Authority Taken in Vain

My first run in with the Ruston Police Department (RPD) was not a good one and they will soon know it. I am a calm, level-headed person, especially when it comes to authority. But I can not and will not put up with authority holding that stature or position over my head and wrongly telling me that they will arrest me under conditions which do not call for such an action. It is no secret that the RPD are excessively proud and muscle force upon the college students here, especially the fraternity guys. My alumni advisor once put it, "They will all give you hell. Strangely enough, when they were in college and tried to pledge a fraternity they were eventually all cut." I guess that tells you a little bit about the people I tried to deal with tonight.

It all started after we returned to the Sigma Nu house from a fun night at Rabb’s, a local bar here in Ruston. Two guys were having words with each other which I walked up in the middle of and felt like these two could handle it on their own terms. So, I sat back and made sure nothing escalated to more than verbal argument. Now, the two guys were in positions to which it would make it very difficult to continue anything physically. One was on the roof of the fraternity house and the other in the parking lot. However, another guy gets into it with the one in the parking lot and the confrontation quickly turns into a sizing up battle where one waits for the other to throw the first punch while they touch chests and stare each other down in a very overly-masculine way. This is my queue to step in and send one home and calm the other down. So, I tell one guy who lives here to go in the house and sleep it off. After some argument, he finally submits and goes inside.

Three minutes later five police cars roll up in a very eager manner. (First of all, five police cars. Do the RPD really have nothing better to do than roll up ten officers deep to a fraternity house on a noise complaint as if it were a freakin’ riot? Give me a break!) Me, being in the parking lot and fully capable to handle the officers, walk directly to the first officer I see and ask why they are at the Sigma Nu house. “We got a call of disturbance” the officer said. I said, “Okay, sir. I have handled the situation and told one of the guys to go home and the other, who lives here, to go to bed.” The one officer said, “Well, go wake him up; we need to talk to him.” Maybe wrongly, I said, “Officer, can you not take my word on the fact that I have handled the situation?” “No. Now go wake him up so we can talk to him.” I give in and walk toward the door and ask that the officers stay outside while I go get him. Six police officers walk in right behind me, completely disrespecting my request. To where they could hear me I say, “Or just come on in.” I don’t know much about the law, but I do know they can not walk in with out a warrant.

I get Brandon and I escort every one of the officers back outside. They are drilling Brandon with questions and I stand there just kind of observing the whole ordeal. Brandon goes back inside. There are maybe two or three other guys outside, still in the parking lot. The officer approaches me and says, “Sir, I recommend you get back inside, too.” “Okay, I’m just going to make sure those guys have a safe ride home,” I say. Immediately, something turned in the officer who was speaking to me. He said, “Do you understand English. I told you to get back inside.” Immediately a switched flipped with me, too. I turn to look the officer straight in the eyes and tell him, “Yes, I understand English. Don’t degrade me. I, as the acting leader of this fraternity, am trying to make sure my guys get home safe.” The same officer asked again, “I said, do you understand English? I told you to get back inside!” Right back and with the same aggressiveness as he was giving to me, “Yes, I understand English and do not degrade me again.” He came back with, “If you do not get back inside I will arrest you. Now, I suggest you get back inside!” Swallowing my pride and not sure if what he was saying was legal or not, I slowly turn around and walk back inside.

The other guys, about ten of them, were right inside the door listening to everything being said outside. We immediately start talking about what just happened with the police officers. All the while I am getting worked up. I kick the backdoor open several times out of frustration. The third time, the officers ask me to step outside. Acting like I don’t hear them, the door shuts. A few seconds the door swings open and the first officer I talked to asks me to come outside.

I go outside and blatantly speak my mind. I said, “Listen to me, don’t come over hear and try to handle a situation I have already taken care of and then degrade me. I am trying to work with you in settling this and make sure everyone is safe and all you can do is ask me if I know English. Don’t talk down to me! I am fully capable of talking with you like human beings and settling this like adults. But I will not tolerate degradation and belittling.” The same ass talks back to me and starts with, “I asked you if you know English because obviously you don’t understand.” I break in, “No, you don’t understand that I am trying to work with you and then you all turn against me.” Then they threaten me again, “You haven’t seen degradation yet, son. I will arrest you if you don’t go back inside.” Uncertainly, fist and jaws clenched, I slowly turn and walk back inside.

“Lockwood,” the recent past president starts, “you and I are different breeds. I always responded with ‘Yes sir. Yes sir. I know, sir. Yes sir.’ Not you though. Kicking doors and having it out with them.”

A second later, two of the guys walk in and tell me that the police officers were outside laughing and mocking me and were actually retelling the words that were exchanged between us. They leave, and I immediately walk back outside and start making phone calls to figure out what I can do about this.

I am not certain exactly what the RPD can do to me. Regular private property rights don’t apply to us. The tricky thing is that we are technically on state property since the land the fraternity house is on is owned by the university. Knowing this, I unwillingly cooperated with the officers, not knowing what my legal rights were.

Whatever the situation, it was not handled in a professional manner that I expected from professional law enforcers and two things are for certain: first, a complaint will be made to a superior officer about the unprofessional behavior of the officers talking to me (if it will do anything at all, I will be respected next time they approach me) and second, I will know the law about what the RPD can and can’t do as far as arresting me and walking into my house.

However, in effect, I cleaned the whole freakin’ house at four in the morning to try to let off some steam. So, something productive did come from it. But, I will not be degraded or belittled like I was tonight ever again by the RPD. And, from my soon to be gained knowledge about the Ruston Law, respect will be demanded and granted from those officers who got their quick giggle from my lack of knowledge. Because, unfortunately I will have to deal with them again in the near future.

Fight Night 1

Fight Night. The combination of the two words together has become some what of a verbal stimulant around here. It has the power to get people aggressive and feeling overly-masculine within seconds. Instantly, memories of fights come rushing back. Like the time Matt Rice got knocked out with one punch and laid there dazed. But, mysteriously, he had his hand raised, as if trying to subconsciously signal to us that he wasn’t dead. And like the time when Nassar got his nose broke by Roach, set it back and then tried to finish the fight. And like the time when I was paired up with a Sigma Nu alumnus slash kick-boxer and…well, here, let me tell you the story.

It was late winter quarter of my freshman year when the first Fight Night in several years was scheduled. We had an intramural basketball game the same night and I played pretty hard. I was worn out going into this already, but I couldn’t back down and be labeled as someone who was scared to fight. You would be amazed at the respect that is lost when some of the guys find out you can’t cover their backs if they happened to be in a fight.

This is how Fight Night works. The fights our broken up into three, one-minute rounds. That’s three minutes of pure fist-pounding, blood-dripping, and crowd pleasing time. And Mom, before you call me and tell me I can’t do this anymore, I just want you to know that we wear 16 oz. gloves (the most padded gloves we could find), mouthpieces and headgear. The JA’s (junior actives) all have to fight, unless you have good reason not to. Each person that fights is paired up with someone else of equal size. However, if there is tension between two guys already, then they automatically get paired up to settle the score in front of everyone. I was paired up with a guy named Casey Hough. It was an even match physically. We were the same age, height, and build, plus he was kind of athletic. I didn’t know what to expect from him. Wait, what am I talking about; I didn’t know what to expect from myself! I had never been in a fist fight before. I had never even hit anybody. Minus the time in middle school when I hit a kid in the eye, in the middle of math class, for repeatedly taking my mechanical pencil apart, giving it back to me in pieces, and laughing at me in a very annoying way. And, honestly, I didn’t even mean to hit the kid in the face. I was going for his shoulder, hit the very top of it and the momentum carried my knuckles in a direct path for his eye, seriously.

Trying to beat down my nervousness and sequester my confidence, I geared up and had some pep talk from a few guys. Then I went to the center of the room to begin the fight. The ref (one of the big guys in the fraternity) gave us the usual talk about no biting, no hitting below the belt, fight clean and tap gloves. We tapped and immediately I heard “Go!” “Okay,” I thought. So, I went. I did very boxer-esque hop backwards and then very similarly hopped and rocked forward to lean in for my first swing at someone’s face…

I saw red flowing from his nose and lips. I looked down and I had two guys holding me back. Instantly, I became concerned for Casey. I made it clear to the guys restraining me that I was not trying to fight anymore and started trying to help my friend. I don’t really remember anything that happened. I vaguely remember chasing him down and swinging at him as he was turning backwards, stumbling, and trying to dodge me. I had a true blackout. I noticed that I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t even winded. So, I asked somebody how long it lasted, “20 seconds.” Whoa, that was fast. I sat down next to Casey who had half of a napkin hanging from his nose. I apologized. I felt bad. I didn’t know I was going to turn like that. I became some kind of monster. My Mr. Hyde transformed in a matter of moments and unleashed itself on this poor guy.

We sat there and talked about what happened and I made sure there were no hard feelings while we watched the other fights unfold. It was getting near the end when a Sigma Nu alumnus grabbed the gloves and decided he wanted to fight Jim Roach, who at first, didn’t have anybody to fight. Jim quickly threw his gloves down and tore his head gear off and said he wasn’t fighting the 5’ 9”, 180 pounded Chris Hudson. They went around the room asking several people to challenge him. Then I heard, “Lockwood, your fight didn’t last very long. You fight him.” Not wanting to look too confident, I gave a look of “I don’t feel like it,” but hesitated long enough for them to see that I could be persuaded. Giving very little effort in protest, I strapped up. Jim, the sissy, literally ran up to me and said, “Luke, what are you doing? That’s Chris Hudson. He used to be a kick-boxer!” My jaw dropped. Suddenly Jim, the sissy, became Jim, the smart one. I gave a look of doubt (wide eyes and dropped jaw) to the guys who were trying to get me revved up for the fight. “I can’t fight this guy,” I told one of them. “Yes you can, Lockwood. Just keep your gloves up and keep moving.” Oh, ok, that makes sense, I thought. You guys just want to see how good Chris is at swinging and hitting a moving target, all at my brain-damaging expense. They motioned us to move to the center of the room. The ref gave his usual spill. As we dabbed gloves I begged him, “Please don’t kill me.” He grunted and the ref yelled “Go!” In an instant Mr. Hyde emerged once again and took hold of the reigns.

According to the inexperienced Sigma Nu judges, I won the first round. I don’t remember what happened, I don’t care what happened. I somehow survived. I looked across the room at my opponent and he had a bloody nose. I asked if I was bleeding and I was told that I wasn’t. I got some water and then headed back to the center to meet my opponent, again.

The second round ended. I sat down. The judges gave that round to Chris. I remembered something from the fight, though. I remembered Chris hitting me. This was different though. It wasn’t a normal punch. It had force. It had power. He rocked me with a right hook across the temple. I remembered losing my vision for a second and stepping back to regain my level headedness. I remembered thinking if this guy gets many more opportunities like that, I might end up in the hospital. That thought verbalized into, “I can’t do this anymore…I don’t think I can give anymore.” The older active told me I looked good out there and that they gave Hudson the win because the match would be over if they had given it to me. He convinced me to give it one more round and to take this one for the win. I stood up to once again meet my opponent in the middle of the room. But, when I did, my legs began to shake in protest and they almost gave out from under me. Round three had started.

I took my first swing and landed a blow. But, wait…I was still conscious. Where did Mr. Hyde go? Why am I suddenly aware of every move and every thought? Evidently, Mr. Hyde had met his match and decided to take a nap during the last round while I was hung out to dry. With my instincts gone, I settled in for the longest one minute of my life. I didn’t know what to do. I was flopping around out there. I could barely stand, I could barely swing, and worst of all, I was so tired, I could barely dodge. However, to my surprise, Hudson wasn’t much better. We began to fall into a strange sequence of swings. It was a simple pattern really. I would swing and hit him in the head and as soon as I would be retracting my punch he would swing and hit me in the head. Occasionally, Chris could find it in him to muster up one of those crushing hooks and deal it to me full force. I would back up, regain my vision, and lean in to a punch with as much weight as I could with out falling on him.

The round ended and the ref took both Chris and I by the arms to the center of the floor for the announcing of the winner. The judges took a minute as the crowd stood and as we half-way hung by our waists, waiting. The judges turned around and announced the winner. The ref held up Chris’s arm in triumph. Then suddenly, I heard metal chairs crashing and bottles smashing to the floor in an angry up-roar from the audience. Chris found me in the current of people rushing out of the room in protest, shook my hand and said, “Man, you kicked my ass!” With the last of my energy, I mustered up a small smile. Then, quickly, I stumbled to the nearest room I could find. I laid on the couch for a half-hour and thought about nothing except for how tired I was and how bad I hurt.