Where I live in Chicago, we’re surrounded by cemeteries. Cemeteries, cemeteries, cemeteries and more cemeteries. Which makes the neighborhood ripe for funeral processions. We have the infrequent gangbanger funeral pass through, where the occasional mourner doesn’t let conventional funeral procession protocol dictate how they drive, or whether they can’t resist the urge to let the random bullet fly up in the air as they make their way to the gravesite.

But we also have police funerals, and less frequently, firefighter funerals. Now, I have been stuck in cop and fire funerals, and they can be admittedly long, hundreds and hundreds of squad cars, trucks and various engines and apparatus. It can be frustrating and overwhelming.

I have to think that some of the drivers that find themselves stuck in traffic get a little heated, and I can understand that. I have to imagine that there are those in our communities that roll their eyes when they hear another first responder has been killed, thinking only of the inconvenience caused by the traffic tie-ups and the heavy news presence of the sacrifice the police and fire make. Yada yada yada.

And, yes, I understand that, even sympathize to an extent.

Having ridden in too many of those processions though, I can tell you firsthand how inspiring and comforting it is to see the people line up on the side of the streets, roads and highways with signs and banners of support and condolences. Thank you to each and every one of you. I wish I could wrap you in a hug and give back some of that love.

A classmate of mine, Ronald Michael Ryan, of the St Paul Police Department was killed in August 1994. I went to his funeral, my Chicago Police checkered hatband stood out, particularly with my height.

Waiting to mount up in the procession, a local cop approached and thanked me for making the trip, not realizing I was a friend of Ronnie’s.

That cop said to me, “I suppose you’re used to this, where you’re from.”

I shook my head, but I don’t remember responding above a whisper, saying something to the effect, “There is no getting used to this.”

And I was grateful to the people of Minnesota who came out and lined the streets and roads and highways with banners, signs, handwaves, and tears that day. But that was 1994.

Things changed in 2020, especially in Minnesota. It’s 2025 now, and there has been some coming around to a less hostile environment.

I’m a cop. I’m proud to say that I’m a cop. My kids are proud that I’m a cop and that their mother is in law enforcement as well. It is a calling for me. Like writing, though I don’t have to practice applying a tourniquet to any of my extremities from being an author. Yet still I wouldn’t change it for the world. And neither would ninety-nine percent of the men and women who put on that badge daily. We’re lucky to have them. God bless.

Happy Memorial Day.