Free AI web copilot to create summaries, insights and extended knowledge, download it at here

2451

Abstract

a half to two years, at least we’d have something to look forward to: an out, an escape, a new beginning. The response is one I will never forget.</p><p id="78c5">“No. You can’t be living with your abuser to get put on the waitlist.”</p><p id="7d53">“Wait.” I’d said, unsure I’d heard correctly. “I have nowhere else to go. That’s why I’m calling. So you’re saying we must already live on the streets just to get put on the waitlist? That makes no sense!”</p><p id="8b2d">“Those are the rules.”</p><h2 id="3124">Looking to the future, a quarter century early</h2><p id="c535">I knew then that one day, I would be a part of something new and different, the change I wanted. I would be the law enforcement officer who listens instead of laughs at victims of domestic violence.</p><p id="b389">I called ahead to my husband’s next duty station on the opposite coast. Although Connecticut laws were not designed to help people in our situation, California laws were. I counted the months, then weeks, then days until we transferred. California social services saved our lives and allowed me to safely divorce and leave him. Their laws had a lot to be desired, but they were enough.</p><h2 id="8539">Taking the PAT</h2><p id="afe1">Decades later, after raising three children alone, I knew I could finally leave for the academy for a few months of training to become that officer with compassion. Part of the hiring process was passing a physical agility test (PAT). It’s an obstacle course in a side building at our local airport.</p><p id="a5e0">The test began with a run one and three-quarters of the way around the course, followed by jumping over low hurdles, running up, down, back up and back down a set of stairs, jumping another hurdle, then crawling under a 2-foot-high wobbly PVC pipe without touching it, then jumping across a six-foot ditch, climbing over a 4-foot fence, climbing through a 4-foot window, dragging a 150-pound dummy 20 feet, then running one more full lap around the entire course. This had to be completed in 2 minutes, 6 seconds if you hadn’t twisted an ankle, fallen on your hip, wrist, or face, tripped, or become too winded to complete it. (These are fairly common occurrences).

On my first try, I completed it in 2 minutes, 10 seconds. The human resources representative had a piece of paper on the table for me, and she handed me a pen. It said I was eligible to return in two weeks to try again. I didn’t sign it.

Options

Instead, I asked for some hints and tricks to get over the fence and through the window better. I knew both of those places had slowed me down. I also knew that some candidates had been way off on their time. I was so close. I practiced a few times and got the hang of the fence and the window.

“I’m doing it again right now,” I said.</p><p id="ad09">The HR rep looked at me and said, “No one does that. Everyone’s legs are shaking, weak, and they’re wiped out from doing the course. You won’t want to do it immediately.”</p><p id="abb4">“I’ve just figured out some tricks on improving the fence and the window. I’ve already failed once, so I can come back in two weeks if I fail again. But, if I pass, I won’t have to. Is there a policy rule that says I can’t do it again today?”</p><p id="bbf0">She looked dumbfounded, glanced around, shrugged, and said, “We’ll, no, not technically.”</p><p id="f70a">At least, I think that’s how she finished her sentence. I was already walking towards the starting line at the other end of the course. The HR rep was right. My muscles were screaming in pain, and it was much more challenging than the first time, but I had also learned where I’d made mistakes and what I needed to do differently.</p><p id="88e4">One of the spotters was a lieutenant who was retiring that day. He was a veteran, too. I wasn’t about to let his last day be one where he witnessed a fellow veteran give up so easily. On our way out, he said, “You have what it takes.”</p><h2 id="173a">The time it takes</h2><p id="8801">I’d waited decades to be able to attend the academy. What difference would two weeks make? A lot.</p><p id="7d94">When we boarded the bus to return to the Sheriff’s Office, the HR rep handed us thick packets filled with paperwork and told us how important it was to have it filled out and returned within seven days; the main part of the packet was 33 pages, and there was more. There were very detailed questions about every imaginable part of my past, and being 48 years old, that’s a lot of past. I returned my packet that evening.

Sometimes, the small moments remind us what we’re capable of. I’m grateful that the people there that day coached me after my initial attempt and showed me how to improve. I’m glad I was given the opportunity to try again. I’m thankful for everyone in the room cheering me on through my attempts. I’d just met them, but they made all the difference.</p></article></body>

We Can Be the First To Try Something That Hasn’t Been Done

Sometimes our second attempt is better

The wonderful prompt, Dreams Kill Fears, is a great one that can go in so many directions, as dreams can help us take flight from fears that keep us grounded. I never planned on joining law enforcement. It never crossed my mind. I didn’t know anyone in the field, and I had no reason to consider it as a career choice. However, life can be funny.

Early interaction with law enforcement

I never intended to marry an abusive alcoholic, either. But there I was, in my early twenties, halfway across the country from family, friends, and anyone I knew, in an unfamiliar city, living in poverty, with no escape. A new baby and another two years after that made my situation even more dire.

When things got to the breaking point, and I felt that my children and I were in extreme danger, I called for help. My lesson came swiftly. Whispers between officers, sideways glances, and inappropriate commentary that demeaned and berated me ensued. The officers made light of our circumstances and informed me that they wouldn’t get involved with a “domestic dispute.”

Sometimes, they laughed at the ridiculousness of my request for help. I was told this was between my husband and me. A few times, an officer apologized to my husband for the inconvenience. His anger always boiled hotter following such visits, and things worsened.

Although I was grateful for the brief respite, I usually wished I hadn’t called because once they left, I was on my own. It’s a miracle we survived, although my calls lessened significantly after that until I stopped calling altogether. I gave up.

Even less help

I’d called the local shelters, only to be horrified by what I was told. There was an 18–24-month wait. But that wasn’t the worst part. I asked if my infant, toddler, and I could get on the waitlist because I figured if we could suffer through another year and a half to two years, at least we’d have something to look forward to: an out, an escape, a new beginning. The response is one I will never forget.

“No. You can’t be living with your abuser to get put on the waitlist.”

“Wait.” I’d said, unsure I’d heard correctly. “I have nowhere else to go. That’s why I’m calling. So you’re saying we must already live on the streets just to get put on the waitlist? That makes no sense!”

“Those are the rules.”

Looking to the future, a quarter century early

I knew then that one day, I would be a part of something new and different, the change I wanted. I would be the law enforcement officer who listens instead of laughs at victims of domestic violence.

I called ahead to my husband’s next duty station on the opposite coast. Although Connecticut laws were not designed to help people in our situation, California laws were. I counted the months, then weeks, then days until we transferred. California social services saved our lives and allowed me to safely divorce and leave him. Their laws had a lot to be desired, but they were enough.

Taking the PAT

Decades later, after raising three children alone, I knew I could finally leave for the academy for a few months of training to become that officer with compassion. Part of the hiring process was passing a physical agility test (PAT). It’s an obstacle course in a side building at our local airport.

The test began with a run one and three-quarters of the way around the course, followed by jumping over low hurdles, running up, down, back up and back down a set of stairs, jumping another hurdle, then crawling under a 2-foot-high wobbly PVC pipe without touching it, then jumping across a six-foot ditch, climbing over a 4-foot fence, climbing through a 4-foot window, dragging a 150-pound dummy 20 feet, then running one more full lap around the entire course. This had to be completed in 2 minutes, 6 seconds if you hadn’t twisted an ankle, fallen on your hip, wrist, or face, tripped, or become too winded to complete it. (These are fairly common occurrences). On my first try, I completed it in 2 minutes, 10 seconds. The human resources representative had a piece of paper on the table for me, and she handed me a pen. It said I was eligible to return in two weeks to try again. I didn’t sign it. Instead, I asked for some hints and tricks to get over the fence and through the window better. I knew both of those places had slowed me down. I also knew that some candidates had been way off on their time. I was so close. I practiced a few times and got the hang of the fence and the window. “I’m doing it again right now,” I said.

The HR rep looked at me and said, “No one does that. Everyone’s legs are shaking, weak, and they’re wiped out from doing the course. You won’t want to do it immediately.”

“I’ve just figured out some tricks on improving the fence and the window. I’ve already failed once, so I can come back in two weeks if I fail again. But, if I pass, I won’t have to. Is there a policy rule that says I can’t do it again today?”

She looked dumbfounded, glanced around, shrugged, and said, “We’ll, no, not technically.”

At least, I think that’s how she finished her sentence. I was already walking towards the starting line at the other end of the course. The HR rep was right. My muscles were screaming in pain, and it was much more challenging than the first time, but I had also learned where I’d made mistakes and what I needed to do differently.

One of the spotters was a lieutenant who was retiring that day. He was a veteran, too. I wasn’t about to let his last day be one where he witnessed a fellow veteran give up so easily. On our way out, he said, “You have what it takes.”

The time it takes

I’d waited decades to be able to attend the academy. What difference would two weeks make? A lot.

When we boarded the bus to return to the Sheriff’s Office, the HR rep handed us thick packets filled with paperwork and told us how important it was to have it filled out and returned within seven days; the main part of the packet was 33 pages, and there was more. There were very detailed questions about every imaginable part of my past, and being 48 years old, that’s a lot of past. I returned my packet that evening. Sometimes, the small moments remind us what we’re capable of. I’m grateful that the people there that day coached me after my initial attempt and showed me how to improve. I’m glad I was given the opportunity to try again. I’m thankful for everyone in the room cheering me on through my attempts. I’d just met them, but they made all the difference.