Follow
One early Saturday morning in 1994, my partner and I were driving around in the 4-2 patrol area in the South Bronx. A 911 dispatch operator requested a squad car to respond to a complaint that a black man was trespassing in a scrapyard. We were near the address, so we responded to the call.
As we cautiously walked into the scrapyard, I am not sure what worried me more. The ferocious barking dogs, nearly choking themselves with the metal chain around their necks, as they charged towards us or the possible confrontation with the man and the potential escalation.
As my partner and I approached the broken-down Volkswagen surrounded by other junked vehicles, tires, scrap metal, other scrap items, we found the gentleman in the backseat sleeping. I tapped on the window and said, “excuse me, sir, you can’t stay here.” The gentleman slowly sat up and looked around with a confused expression on his face. I said again, “excuse me, sir, you can’t say here. You are trespassing on private property.” He looked at me and said, “no one has ever called me, sir, before.”
As the man slowly gathered his things from the car to put in his shopping cart next to the vehicle, we explained that this was private property, and the owner wanted him to leave. To pass the time on this quiet Saturday morning, my partner and I chatted with the gentleman. I do not remember if the man mentioned having had a wife and children. However, he did talk about his battle with drugs and alcohol, and it was his addiction that landed him on the streets.
And although I could not confidently tell his age, I suspected he was younger than he looked and moved.
I am not sure why, however, I get emotional each time I tell this story. Maybe it was the sadness I saw in the man’s eyes. The hopelessness of his demeanor. His glacial movement. Or my confusion of how a man of his age, never be addressed as “sir” in his life.
I won’t speculate about the circumstances that led to his addictions and the reasons why he had seemingly given up on a life of recovery; however, as I think about my late father, my brothers, and my son, I cannot imagine them never being recognized and addressed respectfully. And I pray that they will never be tempted and overcome by drug or alcohol addiction, exposing them to similar circumstances.
