com
Credit Image:
Mark Allen Johnson / ZUMAPRESS.com
I will never
forget the look of fear on the employees’ faces when we found them. They were
terrified and crying, pleading with their eyes to be untied. There were three
men and one woman, and I started with the woman. I was mortified to think of
the horror they had gone through. Did they think they were going to be shot and
killed? Was the woman afraid she would be raped? Were they thinking of their
loved ones; begging for their lives? I couldn’t stop thinking of all that agony
— and for what couldn’t have been more than $1,000 in the till.
The suspects
were later caught doing the same thing in a different part of the state. This
kind of crime is called a takeover robbery — a gang of men bursts into a store
and “takes over.” As in the movies, they may fire a shot through the ceiling.
The idea is to terrify people and take complete control.
One day on
patrol, I saw two blacks sitting in a Volkswagen Jetta with Vermont plates.
This piqued my interest, so I turned my car around and stopped them. The driver
parked and the two walked away in different directions. I found one of the men
hiding behind a dumpster in an alleyway and my partner detained the other in a
trailer park across the street. The car was not reported stolen and neither of
the men had warrants for arrest. The driver was unlicensed, but we did not
ordinarily tow a car unless the driver’s license was suspended.
My intuition
told me something was wrong — call it racial profiling if you like — so I let
the men go but took the risk of angering my sergeant by having the car towed. I
still remember thinking I was rolling the dice on that one. I returned to the
station to finish paperwork and was paged over the intercom to call dispatch
right away. The car had just been reported carjacked by two blacks.
We rushed back
to where I had left the two and, astonishingly, they were still there, so we
arrested them. The carjacking had taken place in the eastern part of the
county. The men kidnapped the owner and took him to several different ATMs to
withdraw money. Then they put him in the trunk and drove towards my city. They
stopped along the freeway, took his shoes, and let him go. The man had to walk
to the nearest freeway exit to call and report the crime. Later, I told one of
the suspects that he was being charged with kidnapping and robbery. “Kidnapping?”
he asked. “How can it be kidnapping if we let him go?”
Credit Image:
Mark Allen Johnson / ZUMAPRESS.com
Credit Image:
Mark Allen Johnson / ZUMAPRESS.com
One incident
with an elderly couple affected me deeply. The gentleman was a WWII veteran. He
told me that he couldn’t sleep, so he went into the kitchen for milk and
cookies. He saw candle wax on the kitchen floor and followed it to his wife’s
room (they slept separately). He found his 75-year-old wife raped and severely
beaten. She described her assailant as a black man and I was required to ask
her vile, embarrassing questions: “Ma’am, what was he saying to you? Did he
ejaculate? What did he do when he was finished?”
I will never
forget that interview. As is customary with black-on-elderly rape, the
assailant stole the woman’s jewelry. I’m not sure why the woman did not cry out
for help; maybe the man threatened to kill her and her husband if she made a
sound.
We often hear
that all black families have “the talk” with their children — especially boys —
to explain that any white officer is looking for any excuse to kill them, so
they must always cooperate and be polite. If there is a “talk,” it must be a
mother telling her children (fathers are almost never around) that they don’t
have to do anything the police say or follow any of our directions, that they
should talk back to us and be as hostile as possible. I can count on the
fingers of one hand the number of black suspects who have been “meek, calm, and
cooperative.” From the beginning of my career in the early 1990s to today,
almost every time I have dealt with a black suspect, he or she has been
confrontational, complaining of “racism” or “profiling.”
Even victims
are hostile. Either they are angry that we have not immediately caught their
attacker, or they refuse to cooperate. I have stood over black or Hispanic
shooting victims, moaning in pain, as paramedics work on them, asking basic
questions: Who did this to you? Who were you with? Where were you? The answer
was almost always, “I dunno” or a shrug of the shoulders. They wanted to
“handle the problem” on their own with street justice, and they saw any type of
cooperation with the police as a sign of weakness. I took many attempted murder
reports for which there was absolutely no suspect information or leads to
follow up on — because the victim or witnesses refused to give us any.
One of the more
common practices after a shooting was for the friends of the victim to drive
him to the emergency room, dump him outside the door, and drive away. That way,
they can get help for their friend but avoid any contact with the authorities.
Regardless of
the call or reason for the contact, there is conflict between the police and
blacks. With the national hoopla today, it has gotten much worse. Now, it is
almost a requirement that black suspects shout that they are being “profiled”
for “no reason” and to resist both verbally and physically.
Even when I
started my career, it was very common to be “complained on” by blacks — they
would file formal complaints with the department — but it is a thousand times
worse today. Officers are therefore especially careful to give no grounds for
complaint when they must deal with blacks.
During police
contact, adult black men often telephone their mothers, and this often ends
with the mother demanding to speak with the officers who are detaining their
precious angels. A black suspect’s mother often shows up on the scene. You can
decide for yourself whether she is there to encourage cooperation or to harass
and argue with us. Add to this the invariable presence of large groups of
hostile blacks filming an officer’s every move, and you may get a faint idea of
how frustrating it is to deal with blacks.
The media are
constantly on the lookout for any story that can be spun into victimization of
blacks, so I make a point of warning command staff after virtually any contact
with blacks. Anything can blow up into a big news story, and if the department
is called upon for a comment, it has to know the basics of what happened. All
this means officers are reluctant to get involved with blacks.
There were many
Hispanics in the area where I was first hired, and their most common crimes
were domestic violence, drug sales, and robbery. Nearly all the gangs in our
city were Hispanic, and they claimed specific territories.
Hispanics would
prey upon any race of people for robberies, burglaries, thefts or other crimes
for material gain — usually to buy drugs. As for violence, they mostly attacked
other Hispanics, since shootings and stabbings were usually either gang or —
strange as it may seem — family related. During our pre-shift briefings, when
our sergeant told us he had received intel that there would be a quinceanera
party that evening, the shift would let out a collective groan.
A quinceanera
is a celebration of a girl’s 15th birthday, and most Hispanics throw the most
lavish party they can afford. Almost without exception, it would culminate in a
stabbing, shooting, or large brawl, for which there were only two causes: a
distant uncle would drink too many Budweisers (the beer they drank almost
exclusively) and would “disrespect” another family member. The other cause was
when the Hispanic gang of the area tried to crash the party, and the family
tried to keep it out — which would mean a fight and maybe some stabbing and
shooting. One of those two outcomes was almost inevitable.
A quinceañera
before the trouble starts. (Credit Image: Christopher Michel via Wikimedia)
A quinceañera
before the trouble starts. (Credit Image: Christopher Michel via Wikimedia)
It was very
rare for Hispanics to commit “random” violent attacks on whites, old people, or
women of the kind so frequent among blacks. There was a lot of domestic
violence, but Hispanic women never called police on their spouse/boyfriend; if
we were called, it was always by someone else. The main concern for the woman was
that the sole breadwinner of the household might be arrested. A huge majority
of the Hispanics were illegal immigrants and feared deportation above all else.
I have seen frightened, horribly beaten women sitting on a couch, staring
silently into space as I interviewed them through an interpreter; they refused
to cooperate. There were always children wandering around the house who must
have seen their mother being beaten. I often wondered how many beatings the
woman had suffered without the police being called.
I also dealt
with many white criminals, mostly for property crimes, methamphetamine
(possession and intoxication), and the occasional violent crime. Whites did not
commit the shocking and abhorrent crimes common among blacks, whose preferred
activities seemed to be takeover robberies committed by organized groups,
violent assaults on the elderly, rape, carjacking, and shootings. I was always
struck by incomprehensible, gratuitous black violence. I have no recollection
of any memorable or shocking Asian crimes during my time with this agency.
Over the years,
I worked with officers of nearly every race. One of my partners on a drugs
taskforce was a highly intelligent Hispanic. He was a college graduate and was
very articulate. He achieved great success and was quickly promoted. He and I
worked very well together and assembled evidence for several very good cases. I
later learned that he became involved in unscrupulous sexual activity and was
eventually fired for stealing 20 dollars’ worth of equipment and lying about
it. I was shocked.
There were a
number of lazy and less than competent white and Hispanic officers, but almost
all the black officers performed poorly. They could rarely pass the rigorous
testing process for promotion, and always seemed content to do the minimum
amount of work. Blacks rarely applied to become detectives, for example,
because there was a strict selection process. For whites, detective was a
coveted position, but they had to fight extreme affirmative action to get it. I
can’t even count how many times a highly qualified and dedicated officer was
passed over for a barely competent and borderline illiterate black officer.
It’s not like
in the movies.
It’s not like
in the movies.
I was convinced
then and still am that blacks work so little in order to avoid exposing their
incompetence. I remember one very large black officer who would consistently
give incorrect or non-existent locations when he called for assistance on the
radio. On several occasions, we went on wild goose chases looking for him. This
was so common that responding officers would ask him what landmarks he could
see.
Another black
officer was caught lying about the location he was responding from when he got
a radio call for help. This would be his excuse for taking up to 20 minutes to
respond to a call. When he was investigated for poor response time, it was
found that he was having affairs with several women and was servicing them
while on duty. That investigation was swept under the rug and he was “promoted”
to detective to remedy the problem. I remember once he tried to pick a fight in
the locker room when a white officer challenged him about his long response
times. Needless to say, he was a perpetual “victim,” and an incompetent,
confrontational employee for his whole career. The “promotion” to detective was
a good outcome. Off the street and behind a desk was the best place for him;
that way, no one would have to rely on him for help. But I don’t recall his
ever putting together a noteworthy investigation.
I was hired
along with a black woman who entered the training program with me after the
academy. She was ridiculously incompetent, and her training program was
extended for two extra months. Any other officer would have been fired. She
could not grasp a single aspect of the profession, and it was clear she had
been hired to make the department look good on paper. Each of her field
training officers thoroughly documented her incompetence day after day, but the
department wouldn’t fire her. Eventually — to the benefit of the community —
she was finally let go.
You sometimes
hear that black officers treat black offenders more harshly than white officers
do because they want to punish them for preying on “the community.” I never saw
that.
I was a
successful and productive officer. I was quickly selected to the gang unit and
later to a county-wide drug and gang taskforce. Once, I was parked in my
unmarked car waiting for my partners so we could serve a search warrant. I was
wearing a marked, police-department tactical vest and my badge was around my
neck. A black transvestite walked up and rapped on the car window. When I
rolled it down, he asked, “You looking for a date, honey?” Incredulous, I
looked down at my badge and the large “police” patch on my vest. He said,
“Nigga, I don’t give a fuck if you’re a cop. Do you want a date or not?” I had
been on the job for about six years and was beginning to have had enough.
Three final
incidents pushed me out of California law enforcement. We served a drug warrant
on a house, and the black suspect ran to the back as we entered. He scattered
crack cocaine all over the floor and tried to get to a handgun in the closet.
After a short, violent struggle, we got him into custody. The squalor of the
place was appalling. As we cleared the rest of the house, we found his three
children sitting on the bed in the master bedroom. Their eyes were glued to the
pornographic movie the man had been watching. They must have paid no attention
to the commotion of the arrest. I suspect the man just parked his children in
the bedroom and kept them distracted with movies while he did his drug business.
Credit Image:
Lou Jones / ZUMAPRESS.com
Credit Image:
Lou Jones / ZUMAPRESS.com
Near the beach,
there was a large parking lot where hundreds of black men and women congregated
every weekend to drink illegally, blast music, and sometimes shoot each other.
They made the neighborhood unlivable. To stop the partying, we flooded the area
with police, and stopped every vehicle with a code violation. If a driver was
driving on a suspended license — an offense so common among blacks, it was
almost a guarantee — we could tow the vehicle.
I stopped a
woman for several violations and learned she was suspended. I had her get out
of the car, and she gave me the obligatory verbal abuse when I told her the
vehicle was going to be towed. Her three children began to wander through the
parking lot. It was dangerous; lots of cars weaving in and out, and the
children could have gotten lost in the crowd. She yelled at one child, about
two years old, “Dante, come hold yo’ sister hand!” When the child ignored her
and kept walking, she shouted, “Dante! Motherfucka, come hold yo’ sister
hand!!” It was about this time that I learned I was going to be a father. I
couldn’t understand how someone could speak to any child that way, much less
her own flesh and blood.
The final
incident involved my neighbor across the street. She had gone to the local gas
station/convenience store. She went inside to pay for her gas and left her
six-year-old daughter and infant son in his car seat inside the vehicle. A
black man got into her still-running vehicle and she came outside to try to
stop him. As she struggled with the carjacker at the driver’s side door, the
six-year-old heroically took her infant brother from his car seat and escaped.
Seeing this, the mother stopped fighting and watched her minivan screech out of
the parking lot.
I will never
forget the look on her face as she told me that story. The thought of her
children falling into the hands of that man clearly made her blood run cold. It
was at that moment that I knew I would not raise my daughter among blacks and I
certainly wouldn’t send her to a school that I knew would be plagued with black
crime. Looking back 22 years later, it was the smartest decision I ever made.
The search for
a neighborhood of white picket fences: An American tradition.
The search for
a neighborhood of white picket fences: An American tradition.
I applied at a
similarly-sized agency in the northwest and was quickly hired. I picked the
location because it was mostly white, and I was not disappointed. I immediately
noticed there was almost no violent crime. Our major service calls were for
theft, restraining potential suicides, traffic accidents, and drugs. There was
no graffiti, no gangs to speak of, no auto theft, and, most notably, nearly
zero gun crime — despite the fact that nearly everyone carries a gun here.
I joined
officers from dozens of other heavily black cities. We have officers from
Seattle, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Boston, Baltimore, and many other places. The
running joke among officers who relocate here is, “Why did you leave the warm,
beautiful city of ? There wasn’t enough snow?” The overwhelming majority came
to escape black violence and rear their children in an area where they won’t be
subjected to “diversity” in the schools and violence in their neighborhoods.
For two
decades, I have enjoyed a different style of police work. No longer do I have
to delay my patrol as large groups of blacks deliberately drag their feet
crossing the street to make me stop my car. I don’t have to deal with elderly convenience
store clerks shot in the chest after giving up $50, black men raping and
beating elderly women, open-air drug markets, or street prostitution. After my
experience with Hispanics in California, I am amazed by how seldom I have been
called for wife beating.
We have very
few black officers, but their work habits fit the pattern. There are one or two
who are professional and relatively competent (each has a white mother and an
absent black father). For the most part, our black officers are the same as
they were in my first agency. They do the minimum amount of work, never seek
promotions or try for specialty assignments like being a detective. Instead,
they like off-site work, such as guarding city buildings or schools. They can
hide; they never have to respond to a potentially violent service call.
I have never
had to fire my weapon on duty, but I have drawn and pointed it thousands of
times. Police officers draw their weapons “in anticipation of danger.” There
are many circumstances in which I draw my firearm but these are the most basic
reasons: I see something that alerts me to potential danger, or I am responding
to someone who has just committed a violent crime. I draw my weapon not just
for self-protection. A show of force and instant domination of a potentially
violent situation gives me the advantage and shows dangerous suspects that I am
prepared to stop any violent threat.
I have been in
several situations where I could justifiably have fired my weapon but didn’t.
No officer wants to have to shoot someone, even to protect his own life. Police
officers voluntarily took a job to protect and serve, and we all agreed to take
calculated risks to ensure public safety.
In my nearly 30
years of police experience, I have never mistreated a suspect because of race.
Today’s anti-police hysteria would have you believe that police start and end
their shifts hunting for black people to stop, but the reality of police work
is simple. We have radios and computers in our cars that dispatch us. We don’t
just appear where black people happen to be. We are sent there. We don’t
control who commits crime. We don’t control the victims or witnesses who call
911. We stop, investigate, and arrest blacks disproportionately because of one
indisputable fact: Blacks commit more crime.
If the radio or
computer in our car tells us a green Martian wearing a silver spacesuit just
committed an armed robbery, we go to the location and look for a green Martian
wearing a silver space suit. If the radio or the computer tells us that a black
man just shot several people, we flood the area and look for — you guessed it,
a black man. George Floyd, Michael Brown, Rayshard Brooks et. al. weren’t
randomly chosen. In every incident, they were committing crimes that had been
called in by victims or witnesses. The fact that they chose not to cooperate or
to attack the police was entirely their choice.
Our job is to
enforce the law. If a suspect resists, we are allowed to use force. Each of
those black men would be alive today if he had followed lawful commands and had
submitted to lawful arrest. There is no disputing that fact. Police officers
want to arrest dangerous criminals to protect their community, and we will go
wherever that call for service takes us.
Unfortunately,
the city where I now work is destroying itself in the name of “diversity.” As
the federal government foists hundreds, if not thousands of African refugees
upon our town, crimes that were unheard of are becoming common: children
stabbed to death, gun crime, and murder for hire. I now see sub-Saharan
Africans walking down Main Street with 40-pound bags of rice on their heads.
People from Third-World countries full of squalor and corruption come to our
city and demand special treatment while contributing nothing. No politician can
complain without committing career suicide. I am now in a supervisory position
and can say, without hesitation, that every major crime here involves a black
person. The most dangerous service call of each shift for the last several
months has involved a black man with a gun or large mobs of violent blacks.
Sub-Saharan
African Immigrant Population in the United States, 1980-2018 Source: Data from
U.S. Census Bureau 2006, 2010, 2015 and 2018 American Community Surveys (ACS),
and Campbell J. Gibson and Kay Jung, “Historical Census Statistics on the
Foreign-born Population of the United States: 1850-2000” (Working Paper no. 81,
U.S. Census Bureau, Washington, DC, February 2006). (Credit Image: Migration
Policy Institute)
Sub-Saharan
African Immigrant Population in the United States, 1980-2018 Source: Data from
U.S. Census Bureau 2006, 2010, 2015 and 2018 American Community Surveys (ACS),
and Campbell J. Gibson and Kay Jung, “Historical Census Statistics on the
Foreign-born Population of the United States: 1850-2000” (Working Paper no. 81,
U.S. Census Bureau, Washington, DC, February 2006). (Credit Image: Migration
Policy Institute)
As the “defund
the police” movement gains momentum, police officers are leaving the profession
in droves. My agency is no exception. Soon, very few people, if any, will apply
for this job. In order to fill vacancies, agencies will have to eliminate
written tests, lower hiring standards, and look the other way on questionable
backgrounds. This has all been tried before in the name of “diversity,” and led
to incompetent, untrustworthy, corrupt officers. This is a disaster for any
society.
White people
are too frightened to talk about the rampant black crime that is documented
every day. Whites have become the “silenced majority,” in order to protect
their livelihood and to avoid being called the word against which there is no
defense: “racist.” This police department is full of men and women who can tell
city council exactly what happens when a city submits to the corrosive grip of
the black hand. Will they listen before it’s too late?
Perhaps more
important, will the officers themselves speak up? No one wants to be the one
who stands up and takes the heat. Officers all over the country are trying to
protect their pensions and their very livelihood. And would it even make a
difference if they risked their careers and told the truth? There is no easy
way out.
Mr. Vinyard has
been a police officer for almost 30 years. He has worked SWAT, gone undercover
as a narcotics detective, and been a street-crimes officer and gang officer.
https://www.unz.com/article/my-career-as-a-white-police-officer/
