The news this morning included yet another video of police brutality. There's no point in me detailing it for you. You've probably seen it. Or maybe you're still comfortable under that rock. And I'm not going to rag on law enforcement. I have a beloved nephew who served for decades as a state trooper. You must know good cops, too. But this latest incident caused me to reflect upon an encounter I had with law enforcement many years ago.
It was the spring of 1983, nearly four decades ago. I was at a crossroads in my life, eager to put my fear and sadness aside and embrace the possibility of some kind of renewal. I'd just begun a low-residency graduate writing program in Vermont. I'd also begun dating the man who would, a year and a half later, become my husband and father of my three children. (Of course, I didn't know that at the time.) Thanks to the generosity of the Superintendent of Schools where I'd been teaching for ten years (and at his suggestion), I took a half-year sabbatical and decided to spend it driving cross-country, writing my poetry along the way. I packed up my 1979 Plymouth Horizon, said so long to the man I was falling in love with, and headed west. I'd planned my route based on the locations of friends and relatives I could visit along the way. Consequently, out of the two months I was on the road, I only stayed in a motel three times.
On day one, I drove across the state of Pennsylvania, crossed into Ohio, and spent a couple of days with my college roommate in Massillon. Her husband gave me a road atlas, which came in helpful. (I only had a notebook with addresses and handwritten directions. GPS? Not in 1983! Cell phone? Nope. Just me and my bad sense of direction.) My next stop was Chicago, where I stayed with a friend of a friend. Marsha had adorable twin boys, with whom I fell in love. But during the day, I was on my own to explore the Windy City, visiting the Art Institute, checking out Frank Lloyd Wright buildings, and having lunch at the top of the Sears Tower, then the tallest building in the country. (I recall having to stop to buy a pair of comfortable shoes, as my fashionable high-heeled boots were killing me. I've never traveled without comfortable footwear since.)
After a couple of days, I said goodbye to those sweet little boys and headed out of town. And that's when it happened.
Dismas Bonner was a Franciscan priest and a bad driver. He side-swiped me (his fault), damaging my Plymouth to the point where it would not be safe for me to drive it. He seemed embarrassed when we spoke, but admitted no fault. Sgt. William Love of the Chicago Police Department arrived on the scene, assessed the situation, and announced that neither of us would be ticketed for the accident. Having to choose between a priest and a 33-year-old school teacher in high-heeled boots must have been a head-scratcher for Sgt. Love. Dismas, whose car suffered only a few scratches, drove off, leaving me and Sgt. Love to figure out my next move. Would it surprise you to learn that I broke down in tears? I told Sgt. Love about my planned road trip, deciding that it wasn't meant to be, and I would be heading back to New Jersey.
And this is the part that I will never forget. Speaking slowly and thoughtfully, Sgt. Love suggested that I might regret giving up this dream, and in his opinion, I should continue on. I wasn't immediately convinced, but considered his advice. And then Sgt. Love told me to follow him. He took me to a repair shop owned by a friend of his where he arranged for enough repairs to be done to make the car safe to drive. And then Sgt. Love drove me back to the home where I'd been staying. The boys were happy to see me again.
The next day, Sgt. Love picked me up and took me to the repair shop where my car was waiting. I told him I would be continuing my journey and thanked him for his help and advice. And then I was on my way. It wasn't until I was driving through Normal, Illinois, that I felt that I was making the right decision. Oklahoma City, here I come!
During those two months, I spent time in Dallas, El Paso, San Antonio (with a day trip to Nueva Laredo, Mexico), Tucson, San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Salt Lake City, Boulder, and Charlottesville. There's a story for each of those visits, but I think my encounter with Sgt. Love in Chicago gave me a life lesson I have never forgotten. Since then, I've tried to live my life with no regrets. And even when I did something that, in hindsight, I wished I hadn't, there was a life lesson to be learned.
When I was back home, planning for a future with that man whose absence had made my heart grow fonder, I wrote a letter to the Chicago Police Department. In it, I told my story of Sgt. Love, expressing my gratitude for the way he helped a single young woman pursue a dream. And Sgt. Love wrote back to me, thanking me for my praise! I wish I still had that letter.
I'm not sure this fact should have a place in this story, but in light of the recent news stories in which Black people suffer at the hands of white police, I'll point out that Sgt. Love was a Black man, as was the man who repaired my car. I'm a white woman.
I googled Sgt. William Love with no success. But I did learn that Dismas Bonner died in 2011. And so it goes.
