Part 3: Meth Anne Meets the Police
by C. J. Crawford

I am no stranger to the police. They’ve been regular visitors to my house for years. No matter where my mom moves, they always seem to find us.

When I was in kindergarten, my teacher read a book about how nice police officers are and how children could go to them when they were in trouble. So the first time police came to my house, I ran to them and hugged their legs. But after they left, Mom smacked me and said the police were bad and for me to stay away from them. She said if I was naughty she would have the police come and take me away to where they lock up bad people. For a while I was confused. My teacher said the police were good, Mom said bad … but then, Mom said Teacher was bad, too, so maybe that explained it.

I was in first grade when the police came again. This time they arrested Mom’s boyfriend and took him away. She cried and begged the police not to take him, but secretly I was glad because he was mean, and he hit Mom a lot.

After that we had to move to an apartment because Mom couldn’t afford to pay the rent by herself. She told me that the police had forced us to move.

In second grade the police came again—this time to my school. The counselor told the police that my mom wasn’t taking care of me and that I was abused. I didn’t know what “abused” meant but I could see that everyone looked serious. The police officer asked to talk with me but I knew Mom would smack me if I did, so I said no. Eventually a lady from something called CPS. (In coming years I would learn all to well that CPS stands for Child Protective Services.) She took me to another family who I thought were called the Fosters.

I finally got to go home when I was in third grade. Mom wasn’t sick anymore, and she had a job and a new apartment that was clean. She told me she loved me and had missed me. I had never heard her say anything like that before, and it made me feel so good. It was the happiest I had ever been in my whole life.

Of course good things never last. I was always having trouble at school, getting into arguments with the other kids, making bad grades because I couldn’t concentrate or read well. I was angry all the time, and I started fighting a lot. Sometimes the school called my mom, and sometimes they called the police. Either way, Mom had to leave work and come get me. When she lost her job, she yelled at me that it was my fault for being bad. She started smoking that funny stuff again. I just got angrier.

In fourth grade they kicked us out of our apartment. The place was dirty anyway. Mom hadn’t cleaned anything in months and there were roaches everywhere. The apartment manager told us we were “trashy” and that the neighbors complained about us all the time. After the police came and made us leave, we moved in with the man who brought Mom the funny stuff she smoked that made her act weird. His place was nasty, too, but Mom said it was home and I better be grateful I had one. “Meth Anne, this is your new daddy,” she told me.

By the time I was in ninth grade, the police had come to my house more times than I could count. It wasn’t even a big deal anymore. A few years ago I would run away if I saw them coming, but now I didn’t even bother. I had learned a lot in the last few years. I knew what drugs were and that my mother was an addict. I knew “Daddy” made drugs and sold them. I knew school was for stupid people and a waste of time. I only went because Daddy let me sell to the other high school kids and keep some of the money for myself.

I knew what juvenile detention was, and it didn’t scare me. Being locked up at least means you get a hot meal, some clean clothes, and a room to yourself.

Crawford is a Sergeant with the Greenville Police Department and 2008 President of the DFG Board of Directors