Nonfiction
Date Published: August 18, 2021
From shootouts and robberies to riding in cars with pimps and prostitutes, Frederick Reynolds' early manhood experiences in Detroit, Michigan in the 1960s foretold a future on the wrong side of the prison bars. Frederick grew up a creative and sensitive child but found himself lured down the same path as many Black youth in that era. No one would have guessed he would have a future as a cop in one of the most dangerous cities in America in the 1980s---Compton, California. From recruit to detective, Frederick experienced a successful career marked by commendations and awards. The traumatic and highly demanding nature of the work, however, took its toll on both his family and personal life---something Frederick was able to conquer but only after years of distress and regret.
EXCERPTS AND QUOTES:
“While I hadn’t wanted to write exclusively about racism in
America, I knew I had to touch on it as I had experienced it throughout my life
like most Blacks in America. Sometimes the racism was subtle; sometimes, it was
suffocating. But it was always there, even if it were bubbling just underneath
the surface of that star-spangled banner. This book will be painful for some
people, most likely White readers, and they may not want to continue past the
first two chapters. If those two chapters offend you, perhaps some
introspection is required on your part. Simply put, in order to get to where I
ended up in life, you must walk in my shoes. And if this nation is to be saved,
then we all must have some serious conversations with each other---and not
one-sided conversations, either, because there is enough blame to go around. We
have all fallen short of who we are supposed to be.”
“I arrived at work with ten minutes to spare. I walked into
the locker room to change, looking for lockers with coat hangers so that I could
laugh at the latest fuck-up. Whenever a cop did something stupid or
disrespectful, such as a rookie being in the locker room when the senior
officers arrived, the other officers on the shift would wrap metal coat hangers
around the lock on his locker until the lockers looked like a metal ball. The
bigger the ball, the more unwritten rules the officer had broken. If the
officer did something particularly egregious, like snitching on a fellow cop or
missing a weapon during a search, or he was just an unliked asshole in general,
the other officers would also splash liquid whiteout on his locker. There were
at least five such lockers in the locker room, harsh reminders of the number of
snitches, assholes, and incompetent cops I worked with daily.”
“At around 11:00 p.m., I was on the back lot bullshitting
with Lendell while Ivan was getting our gear out of the patrol car. I went to
the locker room to change when it started to drizzle. I had just unlocked my
locker when I heard the dispatcher over the station intercom. “Compton
officers, we are getting reports of an officer down at Rosecrans and
Wilmington. Unit to respond code-3, identify?” I froze. I had been an officer
for seven years and had never heard an officer down call.”
“The wooden shack where I was born was built on stilts, and I
can vaguely remember seeing a black snake crawling out from under it once. The
odor of the nearby outhouse where my parents relieved themselves is more vivid,
however. Other than one other outhouse near the white house, there were only
three buildings on the land: our shack, the white house, and a barn not far
from a bullpen. To take baths, my father had to get water from the well, heat
it on the stove, and pour it into a metal tub.”
“The racial turmoil in Detroit was palpable throughout the
sixties. The city was 40 percent Black, while the police force was 95 percent
White. I rarely saw an officer who looked like me. The police were deployed
disproportionately in areas where Blacks lived and treated them brutally. The
Civil Rights movement was in full effect by 1967. Martin was calling for
equality through peaceful means, and Malcolm was demanding it by any means
necessary.”
“A new gang, calling themselves the Erroll Flynn’s, in homage
to the dashing, womanizing movie star of the 1920s and 30s, had recently
emerged on the scene. They were flamboyant, well-dressed, and even had a dance
and the first gang hand sign, done while dancing with one hand in the form of a
karate chop held high above their head and yelling, “Erroll Flynn!”
“Crack cocaine had become a plague in the Black communities.
What mainstream America has never understood is why. Most everyone that lived
in these areas smoked marijuana. They also drank beer and wine, which is why
there is a liquor store every two blocks. Impoverished people need to escape
their bleak realities. The ones who don’t use drugs or alcohol use prayer, so
there are just as many churches. Before crack, people saw cocaine as a status
symbol. When smokable cocaine flooded the inner cities, almost everyone who
smoked marijuana wanted to try it.”
“Fat Jack loved the city and its citizens, but he hated the
city officials. As we drove past city hall every day after leaving the back
lot, without fail, he would say, “One day they’re gonna pull a jail bus up to
that fucking place and march all those thieving sons of bitches out in
handcuffs.” Fat Jack believed that the city politicians would eventually fuck
up the budget by stealing so much that either the sheriff’s department would be
forced to take over or the city would open the door and invite them in. He
thought it might happen before his career was over. He was positive it would
happen before mine was.”
“I began hating myself and engaging in increasingly
self-destructive behavior, preferring to always see glasses as half empty. The
hatred and adverse reactions never really go away, either. You carry them with
you through life until they become too heavy to bear, and you either succumb to
the dire predictions, or you don a suit of armor burnished in arrogance.”
“When I heard about
his death, I had no remorse. I had realized long before that our childhood
friendship had been nothing more than an obscene port in an emotional storm.”
“The abattoir contained in just 10.1 square miles was the
perfect diversion, reminiscent of Washington, DC, where wars and other,
military actions divert attention from the ever-present red and blue hands in
the cookie jars of every home in America.”
“Being a gang investigator in Compton was like a fledgling
art lover rooming with Jackson Pollock; it was sensory overload. The gang
members painted obscene, grotesque works of art with sophisticated weaponry,
using the streets as their canvasses and blood as their medium.”
“The world had gone crazy. No one was spared from the madness---from
infants to the elderly, to those sworn to protect them. It was just too much
death, over and over again. I had to find some light in all this iniquity.”
“When I confronted them about the weed-smoking and how
detrimental it was to the entire family because I could get fired because of
it, they told me they hated me. I was losing control of my family. And while I
was trying to hold it together at home, the Grim Reaper was working overtime in
Compton.”
“I was far from
perfect. Everyone is. We have all done shit that we will take to the grave.
Some of us have small change purses to carry it in; some of us have duffle
bags. Cops are no different. Like everyone else, they are inherently flawed and
prone to moments of clarity and epiphany throughout their entire careers. We
all must be able to recognize when change is required or needed. If you can’t
learn to swim with the tides of history, you will get swept away by the
undercurrent of time.”
About the Author
Frederick Douglass Reynolds is a former Compton police officer and a retired LA County Sheriff’s Homicide Sergeant with a combined 32 years of experience working some of the worst areas of Los Angeles County. He retired in 2017 with over seventy-five commendations including a Chief’s Citation, five Chief’s commendations, one Exemplary Service Award, two Distinguished Service Awards, two Distinguished Service Medals, one city of Carson Certificate of Commendation, three City of Compton Certificate of Recognition, one city of Compton Public Service Hero award, one California State Assembly Certificate of Recognition, two State Senate Certificates of Recognition, a County of Los Angeles Certificate of Commendation, one Meritorious Service Award, two City of Compton Employee of the Year Awards, and two California Officer of the Year awards. He lives in Southern California with his wife, Carolyn, and their daughter Lauren and their young son, Desmond. They have six other adult children and nine grandchildren.
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