An Essay in Acrostic: P.O.L.I.C.E.

Pistol shots break out in a midnight
barroom. Chambers spin. Smoke settles.
Patina polished. Entrance door smashed with
plexiglass riot shield. Beat cops shuffle in like
tactical platoon. As if we were some foreign
guerilla fighters camouflaged in mud. My
ears ring first. Their voices trail long after.
They move around pool tables and lopsided
stools as if dodging vines in the jungle. Or
dilapidated city rubble. They always enter
buildings far from their neighborhoods. My
nose is pressed against the sticky warped
hardwood. Hands behind my head. Fingers
laced like a stressed corset. A dispatch
reverberates throughout the room.
Ricocheting across the torn felt and empty
bottles lined across the bar top. The radio
voice confirms wrong address. I wait till the
sound of leathered boots evaporates. We
check for the stray as we get up. A pair of
Timberlands lies prey to gravity. I notice I’m
standing in a thick puddle of purple.

Obedience was never our family’s strong
suit. Compliance towards law and order
meant late rent checks and meals at
Grandmother’s house. No one has time for
pride. Three squares and a white fence
weren’t meant for felony convictions
anyway. Or foreign-signed birth certificates.
Trash bins full of job and rental applications
stamped with the inevitable BOX.
Government assistance papers black marked
like redacted Pentagon papers. In the 60s,
the CIA transported heroin into the States
and turned the people onto LSD. In the 80s,
it was cocaine. And now marijuana is taxed.
The skills passed down to me meant I was
encroaching on the government’s turf. My
father was distributing in their territory. I
was distributing in their territory. If only we
all had badges the transactions of plants
wouldn’t end in surveillance. Ankle
monitors and check-ins. Inflated ramen soup
prices and law libraries. I’m still paying for
taking up cell space as if I were an esteemed
guest at the Holiday Inn. When someone
leaves prison they receive the same amount
of gate money as in 1970. Some things
never change.

Leaflets scatter across courthouse steps and
carless blocked-off streets. We blend in
shadows, masked in spray-painted requiem.
The news informs us of another one gone.
But this isn’t new. Choke holds. Tasers.
Unarmed retaliation. Minor traffic stop
deaths. Target practice. Organized criminals
fitted in perm pressed navy and silver. Blue
and red every night. I’ve never been so
afraid of primary colors. Selling cigarettes.
Waiting on a train. College student. False
identification. We carry lead and
megaphones. Photos and demands. We are
well aware there is no brick heavy enough to
end poverty. But hopefully, enough broken
windows will allow the moonlight to shine
on the secrets tucked against the corners.
They tell us we have the right to take up
space. But they come in armor and shields
that say otherwise. M was told by his parole
officer he could protest, as long as he filed
for permission. Rubber bullets explode
along the block of boarded buildings. Closed
not because of us, but city ordinances and
poor planning. The body beside me is
toppled over. Ears bleeding. A red circle
imprinted against the temple. They will
never be the same.

I used to take antidepressants before I hit
puberty. The holes in my face were
departing stations for matter lighter than
breath. I learned from neighbors they used to
put people like my mother into camps.
When I would sleep, I could see the light my
grandmother witnessed fall like a star. She
saw the impact all the way from the Ishikari
River. When I was in middle school I was
thrown off a train by a Bay Area SWAT
team. They misidentified me but to them I
was an adult capable of terror. Little shit.
Fuckin loser. Not from here. They had an
endless bag of insults. Their black vested
German shepherds are the only dogs to have
never liked me. I pray for them often. My
father had the same experience I did. When I
was older I made the mistake of scoring
dope during a prostitution ring. I can still
smell the smoke canisters. Sgt. So-and-so
smashed my head against the window. I’ve
never seen so many pieces of glass. When I
would perform break-ins I was always
meticulous. Clean circle shapes big enough
for knuckles to slide through. In college, I
worked as a reporter. Exposing what I found
to be corrupt. A police officer in Yuba
County once told my source journalists are
like cops but without backbones. The police
scared her out of town. I never heard from
her again.

Crepuscular discharge streaked across the
southside yard. 20 shots fired as if the end
credits of a Hollywood film. 8 bullets made
contact. Lodged in the back. No weapons
ever found. His hands dark enough for
justifiable causes. He was a few years
younger than me. Taking classes at the same
community college that changed my life.
Why am I so lucky? The Sacramento Kings
wore his face on jerseys with the word
Accountability stretched across the
shoulders. But no one was held to those
standards. Sports gambling revenue is over
$430 million a year. That’s only the
regulated and legal kind. If the voice of an
athlete doesn’t spur a movement then what
good is putting a ball in a hole? He fit a
description made in the mind of a police
officer. To them there’s only one detail.
They chased him into his grandmother’s
backyard. They yelled gun! gun! gun!
When they rolled him over they only found
an old model iPhone tightly gripped. Off-
white casing patterned crimson coagulation.

Earthborn. We all are. Yet ephemeral
viability is a lost practice. If over 1,000
people lost their lives to someone in blue
last year, who is protected? Over 185 death
row sentences were exonerated because of
wrongful convictions. Life is jasmine.
Dogwood in spring. The peak summit ravine
dyed white. An October bellow of a low
valley deer. When they put J in solitary for
an allergic reaction to his medication he
snapped. Why do 911 calls always end in
constraints or mimicking the myth of
Sisyphus. Police yelled at my mother for
bringing in books while I awaited trial. She
didn’t know the procedure. They viewed her
as criminal. It’s true my mother took acid
while spending a weekend in jail. But that
was teenage rebellion. Her friend was put in
a cell by herself to converse with her
demons. A bad trip ensued. I once saw my
friend tackled to the ground. Head split
open. He was pushing a cart full of all his
belongings. His crime was his lack of
housing. An unusual cold snap rolled over
the central valley seven years ago. The city
called on the police to enforce public
camping ordinances. Michael Nunez was
found huddled in a cheaply made sleeping
bag on Christmas day. Frozen on the capitol
steps. Death by indifference.

_{Image: Slaven Gujic / Unsplash}

Contributors

Tony Koji Wallin-Sato Tony Koji Wallin-Sato is a multicultural Nisei writer who works with currently and formerly incarcerated students in higher education through Project Rebound. He is the Prison Education Coordinator for CSU Long Beach, a lecturer in the Critical Race, Gender, and Sexuality Studies department at Cal Poly Humboldt, and an in-prison teaching artist with the William James Association. His most recent book of poems is Okaerinasai, published by Wet Cement Press.

Topics

• Culture & Politics

Tags

• incarcerated and formerly incarcerated authors
• poetry
• police violence
• policing