First VIOLENT Beating by Police.1990 Gaithersburg Maryland

            “Words of Peace in a World of Hate”  original title

            I have dealt with an extreme form of prejudice while growing up in the 70’s and being mullatto in a white home. I received hate from both blacks and whites. I often had to fight and was tormented with racial slurs by bullies and groups of one race or the other. My father did his best to ordain a higher ideal in me, that of peace. I did my best to be friends with people. The cultures’ of N.W. Washington D.C. were struggling to understand and acclimate to equal rights for races. I being a mullatto person in this time of strife was the target of tension, and it was easily aimed at me.

            None of this could truly ready me for a traumatic event, which I would have to experience, spurned by hate and delivered by the police. It was January 13^th, 1990 when the most terrifying event of my life occurred taking the life I had built with it. I was living with my children’s mother; furthermore, she was in her 38^th week carrying David our first. She had a doctor’s appointment that day. I got a friend to take her because I had to go to work until late. I received a call as I was leaving work stating that she had been admitted to the Holy Cross Hospital. My first response was one of shock. I went to a bar with my co-workers. After ordering a bucket of ponies and drinking one, my good-natured sense returned. I jumped on my Suzuki 850G motorcycle, and took off like a bat out of hell for home. It was just past midnight, and light flurries had begun dusting the road. My intentions were to pack a baby bag and head for the hospital, to be with Sara. I never made it. I was pulled over by the Montgomery County Police for crossing the double yellow line. The officers began running sobriety tests, and searching me for weapons. Their goal was to get into my pockets. I stood on my rights to refuse search. They said they were calling for dogs, and walked a few feet away to speak in subdued tones. In truth they were coordinating the attack that would soon ensue. One officer stood behind me and the other stood in front of me. I told the officer I was going to move my hands’ from my leather pockets to my pants pockets because they were cold. I slowly pulled my hands out of my leather showing them opened-wide to the officers and then placed them in my pants pockets. The officer asked, “What I just put in my pocket?” knowing full well that I had done nothing of the such. He began forcing his way into my pocket. I resisted. As a pipe hit the ground that the officer had forced from my pocket I said “Fuck it you got me.” Suddenly the onslaught began. The first blow I received was devastating, opening a gash in my head. I lay down on the ground spread-eagle thinking that the officers thought I was fighting them. This was the beginning not the end. The officers John Dalbora and E Greene beat me with systematic brutality. One used an eighteen inch steel flashlight and the other a lead filled flack-jack. They yelled and screamed curses and racial insults while striking blow after blow. I screamed and screamed, finally calling on God to stop them. Blow after blow continued. I covered my head like I had seen others do on T.V. documentaries to ward off the blows. They hit me harder continuing on my arms and down my back. Blow after blow continued. I thought I was going to die. I began a wrestling maneuver that would put me back on my feet, so I could escape or fight. I told my self if one more blow hits me I will stand up. In God’s wisdom he stopped them then. They would have killed me if I stood up. You see the beating had half crippled me in its ferocity. I was blind in one eye from the blood that covered the right side of my face and dripped freely of my face creating a pool where I rested my head on the frozen ground. I remember the cuffs biting into my wrists so tight I had loss of circulation and bruises for two weeks. The officers dragged me to the side of the road, throwing me in the dirt. I was cold and wet. I had pissed my pants during the beating. I still don’t remember doing it. I saw a white Bronco and in my terror I called out to them, “HELP; HELP!” The person looked down at me through the passenger window; the driver was motioned by the cop to move on. Other officers showed, about twenty or so, and the sergeant. One came over to inspect me closer and finish going through my pockets. Dalbora and Greene were busy, for Greene had broken his pinky finger in the fever of my beating. He caught it in between the flashlight and my head. I was face down the officer picked me up and said with disgust, “God damb! You pissed your self.”

            I replied with vehemence, “What do you expect? They tried to kill me!” Thinking I was safe because other officers were present. He dropped me and said “Shut up!” and stepped on the back of my head grinding my face into the frozen dirt smashing my lips and nose. Finally the ambulance arrived. I tried to speak to them as they drove me to the hospital. They didn’t respond; they just continued to dress my wounds silently. I was taken to Shady Grove Hospital. I received thirteen stitches to my head and a sling for my right arm, for the bruises on my head, arms, face, shoulders, and back there was the Tylenol I was given. I called Sara from the E.R. she was furious at me. She decided shortly after that when our son was born she would go back home to her parents. My body, spirit, and heart were broken. I became a recluse eventually giving in to mental illness and the ever present threat of violence that the local police never let me forget whether I was at home, work, or just driving down the street. I lost my job of four years and then my home. My mental health continued to take heavy tolls as my sickness was not addressed. I moved home thirty miles away, and lived in hiding for the next three years.

            I now live in a place and a world where race is seen more for their true attributes then the stereotypes that I grew up with. I will never stop fighting for my rights, no matter what the cost. The experience, long past, still influences me today. I have done my best to recover from the pain, fear, and anger this has bled into my life. Wounds that are deep may heal, yet scars are there for life. I hold Jesus close so I can hear his words of wisdom, love, and comfort. I find my father’s words of peace still rule my beliefs.

“THOR”