Riot Son, page 15
The Infantry-to-Inner-City Pipeline
From patrol officers in battle-dress uniforms (BDUs, the prettiest outfits for our thugs) to Air Force drones over protests (fun fact: the drones are learning to rain down tear gas from above!) to assault rifles, armored vehicles, grenade launchers, and bayonets (of all goddamn things), one may have noticed that their community cops are more Operation: Combat than Officer Krupke. This is due in large part to the Pentagon’s 1033 program (previously the 1208 program), a hand-me-down operation to offload excess military equipment into municipalities for free so long as city budgets were willing to pay for shipping and maintenance. This program was renamed and enhanced by the 1997 National Defense Authorization Act, and gave preference to counter-drug and counter-terrorism requests for equipment. The act was signed by President Clinton in September of 1996, a few months before the February 1997 North Hollywood Shootout, which was the attempted robbery of a Bank of America branch by two men wearing body armor and wielding AK-47s. During the attempted robbery, the culprits sprayed over 2,000 rounds of gunfire, injured 20 people (officers and civilians), and damaged quite a bit of property. Though the robbers were killed by gunfire (from police and self-inflicted), the LAPD officers on the scene were so out-gunned they had to buy extra rifles at nearby gun stores during the standoff. After a scare like that, they said, “Never again,” and since 1997 there’s been a direct flow of military-grade weaponry for domestic use.
Why So Much Surplus?
The reason the military has so much surplus paraphernalia is perhaps because Boomers were once sold on a war economy being a good economy. While Americans are told that guaranteed healthcare is unaffordable, and tuition-free public colleges (though once a reality in the U.S.) are impossible, and a universal basic income is the silliest of airy-fairy-unicorns-and-pixie-dust daydreams, the Pentagon’s budget is consistently bloated, wasteful, and comically outspends the next top ten countries combined. In 2020, the U.S. spent $732 billion on “defense” while China, India, Russia, Saudi Arabia, France, Germany, the United Kingdom, Japan, South Korea, and Brazil collectively spent $726 billion. What are the chances that those ten countries are going to join together to take down America, huh? What enemy does America think she’s preparing for? With money to burn, the United States goes through war toys like free Kleenex, disappears money by creating pie-in-the-sky prototypes they don’t ever use (F-22 Raptors), and resupplies of shit the army doesn’t even want (Abrams tanks). The result is an outlet mall’s worth of war machines, and that stuff has gotta go somewhere, right? Surely it wasn’t all made to simply spend money Brewster’s Millions-style in some plutocratic (government of, by, and for the wealthy) nightmare while average Americans die of preventable conditions due to nutritional food deserts and lack of healthcare? Right?
The Convenient Changeover From Mayberry to Military
It’s always a big to-do when the president orders the military to work domestically, and it’s mostly done for racial reasons throughout America’s short history: to enforce integration, quell race revolts, preempt looting in majority Black and brown areas after hurricanes like Hugo and Katrina, or to break labor strikes. But if the cops are already standing by as a Junior Army, there’s no need to bother! That being said, the answer to whether or not the police are militarized is both yes and no. Yes, in that they have the gear for fear, but no, in the sense that they aren’t as well-trained to use their death machines as military personnel. They also don’t have the same rules of engagement or swift consequences for bad actions as soldiers do. American police are bringing bazookas to break up barfights, turning ballfields into battlefields, and are at war with the very population they’re hired to protect. Does that sound like an over-exaggeration? You must have missed the seminar.
Killology and Counterpoint
You’ve got the reasons why the police force in America is militarized, now for the how, and the after-the-fact justifications. Surprise: it’s another money-and-power grift! Specifically, seminars sold for $90 a ticket that feature a retired Lieutenant Colonel (Lt. C.) and his thoughts about killing. According to Lt. C., killology is “the scholarly study of the destructive act, just as sexology is the scholarly study of the procreative act. In particular, killology focuses on the reactions of healthy people [debatable] in killing circumstances (such as police and military in combat) and the factors that enable and restrain killing in these situations.” It’s this man who theorizes that there are three kinds of people: sheep, sheepdogs, and wolves. “If you have no capacity for violence then you are a healthy productive citizen: a sheep. If you have a capacity for violence and no empathy for your fellow citizens, then you have defined an aggressive sociopath — a wolf. But what if you have a capacity for violence, and a deep love for your fellow citizens? Then you are a sheepdog, a warrior, someone who is walking the hero’s path.” It’s not an accident that Lt. C. compares killology to sexology, as he appears to find sexual pleasure in violence, and tells other supposedly useful sociopaths (specifically the police departments that American taxpayer money funds these talks and seminars for) that they can enjoy the same virility from violence. From a viral video of one of Lt. C.’s talks: “Cops say, ‘Gunfight, bad guys down. I’m alive.’ Finally get home at the end of the incident, and they all say, ‘The best sex I’ve had in months.’ Both partners are very invested in some very intense sex. There’s not a whole lot of perks that come with this job. You find one, relax and enjoy it.” You thought it was just sexually deviant serial killers who got hard with harm? No, no, apparently perfectly healthy semi-socio sheepdogs can, too. Lt. C. even has a marriage guidebook that his website describes as “a 90-day devotional that applies biblical principles to support and strengthen the marriages of military members, law enforcement officers, and first responders. Each day includes a Bible verse, an inspirational reading, quick tips, action steps for both husband and wife, and a prayer.” Because Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace who said, “Resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also,” who martyred himself for the sake of forgiveness for all the sins of humanity, that guy would approve of bloodlust in the marital bed. Totally checks out. A possible counterpoint theory on whether people can kill healthily comes from S.L.A. Marshall (Brigadier General Samuel Lyman Atwood Marshall, also known as “Slam” because who could resist?), a veteran of WWI, reporter, author, and historian. Marshall also ran a bit of a grift based on his presumed combat expertise, claiming in his 1947 book Men Against Fire: The Problem of Battle Command that 75% of WWII soldiers who engaged in combat never fired at the enemy with intent to kill, even when they were under direct threat. He based that assertion on information gathered using novel group-interview techniques, and found it complicated years later when he visited Vietnam to conduct similar studies and noted that the hesitation to kill was all cured up. There’s a chance he may have bullshitted his ratio-of-fire numbers as much as Lt. C. staked false authority on anecdotal police boners, but it’s a relatively nice thought.
Do All Slain Dogs Go to Heaven?
Here is some hard data on the loss of life that may finally wake up the humanity in us all. Ready? According to the Puppycide Database Project, the militarization of police in America has led to a massive uptick in murders of family dogs. A federal court in 2016 ruled that a police officer may shoot a dog if it barks or even moves whenever they enter a home for whatever flimsy reason they want. So: if you’re not already afraid of the erosion of civil rights in a militarized police state, or of the way the “war on drugs” gives these municipal militias nearly carte blanche to bust into homes with no-knock warrants while the innocent sleep, lob flash grenades that have landed in cribs and exploded on babies, and confiscate any of your property or money for their own enrichment until you can prove you got it legitimately (civil asset forfeiture, aka the opposite of “innocent until proven guilty”), then … what about the doggies? Think of every cute puppy, loyal doggo, and protective pooch you’ve ever met or heard about, and get angry already.
33.
It was inevitable that the V for Vendetta-style black-bagging would come to their city too, and not long after it did, Garrett witnessed it firsthand, and got it on film, and went viral.
They were walking home from the action one night, the streets freakishly quiet, the streetlights unnaturally white and bright. He and Tula and Devon were silent, tired from hours of standing, walking, running, jumping, breathing tear gas, and getting jostled. Cortisol was gumming up their veins, and all Garrett wanted was to be home already, no more miles to walk. Was there anything more delightful than clean, bare feet between cool sheets? Even in hiking boots, after spending all day and half the night moving around, his feet felt hammered, and every step was another blow. Then an unmarked van rolled up.
Out came three figures in camo fatigues, matching neck gaiters (cute), body armor, helmets, and sunglasses at night. They had no names on their uniforms, only the word POLICE, and no identifiable features except that one of the soldiers was female, or at least had breasts.
“What are you doing?” Tula asked as the goons walked calmly to the group in front of them, surrounded one person who put her hands up, and walked her back to the van without a word. “Use your words, what are you doing? Where are you taking her, why is this person being detained?”
“Is this person under arrest?” Devon asked, and when the thugs said nothing, he spoke to the person being nabbed. “What’s your name? Is it safe to tweet your name? We’ll look for you, we won’t forget about you.”
“Samantha Rivera,” she told him. “You can tweet. Am I under arrest?”
Still no answer.
“Where are you taking her? What right have you to detain this person?” Tula asked. “What are your names, officers? If you don’t identify yourselves, how do we know you’re real cops and not random kidnappers?”
“They’re both,” Devon grumbled, as the door to the van shut and Samantha was disappeared.
“Is she your friend?” Tula asked the group that Samantha had been traveling with.
“Not really, I mean we only met her about an hour ago, just walking in the same direction,” said a guy whose girlfriend was holding onto him quite tightly, looking around at every shadow on the street as if she might be next.
“Can they do that?” she asked. “I mean, was that even legal, just taking her without telling her anything?”
“Probably not legal,” Garrett said, putting his camera away again. “Not that it matters.”
They went home feeling a little sicker after that, and while tweeting out Samantha’s name with the video of her capture. By the time Garrett was passing out from exhaustion, his video was being furiously shared. By the time he woke up the next day, he had dozens of requests to license his footage and interview him personally. He and Devon selected their favorite mainstream reporter of the bunch, and he put on a beanie to hide his easily identified locks, a local woman named Zoe Kapadia, who met him in a public park so they could have a socially distanced chat. Zoe was wearing a tasteful suit, looking like a television lawyer, whereas Garrett and Devon and the cameraman were decked out in schlub sacks of hoodies and cargo pants.
“The footage you captured was incredibly compelling,” Zoe said, speaking into a field mic the size of a 1980s cellular phone, almost too big for one hand. “Care to comment on what that moment was like?”
“I mean, it was both surprising and not at all surprising,” Garrett said. “We’d heard about people getting grabbed in Portland, saying they were searched without being questioned, never officially arrested, just … stolen, in a sense. They were snatched off the street, contained for a few hours, everything on their person was searched without their consent, and then they were out again. Some kind of nightmare catch-and-release to intimidate people, perform illegal searches of their phones, identify and round up others.”
“Officials tell us these officers are a mix of National Guard soldiers and Border Patrol agents,” Zoe said.
“That would explain why they’re using war-like tactical teams to pick up American citizens,” Garrett said, nodding. “We’re nowhere near any border, and these protesters aren’t hiding from anyone. In fact they’re out here to speak, to be seen, to stand up for their brothers and sisters who are being casually brutalized and murdered by police. The punishment for exercising their rights? Getting snatched up in the night for no stated reason.” Garrett shrugged. “We have these rights in theory, but when you use them, you realize you’re not actually that free in practice.”
That was the line that got clipped out and went double viral after the interview concluded and was uploaded to the local news and the internet. Garrett had a few more things to say about the ugliness he was seeing: people getting shoved around by the right-wing counterprotesters in full view of cops who lazily watched the bullying and did nothing, or went so far as to nod or wink; petty hurts like arresting people and making sure their cuffs were too tight, their position painful; hitting citizens with pepper spray when they couldn’t wipe it away out of spite. It all added up to a grinding away of any bonhomie for humanity one had left.
When the interview was over, Garrett and Devon didn’t leave the park. They instead found a grassy slope to lay out on and eat some sandwiches they packed at home, listen to music through shared earbuds. Garrett suspected that Devon needed this respite far more than he did, that he needed way more zen moments than he was getting, but didn’t know how to say so, really. Their relationship was still in its infancy. Despite having ample opportunities to get a lot of living and sharing done in a very small window, Garrett and Devon still had gaps and silences between them, histories unknown. A crash course of character-revealing moments couldn’t make up for the short amount of time they’d known each other, and Garrett often wasn’t sure if he should say something, do something, and if yes, what would that something be? Garrett largely defaulted to keeping his mouth shut and letting his body do the talking.
Garrett reached over to take Devon’s hand. Despite being different heights, their hands were about the same size, perhaps because Devon’s were slightly smaller and Garrett’s slightly bigger than average. Garrett started cleaning beneath Devon’s fingernails with his own. Apparently his “love language” (something Garrett’s aunt liked to talk about) was physical touch. There was an undeniable thrill to being allowed to touch someone and knowing they wouldn’t mind it, that they’d in fact welcome it. Holding Devon’s hand, or even just one of his fingers, was a comfort to Garrett. It wasn’t unlike the way Devon kept playing with his hair. They were just a couple of grooming monkeys in love, and it was wonderful in its purity and simplicity.
“I wish there were clouds today, we could guess their shapes,” Devon said, staring up at the sky that Garrett still felt was staring back at him after their mushroom trip. It wasn’t a scary feeling, but it was intense, overwhelming.
Garrett brought Devon’s hand down over his heart and forced himself to look at the sky. It was lighter blue at the edges, deeper blue at the center — a reminder that it was still all darkness and stars out beyond their atmosphere.
“I can still see shapes,” Garrett confessed. He wondered if that was a normal side effect of doing drugs, or if maybe he’d irrevocably altered his brainwaves with just one dose. “If I stare far enough out and let them come, I can see the fish, swimming upstream.” He put his other hand in the air to illustrate: waves, undulating waves.
“Lucky,” Devon said. “You got to keep your friends.”
Garrett squeezed Devon’s hand in response.
34.
“This couldn’t have come at a worse time, but I can’t leave my cousin in the lurch,” Tula said the evening after Garrett’s park interview, while surveying her apartment for any last items she needed to pack.
Tula’s cousin was getting surgery to fix a blown eardrum after what may or may not have been a case of COVID-19 in March (testing was still stupidly, infuriatingly limited, and had been non-existent in March), and needed Tula’s help to watch her kids, who were home all day learning lessons online. There was a husband around, but he was a long-haul truck driver and only home sporadically. The family was holding on by a frayed thread, and Tula was the only one who could reasonably come help, because the other cousins had kids of their own or jobs that weren’t as flexible as freelance reporter. Garrett was commissioned to water Tula’s plants, bring in her mail, keep an eye on the place, etc.
“My sister had her eardrum burst a few times when we were kids.” Garrett’s eyes roved over Tula’s place with a lot more wonder post-mushrooms. “She said it felt like the wind was touching her brain.”
“Yeah, sucks,” Tula said. “They hoped a surgery wouldn’t be necessary, but it is, so I go.” Tula finished inspecting her desk and moved to the kitchen. “If that means I’m missing my window of seduction with Hazel, oh well. Maybe I can keep her engaged via text and video chat until I get back. I finally got her to laugh at one of my jokes last week, she seemed so grateful. I think her job is really running her ragged and she’s still volunteering at protests on top, it’s too much.”
“Sounds like you’ve got to get her in for one of your girly nights.”
“If only everyone were as easy as you,” Tula said, turning to Garrett with a comically overblown smirk-face before pouring out the last of a jug of dairy-based liquid from her fridge. “Really though, you and Devon make it look easy, just falling together like two edges of the same wound.”
Garrett snorted. “That’s a nice way to put it. I sure hope we don’t fester.”
“If my opinion means anything, I think you’ll be alright. You’re no Delilah, that’s for sure.” Tula came back through the living room on her way to double-check the bathroom for toiletry necessities.
