Corey M. Williams

The following is an excerpt from my first self published book, The Outside Observer, available as a Kindle Single on Amazon. The Outside Observer is a recorded history of life at sea and the slow decline to insanity. The Outside Observer chronicles the antics and stupid mistakes that arise from the mundane routine of life at sea. The Outside Observer follows the crew inside the Combat Information Center during the USS Momsen’s initial deployment to Southeast Asia in support of Expanded Maritime Interdiction Operations in 2006.

Over the years sailors have kept records of the shortcomings and errors of their crew. These records have come to be known as rock logs and are usually kept in the open for everyone to share. The Outside Observer was such a rock log maintained by OI Division within the Combat Information Center, onboard the USS Momsen DDG-92, during her maiden deployment in support of expanded maritime interception operations throughout Southeast Asia from April to October of 2006.

The Outside Observer was kept in the open and available for anyone within CIC who had knowledge of it to both read and contribute. Many of the entries do not cite specific authors and are often made up of multiple recordings. An effort has been made to preserve these differences through either italicized or bold texts. Because the majority of contributors were unable to be determined it is impossible to give them credit for their entry. Much of what made the Outside Observer last throughout the deployment was the undeniable boost of morale it provided for the watch-standers in the CIC.

My own short lived naval career ended within weeks of the deployment and the last entry within the Outside Observer. In the following years since my departure I have had many request for copies of the book. I attempted to scan photocopies or create a .pdf of the book, but the binding crease on the pages as well as the wear and tear from passing through so many readers made these attempts futile. I have edited the entries as little as possible throughout the book in order to preserve the original postings. I have limited my editing to spelling and severe grammatical errors. You will also find footnotes throughout this edition of the Outside Observer that were made five years after the book was first written in an attempt to explain some of the seemingly absurd things sailors take for granted as part of their life aboard a ship at sea.

I have redacted the full names of the subjects leaving only their last name and title. Titles and positions change over the years and sometimes even last names. It was in no way my intention to embarrass anyone who appeared in the Outside Observer or further my own self-deprecation. Nothing has appeared in this book that the subjects themselves have not already seen. It should be noted that none of the stories contained within should be taken as absolute fact. Often the insignificant events that made the Outside Observer had done so because they were taken out of context, part of an ongoing inside joke, or completely unsubstantiated.

For more information about The Outside Observer check out the facebook page: The Outside Observer.

This article originally appeared in the September 2011 issue of The Guardian, Volume 42 issue 9.

In one of Sgt. Joe Friday’s classic monologues he says, “It’s awkward having a policeman around the house. Friends drop in, a man with a badge answers the door, the temperature drops twenty degrees.” Friday is interrogating rookie Officer Jim Reed, in one of his crossover roles from Adam-12, an undercover officer mistakenly accused of stealing money. Friday leans in as he continues his stern lecture. “All at once you lost your first name. You’re a cop, a flatfoot, a bull, a dick, John Law. You’re the fuzz, the heat, you’re poison, you’re trouble, you’re bad news. They call you everything, but never a policeman.”
Police Officer colloquialisms come and go. Seattle even had it’s own term, one time. One time, because if you did a double take it might get the officer’s attention. One time was made famous by Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “One Time’s Got No Case” in 1992. These days you’ll almost never hear anyone warning their cohorts, “Look out it’s the fuzz” or “psst it’s the heat”. Though our terms of endearment have been minimized to the whoops and whistles of the Central District or Rainier Valley early warning systems, one term, cop has outlasted them all. Its origins may not be what you thought they were.
When Sir Robert Peel helped lay the foundation for modern policing in 1829 his police force was initially called Peelers and eventually Bobbies, a term still in use today, which is short for Robert. Bobbies were subjected to a strict standard of living. Bobbies, who had to be at least six feet tall, worked seven days a week with five unpaid holidays per year. In order to look more like citizens as opposed to the British red coats, Bobbies wore blue coats and carried a night stick, a set of handcuffs and a whistle to sound the alarm. Bobbies required special permission to marry or even share a meal with a civilian. Because of an overwhelming fear of the citizenry being spied on, Bobbies were required to wear their uniforms even while off duty.
Early American law enforcement efforts were created in the mid seventeenth century. The New York’s Sheriff’s Office was founded in 1626. The term sheriff comes from the Old English term “shire reeve” or literally land or county keepers of the peace on behalf of the crown. The first modern police department in America was the Boston Police Department, founded in 1838. The Seattle Police Department by comparison was formed in 1886, just 18 years after the city’s incorporation and 3 years before Washington gained statehood.
American policeman have long been referred to as cops. Some suggest cop is an acronym for constable or citizen on patrol. Acronyms however, did not gain popularity until the twentieth century. The term cop has always had a derogatory connotation to it. It is rumored that cop derives from the copper buttons worn by the early municipal police departments on the East Coast. There is a lack of evidence to support this theory as most law enforcement buttons have typically been silver in color. In all likely hood the term cop stems from its latin origin capere or “to seize”. Not to be confused with the modern term caper which derives from the Latin meaning of a capricious escapade or an illegal or questionable act. Records indicate the slang term cop meaning “to catch, or grab” came in use during the 18th century, as early as 1704. The term is still used today as in “cop a feel”, “cop an attitude”, or “cop out”. In the mid 1800’s street thieves were known as coppers, as they were the ones who took or grabbed things from people. When the thieves were apprehended or copped, the police, who copped the criminals, eventually came to be known as the coppers or cops themselves.
In the scene from Dragnet’s 1967 episode Internal Affairs: DR-20, Sgt. Friday is on the verge of breaking young Officer Reed’s spirit, through his bleak portrayal of the life of a cop in which he insists “you’re going to rub elbows with all the elite– pimps, addicts, thieves, bums, winos, girls who can’t keep an address and men who don’t care. Liars, cheats, con men– the class of Skid Row.” Just before Reed is cleared of any wrong doing, Friday reassures him, “there’s also this: there are over five thousand men in this city, who know that being a policeman is an endless, glamour less, thankless job that’s gotta be done. I know it too and I’m damn glad to be one of them.”

This article originally appeared in the August 2011 issue of The Guardian, Volume 42 issue 8.

Summer in Seattle brings parades, marches, races, and special events on any given weekend. Construction also pops up throughout the city altering familiar routes on many arterial roads. Drivers trying to navigate the downtown core when it is broken into somewhat impassable sections become frustrated and often try to force their way through an officer’s traffic post. It’s all too familiar for an officer to nearly be run over because a driver, “needs to go this way” or “always goes that way”. Disobeying an officer, firefighter, or flagger could earn a driver a mandatory appearance before a judge.
The canyon walls of the city’s high-rise buildings echo with the whistles of traffic cops standing post, waving their arms. The whistle chirps are reminiscent of early traffic signals in the city, two short blasts for stop and one prolonged for go. The Washington State Certification for Flaggers requires an eight hour class and the certification lasts three years. Currently the Basic Law Enforcement Academy does not train their students how to safely and effectively direct traffic. If new officers throughout the state are not being trained in the basics of traffic control, it’s likely most of the drivers on the road won’t know what to do despite an officer’s best efforts. Traffic frustration is nothing new for officers or drivers alike.
In the early days of the automobile, the busiest intersections throughout the city were controlled by police officers using arm gestures and their whistles. Eventually officers used a type of semaphore to direct traffic. The signal was essentially four paddles; two that said STOP and two that said GO. The officer would manually rotate the semaphore. At night the signs would be illuminated with a flood light. Once the officer left their traffic post the streets reportedly turned to chaos almost immediately.
The first traffic lights in the city were installed in 1924 at three of the city’s busiest intersections; 4th Ave S and S Jackson St, 4th Avenue and Pike St, and at Roy St and Westlake Ave. The initial trial period used the lights between 7am and 10pm. It was estimated that nearly 24,000 vehicles passed through 4th and Jackson, the city’s busiest intersection, during that time. A four page report from the Traffic Subcommittee of the Board of Public Works published on June 6th, 1924 described the need for new signal lights due to an increasing traffic problem during rush hour. Peak rush hour lasted as long as two hours. “If all drivers were careful and particular, traffic might move smoothly of its own accord, without any regulation other than courtesy, but there seems to be a human weakness of “Beating the other fellow to it” which leads us into trouble.” The report goes on to describe the average American as “pretty self-reliant” with the tendency to “get their first strong in us all”.
Traffic signals had been around for around ten years when they first appeared in Seattle. The first electric traffic signal was installed in 1914 on the corner of Euclid Ave and E 105th St in Cleveland, Ohio. The first traffic signals were red and green with a buzzer to indicate the signal change. The first three color traffic signal as we know today was created by Detroit Police Officer, William Potts in 1920 and was utilized on the corner of Woodward and Michigan Ave in Detroit.
The new traffic lights could be manually controlled by officers but it was soon realized the automated light cycles of roughly 30 seconds worked more efficiently. The new traffic lights were a huge success. There were some difficulties with the first traffic signals, most notably seeing the green light during sunset hours. To provide better visibility and offset the low angle sunset glare on the west facing lights, shades were added.
The first traffic signals cost $685.00 each. Today LED traffic signals costs roughly $300 per fixture and less than $125 per bulb. There are currently more than 975 traffic lights in the city of Seattle. Traffic signals have fundamentally remained the same over the past eight decades, but are now integrated and far more automated, using calculate timing to meet the needs of traffic flow. Technology continues and adapts to meet our needs. LED traffic lights are cheaper to maintain and use less energy but are not hot enough to melt snow. Highway smart lanes do not recognize gridlock in inclement weather and still suggest sixty miles per hour in white out conditions. Toll lanes do not work with other regional passes and bike boxes add to urban congestion when right turns at busy intersections are no longer allowed. Despite all of the traffic safety advances and quirks yet to be worked out, there will always be a need for a traffic cop and his whistle.

This article originally appeared in the July 2011 issue of The Guardian, Volume 42 issue 7.

There are a lot of transplants in this area. Many of the department’s officers have traveled here from other regions of the country. For those interested in the city’s past, there are great books out there covering different niche’s and historical aspects of the city’s roots, decline, and for better or worse, rebirth. An anarchist recently told officers in the East Precinct that they were, “on the wrong side of history.” Less than a block from his house is a tagging of a burning police officer and the words, “History is Made on the Streets.” An easy statement to make from the sidelines. There is a lot of history here and because so many came from somewhere else there is a lot of unknown history.
Shortly after that conversation with the self proclaimed anarchist who continues to make subversive efforts to deface and defile their neighborhood, those officers were training in the basement of the precinct in anticipation for another round of ‘flash mob’ anti-police demonstration. They held their iron wood bats and practiced double columns and port arms. The antics of the night before was still fresh in their minds. There was one particular protestor, who carried a bull horn and screamed about how they destroyed the middle class and how the neighborhood had become completely gentrified. They apparently meant SPD. The non gentrified cultural elite was wearing an Issaquah Lacrosse sweatshirt. Hardly the image of cultural diversity or anarchy. That same protestor walked the line and attempted to grab officer’s ironwood bats, passively enough to not be advanced upon. Those who have actual ironwood instead of a stick made of rubber or nylon material are fortunate.
There is a picture that hangs in the East Precinct, it’s unknown how much longer it will be there. It portrays the Mounted Police Units chasing down strikers toward waiting paddy wagons during the final days of the strike. It became known as the Battle of Smith Cove. Tensions during the longshoreman’s strike of 1934 were growing and Seattle’s Mayor, John Dore, was hesitant to use the police department in order to assure “future protection from the… longshoreman ‘mob.’” Eventually the newly elected mayor, Charles Smith, declared a state of emergency on June 20th and forced the opening of the port. The mayor ordered 500 new riot clubs for the department. According to legend, the Seattle Police, who were augmented with private security force were in desperate need of proper crowd control equipment. A team of officers liberated the ironwood rollers used by the longshoreman and stevedores. The rollers were used to slide goods to and from the ships throughout the piers. The newly obtained ironwood rollers were then used to hold back the picket lines from attacking the newly hired scabs.
On June 21st, and estimated 600 union workers faced off against the police. When union members saw that the employers were attempting to offload goods from the docks to the trains, they took to the tracks to prevent the engines from moving. The union greased the tracks, blocked trains, and even went as far as boarding the engines and convincing the engineers not to break through the picket line.
During the following month the strikers continued to organize and their numbers grew to nearly 1,200. Police at the piers were attacked by ILA “flying squad” members. The strikers began advancing against the police lines. Deterred by tear gas the strikers were eventually able to break through and take the tracks where they set up encampments. The mayor ordered the police to remove the ILA from Smith Cove. The picture hanging in the roll call room of the East Precinct captured that moment. Mounted units chasing strikers down the tracks to paddy wagons waiting at the other end. The caption beneath the picture says, “The mounted unit was disbanded shortly after this incident.” The mayor later ordered the new police chief to mount machine guns at the pier. These pictures are hang on the walls too. The Chief of police initially refused and when the mayor insisted, the Chief handed over his badge saying, “You get someone else to do your scabherdin.” Several days later the union voted on an arbitrator’s proposal and within a week the union returned to work. All of this occurred in an epic time of our country, in the midst of the great depression, rampant bank robberies, and a westward expansion. In fact, the day before the union agreed to end the strike notorious bank robber John Dillinger was gunned down. These were the times that were the backdrops of a lot of the great novels of our century.
Protest have come a long way from the days of teamsters combating scabs with brass knuckles and 2x4s to small demonstrations led by adults in a state of arrested development dressed up as self proclaimed super heros. It’s rumored SPD is the only department in the country to use ironwood unusual occurrence gear. It’s a little piece of history officers carry in their trunk that allows them to stand the line like their brothers in blue who have gone long before them.

What is MS?
Having multiple sclerosis means that you may suddenly have blurry vision. Or that your memory will fail you for no apparent reason. Or that you may not always be able to walk, let alone ride a bike. The symptoms of MS are different for everyone – the only certainty is that it will affect yet another person every hour of every day.

Why I Ride
When I first became interested in law enforcement one of the things that drew me to urban police work was the desire to join a bike patrol squad. I had only attempted to ride a bicycle a few times as an adult. Growing up on the flat terrain of south east Michigan, the concept of shifting gears on hills did not come naturally to me. It wasn?t until I was eligible to attend our department?s bike training that I seriously got into cycling. My Field Training Officer told me if I was ever at all interested in riding, I should take the training if it were available. ?I thought I knew how to ride a bicycle? he told me, ?but they teach you to do things I?ve never done before and it will make you a more confident rider.?

The class follows the International Police Mountain Bike Association standards. It is a weeklong; includes class room lessons, skill course riding, tactics, and long training rides. During the course of the week we had spent 20-30 hours on a bike and had ridden roughly 60 miles. My longest ride until then was a 5 mile round trip to Dairy Queen on a three speed Schwinn. The class was intended to make us competent patrol riders in an urban environment, not teach us how to ride. We were asked to be strong proficient riders before starting the course. A few months before the class I bought what I thought was a decent bike, despite being told by the guys at the bike shop I would quickly outgrow it. I learned to ride on a hybrid bicycle, commuting to work and mastered shifting on the east/west glacier carved hills of Bainbridge Island. Eventually I passed the class and took to riding in a way that I did not expect. I split my commute time between my motorcycle and bicycle. When my rear motorcycle tire got a punctured flat I put off fixing it because it forced me to get out and cycle, even when the weather was less than desirable. I eventually upgraded to a road bike and began riding harder, faster and farther. My longest ride to date is 35 miles. This past February I rode through rain and snow during the annual Chilly Hilly. I had a blast.

I have spent the past two years as a den leader for my son?s Cub Scout Pack. Recently the mother of one scout?s in our group was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. My only knowledge of MS was from an elementary school assembly I attended decades earlier and the ?Is it the soil?? billboard campaign throughout the region. Her husband and I had talked off and on about riding. He impressed me by participating in the MS ride last year. It sounded challenging and fun. As our conversations continued and my skills and passion for riding increased, I was asked to join their team during the 2011 MS Ride. I am honored to be a part of their team and look forward to the many miles we?ll cover in preparation for September. Please join me in supporting the fight against Multiple Sclerosis by sponsoring me in this ride.

Why You Should Sponsor Me
The National Multiple Sclerosis Society will use funds collected from the Bike MS Ride to not only support research for a cure tomorrow, but also to provide programs which address the needs of people living with MS today. Because we can fight this disease by simply riding a bike, because we have chosen to help thousands of people through a contribution to the Bike MS Ride, we are now getting closer to the hour when no one will have to hear the words, “You have MS.”

I am trying to raise $500 by the end of summer. Please consider sponsoring me: here

One of the best lines I have read so far in Moby Dick, is at the end of Chapter 68 – The Blanket. “Oh, man! admire and model thyself after the whale! Do thou, too, remain warm among ice. Do thou, too, live in this world without being of it. Be cool at the equator; keep thy blood fluid at the Pole. Like the great dome of St. Peter’s, and like the great whale, retain, O man! in all seasons a temperature of thine own.”
So to is it in police work. The juxtaposition between the streets I patrol at night and the wooded isle I inhabit by day is stark and deliberate. Over the past ten years, in the course of my twenties, by body has endured two branches of servitude and a third uniformed profession, submersed in the carnal chaos I tend to thrive. During that time, in moments of existential clarity, I take note and question my growing cynicism. In reading this Psychology Today article, Don’t Harden Your Heart, the following lines are all too familiar. “I can’t do anything about it; so I don’t care.”

About six years ago after reading Nicholson Baker’s Checkpoint, while I struggled with my own involvement in a larger movement I questioned more and more, I came to the conclusion that there is so much information both classified and free, disseminating from regions of conflict. No matter how much you read, no matter how well informed you are, there existed a separate world, one in which we can only absorb even when participating at the cutting edge. Compartmentalization and resiliency go hand in hand. Recognizing the need to cultivate empathy when days have been filled constantly surrounded by mental illness, drug abuse, violence, and the worst of human behavior while people are enduring the worst of times, it sometimes takes an effort to recognize the rest of the world or even the city is not as bad as I perceive it, not to mention the rotting bodies decomposing for days and weeks on end, the unmistakable smell of death, brain matter leaking from an ear as we attempt to breath life into a crepitated soul, eyes wide with a flutter pulse. A paremedic once described such resiliency as detatched empathy and the need to exist in the realm between empathy and overwhelming anxiety stemming from our emotional compassion.

At times it is better to remember that no matter how much you may love this job, the job will never love you and more often it isn’t what you do for a living but how it allows you to spend your free time that matters most.

Creative non-fiction

The first time I could appreciate the Indian summer night was when I stepped out of my patrol car along the edge of downtown. The humidity reminded me of the midwestern nights I had left behind so many years ago. A call came in as a commercial burglary alarm at a storage facility. According to the alarm company it was tripped ten minutes earlier. I vaguely recalled the location, which is out of my sector, as a four to five story self storage place. I pulled my car to the curb and turned my headlights off, leaving only my parking lights illuminated for other units to see should they need to find us quickly. I stepped up onto the broken curb. I contemplated whether or not to bring my shotgun.
The radio crackled, “For the units on the alarm, the owner is en route. Estimate drive time of ten to fifteen minutes. Will be arriving in a red pick-up truck.”
My partner keyed his shoulder mic as he stepped out of his car, which was parked ahead of me. “Edward Twenty-One, received.”
My partner and I checked the front door. It was locked. There were two transients sitting on the steps. One of them was wearing a tattered overcoat, too warm for the evening. “Why are you guys harassing us?” He muttered, his speech slurred from the two dollar bottle of Sherry he kept in his coat pocket.
“Knock it off.” My partner snapped back, “Have you guys seen anything suspicious?
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? We’re just sittin’ here is all.” I could tell by my partner’s inflection that he didn’t think these two were involved and was probably just contacting them because he wouldn’t be doing his job otherwise.
The alarm was on the other side of the lot. My partner advised radio the building appeared to be secure. I heard the soft metal clanging of a chain link fence scraping against the ground as someone climbed over it. I looked down into the parking lot and saw a shadowy figure running away from us. We quickly moved around the corner and closed on the suspect. We turned the corner and saw the shadowy figure jump a second fence and run to a nearby truck. The man got into the passenger side. My partner, who was the primary officer told me he wanted to stop the car. We approached the car head on in the alley from behind the cover of a couple of dumpsters along the curb. The light from our flashlights lit up the cab of the truck. There were two people inside and the driver just turned the ignition. My gun found its way to my hand. I was holding it at the low ready; down at a forty-five degree angle, finger indexed and safely off the trigger. For an instant I was aware of the automaton my training had instilled in me. The truck lurched forward. The lights quickly turned on and immediately went dark as they realized they were facing the police. We got closer. I started to make out the color of the dark truck. It was red. This might have been the key holder but his actions seemed otherwise, running around and climbing fences in the middle of the night. I radioed in the plate. We contacted the suspect. He turned out to be the key holder. Radio informed me the plate of the red truck I had ran belonged to him as well.
I’m not sure why someone who knew the police were on their way to a possible burglary at their place would show up and run around in the shadows of the back parking lot and hop fences. Most alarms turn out to be false and most key holders take much longer to respond. This is the first time I’ve had a key holder take the investigation upon themselves, which from their point of view might be understandable. Even now I am reminded of a scenario very much like this at the academy over two years ago. I hope when my house gets burglarized, should it ever happen, and I tell the call taker I will be waiting outside in my car, that I will have the foresight to stay there and not suspiciously run around my place looking for bad guys when my own local police arrive.

It was a busy night, especially for a Monday; an assault, a help the officer, an attempted rape, and an armed robbery all before midnight. While I was writing paper on the sexual assault another officer asked if everyone out tonight seemed more off than usual. The scene we had just come from was at one of the public housing buildings where there was no shortage of weirdoes. The details around the call were sketchy and something big seemed to be missing, most likely the part where they all sat around and smoked crack. The apartment was cluttered with bizarre knick knacks, my favorite of which was a raccoon skin hanging over a desk lamp. I had to step over all sorts of things to get in. Even without everything tossed around from the struggle it was obvious the apartment was always this cluttered. Despite the hoarding collection I saw the cable for the tv running beneath a scrap piece of carpet with a handmade sign taped to the floor asking, “PLEASE STEP OVER”. It was probably the last thing I would have tripped on in the room.
Earlier today at another public housing building for an assault that had occurred outside, some of the tenants sat in the lobby rocking back and forth with a far away look. “Hi Officer how are you doing?” Everyone was really nice, just a little weird. Every time I go into that building, which I got lost in my first time there because the main entrance is on the sixth floor, I wonder if I am fated to end up there following some sort of head injury or brain trauma. As I sit in my subsidized room with million dollar views of the city, completely indifferent to me in my new found mental state I will pause every time the police respond to my building. I will look at them as if there is something familiar about them before getting distracted and returning to my insane post-it note ranting collection that is growing on my wall.
I remember the first time I went to one of the city’s mental housing units. It was a disturbance call where a neighbor had been threatened in the lobby. As we entered the lobby this guy approached us in a friendly manner consistent with someone with the mental capacity of a child. “What’s going on? Is everything alright?” he asked us as we headed to the elevator. He followed us into the elevator and rambled about the cold winter we were having and something about rain. We were on our way to room 702. When we all got into the elevator he pushed the seventh floor button. I wondered for a moment if this guy was somehow involved but he didn’t mention anything more than small talk banter. We got out of the elevator and he walked ahead of us to room 702. I watched him as he unlocked the door and went inside. “Are you the one that called us?” I asked. He walked into his apartment, turned around and stood in the opening of the door like he had just answered it. There was a pause and for a moment. We stood there looking at each other. The guy took a deep breath and sighed as if getting into character and said in a more inflection than before, “Hi thanks for coming out.” He explained the convoluted incident which turned out to be a verbal altercation over the use of the common room type writer. The problem was solved by just listening to his story with a smile and a nod.

After spending the summer on bikes I have been back in my patrol car for the past month. I have forgotten the joys entering people’s homes on 911 calls. This month I’ve been to two good bloody suicide attempts. One where we found a girl, with knife in hand, sitting in a bloody bathtub. More recently we responded to another cutter, this time with scissors. We were able to talk the guy out without incident. While one of the officers on scene was securing the apartment and gathering up some of the guys things to take to the hospital, he got stuck by something as he brushed past the bed. A small pick that the guy said he used to clean out his weed pipe punctured my partner’s calf. The needle, that looked like some sort of dental instrument or burglary tool was covered in grime and grit. The apartment was unkept and disgusting, like the majority of places we respond to. With two babies at home to worry about, the officer went to the hospital for an exposure treatment. “The worst thing about getting stuck with one needle” he told us the next day, “is having to get stuck with eight more at the hospital.” Luckily the suicidal guy with coagulated blood dangling from his arm submitted to a blood test and the results were negative for any souvenirs, namely hep c.

My wife gets annoyed when people ask her how she does it, being married to someone who does something so dangerous. Last year was especially dangerous for law enforcement with events like the Lakewood Shooting gaining national attention. On a side note, you can check out an official after action report at Spartan Cops here. The real dangers of the job are often overlooked by the general public who gain their law enforcement expertise from that cable channel playing Law and Order twenty hours a day. We are far more likely to suffer an exposure from a stray needle or other particulate emanating from a suspect in any manner of ways. I’ve been at the hospital enough times with an officer for exposure to know the risk of contracting AIDS or HIV are pretty low and I really don’t stress about getting it. What I worry most about is Hep C and some nasty Staph infection, which are both far more prevelant and easier to bring home.

Using pieces from my son’s Star Wars lego sets it occured to me that I might be able to create a replica of the Twin Voyager Spacecraft. So I did. It took about thirty minutes.

Lyrics

The Minstrel Boy: Bagpipes

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Star Tunes

The Minstrel Boy: Practice Chanter

The Minstrel Boy: Practice Chanter

4/4 80 bpm

I came across an article from The Piper’s Box, Pipe Band Annoyances.  The article is not as in depth as I anticipated and is more or less a small list of pet peeves.  It was an entertaining reminder that even experienced pipers have their mild annoyances in a group setting.

I imagine a continuing source of conflict in any police or fire fighter pipe band is the dominant nature of their members’ personality.  Most people who have chosen either of these vocations tend to be type-a personalities and often don’t bode well with being told what to do, or worse yet, told they’re wrong.  Most of us identify as musicians in some secondary fashion, if not even as a tertiary self descriptor.  Compound this with the likely fact that getting adults with busy work schedules, family obligations, mortgage payments, and a slew of other endless demands, to practice can be just as challenging ensuring a child gets in their twenty minutes of practice a day.  There have been countless books on the adverse effect of shift work in the first responder field.  Adults are just like children in that they will always be able to find something more pressing to do, they will easily justify some reason to not practice.

I take comfort in remembering every team must face challenges in order to grow.  An effective team cannot deliver results without having to face problems and find their solutions together.

Bruce Tuckman’s theory of Group Dynamics explores the system of behaviors and psychological occurrences within social groups, such as pipe bands.  The stages of Tuckman’s Group Development Model are: Forming, Storming, Norming, and Performing.  

Forming

During the forming phase, members are first learning about the goal they set out to accomplish.  They are also learning what it will take to get there.  In the early stages of forming, the objectives may not be clear.  There tends to be a lot of un-involvement from members and in the early stages some people may be totally uncommitted.  Unclear objectives can lead to confusion; compounded with the frustration of uncommitted members, the forming stage can foster hidden feelings among members and lead to low morale.

Storming

Every group must inevitably endure the storming phase.  Shared conflict is a necessity in building group morale and developing unit cohesion.  As the band continues to work, disagreements will emerge regarding the structure of the group.  During the storming phase there is a general lack of cohesion and growing inconsistency.  Conflicts potentially lead to resentment and anger, which could give way to confrontations.  During this phase, hidden agendas may start to emerge.  Failure is inevitable, though not necessarily a bad thing.  Failure can keep egos in check.  Failure can inspire better performance through the desire to overcome setback.

Norming

The group moves past the storming phase and establishes more explicit or even implicit rules.  Communication issues continue to be addressed.  During the norming phase, members should begin to question their own performance and be able to objectively review their progress.  Goals will either change or be reaffirmed.  Member strengths and weaknesses will be identified as the group begins to test new ground.  During the norming phase the band is starting to come together.

Performing

In a pipe band the performing phase can literally mean performing although playing music in public isn’t necessarily limited to this phase.  Playing in public before the band is truly in the performance phase can be a great way to test   the group’s capabilities and limitations.  However, there is a fine line between getting by and appearing incompetent.  Taking on more than the group can handle could lead to resentment and diminished morale.   As the band comes together and starts to perform, the members become more flexible and take a greater pride in what they’re doing.  Assertiveness among members can lead to confidence and overall high morale.

Summary

Recognizing these changes can be a valuable asset to understanding the band’s development and member behavior.  Groups or bands cannot always be continually high performing.  Conflict and cohesion may ebb and flow as the group faces different challenges.  It is important to keep open and clear communication where everyone can manage trust and conflict issues.  Effective decision making based on rational and intuition where group members are actively involved, work best in an atmosphere were each member understands what they must do and what they must not do to support the team and overall objective.  Recognition important.

Police and Fire bands blur the lines of high performance team theory and often step foot in different worlds when it comes to group organization.  These bands exist as a subset of paramilitary culture where chain of command is highly regarded, and responsibility may reluctantly be delegated.  Most of these bands also fall under the umbrella of non-profit organizations, wherein a president and committee or board are required.  Though most police and fire pipe bands are not competitive like their civilian counterparts there is no reason they cannot learn from what makes other high performance groups work.  Whether they be competition bands, non profit organizations, or corporate organizations.

I’ve been out of town for more than a week, so after I dropped my son off at school I took my pipes to Fort Ward and ran through a bit of my repertoire. I picked a spot at the marine campground hoping it would be the furthest away from any of the surrounding neighborhoods. I played a long a small bluff at the edge of the water about seventy-five feet from the main path. Joggers and dogwalkers doubled back to get a better look most of them with smile and nods of approval. When a woman bitterly walked by me with her hands over her ears I knew it was time to move on. She made it a point to walk closer to me than anyone else. Point taken. Although I didn’t get an infraction today, a small part of me won’t feel like a real piper until someone calls the police to complain.

I’m always looking for outdoor places near my home to play. When I first started piping I stayed in my garage and dared to venture into the house only while my wife was grocery shopping. Before I started making noise though, I gave each of my neighbors our band sticker with these words on the back, “Here’s my cell number. Give me a call if it’s ever too loud.” My rotating days off work well with being able to practice while everyone else is off at work. For the sake of my marraige and civic stewardship to my neighbors, if I can find somewhere else to play I’ll always do so. As much as they say they love hearing the piping, I’m sure it’s will be annoying to hear the same dozen songs or so again again. I imagine it would be like when my little sister got her first album, Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill. To this day some seventeen years later I still know the words to everyone one of those songs. Has it really been that long?

Fledgling pipers who get nervous playing in front of people, playing outdoors somewhere is the best thing to ease you into it. No one will be there to hear you play, but they’ll hear you when you play, so make the most of it. A note of caution though, I wouldn’t play in public until you sound decent enough to not deter anyone from liking the bagpipes. Andrew Lenz wrote a good post, Where to Practice with Bagpipes. I’ve played in a few local parks and even an old cemetery. I like the waterfront parks because I can get pretty far away from residential buildings. The cemetery was also a great spot, it just felt macabre, not the setting for practicing marches, strathpeys, or reels.

Going Home performed by Sissel.

This is the best version of Going Home I came across on YouTube.

Going home, going home,
I’m just going home.
Quiet-like, slip away-
I’ll be going home.

It’s not far, just close by;
Jesus is the Door;
Work all done, laid aside,
Fear and grief no more.
Friends are there, waiting now.
He is waiting, too.
See His smile! See His hand!
He will lead me through.

Morning Star lights the way;
Restless dream all done;
Shadows gone, break of day,
Life has just begun.
Every tear wiped away,
Pain and sickness gone;
Wide awake there with Him!
Peace goes on and on!
Going home, going home,
I’ll be going home.
See the Light! See the Sun!
I’m just going home.

Related Links:
Going Home: Practice Chanter
Going Home: Bagpipes

Going Home performed by Kilted Crankie.

Related Links:

Going Home: Practice Chanter
Going Home: Song

Going Home: Practice Chanter 40 bpm

Related Links

Going Home: Bagpipes
Going Home: Song

Amazing Grace performed by Johnny Cash

Lyrics

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

T’was Grace that taught my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
‘Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me.
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

When we’ve been here ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun.
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’ve first begun.

Related Links:

Amazing Grace: Practice Chanter
Amazing Grace: Bagpipes