On this October evening, we are at the break of Fall, but let me ask you to think back-
back to January of 2010… what where you doing?
Here in Chicago, it wasn’t the coldest or the worst winter on record, but it was the darkest winter of my entire life.
It was a frigid day in mid-January. After a long shift, I finally reached my driveway. As I pull in, I see “her” car, a purple chevy Monte Carlo.
When I say “her” car I am speaking of a woman I loved, had a prior intimate relationship with. We had dated on and off for quite some time but at this particular time…. it was already a relationship far into its Ending.
I had nothing more to say “LEAVE NOW… JUST LEAVE”
I turned and walked away. As SHE stood, refusing to leave my house…
Seconds later, my hearing went out. Everything slow, numb and there was blood!!
A lot of blood.
Red painted the sleeve of my white sweatshirt, and coated my hands, my arm suspended, paralyzed, unable to move.
..I had been shot!!!
I don’t remember the bullet piercing through my skin. I just remember the amplification of silence, temporary deafness; the taste of gun powder particles in my mouth.
Image is Powerful.
But as much as it is powerful, it can also be superficial. Many see the gold badge pinned to my chest, pressed and pleated polyesters, my duty weapon at my side.
A layer beneath, a physique of muscularity and ink. I looked nothing like a “victim” and maybe that was why I wasn’t perceived as one.
Women can be violent! and victimized by other women. We know this, but we are bound by social stigmas regarding men as aggressors, women as vulnerable, and fragile.
We minimize accountability, hostility, and downplay intentional criminal behaviors because of the stigma that women are viewed as the softer, gentler gender.
After living together, I seen a different side, the real side her always “on” Friday night side. I didn’t always see her drinking, but the smell of alcohol on her breath, and on her lips was incessant.
I would find half drunken or empty Vodka bottles in her glove box, under the back wooden porch, hidden in dog food bags.
These were more than little red flags, they were full blown warning sirens
that either I didn’t want to see or my exposure to trauma personally as well as my own destructive coping mechanisms had skewed my boundaries, just that much.
By the time I got home from the hospital most of the blood had been cleaned up from the kitchen, somehow still I was still able to find its trace.
In between the crevices of the hardwood flooring, the decorative patterns of the cabinet knobs, hiding in the scratches of the stainless-steel sink and imbedded in the porous granite stone countertops. Blood was all around me- and if any of you have ever been exposed to large amounts of blood, you can smell it. That Iron copper penny scent.
Staring into the stainless-steel fridge where the Glock had left its scar. The big hole, right there in plain view. There was no wiping that off.
I didn’t hear much at all from my agency, but it wasn’t long before the incident hit the media, the local paper read “Lesbian Cop shot by her Lover”, “Lesbian Love Triangle ends with Cop Shot” I cant begin to tell you how fu up the incident had sounded when the media got a hold of it. Was I embarrassed? Absolutely. It was obvious the word Lesbian was used to target an audience and exploit my sexuality and even worse! To make this seriousness of the shooting sound like some circus act.
There was no transparency.
Instead, an internal investigation ensued into allegations against me for “not living an exemplary lifestyle” and “bringing ill-repute” to the police department. I was hurt…physically and emotionally…. I didn’t want to believe that society still didn’t view same-sex violence partner violence as serious as a heterosexual domestic violence. But It appeared so.
Months later while reading the police reports, I learned she admitted to loading the gun while standing in my driveway, then shoving it in her waist band. She told officers three inconsistent stories as to how the gun went off. “She was showing me how to clean my gun”, “I was just trying to scare her,” “She shot herself on accident”.
The investigating officers and the states attorney’s office did not view the crime as domestic violence as there was no proof of a relationship. They said they couldn’t prove she had the ‘intent to commit a crime” and according to her IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.
But let’s be honest, guns don’t just shoot people! People shoot people! They blew it off entirely.
How was it our criminal justice system completely disregarded such violence?
because she was a woman? We were both women? Because she didn’t look masculine or butch enough?
or because she was a middle- aged white woman with a professional career, didn’t have a criminal history?
The final decision by the court was Reckless Discharge of a Firearm. The complaint as it was prepared, NEVER indicated that I was even shot! It merely stated
“a weapon was discharged in a dwelling where people are expected to be present”. This lack of justice was absolutely devastating.
I spent months and months in recovery, now teaching myself to use my left arm defensively and tactic- fully. I forced myself to keep shooting, most the time with tears, anger in my eyes
numbing myself entirely to that familiar sound of the firing pin. That echoing dark, loud BANG
Eventually, against all odds, after seeing specialist after specialist, I was medically released from my doctor and their doctor to return to full duty. I continued fighting their resistance and fighting for my career, something that was going so well and then stolen from me twice, once by her and then by them.
Often, I would stare into the hole of my wound, the blackened stippling of burnt skin
searching for answers to questions I didn’t even understand.
I rebuilt my career and myself! Now almost thirteen years later, when I step into the range for monthly qualifications, it is with instinct that I relay on my non-dominant side
and the smell of burnt cordite- that rapid displacement of air reminds me
how close I could have come.
Being Fearless is being honest and so I speak this truth from a hard, tough perspective; a lens of “within” and “against” our criminal justice system.
Through scars I wear, and the scars I will NEVER forget.
I still remind myself I am lucky-
lucky to be alive, to be here and able to share my story to hopefully impact and help others share theirs.
