My Only Talisman

My son is currently in the Police Academy, having been hired by the limping agency built to protect America's Finest City. For many years, San Diego Police Department was the vanguard in this area: fantastic training, full-or-better staffing, a good Chief, and a great reputation for service and civility. Now, after the City's financial crisis (due to criminal mismanagement), the agency is horribly understaffed and losing more officers every day. Now, the officers of this once-revered agency are the lowest paid in the County. Now, the ratio of officers-to-citizens on any given shift is approximately 1:1500. To put this in perspective, the police department of the city in which I live has a ratio on any given shift of approximately 1:7.

My son, perhaps not fully aware of the danger these facts represent in reality, is so excited to start work. And he will be a very good officer, of that there is no doubt. He is smart, capable of making good decisions under pressure, and he genuinely loves people.

Many years ago, when I first allowed his natural curiosity about firearms to blossom and started bringing him to the range with me, he greatly enjoyed the beauty, functionality, and raw power of my treasured Springfield Armory 1911 A-1 .45 semi-auto. As a matter of fact, he and the weapon have always seemed perfectly matched. Come to find out, SDPD allows their officers to carry .45s on duty (my Department does not).

So, when considering what gift to present to Steven this year at Christmas, the answer came as obvious, fitting, and right. Unfortunately, it didn't get to be a surprise, as Steven announced a few months ago that he was going to buy himself a .45. I told him that it was unnecessary, as he would soon have a trusted friend in his armory. He, of course, was stoked.

In October, his mother (MSU's ex), who is not thrilled about Steven's current career choice, cornered me at Sandy's bridal shower and stated, "So, you're giving Steven a gun." It was a challenge, of sorts, or so it seemed from her tone and stance. And I, not sure what she wanted the outcome of this conversation to be (did she want me to change my mind? Did she want to intimidate me into withholding my gift? Did she want me to say something to ease her mind about the whole thing?), nodded affirmatively and simply said, "Yes." A look of dark rage crossed her face before she turned and stomped out of the room, leaving me confused and feeling a consuming pity for her. She is not a warrior, she is not a sheepdog. She runs from the sound of the guns. She will not - ever - understand. And I think she may be angry at me because she believes that it is my influence that has inspired Steven to walk this path. Her fear for the safety of her son obliterates her knowledge of who he is. It is not I who made him so, but I think it may be easier for her to believe that it was.

On Christmas Eve, though it was not necessary, I stripped and cleaned my treasure - the best of my modest armory! - for the last time. This task I undertook with heart and soul, infusing my fierce love for my son into each moving part and polishing the exterior steel with every ounce of righteousness and courage I could muster. I allowed my hands to move steadily and unthinkingly in their work, as they have so many times before, so I could focus all of my strength and all of my faith into the creation of a talisman so functional that it need not ever be overtly used. And as I lovingly returned the 1911 to its silicone-infused storage bag and placed it in its lock-box for its journey, I gave my treasure my last instructions: be always true.

Then I wrapped it in festive paper and tied the keys to the lock on the ribbon.

As if Christmas wasn't weird enough already, I cried big, gulping sobs when Steven opened his gift. Sandra, incredulous, asked, "What's wrong?" And all I could say was:

"It's my favorite gun."

She shook her head and looked at her husband, perhaps hoping he would be able to shed some light on her step-mother's sudden bizarre behavior (please keep in mind that this may have been the second or third time in her lifetime that she has seen me shed tears). I took a deep breath and tried to explain. I told everyone about the short and strange conversation with MSU's ex that day back in October, and shared my feeling that Sandra and Steven's mother seemed to be angry with me and was projecting all her fear and frustration onto this powerful, yet inanimate, object. With information gleaned only from her stance, tone, and eye contact, I felt that she saw my gift as more than just an acceptance of Steven's choice to become a law enforcement officer in one of the most dangerous and understaffed Cities in the nation; she saw it as an encouragement, as my blessing, as my cheerful wave to the Grim Reaper who she obviously feels is waiting greedily for Steven's advent onto the streets. I honestly believe that she feels my gift seals the deal.

At this point, Sandra was still looking at me in a rather bemused way. Still crying, I said, "Okay, I'll get to the point."

The point is, I wasn't able to explain to their mother why I made the decision I made. It would have been just as easy - and less a sacrifice! - had I let Steven buy his own duty weapon. I wasn't able to explain to her that I am not giving Steven a gun, I'm giving him the best that I have. I'm giving him my only talisman, a charm that he has held often in circumstances of joy and the jovial psuedo-competition of the range. I'm giving him the thing that has been, since the first day he held it, an extension of his body, of his will. And with it, I'm giving him a simple prayer and invocation: May you always have time to decide justly. May those decisions always be righteous. May the tools you have be sufficient unto the evil you encounter. May it never be necessary for this instrument of my love for you to clear leather in the line of duty, but know that when it does it will be always true.

"That's it," I said helplessly. "I'm giving him my favorite gun. I'm giving him the best I have."

And perhaps I was able to telepathically relate my feelings, for Sandra smiled and nodded her head. Maybe she'll be able to explain it to her mom.