In Memoriam - Officer Pawlowski, Philadelphia PD (Murdered February 13, 2009)



Yesterday, I wept.
I wept for Officer Pawlowski , another brother in blue, slaughtered senselessly by someone with no regard for human life.

And I wept for his wife, who will never again have the pleasure of feeling her husband’s arms around her or hearing a whispered, “I love you”.

And I wept for their unborn child, who will come into this world without a father and learn early on that it’s, at times, a cruel and hideous place.

And I wept for the officer’s in the City of Philadelphia; who go to work every day underpaid, understaffed, undertrained and underequipped and try to put a tourniquet on a city that’s bleeding out.

And I wept for the City of Philadelphia which can never be “the next great city” until this violence and disregard for life is ended.

And I wept for the citizens of the City of Philadelphia who seem to take the news of another officer’s death so much in stride that they’re not “up-in-arms’ and demanding that something be done.

And when there were no more tears to weep, I prayed. For all the same people that I had been weeping. May God look after them in their sorrow and assist the officer’s and leader’s of this city in their mission.

On Names...
Cindy Newman Campling Newman Frenier Newman Frenier Newman Wakeley – my brother-in-law actually begins his weekly telephone calls to me with this greeting. Really, every blessed time. Each one of my divorces and marriages just succeeds in lengthening the time from his “hello” to actually getting a conversation started. He has advised in the past that perhaps I should keep my maiden name and forget taking my husbands, reminding me that the ink is barely dry on my new driver’s license and social security cards when I’m already requesting to have them changed back again! He’s never suggested that I stop marrying, which would get me off this name-change seesaw – I suppose because he’s been married to my sister for 33 years and wants the same type of life for me. I’m thinking that the next time around, although I’m hoping that with age I’ve become wiser and there won’t be a next time…this time…I may just take his last name, Portnoy, and really give him something to dwell upon each week when he calls.
Now, please don’t think that I’m particularly proud or boastful of my four marriages, or is it three? I married the same man twice so I count that as one marriage. Two horrifically bad experiences wrapped up in the same name and drama. Nor, do I take the institution of marriage lightly. I love the idea of being married. It’s just that I’m a fly- by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl. Today I believe they call it hyperactivity disorder, and while that lifestyle can lead to a life full of fun and adventure, it also opens you up to making some hideously poor and ill thought-out decisions.
I met my first husband hitchhiking down the Shore when I was seventeen…he was driving a fast car, was in the Air Force (oh, how I love a man in uniform) and was willing to share his weed with me. What better reason is there to get married! I was now Cindy Campling and the only good thing that came of those nine years was my son Aric (yes, ARIC, and don’t ask me because I don’t remember). He, A-R-I-C, still teases me that if I’d spelled his name in the common fashion he’d have had more dates in college because the girls thought Aric was a geeky name. But, since every time I visited him there was another cute coed camped in his dorm room, I hardly think his name held him back.
Husband two – also became husband three- hey, he was cuter than Gig Young and had the charisma of Jim Jones. I was now Cindy Frenier. We traveled the world, had lots of adventures and I followed him anywhere, including to the altar twice! Unfortunately, so did all his other women…although not to the altar, just to his hotel room. If he was the chief lemming we’d have all gladly jumped off the cliffs with him and fallen to our deaths. Or, would he have stayed up top and pushed us? I couldn’t wait to get out from under his name, literally. In a moment of hyperactive madness I had paid $100.00 to have his name tattooed on my ass. A quite appropriate place. It then cost me $400.00 and a lot of tears to have it lasered off! My only satisfaction from those seven years is that my name, Cindy Ellen, is STILL tattooed on his left bicep, he being too much of a wimp to withstand multiple sessions under the laser. His fourth wife must be a very understanding woman.
Now, I’m still Cindy Newman, although married (for the 3rd or 4th time depending on how I’m counting) and should be calling myself Wakeley. I’ve chosen this time not to use my husband’s last name, which is too bad for him because if any of them deserved for me to take their name, it’s he. No new driver’s licenses, no new social security cards with ink that takes too long to dry. After thirty years and three, maybe four marriages, I’ve finally listened to my brother-in-law and taken his advice on this issue. I know he’s relieved that I finally listened…when he called me last week he just said, “Hi Cin”.