While we were waiting for our fish tacos at a restaurant in Los Angeles, three men in “digital camouflage” uniforms came in and stood in line to order. A man in running clothes entered, and without hesitation, went past the soldiers to the front of the line.
“Excuse me,” he said, handing the cashier his credit card. “Sorry for interrupting, but whatever these gentlemen are having, charge it to me, I’m buying.” He turned to the army men. “Thank you for your service.”
Each of the men thanked him, but didn’t seem overly surprised at the gesture — it had obviously happened before.
Similarly, I’ve never seen soldiers at American airports without also watching people go up to them and shake their hands, saying again, “Thank you for your service.” Shy little boys and girls are introduced, thrilled to be spoken to by the big man in uniform.
A couple of weeks earlier, at another restaurant, four men in blue overalls entered. As they waited for their order, the mother of a little boy walked up and asked, “Are you firemen?”
They nodded, and the boy squirmed in happiness and shyness. His mother encouraged him out from behind her, and he went up and joyously high-fived each of them. A few minutes later an excited little girl stood on the seat at a booth while one of the firemen asked her name and said hello. Then he stepped forward, reaching into his shoulder pocket, taking out a sticker for her. I watched his colleagues standing at a table in a corner handing stickers out to the excited children there.
I had a lump in my throat. I thought about how, just as they load up trucks with oxygen tanks and hoses in the morning, at some point they stop to put these stickers into their pockets. Someone has sat down and planned this detail of community engagement.
This respect for the uniform is a lot more complicated with that other force — the police. But in the face of the terrible problems nationwide, I also think about the community-facing aspects of policework that I’ve encountered. The policewoman and policeman reading to children at a small-town coffee shop. The friendly, reassuring presence at community events, where motorcycle or K-9 units pose for photos with children, and smile at passers-by, handing out free bottled water on hot days.
Bringing tears to one’s eyes
The proud motorcycle cops whooping their sirens as they lead their city school marching band on main street parades. The fire and police parade that drove around our neighbourhood before Christmas, Santa perched on the fire engine, and a stuffed reindeer on the front of a police car. They handed out sweets to the children, and had treats ready for the dogs being walked. (For three days after, our dog paused at the intersection where he’d been fed, looking about for a noisy flashing convoy to pull up and offer him biscuits.)
“There’s a lot wrong with this country,” I wrote to a friend on Whatsapp after recounting the incident with the firemen. “But when it gets it right, it brings tears to your eyes.”
Now this is all too anecdotal to serve as any kind of larger argument, I’m well aware of that. But I’m also aware of how often this American life is narrated with great confidence by non-Americans who have never lived here. The narrative is predictable and heavily critical; it’s certainly not wrong, but it’s also not nuanced.
It does everyone a lot of good if we remember, every so often, to salute the man or woman, not the uniform.
Gautam Raja is a freelance journalist based in Los Angeles, USA.
