There are many things that go on inside of a police station that as a dispatcher, I am not allowed to talk about. I even signed some fancy papers so that I can be in trouble if I ever do. There are a few things I can talk about though. Things like how weird the station feels when it's empty. The shot of energy that runs into a body during a call. There is even the whole bit about working with the officers and the ones that become your favorites, and the ones that just sorta tick you off when you are around.
I work in two different dispatch offices. At college, I press one button. I fill out a small piece of paper, I maybe look up a name or two in a database to get someone to move their car. While it doesn't seem like there is a lot on the line working at a college office, you'd be surprised. The officers there are real cops. They are trained, they carry weapons, and they can be in harms way. I know that a lot of people look at campus safety like rent a cops, but they are a hell of a lot more than that. They face threats too. As a dispatcher, you have to be on your toes to deal with it. I remember one night I was sitting there working on a draft of my book and this booming voice comes over the radio 10-80, 10-80.
Well, in the year or so I had been working at that point, I had never had a 10-80 so I didn't have a clue what the hell was going on. It was a chase. It was the first big call I had ever worked on and I spazzed. I mean, papers flying off the desk to find a clear bit of space to write down everything that was going on. The local PD was calling over the radio, on the phone, I was keeping track of times, places, names, and clinging to my calm. That's the first thing they tell you about dispatching. Remain calm. HA!
When all was said and done, I had a list of all the information printed on a sheet of paper that went along with the call card. I impressed the officers because I didn't know what the hell they would need from the incident, sooo...I sorta just gave them everything.
After I graduated college (the first time), I managed with some help to get a job dispatching in New York. They gave me the typical stare down. They tell you lives are on the line, that you are responsible for the safety of the officers. That you have to be steady, ready to handle anything thrown at you. If you can't make it, get out. Well, somehow I managed to get through training, to get my first shift on my own.
My first shifts at campus safety were a set of nervous days when you wondered how things work and if you'll make a mistake and call officer a by officer b's name. My first shifts at a fully functioning police station? Terrifying. They aren't lying when they say there are lives on the line. Things really do come flying at you quick and in rapid succession. You can have the phone ringing, the radio lines for your officers, EMTs and Fire Department all going off at the same time, AND someone standing at the window demanding your attention. To say that it's ridiculous at times is the least that I can say. I will openly sit here and curse out the radio, the ringing phones and answer in the same calm manner I was trained in. I'm pretty sure I've been caught cussing out the multitudes before answering them, or securing locations, or whatever. It helps me. I'll be pretty angry by the time a large call is over, but as I sit and write out the report, I start feeling better that there hasn't been anything else I could have done. I'm not usually mad about a billion people trying to get my attention at once, but more like that I feel that I'll miss something important if I don't hear what is said.
So far, so good. KNOCK ON WOOD.
What is nice about working at this station is that everything transmitted over the air via phone or radio gets recorded. If I miss something, I can look it up and see what it was. I've also learned that I hate the sound of my voice over the radio.
There are perks to this job. Sure, there are the ones everyone thinks about. Oh, you can get out of speeding tickets and other minor bits of trouble, the guys have your back and you work a pretty cushy job when the radio's not screaming (I mean seriously, sometimes I feel like I get paid to sit here and watch tv and facebook). The pay is also pretty damn good.
But the perks I'm talking about aren't the normal ones. I work for a police station in a town that has a village with a seperate police department inside of it. The inner village is home to some of the overly weathy. Even Whoopi Goldberg has a house in there. The houses are huge, sprawling things that seem way to close to their neighbors for what they probably pay. The entire development isn't like that, but it is a private gated area. As a dispatcher, I need to know the roads, know where they meet up or end. I also need to know the gated community, though not as well. So as part of my training, I got to go with an officer up for a ride around the area and see what there is to see. And man, some of those places? Wow.
There are things like nicknames that come into play. When I work at campus safety, I'm Troxell or Trox. When I started there, three Sara(h)s. So Trox became my name. In high school, I hated Troxell. It made me feel like people didn't want to spend the time figuring out which Troxell I was. In college, it made me stand apart. Then there are the names I got working for Tuxedo.
My favorite is probably Roxe, from my last name tROXEll. Then there's pirate girl because I have a bumper sticker that says trust me, I'm a pirate. What's funny is that the officer that gave me this name will every once and a while ARRR over the radio. I'll jokingly call him Capt. sometimes because of it. Our LT gave me a theme song to "Get This Party Started" by Pink. It's a great place to work. Then naturally, you get the officers.
At campus safety, you get a pretty matched set. Some are more friendly, more serious, quieter or louder dependingly. But they are all really good officers trying to get stuff done. There's one officer that used to ask me every time I worked with him how to do something with his email. He sends PARAGRAPHS in text messages now. Then there are officers who won't really talk much unless you talk to them and then it's getting them to stop that's the problem. There are officers who "wanna fight" but you always win. They'll threaten to baton you, handcuff you, or demand you stop answering calls so they can stay warm in the office. All together, a great bunch of officers.
At Tuxedo, the mixing of officers is just that. A mix. You've got the grown up frat boy, the prankster, the serious ones, the good looking ones, the funny and the talkative, the younger and older. There is politics, drama, stress. There are stories told that will have tears in your eyes from laughing and then there are situations that have you cringing in disbelief. There are dads, boyfriends, children, houses to buy, new cars, divorces, and car accidents. There are cookies,
There are pros and cons to each job. One job is more laid back, more stress-free. One job requires more concentration and training and you really have to work to be good. There are people that make each job a pleasure. There sure as hell people that piss me off. There are situations I wish I wasn't involved in, things I wish I hadn't heard or seen. There are things I'm happy to have helped, things I know I've done right, or did correctly that have helped people. I wish that I could always be certain I'm helping people. I am quick and good at what I do. I make mistakes, but I aim to keep them far and few between.
One of the things I was told when I first started dispatching for Tuxedo was that the glass was bulletproof...but if a gun was ever pulled from the other side of the glass, duck under the desk, that was sure to stop a bullet.
6 inches of steel.
Interesting.
December 21, 2010
December 20, 2010
The Walker Speaks Pt. 1
I find sometimes that there is just too much to say. I can't tell you how many times I've started this entry, been distracted, or un-attracted to the words on the screen. How I've struggled to write words that feel real and hold meaning for someone other than myself. I've started to talk about how I never follow through with anything (a few weeks after the entry on Tae Kwan Do saving my life, I quit again). I debated talking more about the 360's and my return home to Roanoke (too painful or complicated). I've started over and over and over and over. There isn't much more left to say about things. In fact, there's just too much to say about everything that is on my mind and I find that I can't say it at all because it becomes jumbled. It's like I took a Scrabble board and just poured the letters out and see what they form. They don't form many things.
So I'm sitting here talking about the future. Yet I feel that in order to properly talk about my future, I want to talk about my past. I want to talk about the name of this blog. I want to to talk about who I feel I am and the things that have gone on in my life that seem strange to me, or touched or created the person who sits here and types.
I know that a lot of bloggers tend to obsess over what they write. They won't post anything until it's been edited or perfected. It has to be read over by a close individual and even then, its under the highest levels of scrutiny. I don't do that. I don't edit, I don't care if I have misspelled something, or if a line seems awkward or long, or contains multitudes of horrible grammar. This blog is an outlet for me. It's not part of my writing process. It's not my book, or a poem, or required for a class. It's not anything other than just a way for me to get writing. I don't expect anyone to read it (and to those of you that have, I feel eternally grateful for the wonderful things you have said to me).
I am a verbose woman. These are not short blog entries. I'll apologize to people for how long they are, but truthfully, I don't know a way to make them much shorter. I should probably start breaking things into parts. That's for another time.
This is the time for reflection. When I first decided I was going to start a blog, one of my professors from college had just returned from China. He had these beautiful, colorful, vivid blog entries that had such glorious depth and perception to them. I wanted to try that. I wanted to have experiences that had this feel to them that draws in a reader and makes them read for hours on end (like I did one day at work). I enjoyed this new idea of "blogging" but let us be honest here: a professor living with his family in China is a hell of a lot more exciting then I could hope to be (esp. when I first started this blog). I don't write about the issues in the world. I don't write about what it's like to be an American in China, or a new mother (or a mother a second time over). I don't even have much understanding in who I am or what I do to be good at it.
Like many things, I just gave the blog up and lied to myself that I would come back to it someday. Every once in a while, I'd open up the webpage, start a new post, hate it, and move on again until I got the urge to write again. To share.
I apparently like to share.
I've gotten horribly off topic though from my original thought. I had a lot of issues trying to come up with a name for this blog. I wanted to be something that stood for me. I took all sorts of writing classes. I pull up names for characters in my novels-in-progress with a flip of a switch. I can't name a blog. A really good friend of mine suggested "Visions of A Walker."
It stuck. There is something about the name that makes me float just a little bit above sea level and dance in the spray and foam of the waves. In short, I am a walker in this world. I understand and experience things in a different way then the people around me, as everyone does. These are the things that I see, that I look at and examine. These are my dreams, hopes, plans, and plots. It was perfect.
It makes me feel like a Native American. You know how so many of those old movies laugh and joke about the names of Indians, and mock them for their names like "Runs With Leaves" or whatever. I remember when I was a kid, I used to love dressing up and playing games. Oregon Trail was one of them. My sisters and I used to pack up our dolls and dress up clothes, and some books and whatever else tickled our fancy and run up and down the street like we were spending days on the trail then camp at night in the front yard until Mom called us in for supper. We used to pretend we were Native Americans and I always wore this one dress that had bright blue polka dots on it. I used to call myself Blue Moon in Snow or something ridiculous like that. Who am I now? I'm sitting here in fuzzy green pants and a purple long sleeve shirt. Am I Fuzzy Woman in Grape? I'm not defined by my clothing, but the choices that I make, the things that I do. I'm a visionary (or so I like to think) and I walk this world.
It's funny where this blog goes. I didn't expect to talk about playing dress up.
Then there are the things that touch my life in ways I can't explain. It's no big secret that in high school, I didn't have many friends, and most of those that I did have didn't turn out to be so great of friends anyways. Even my freshman year of college, I didn't really seem to be making those connections of a lifetime, the people I'd always turn back to, the people would would forever change and define my life as time wore on. Then I came to Roanoke. I've talked a bit about the 360's and the friends I have outside of it. I've talked about really random things involving the people I've met. Truthfully, the entire affair baffles me.
I've talked to several people about how I find it weird that for as much as I hate people, I sure do have a lot of friends. Yeah, I have a lot of friends, I know a lot of people. I even have friends in that group of people that really would give the world to me if I asked it and they had the ability. For whatever reason, people find me charismatic, and I apparently seem to be something of a leader. I don't get it. I'm just a dorky girl with lame dreams and ideas that even she doubts most of the time. I'm going to use the word "collected" here very loosely. I have collected around me a group of individuals who really are some of the best people in the world. They are kind, generous, vivid people. They open their hearts, doors, wallets, and homes to people in need (including this writer). I couldn't ask for anything more out of them. They give their all and hardly if ever expect anything in return. I would give them my left and right arm if asked. I don't know if they are just that sort of people, or if I am the sort of leader that people just do that sort of things for. I just know I feel great responsibility within the group, and that I will never be able to fully repay them for the things that they do.
There will probably be more on this later. As for now, It's after 1030 at night and I have to be at work fairly early in the morning. Who knows, maybe I'll even get a post up and going while I'm there. For now, thanks for reading, thanks for understanding, and thanks for sticking through.
-Chaos
Dr. Paul Hanstedt's Blog: www.whiteboyfromwisconsin.blogspot.com
So I'm sitting here talking about the future. Yet I feel that in order to properly talk about my future, I want to talk about my past. I want to talk about the name of this blog. I want to to talk about who I feel I am and the things that have gone on in my life that seem strange to me, or touched or created the person who sits here and types.
I know that a lot of bloggers tend to obsess over what they write. They won't post anything until it's been edited or perfected. It has to be read over by a close individual and even then, its under the highest levels of scrutiny. I don't do that. I don't edit, I don't care if I have misspelled something, or if a line seems awkward or long, or contains multitudes of horrible grammar. This blog is an outlet for me. It's not part of my writing process. It's not my book, or a poem, or required for a class. It's not anything other than just a way for me to get writing. I don't expect anyone to read it (and to those of you that have, I feel eternally grateful for the wonderful things you have said to me).
I am a verbose woman. These are not short blog entries. I'll apologize to people for how long they are, but truthfully, I don't know a way to make them much shorter. I should probably start breaking things into parts. That's for another time.
This is the time for reflection. When I first decided I was going to start a blog, one of my professors from college had just returned from China. He had these beautiful, colorful, vivid blog entries that had such glorious depth and perception to them. I wanted to try that. I wanted to have experiences that had this feel to them that draws in a reader and makes them read for hours on end (like I did one day at work). I enjoyed this new idea of "blogging" but let us be honest here: a professor living with his family in China is a hell of a lot more exciting then I could hope to be (esp. when I first started this blog). I don't write about the issues in the world. I don't write about what it's like to be an American in China, or a new mother (or a mother a second time over). I don't even have much understanding in who I am or what I do to be good at it.
Like many things, I just gave the blog up and lied to myself that I would come back to it someday. Every once in a while, I'd open up the webpage, start a new post, hate it, and move on again until I got the urge to write again. To share.
I apparently like to share.
I've gotten horribly off topic though from my original thought. I had a lot of issues trying to come up with a name for this blog. I wanted to be something that stood for me. I took all sorts of writing classes. I pull up names for characters in my novels-in-progress with a flip of a switch. I can't name a blog. A really good friend of mine suggested "Visions of A Walker."
It stuck. There is something about the name that makes me float just a little bit above sea level and dance in the spray and foam of the waves. In short, I am a walker in this world. I understand and experience things in a different way then the people around me, as everyone does. These are the things that I see, that I look at and examine. These are my dreams, hopes, plans, and plots. It was perfect.
It makes me feel like a Native American. You know how so many of those old movies laugh and joke about the names of Indians, and mock them for their names like "Runs With Leaves" or whatever. I remember when I was a kid, I used to love dressing up and playing games. Oregon Trail was one of them. My sisters and I used to pack up our dolls and dress up clothes, and some books and whatever else tickled our fancy and run up and down the street like we were spending days on the trail then camp at night in the front yard until Mom called us in for supper. We used to pretend we were Native Americans and I always wore this one dress that had bright blue polka dots on it. I used to call myself Blue Moon in Snow or something ridiculous like that. Who am I now? I'm sitting here in fuzzy green pants and a purple long sleeve shirt. Am I Fuzzy Woman in Grape? I'm not defined by my clothing, but the choices that I make, the things that I do. I'm a visionary (or so I like to think) and I walk this world.
It's funny where this blog goes. I didn't expect to talk about playing dress up.
Then there are the things that touch my life in ways I can't explain. It's no big secret that in high school, I didn't have many friends, and most of those that I did have didn't turn out to be so great of friends anyways. Even my freshman year of college, I didn't really seem to be making those connections of a lifetime, the people I'd always turn back to, the people would would forever change and define my life as time wore on. Then I came to Roanoke. I've talked a bit about the 360's and the friends I have outside of it. I've talked about really random things involving the people I've met. Truthfully, the entire affair baffles me.
I've talked to several people about how I find it weird that for as much as I hate people, I sure do have a lot of friends. Yeah, I have a lot of friends, I know a lot of people. I even have friends in that group of people that really would give the world to me if I asked it and they had the ability. For whatever reason, people find me charismatic, and I apparently seem to be something of a leader. I don't get it. I'm just a dorky girl with lame dreams and ideas that even she doubts most of the time. I'm going to use the word "collected" here very loosely. I have collected around me a group of individuals who really are some of the best people in the world. They are kind, generous, vivid people. They open their hearts, doors, wallets, and homes to people in need (including this writer). I couldn't ask for anything more out of them. They give their all and hardly if ever expect anything in return. I would give them my left and right arm if asked. I don't know if they are just that sort of people, or if I am the sort of leader that people just do that sort of things for. I just know I feel great responsibility within the group, and that I will never be able to fully repay them for the things that they do.
There will probably be more on this later. As for now, It's after 1030 at night and I have to be at work fairly early in the morning. Who knows, maybe I'll even get a post up and going while I'm there. For now, thanks for reading, thanks for understanding, and thanks for sticking through.
-Chaos
Dr. Paul Hanstedt's Blog: www.whiteboyfromwisconsin.blogspot.com
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