I grew up on 28th and Lake Street in the heart of Minneapolis’ Third Precinct. I also grew up with a stepfather who when drunk would take out life’s frustrations by throwing anything in his path across rooms and through windows. Kids with raging fathers want someone — anyone — to intervene. Unfortunately, my circle of uncles, neighbors, and family friends were all afraid to step in. But the cops of the Third Precinct — they weren’t afraid. On more than one occasion, their pounding on the front door was the difference between blood and peace. Maybe their authority intimidated my stepfather. Maybe he feared an arrest. It didn’t matter to me at that age. Just knowing the police were minutes away helped me to sleep at night.
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