Homecomings

I'm supposed to be writing about homecomings and I really don't know what I want to say. For me, the experience has never lived up to my expectations—often soundly falling critically short of satisfaction and closer to a blazing disaster. Perhaps I set my hopes to high, thereby trigger into action the elements that lead to my eventual crash and burn disappointment. What I desperately need in my life is a place the likes of the neighborhood pub in the television show, "Cheers." Instead of the welcoming, cheer "Norm!" it would be replaced with "Vicki!" Or some clever nickname monikered by the intimacy shared between close friends. I almost earned my own moniker once. The group happened to be the squad of fellow policemen I worked with in Jacksonville. Our sergeant was recently promoted so our squad, too, was newly formed. We were a funny looking bunch of misfits thrown together to make a squad of our own. I say that we were misfits because we didn't fit the picture of the then stereotypical white, male policeman in the Bold New City of the South, Jacksonville. At that time, the brotherhood of the badge still had a ways to go before I would ever consider them either bold or new. So there we were, this motley crew of cops. Our leader was Sgt. Mike Rutledge (who would later become a chief); he was an attractive, well-educated, well-spokened, well-demeanored, young Black man. His nickname was "Suave." He was a misfit because he was the last person to be promoted to sergeant on this particular promotion cycle. The white sergeants called his position a "social promotion" behind his back. Sgt. Suave just took it all in stride. The rest comprised of another large Black officer who was every bit the size of a linebacker for the Fla. A&M Rattlers (I can't remember his nickname) A middle-aged white officer who had a reputation for being lazy (which was not actually the case); a rookie, fresh out of the police academy Puerto Rican young man. He was so young that I told him once that I had shoes older than him. Me, of course, small, white female, "who didn't belong in policework because I was a small, white, female." Funny, I can't remember anyone else's nickname except for Sgt. Suave. But I still remember him saying to me one evening as we grouped up to turn in our reports for the night at the usual location...the jail parking lot overlooking the St. John's River. The guys were talking, laughing, and exchanging observations. Sarge was speculating on each one's nickname and was assigned his for his talent for charming women. He looked at me and said, "English, I'm not sure what we'll call you." (I had just joined the squad that month.) "We'll have to get to know you better, then we'll have it." Unfortunately, I never finished the month with the squad; I was injured during a domestic call on the 19th and my career ended. I never got my nickname.