Creative Nonfiction - 2nd Place

​Routine Traffic Stop
by Marlene Elder

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It’s a sticky-hot July night with a heavy stillness in the air. I’m wakened by the sound of thunder. It takes me a moment to realise that the thunder is not outside. It’s inside. The thunder is on my stairs. It’s the thunder of many booted-feet, their owners’ outfit- ted in full tactical gear. Plastic action figures come to life, a mixture of steroids and testosterone, whipped to a sweaty frenzy. A dangerous cocktail. There is shouting and the static of walkie-talkies. I get up, still groggy, my nightshirt inside-out. I stand still in the hallway, a disheveled middle-aged mother, frozen in a blinding spotlight, as a disembodied voice barks out: “There’s three of them.” I feel less than human. Later I learn that they were trying out one of their new toys, some sort of heat-sensing device that determines how many people are in a building and their approximate location. Apparently there was quite a contingent of officers lying in wait in the back lane, an unusual sight in our quiet neighbourhood. 

   After thrusting a piece of paper at me, my daughter and her partner are hauled away and I am permitted to stay but confined to my vehicle. An actual thunderstorm breaks out now, the worst of the summer. I have a lifelong fear of thunderstorms and usually hide in the bathroom with my eyes scrunched shut and my ears covered. But not tonight. Tonight, I am out in the storm and I have no fear, only rage, a rage so violent that it steams up the windows of my vehicle. Flashes of lightning reveal the intruders going up and down my outside stairs and when the thunder subsides I hear snatches of their conversation, small talk, casual comments on the design of my house which is built against a rock cut, like a fortress. It is a fortress no more. 

   I steam in my vehicle for almost three hours when a bathroom break becomes necessary. I am allowed to remain inside now, under guard in my own living room. I look around at my artwork, at cherished items of furniture, the handmade bookcases construct- ed by my late father and the books they contain. I have nothing of any monetary value in my house but there is much that has meaning. It is my sanctuary. I had my home broken into once before. I remember arriving home one afternoon just before Christmas and being annoyed to see the front door wide open with the heat blasting away. That time my TV was taken along with some unwrapped Christmas gifts, nothing worth filing an insurance claim over. The police never did catch the culprits, kids probably, who gained access to the house via my bedroom window. My daughter’s bed- room was ransacked then too but it was hard to tell with her being in the messy teenage stage of life. I can still picture the officer, notebook in hand, pen poised, staring at the disarray and his hesitant question, “Uh, was the room like this before the break-in?” 

   But this is different. This is a legally sanctioned invasion and as a law-abiding citizen (apart from the occasional speeding ticket) it is beyond frustrating to be so helpless, to have to listen to one’s home being ransacked. They went methodically from room to room. I couldn’t keep track of how many were in the house. They all seemed to have identical hair- cuts and voices. It’s regulation I guess. Finally, they are done. After some bluster from the sergeant or corporal or guy in charge, whatever he’s called, it is evident that they have nothing. No illicit drugs. Nothing without a prescription. Nothing. All this destruction and disruption for nothing. I am furious and getting up on my virtual soapbox, hands on hips, I lecture them on their Gestapo-like tactics and their place as agents of the state in our capitalist system. Okay, I was raised by a Communist. Once I get political they roll their eyes and depart and I am left to survey the damage. Despite my lack of sleep, adrenalin keeps me moving. First on the agenda: find the cats. Not mine of course. His takes this invasion in stride but my daughter’s two cower in the bedroom. They are street cats and may have encountered the police before. The littlest one runs away the following week, and perhaps illogically, I blame the police.  

   I coax them out of hiding and then return to my inventory-taking. I tried to film the destruction but my lack of video skills coupled with a shaking hand made the results dark and hazy. I tried watching it a few times afterwards but it was painful to listen to the outrage in my voice. It made me feel helpless again. My daughter’s bedroom has taken the worst hit. Heavy boots have kicked in the cupboard over the stairs. The doors were tied together with pink satin ribbon to keep the cats out but the police couldn’t be bothered to untie the bow or maybe they were taking out their frustration on coming up empty-handed. The cupboard contains stuffed animals and other toys. They break open a locked briefcase. It belonged to my late father and as such is very precious to my daughter. All it held were some of her old school papers which they dumped all over the floor. My bedroom seems untouched and the living room and dining room were hardly disturbed. The basement was gone through but not the shed although they did look under the deck. 
They spent a lot of time rummaging around in my kitchen cupboards looking for a meth lab I guess. They dragged out a brand-new unused kitchen scale which I threw out afterwards of course. The contents of my junk drawer were spread out all over the floor. When I open my spice cupboard I discover they have spilt my large bottle of pure vanilla. Baking is one of my passions. It relaxes me like no other activity. I love mixing the ingredients and the smell of vanilla and brown sugar. I didn’t bake for a year. Every time I opened that cupboard I remembered.  

   I am fortunate that my father had brought me up to understand that while we should always obey the law, we should never forget that the police were there to protect those in power, they were part of the system. That lessened my shock. Still, it was a bit of disappointment as a part of me wanted to believe in those comic book heroes. My daughter held no such expectations. She and her partner eventually arrive home without charges or apologies. They are tired
but not surprised. They sleep. I do not. I wait for the dawn. The sun rises and I am a different person. Still human. In fact, more human. When one looks back on life there are always a few life-changing moments that stand out-both the good and the bad. This definitely makes the list. But I am grateful for this experience because I have seen things from another perspective and am now better equipped to understand the challenges many people face in improving their lives. 

    My daughter and her partner were in that stage at the time, trying to rebuild their lives in a good way. Life is no longer black and white to me and it’s harder to tell the bad guys from the good guys. I took the day off to get some rest and clean up the mess but I have never repaired the door frame. It is a reminder to me. I don’t want to forget. I need to remember. I also kept my brass door knob with its tell-tale indentation. If there was any justice I would have overcome my fear of storms but no, that phobia came back with a vengeance.

   I still puzzle though, over the purpose of the raid. Was it a message? A warning? A training exercise? A fishing expedition? I have been told that it could have been much worse, that they could have punched through the drywall and ripped up flooring but apparently they only do that if they think they are going to find something. So again, what was the point? Whatever the rationale it was unwarranted. 

   This incident motivated me to become even more involved in social justice. Search warrants are powerful tools in the police arsenal and they need to be used fairly and only when necessary. This particular warrant was what is known as a dial-a-warrant and is granted by an out-of-area judge over the phone after hours, from someone who has no knowledge of the area and the players and must rely solely on the information the police provide. 
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   I can bake now but when I sleep my fists are clenched, ready to do battle. Many mornings I wake up to aching hands and sore shoulders which are locked into permanent fighter stance. 

   And when I don’t sleep I lie awake listening for the sound of thunder. 
 

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​Marlene Elder is an indigenous writer living in Kenora. She has been writing creative non-fiction, novellas,short stories for many years and has just started to explore poetry. Her only published piece is an article on snow sculptures published in Kenora Stuff magazine. Social justice, indigenous issues and politics often surface in her work.

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