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Making a
Difference
Difference
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When you become a police officer, you can be absolutely certain of one
thing... you will make a difference. The decisions you make, and the
way you interact with people will affect people's lives. Whether the
effects you cause are positive or negative is entirely up to you.
However, the extent to which your efforts affect or influence others will
include factors too many to count. It should be obvious that you'll affect
the lives of those people who are victims of crime and the criminals who
prey on them, but they're not the only ones. Everyone with whom you
interact, crime victims, other police officers, and the public in general
will all experience some kind of impact from association with you.
There's a lot of theories and attitudes held by a lot of people that police
work is about everything except police work. To the consternation of
many elitists, your first and most important duty will always be law
enforcement. However, that doesn't mean that your normal day to day
behavior toward others will not have impact. Some of the positive
results of your behavior will be immediately evident. If you pull a child
from the path of a speeding car, the importance and effect of that
ultimate life saving act will be obvious. But... most of the positive
effects you have on others will never become known to you.
However, now and then... a person will approach you and say, "Thank
you." You may remember the person, or you may have no recollection
of the person or incident. On the occasion when you can't even
remember the incident that is evoking the thanks, that should give you
some idea of just how important everything you say and do really is.
thing... you will make a difference. The decisions you make, and the
way you interact with people will affect people's lives. Whether the
effects you cause are positive or negative is entirely up to you.
However, the extent to which your efforts affect or influence others will
include factors too many to count. It should be obvious that you'll affect
the lives of those people who are victims of crime and the criminals who
prey on them, but they're not the only ones. Everyone with whom you
interact, crime victims, other police officers, and the public in general
will all experience some kind of impact from association with you.
There's a lot of theories and attitudes held by a lot of people that police
work is about everything except police work. To the consternation of
many elitists, your first and most important duty will always be law
enforcement. However, that doesn't mean that your normal day to day
behavior toward others will not have impact. Some of the positive
results of your behavior will be immediately evident. If you pull a child
from the path of a speeding car, the importance and effect of that
ultimate life saving act will be obvious. But... most of the positive
effects you have on others will never become known to you.
However, now and then... a person will approach you and say, "Thank
you." You may remember the person, or you may have no recollection
of the person or incident. On the occasion when you can't even
remember the incident that is evoking the thanks, that should give you
some idea of just how important everything you say and do really is.
You never know.
Small gestures of the past may resurface one day and bring gratitude
when you least expect it.
Library booktalks have brought me through five states, from Knoxville,
Tennessee to Key West, Florida, and hundreds of meeting rooms and
auditoriums. As they say in show biz — it’s my schtick, a fun gig that
has paid off in more ways than one.
On occasion, I will spot a face in the audience from an early era of my
life, an old police crony, a high school chum, an old girl friend, a former
adversary, or some obscure soul upon whom I made a mark and never
knew it. Last year, a long lost relative showed up at an Asheville library,
one who I had never met.
Clearwater, Florida. 2004. The crowd was disappointingly small. As folks
ambled in, they were surprised to see an older curly-haired fellow
playing gypsy songs on a violin as he wandered around the room. “Are
we in the wrong place?” a woman asked of the host.
“Oh, no. That’s the author. Have a seat,” replied the librarian.
The audience was attentive and lively as I embarked on my dissertation.
One fellow sitting in the front row seemed intense, taciturn. He never
took his eyes off me. In his forties, he reminded me of movie actor,
John Malkovich, balding, eyebrows arched, lips pursed.
After more than an hour, the man raised his hand. “Mr. Frank. My
father was Lee Paris. Do you remember him?” Oh oh. Thoughts
scrambled into high gear. Who is this guy? Did I arrest his father? Was
this a set-up, or some angry adversary here to exact revenge or
humiliation? Lee Paris? The name was familiar, but I couldn’t place the
face. So, I lied, “Yeah. Sure.”
“Can I speak with you after the talk?” he asked.
“Yes.” What does this guy want?
The man waited patiently as I signed books at the table. Then he
approached with an extended hand. That was a relief. “You changed my
life,” he said.
“I did?”
“Don’t you remember? My father owned a bar on Collins Avenue, some
30 or 40 years ago.”
Then it struck me. Of course, Lee Paris, a small, stocky, gentle man
who shot a wicked game of billiards. Always complaining about bad
business, wishing for legalized gambling in the state which would never
come. A good man.
The fellow could see the confusion in my eyes.
“Excuse me?” Then I asked, “You say I changed your life? How?”
His eyes were deep and sincere. “When I was seventeen, I was going
nowhere. My life was drugs, getting into trouble, no direction. My dad
called you and asked if you would come and talk to me.”
“I don’t remember that,” I replied.
“You came. I’ll never forget it. You scared the heck out of me and left
an impression I’ll never forget. You let me know where I was heading
unless I changed my ways, and that I better do something, even if it
meant joining the service. Being a cop and all, you knew what you were
talking about. So I joined the navy, and it straightened my life from
certain disaster.”
I was stunned. “I remember your mom and dad, but I don’t remember
that.”
“Doesn’t matter, ” he said, eyes welling. “Your appearance here was
advertised and I just wanted to come and thank you.” With that, came a
gentle bear hug transferring the warmth of his feelings to me. I turned
my head as tears started to flow from my own eyes.
“Thank you,” I said. ” I wish I could remember.”
Wow.
Off duty or on, police officers are often called upon in the troubled lives
of friends, neighbors and acquaintances, to intervene, or offer advice,
consolation, or counsel a troubled kid. It is the unofficial part of the job.
Most cops don’t give it a second thought.
As I drove across Interstate 4 that afternoon, my mind swarmed,
wondering about those who had made a difference in my life, yet I never
took the time to say thanks.
Sergeant Paul Rosenthal came to mind first. A tall, bulky man, shot
multiple times in World War II, he had become a career cop running
the extraditions desk in Warrants Bureau. He not only showed me the
ropes, he had been there for me when I was shot, and again when I
suffered the loss of my mother, both times above and beyond the call of
duty.
So I made a special journey to Miami to have lunch with the crusty old
retiree. It had been more than 40 years. Walking laboriously with a
cane, he asked why I arranged this rendezvous, out of the blue. I told
him about my encounter with Lee Paris’ son. It had taught me an
important lesson. “I learned that there are some people in this world I
still owe a debt of gratitude, and never said thanks. And you’re one of
them.” The old sarge welled up with tears, and I felt good. He felt good.
We hugged. We smiled.
Good deeds, however small, will come back around when they are least
expected. But it’s also a reminder that time runs short, and we need to
thank all those who have cared, loved, sacrificed and stood up for us
when we needed them the most… while we still can.
You just never know.
Small gestures of the past may resurface one day and bring gratitude
when you least expect it.
Library booktalks have brought me through five states, from Knoxville,
Tennessee to Key West, Florida, and hundreds of meeting rooms and
auditoriums. As they say in show biz — it’s my schtick, a fun gig that
has paid off in more ways than one.
On occasion, I will spot a face in the audience from an early era of my
life, an old police crony, a high school chum, an old girl friend, a former
adversary, or some obscure soul upon whom I made a mark and never
knew it. Last year, a long lost relative showed up at an Asheville library,
one who I had never met.
Clearwater, Florida. 2004. The crowd was disappointingly small. As folks
ambled in, they were surprised to see an older curly-haired fellow
playing gypsy songs on a violin as he wandered around the room. “Are
we in the wrong place?” a woman asked of the host.
“Oh, no. That’s the author. Have a seat,” replied the librarian.
The audience was attentive and lively as I embarked on my dissertation.
One fellow sitting in the front row seemed intense, taciturn. He never
took his eyes off me. In his forties, he reminded me of movie actor,
John Malkovich, balding, eyebrows arched, lips pursed.
After more than an hour, the man raised his hand. “Mr. Frank. My
father was Lee Paris. Do you remember him?” Oh oh. Thoughts
scrambled into high gear. Who is this guy? Did I arrest his father? Was
this a set-up, or some angry adversary here to exact revenge or
humiliation? Lee Paris? The name was familiar, but I couldn’t place the
face. So, I lied, “Yeah. Sure.”
“Can I speak with you after the talk?” he asked.
“Yes.” What does this guy want?
The man waited patiently as I signed books at the table. Then he
approached with an extended hand. That was a relief. “You changed my
life,” he said.
“I did?”
“Don’t you remember? My father owned a bar on Collins Avenue, some
30 or 40 years ago.”
Then it struck me. Of course, Lee Paris, a small, stocky, gentle man
who shot a wicked game of billiards. Always complaining about bad
business, wishing for legalized gambling in the state which would never
come. A good man.
The fellow could see the confusion in my eyes.
“Excuse me?” Then I asked, “You say I changed your life? How?”
His eyes were deep and sincere. “When I was seventeen, I was going
nowhere. My life was drugs, getting into trouble, no direction. My dad
called you and asked if you would come and talk to me.”
“I don’t remember that,” I replied.
“You came. I’ll never forget it. You scared the heck out of me and left
an impression I’ll never forget. You let me know where I was heading
unless I changed my ways, and that I better do something, even if it
meant joining the service. Being a cop and all, you knew what you were
talking about. So I joined the navy, and it straightened my life from
certain disaster.”
I was stunned. “I remember your mom and dad, but I don’t remember
that.”
“Doesn’t matter, ” he said, eyes welling. “Your appearance here was
advertised and I just wanted to come and thank you.” With that, came a
gentle bear hug transferring the warmth of his feelings to me. I turned
my head as tears started to flow from my own eyes.
“Thank you,” I said. ” I wish I could remember.”
Wow.
Off duty or on, police officers are often called upon in the troubled lives
of friends, neighbors and acquaintances, to intervene, or offer advice,
consolation, or counsel a troubled kid. It is the unofficial part of the job.
Most cops don’t give it a second thought.
As I drove across Interstate 4 that afternoon, my mind swarmed,
wondering about those who had made a difference in my life, yet I never
took the time to say thanks.
Sergeant Paul Rosenthal came to mind first. A tall, bulky man, shot
multiple times in World War II, he had become a career cop running
the extraditions desk in Warrants Bureau. He not only showed me the
ropes, he had been there for me when I was shot, and again when I
suffered the loss of my mother, both times above and beyond the call of
duty.
So I made a special journey to Miami to have lunch with the crusty old
retiree. It had been more than 40 years. Walking laboriously with a
cane, he asked why I arranged this rendezvous, out of the blue. I told
him about my encounter with Lee Paris’ son. It had taught me an
important lesson. “I learned that there are some people in this world I
still owe a debt of gratitude, and never said thanks. And you’re one of
them.” The old sarge welled up with tears, and I felt good. He felt good.
We hugged. We smiled.
Good deeds, however small, will come back around when they are least
expected. But it’s also a reminder that time runs short, and we need to
thank all those who have cared, loved, sacrificed and stood up for us
when we needed them the most… while we still can.
You just never know.
| Never Too Late To Say Thanks by Marshall Frank |
Marshall Frank spent thirty years in law enforcement
with the Miami-Dade Police Department. Now in
retirement, Marshall has become a prolific author with
eight books to his credit.
Marshal sent me his article, printed below, because he thought I
might be interested. He was right... and you should be too.
with the Miami-Dade Police Department. Now in
retirement, Marshall has become a prolific author with
eight books to his credit.
Marshal sent me his article, printed below, because he thought I
might be interested. He was right... and you should be too.