Luckily, I had the foresight to book an appointment with my therapist today. As I sit in the familiar office, surrounded by books and plants, I’m reminded of the first time I came here with my mom. It was one of the few things she asked of me before she passed.
Mental health still isn’t mainstream in the Latinx community. Especially for men. Which is exactly why my mother wanted to make sure Amelia and I had access to grief counseling services before and after she was gone.
Truthfully, I went along with it because I would do anything my mother asked of me. But in reality, I’m glad she exposed me to therapy, because in a time like this, I’m glad I have this place to run to instead of the bottom of a bottle.
“Well, this is unusual. You usually book your appointments weeks in advance. I’m glad I had a light appointment day and was able to accommodate you on such short notice. It must mean there’s something urgent you want to discuss,” my therapist Kelly says.
I nod as I make myself comfortable on her oversized couch. Something I am immensely grateful for, given my size. “I had a meeting with my superiors today to talk about my suspension and my future at the NYPD.”
“And how do you think it went?”
“Truthfully?” She nods. “I’m not sure.” I rub a hand over my face. “They did a one eighty on me. First, they suspended me for not following orders and breaking protocol by going in without backup to save my sister from that lunatic. But now, I just came out of a meeting with my sergeant and a public relations person. They talked about making me ‘the face of my community’ and discussed when I can start media training.” I shake my head. “Apparently, the story of my sister getting kidnapped by a deranged drug lord, only to be rescued by her police officer brother and billionaire boyfriend, didn’t die over the holidays. Go figure,” I say sarcastically.
Kelly takes notes but stays silent, allowing me the space to continue.
“So instead of me getting my detective badge this month, like I was promised, I was told that a ‘better promotion’ might be on the horizon if I’m a ‘team player’ and work with the department to ‘explore options’ that capitalize on the positive exposure this ordeal has brought to the force.”
Kelly’s face remains expressionless. “Meaning?”
I sigh and lean my forearms on my thighs. “Meaning that if I play along, you’re looking at NYPD’s newest media puppet. Most likely to be used to distract from the main issues the department has yet to address head-on. Like police brutality, profiling, and responding to calls that are clearly better handled by people trained in mental health crisis intervention.”
“I’m tempted to ask you how that makes you feel, but I think that would be redundant. So instead, I’ll ask you what you believe your next move should be.”
And this is why I like talking to Kelly. She doesn’t beat around the bush, and she doesn’t hide behind her wall of diplomas. She cuts to the chase, and while I’m busy spewing off my thoughts, she somehow always manages to meet me at the finish line with an epiphany I never saw coming.
“I don’t know. My immediate reaction is… fuck that. I took an oath to serve and protect my community, not work the camera to make the whole police force look better.” I can’t hide the look of disgust that flashes across my face. “I refuse to let them use the color of my skin as a shield for those who only want to shake my hand in photo ops. It is not my responsibility to lessen the burden of those in power to do right by us. And I’ll be damned if it’s my face that’s used to ease even a fraction of their dirty consciences.”
Kelly waits a moment before asking, “Why am I sensing abut?”
I groan. “But… fuck! I don’t know. I just know how powerful it could be for kids to see me, see my face as the person who is going to step in the line of fire and protect them. I know I can act as a bridge for the people in my community to trust me, if not the badge, to keep them safe. I know that hope can be a powerful thing. And if I’m the person who can help reinstate that in my community, why am I being selfish and not jumping at the chance to be that?”
I slump against the couch and lean my head back against the cushion. I stare at the ceiling, wishing it would give me the guidance I so desperately need. The kind of wisdom only my mother could provide.
“Tony, this isn’t the first time you’ve sat in my office with mixed feelings about your profession. Even before your mother passed, you hinted at some unease in that area of your life. Which, may I say, is completely normal given the spotlight that you and your department are under.”
She pauses, as if searching for the right way to phrase the question that’s on the tip of her tongue. The look on her face is one I recognize immediately. It’s the face she makes right before she takes me to the brink of a breakthrough.
“But I must ask, if only for clarification purposes.” She places her pen down and graces me with her full attention. “Have you always felt that you’ve had to earn your existence by way of your career choices or by fulfilling the expectations of those around you?”
Silence.
Deafening silence fills the room.
Only when I see Kelly nudge the tissue box in my direction do I realize that tears are steadily running down my face.
“Fuck. Me.” I groan as I angrily wipe the tears away.
This is only the second time I’ve cried in this office. The first was the session after my mom died.
Yet somehow, in this moment, I can’t help but sense that I’m still in mourning. But for a completely different reason than my mother’s passing.
I think, for the first time, I’m mourning myself. And the person I could have been if the choices I made were solely for me.
Why did I go to business school?My dad.
Why did I become a cop?My ex.
Why won’t I walk away from my current job?My community.
