I've never considered myself to be an emotional guy. Being a cop means you have to keep your emotions to yourself most of the time. People in the community judge you by how you act, and letting your emotions show tells them you're not the strong protector of their safety they expect. I tried, that day, but I wasn't very successful.
I was OK until the two bagpipers and drummer led the graduating class between the rows of empty seats in the center of the large auditorium. It was the same bagpipe tune I marched to when I made that trip down the aisle between the rows of empty chairs, made a snap turn at my row, and then marched in front of the chair where I'd take my seat once commanded to do so.
That was the culmination of twenty-two weeks of physical and mental hell the Nashville Metropolitan Police Department calls the Metro Police Academy. I entered the Academy full of excitement at becoming a police officer like my dad. After the first day, I was wondering if I'd made a good choice. It was sort of like my basic training in the US Army, but this wasn't what we called "harassment" in basic. The stressful situations were constant and unrelenting. Everywhere we went and during everything we did, we were constantly inspected for appearance and demeanor or questioned about anything and everything we'd studied so far, and one didn't fail more than once or twice. Those who did soon left for other occupations.
I was proud of myself that day, and as I look back on my weeks at the academy with the eye of a seasoned cop, I understand the reasons for the training methods. All that discipline and questioning served to weed out those not suitable to wear a uniform and instilled confidence, pride, and teamwork in those of us who made it through.
I still felt that pride, but my pride in Jeremy pushed it into the background. When I saw him in full uniform complete with service belt and white gloves, a lump formed in my throat, and I could feel my eyes getting wet. It seemed like only last week he was six and now he was a grown man who, just like I'd done with my dad, had followed in his father's footsteps. He had two sets of footsteps to follow that day. I was so proud because one of those sets of footsteps was mine. I was also proud because I knew Jeremy was man enough to fill them both.
I wasn't ashamed of how I felt because I knew there were several other officers in the audience who, like me, were wearing a full dress uniform and were feeling the same way. They had a son or daughter who'd applied to The Academy, been accepted, and was graduating that day. A couple were there for a grandson or granddaughter, and I was wishing my dad had lived to be there. I saw more than one man or woman in uniform look around and then quickly wipe their eyes. I did the same thing after Cindy nudged me and then handed me a tissue.
There were speeches I only half listened to before the Commander administered the Oath of Office to the new officers. I remembered repeating those words and being proud to say them, and the lump in my throat got a little bigger. After that, the graduates marched from their seats and formed a line to receive their graduation certificates.
My lump got bigger yet when the presenter called "Jeremy Wells", and Jeremy marched smartly up to receive his certificate. He then walked a few steps for a photograph with the Chief of Police and the Mayor of Nashville. My cue was when the flashes stopped.
I stood, straightened my uniform jacket, and walked up beside Jeremy. He grinned and whispered, "I made it Dad". I shook his hand and then turned for another set of photos. I'd have one of those on the wall of my den as soon as they were processed. After those photos were taken, Cindy's dad joined us. His Chicago PD uniform fit a lot tighter than when he patrolled the streets on the north side, but he looked proud to be wearing it. The photos of the three of us would join the one with just me and Jeremy on my den wall.
Afterwards, we went back to our house. Cindy had gone all out for the party even though it was just her, me, Jeremy, our daughter Melody, and Cindy's mom and dad. She had pictures of Jeremy on the table from that day when he was six up until the day he graduated from MTSU with a degree in Criminal Justice Administration. A lot of the pictures were of him and I doing stuff together and as Jeremy looked at them, he kept saying "Hey, I remember this. This is the time we..."
I don't know how many times I told Jeremy I was proud of him. He kept saying, "Dad, you already told me that", but I didn't care.
I did care that day sixteen years before when I was driving my regular route and saw a small boy wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt riding down the street on a bicycle with training wheels. I didn't see any adults around and he was in danger of being hit by a car, so I yelped the siren once. When he stopped, I pulled my patrol car in behind him and turned on the light bar to stop any traffic in that lane, then got out and walked up to him. He looked up at me with fear in his eyes, and that fear was the last thing I wanted him to feel. I grinned and stuck out my hand.
"Hi there, buddy. I'm Officer Wells. How's it goin'?"
He looked up at me.
"Are you gonna put me in jail?"
I chuckled.
"Nah, I just thought you looked a little tired. How about if I put your bike up on the curb so we can talk while you rest up?"
He nodded and got off the bike. I picked it up and carried it off the street, then asked him to follow me to the passenger side of my patrol car.
"It's kinda hot out here. How about if we get in my car to talk? It's air conditioned."
He nodded again, so I opened the passenger side door. Once he was inside, I closed the door and then got into the driver's seat. I keyed the radio.
"Dispatch,4501, ten-eighty-four on Richey between Elm and Hickory."
Marsha's reply came back a second later.
"4501,ten-four to your ten-eighty four."
I looked over at the kid then. His eyes looked as big as saucers.
"What's that", he asked.
"That's a police radio. I just told the dispatcher where we are and that I was helping you out. That's to let them know not to send me on another call until I tell them I'm done. The lady dispatcher told me she got the message. Now, what's your name?"
The little boy dropped his eyes.
"Jeremy."
"How old are you, Jeremy."
"Six."
"Six? You look pretty big for six. Where are you going?"
"To see my dad."
"Oh? Where does your dad live?"
"Mom says in a place called Chicago."
I tried not to smile.
"Chicago's a long way from here. How long do you think it'll take?"
Jeremy shrugged.
"I don't know. I just wanna see my dad. Can I go now?"
Obviously, I couldn't let him go, but I didn't want to scare him.
"In a little while, but I have to write a report about how I helped you today and I need some more information before I can do that. Where do you live?"
