There Is Nothing Either Good or Bad

PART I: WHITE

So, as is the case in many stories, there’s this guy. Cop. Hero. Man.

A guy who by no exaggeration, metaphor, or embellishment...saved my life.

As in, I wouldn’t be here anymore if this man didn’t exist. Of that I have zero doubt.

I saw him recently, though I hadn’t in years. I had no reason to think he’d know who I was -- yes, he saved my life, but saving people is his job and I couldn’t fathom the idea that anything about me would have stood out. I was one of many people he’d saved over the years, not as significant to him as he is to me.

I was wrong.

He called out my name in a city I’ve avoided for years, and I was surprised when I turned around. The idea that this man remembered me, knew my name, recognized me after the years that have passed, was surreal. So surreal that I honestly couldn’t give a specific account of the conversation we had that night.

I know we talked about it -- talked about me, I mean, and the circumstances under which we met.

(The first time was an interview; I sat in a plastic chair, with bruised wrists and a cut lip, and didn’t say much. That first meeting, I glared at him, my chin tilted up in defiance, as if he wasn’t actively trying to save my life and I was too stubborn or scared to let him.

The next several times, over the course of months, were him trying to rescue me and me insisting I didn’t need rescuing. Me calling him every so often to check in, because he insisted; him being there for me, invested in ways I’m sure weren’t in his job description.

The last time was when he was there to pull a man’s hands from my throat.)

Standing there in the fading sunlight, he told me some really beautiful things about how every cop has a case that stays with them, drives them, impacts their career forever. He told me that his case was saving me. He talked about how it sticks with him, those times I called him for help. He said back when we met, I sounded broken, and it haunted him. He told me that meeting me, helping me, getting justice for me changed how he sees his entire job.

I don’t think either of us knew how to end the conversation once we were in it. It isn’t a story that you can laugh about. It wasn’t the kind of relationship where we really knew each other, either. But in those few months, we had forged a strange kinship that I can’t really explain, except to say that he’s the only person on earth who was present for some of the most traumatic memories I have.

When I left, we shook hands, which somehow felt both very appropriate, and too distant. I felt like I should have hugged him, or thanked him, or something. I should have told him that I still keep his business card; a symbolic reminder that there is always someone who will help, even when you feel like you’re beyond saving. I should have told him that I hold him on a pedestal in my mind, the way you only do with someone who has stopped you from dying.

I did none of those things. We had a quiet moment together, the mutual acknowledgement of a painful shared history, and then we said our goodbyes.

I remember leaving that night a little shaken up -- it’s not a subject I like discussing, for reasons that I imagine are obvious. Having a piece of my past stand in front of me, and tell me that I am also a part of his, was touching and unnerving and….nice, somehow. That the life and dedication of this officer to the people he protects was positively impacted by my trauma. That maybe something good had come from my experience.

But there’s always another side to the story.

PART II: BLACK

After running into this man and having this quiet moment together, I let a few months pass. I think in some ways I needed a little distance from that conversation before I could process it, much the same way I avoided that city until quite a few years had gone by.

Eventually, I looked him up, my hero. He wasn’t hard to find; I knew where to look. I guess I was curious about him. What was his life like? Who was this man who had been the watchful protector in my memory for so long? What was he like when he was somewhere else, when he wasn’t busy saving me?

I think I expected to find a list of awards. This man would have spent the last decade up on stages and smiling for cameras, because that’s how I see him. He’s heroic. I remember him being strong and brave and kind, and in those panicked moments where I needed someone, he was present and sympathetic without ever pitying or judging me. So I went looking for a list of all his achievements, I guess, for a photo of all the things he’s earned to show that he’s as good of a cop as he always has been in my mind.

As is often the case when you go digging for information, I found something I wish I hadn’t.

One of the things that showed up when I looked for him was a news article from a local court, and at first I assumed he was the arresting officer. Until I read it.

He was named as one of several respondents in a sexual harassment case by his former coworker. She claimed that My Personal Hero (and others) spread such salacious rumors about her that she had a mental breakdown, lost her job, and sued.

She won the case.

She won, to the tune of a seven-figure settlement. Which means, to me, her case wasn’t unfounded. She had enough proof to get the courts to believe she was being systematically and unrelentingly harassed, over the course of several years. Badly enough to push another human being into complete collapse. Badly enough that this woman’s entire life, for years, was spent in a courtroom.

Because of My Personal Hero. The man who was there when no one else was. Who thought to ask things no one else did. Who once showed up late in the evening and kept watch over my house all night, because I’d called him mid-panic attack. Who once did paperwork all morning instead of field work, because I’d fallen asleep in his office and he was concerned I wasn’t getting enough rest. Who followed me when I drove to meet the man who ended up trying to murder me, because he clearly knew better than I did. Who sat shoulder-to-shoulder with me when I did interviews, so I wouldn’t feel so isolated and stared at.

HE did that.

PART III: GREY

I’ve been thinking about this man for months.

I am unable to let go of this question:

Is he a hero, or a villain?

I never gave much thought to who he was to other people. I never thought to ask anyone else’s thoughts on him.

For me, he was always the hero; it’s nearly impossible for me to think of him any other way. I can’t explain the things this man had to do, just to keep me safe. The time and energy and patience were unsurpassed and I remember thinking, I will never stop being grateful. He kept me alive at a time when I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be. Funny how desperately you suddenly want to live, when it’s someone else’s idea that you shouldn’t.

I owe him my life.

But this woman, who had a breakdown because of things he said, thinks of him very differently. I imagine he’s her villain. I imagine that she hates him, or fears him, or both. I think about her trauma and it makes me feel physically ill. That it happened, that so many people knew about it; the humiliation of having all the harassment she suffered posted in the newspapers.

Mostly, selfishly, narcissistically, I am devastated that he was the cause. That he was complicit in destroying this woman.

So who is he?

Is he a villain? Is he a horrible man who ruins women’s lives (because, I don’t know, he was bored at work or something)?

Is he a hero?

Does he still get credit for saving my life, and everything that happened before and after?

Is it possible he’s both?

Can two diametrically opposing pieces fit together to form a person?

Is one an act?

Which one?

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