- Jul 18, 2017
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The police are always to be blame so lets cut them a break.
The call comes in.
Domestic dispute. Screaming in the background. A child made the call. I arrive at a home that’s held more calls than furniture. Same broken doorframe. Same wide-eyed child peeking from the stairs. Inside, the man is drunk and raging. His partner is injured. The child is silent, but used to this. This isn’t a sudden incident — it’s a slow-motion collapse that started years ago. Generational trauma. Unchecked addiction. Poverty. Social workers came and went. So did hope. I arrest the man to stop the harm.
A neighbour records on their phone from the driveway and mutters, “Cops always make things worse.” Yeah, that’s my fault. I should’ve been there in 1991, when this man was ten and learned violence by watching it. Should’ve built a trauma-informed care system that didn’t lose track of him by the time he was twenty. Should’ve created affordable housing, staffed long-term addiction treatment, and solved child protection all before lunch. But instead, I showed up for the last twenty minutes of a story that began decades ago.
And now I’m the villain.
⸻
Next call.
Overdose behind a strip mall. A man, unconscious and alone. Narcan administered. He comes back — barely. His mother arrives minutes later, trembling, angry, and desperate. She looks at me and asks, “Where were you last week when he started using again?
Like I’m the one who walked beside him as his addiction spiralled. I’m not. I’m the one who found him blue-lipped and not breathing, and refused to let him die there. But yeah, that’s my fault. I should’ve reversed a decade of cuts to addiction services. Should’ve opened more detox beds, more safe consumption sites, more wraparound programs. Should’ve fixed the social safety net that he fell through. Instead, I kept him alive.
And still, I failed.
⸻
Next one: stolen car, crashed into a median.
We find the suspect nearby — sixteen years old. He’s bounced between foster homes since he was five. Kicked out of school. No stable guardian. High and angry at the world. We arrest him. Next day’s headline: “Police Continue to Criminalize Vulnerable Youth.”
Right. That’s my fault too. I should’ve restructured the child welfare system. Should’ve been the teacher, the therapist, the guardian he never had. Should’ve built community programs and kept them funded when the budgets were slashed. But no — I just stopped him from hurting himself or someone else.
And somehow, that’s the real injustice.
⸻
Then there’s the bar fight.
We’re called to a disturbance. A man is high, aggressive, throwing punches at patrons. I step in — he blindsides me with a hit to the face. I take him down, use enough force to gain control. A bystander records the last five seconds — just me pinning him to the ground. The video goes viral. Headline: “Police Brutality Caught on Camera.”
No mention of the assault. No mention of the knife we found in his jacket. No context — just a moment, stripped of truth. Yeah, that’s my fault. I should’ve waited for the camera before defending myself. Should’ve ensured the video captured the full ten minutes, not just the five seconds that sell rage. Should’ve protected myself in a way that made for better optics. But I didn’t. I did what I was trained to do, to protect lives — including his.
And now I’m the monster.
⸻
Next day, same cycle.
The man I arrested last week for choking his partner? Already out on bail. This time, he stabs someone at a transit stop. We arrest him again. The media runs with: “Repeat Offender Strikes Again Despite Police Presence.”
Of course. That’s on me. I should’ve been the judge. Should’ve rewritten the bail conditions. Should’ve closed the gaps in the system that let him walk free.
Instead, I responded to the aftermath — again — and now I’m the failure.
⸻
And then I go home.
Take off the vest. Eat dinner cold. Turn on the news. There’s a panel of experts — none of whom have ever knocked on a door without knowing what’s on the other side. None of whom have told a mother her son isn’t coming home. None of whom have held the weight of someone else’s last breath.
But they know, somehow, that we’re the problem.
⸻
I’m tired.
We all are. Tired of being blamed for every system that collapsed long before we arrived. Tired of being the public face of problems no one wants to fix. Tired of being judged for showing up — because no one else would.
We are not perfect. We never claimed to be. But we didn’t write the policies. We didn’t gut the services. We didn’t create the crisis. We’re just the ones who walk into it — day after day. We are the last line. The last knock on the door. The last person still trying. So when another child is failed, When another addict is lost, When another violent man slips through the cracks, When a five-second video becomes the entire story —
Yeah… that’s my fault.
Thanks for the post Gary Carty
The call comes in.
Domestic dispute. Screaming in the background. A child made the call. I arrive at a home that’s held more calls than furniture. Same broken doorframe. Same wide-eyed child peeking from the stairs. Inside, the man is drunk and raging. His partner is injured. The child is silent, but used to this. This isn’t a sudden incident — it’s a slow-motion collapse that started years ago. Generational trauma. Unchecked addiction. Poverty. Social workers came and went. So did hope. I arrest the man to stop the harm.
A neighbour records on their phone from the driveway and mutters, “Cops always make things worse.” Yeah, that’s my fault. I should’ve been there in 1991, when this man was ten and learned violence by watching it. Should’ve built a trauma-informed care system that didn’t lose track of him by the time he was twenty. Should’ve created affordable housing, staffed long-term addiction treatment, and solved child protection all before lunch. But instead, I showed up for the last twenty minutes of a story that began decades ago.
And now I’m the villain.
⸻
Next call.
Overdose behind a strip mall. A man, unconscious and alone. Narcan administered. He comes back — barely. His mother arrives minutes later, trembling, angry, and desperate. She looks at me and asks, “Where were you last week when he started using again?
Like I’m the one who walked beside him as his addiction spiralled. I’m not. I’m the one who found him blue-lipped and not breathing, and refused to let him die there. But yeah, that’s my fault. I should’ve reversed a decade of cuts to addiction services. Should’ve opened more detox beds, more safe consumption sites, more wraparound programs. Should’ve fixed the social safety net that he fell through. Instead, I kept him alive.
And still, I failed.
⸻
Next one: stolen car, crashed into a median.
We find the suspect nearby — sixteen years old. He’s bounced between foster homes since he was five. Kicked out of school. No stable guardian. High and angry at the world. We arrest him. Next day’s headline: “Police Continue to Criminalize Vulnerable Youth.”
Right. That’s my fault too. I should’ve restructured the child welfare system. Should’ve been the teacher, the therapist, the guardian he never had. Should’ve built community programs and kept them funded when the budgets were slashed. But no — I just stopped him from hurting himself or someone else.
And somehow, that’s the real injustice.
⸻
Then there’s the bar fight.
We’re called to a disturbance. A man is high, aggressive, throwing punches at patrons. I step in — he blindsides me with a hit to the face. I take him down, use enough force to gain control. A bystander records the last five seconds — just me pinning him to the ground. The video goes viral. Headline: “Police Brutality Caught on Camera.”
No mention of the assault. No mention of the knife we found in his jacket. No context — just a moment, stripped of truth. Yeah, that’s my fault. I should’ve waited for the camera before defending myself. Should’ve ensured the video captured the full ten minutes, not just the five seconds that sell rage. Should’ve protected myself in a way that made for better optics. But I didn’t. I did what I was trained to do, to protect lives — including his.
And now I’m the monster.
⸻
Next day, same cycle.
The man I arrested last week for choking his partner? Already out on bail. This time, he stabs someone at a transit stop. We arrest him again. The media runs with: “Repeat Offender Strikes Again Despite Police Presence.”
Of course. That’s on me. I should’ve been the judge. Should’ve rewritten the bail conditions. Should’ve closed the gaps in the system that let him walk free.
Instead, I responded to the aftermath — again — and now I’m the failure.
⸻
And then I go home.
Take off the vest. Eat dinner cold. Turn on the news. There’s a panel of experts — none of whom have ever knocked on a door without knowing what’s on the other side. None of whom have told a mother her son isn’t coming home. None of whom have held the weight of someone else’s last breath.
But they know, somehow, that we’re the problem.
⸻
I’m tired.
We all are. Tired of being blamed for every system that collapsed long before we arrived. Tired of being the public face of problems no one wants to fix. Tired of being judged for showing up — because no one else would.
We are not perfect. We never claimed to be. But we didn’t write the policies. We didn’t gut the services. We didn’t create the crisis. We’re just the ones who walk into it — day after day. We are the last line. The last knock on the door. The last person still trying. So when another child is failed, When another addict is lost, When another violent man slips through the cracks, When a five-second video becomes the entire story —
Yeah… that’s my fault.
Thanks for the post Gary Carty
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