On a chilly morning in February 2014, I arrived at the Pioneer Precinct.I entered with other officers, all of us heading to one of our training rooms for our yearly diversity training, presented by the Salt Lake City Human Resources Division.

I glanced at Officer McClane and said, “You think it will be worse than last year?” McClane laughed. “Is that even possible?” “I guess we’ll see,” I said. We entered the training room, found seats at one of the tables, and shed our coats. About forty police officers attended. “Hey,” one of my friends whispered, “we’re already celebrating diversity. We have deputy chiefs here, lieutenants, detectives, and patrol officers. Very diverse. Class dismissed.”

“Man,” another officer said, “I hate these kinds of training.” “Because it’s as boring as riding shotgun in your patrol car?” someone said. An Asian woman in a gray blouse and black skirt stood at the front of the class: our instructor. She beamed and said, “Welcome to Diversity Training.”

Chairs shifted and officers sat. Someone at the table behind me groaned. Silence eventually subdued the room. My coworkers stared blearily ahead, many slouching, some with heads hung, some gulping coffee or energy drinks. I felt unusually alert. Strange, because I’d even missed my caffeine in the form of a daily Dr. Pepper. “Good morning,” our instructor said. “My name is Cynthia. You’re cops, so my first question for today is: How do you know if an Asian robbed you?” I frowned and wondered if I’d heard her correctly. Cynthia grinned. “Your homework is done and the cat is gone.”

I sat ramrod straight; my eyes shifted left, then right. Most of us were looking around at each other, as if wondering how we should respond. Should we laugh, those expressions seemed to ask, or should we be quiet, because it’s obviously a trap, and we’ll get in trouble if we laugh? The rest of the class hunched and busied themselves with their phones. I considered raising my hand to share a Greek joke, since my grandparents were immigrants from Greece. We could have a bad ethnic joke battle.

Cynthia continued. “What happens when you spin an Asian man on a swivel chair?” She beamed, arched a slender eyebrow, waited a beat, then said,“No one? Well, he gets ‘dis-oriented.’” Cynthia giggled. I shook my head in disbelief. If anyone of a different race had dared to say what she just said about her own race, their heads would roll.  Cynthia held up a red button in her right fist and clicked. The words projected onto the whiteboard at the front of the class switched to a pie chart.The heading said, “Demographic of People SLC utilizes as a corporation.”

Cynthia clicked her red button again. There were now two pie charts, the original that represented Salt Lake City, and a second that represented the racial demographics of Salt Lake County.“You see here,” Cynthia said, “a comparison of our county population compared to us as a city government. How are we doing?”

She paused, one expectant eyebrow raised. We remained silent. She continued to wait. Finally, one of my partners on the motorcycle squad raised his hand.Cynthia smiled and pointed. “Yes. You.” “Well,” the officer said, “it looks like we’re actually doing pretty good when you compare the county versus the city.”

Everyone looked at the chart – the numbers in the department in fact mirrored an almost exact percentage snapshot of the county. Cynthia’s smile wilted to a grimace. “We as Salt Lake City Corporation believe we can do a lot better.” Our instructor went on to explain how we had an unequal balance with upper management in the police department. We severely lacked minority representation.

She then related a personal story of how she was paid $10,000 less in a year than a white coworker who was performing the same job. Her lips tightened as she spoke and her scowl deepened.

The ambience in the room grew increasingly uncomfortable. I thought, Not a problem here, since a female officer is paid the same as a male officer, unless the male officer worked more overtime. Move on, please. Move on. I fidgeted as she ranted about inequality and injustice. My heart beat a bit faster. I raised my hand. “Don’t do it, Moutsos,” a friend to my left whispered.

“Yes,” Cynthia said, and pointed at me. “Uh, ma’am,” I said, “correct me if I’m wrong, but what you seem to be saying is that if I put in an application for advancement in our department and everything looks the same on paper, compared to a, um, a minority, or a female, then, me, being white and a male, I’ll be automatically passed up for the job?”

“Of course,” she said without hesitation, “how else would we do it?” The room froze. My eyebrows lifted in surprise. In the past, the favoritism shown to minority groups for promotions had always been implied, never vocalized in such a straightforward manner. It was always the elephant in the room no one wanted to acknowledge. I said, “Ma’am, let me try to rephrase the question, and please correct me if I’m wrong.”

To my right, someone hissed in a low voice, “Shut up, Moutsos. You’ll make the class go longer.” I ignored my friend and plowed forward. “If I look the same on paper as someone that’s in a smaller slice in the piechart…” I held up the copy of the pie chart we’d been given in our handout.“I’m not going to get the job because of the color of my skin, being white, right?” Cynthia huffed, shrugged, and said, “Again, how else are we going to do it? We want a diverse workforce.”

Someone blurted, “But that’s discrimination against anyone white.” Not to mention the chart matched the actual numbers represented in the county. Multiple hushed, but heated conversations broke out around the room. I relaxed back against my chair and watched, surprised by the extent of the chaos my comments had spawned.

Our instructor raised her voice. She struggled to regain control. She clicked her red button and shoved her way through to the next section of the class. The projection on the whiteboard showed another chart, breaking down the current racial demographics in the population of Salt Lake City: 20%Hispanic; 4% Asian; 3% African American; 1% Native American; 2.3% LGBT. I squinted at the last part, thinking, I didn’t know LGBT was a race.

I sighed, suddenly bored of this same old diversity indoctrination, and a little overwhelmed that we had reached a place where the reverse discrimination was actually openly owned by the employer. I slipped my phone out, checked my texts, my emails, Facebook, and tried hard to just ignore the rest of the class. Forty minutes later, the class ended. I waited until everyone left—or fled in haste–then I wandered to the front of the class, where Cynthia was stuffing items into her bag.

I cleared my throat and, when she looked up, said, “I appreciate the effort you put into this class, but ma’am, what you’re teaching is extremely poisonous.”Cynthia straightened, forgetting her things and giving me her full attention.I said, “Everyone in our department knows there’s a problem with qualified people getting passed up for a job or promotion. Beneath the surface, there’s a lot of resentment. No one appreciates politics affecting promotions.”

Nodding, she said, “I understand your objections, but you have to understand that how we promote isn’t designed to punish anyone, but to help those who come from a disadvantaged background. The sixties weren’t that long ago. Minorities had to fight just for basic rights, rights taken for granted by a privileged white patriarchy. The mayor and the city council feel it’s only right to make up for that ugly past by giving minorities a hand up.”

I shook my head. “I’m very aware of what happened in the sixties and earlier in our country’s history. I don’t condone the mistreatment of anyone.Racism disgusts me. But if we aren’t careful, we can repeat the sixties, but in reverse. Why should anyone be discriminated against because of their skin, white or black, or anything in between?”

“Well,” she said, “I’m sorry if you feel that way.” “Oh,” I said, “one more thing. You had LGBT listed as a race.” Cynthia nodded.  “But that’s not a race,” I said. “I do agree with you on that one,” she said. “However, the mayor wants that in the presentation, and I have to teach what he wants, as handed down tome from my boss.”

 “Okay,” I said. “Do you mind if I get your boss’s name and number? I’d like to ask a few follow-up questions.”Cynthia scribbled on a piece of paper, then handed it to me. The paper had a name, Sarah Brown, followed by a phone number. I thanked her, left, and followed our conversation up with an email to help her soak in the message a bit more.

I sat in my living room pondering what I should say to Cynthia’s boss, Sarah Brown. My thoughts kept circling back to Deputy Chief Mountebank. A few months ago, Mountebank became the first female ever promoted to deputy chief. She was now in command of an entire bureau, the boss of lieutenants, sergeants, and officers. The press covered this progressive promotion — such fairness, such a modern police department we had here in Salt Lake City.

The problem, in my mind, was the fact that Mountebank was not, nor ever had been, an actual police officer. The only experience she’d had with law enforcement was writing grant proposals for the Police Department. She had no police certification. She couldn’t carry a gun. She was a civilian in officer’s clothing.

She even had a police car issued to her with lights and sirens, which ironically, had gotten her into a bit of trouble. She’d stopped to assist an officer from another agency who was dealing with a traffic accident. Mountebank swaggered up to the officer to “assist” him. He asked who she was and where was her gun if she was a police officer? As the story went, Mountebank tried to explain, but the officer was in the middle of a high stress situation with people in need of medical assistance and traffic zipping by, creating a dangerous situation. The officer ordered her to sit in her car and stay out of the way. Had I been that officer, I probably would have suspected that she was pretending to be a cop, someone who had stolen a uniform, maybe even mentally ill.

I stood, then sat back down. I didn’t know what to say or how to say it, butI knew I had to make the call. Just do it, you idiot, I told myself.I dialed the number. Voicemail. I left Sarah Brown a message, then did a few chores around the house, trying to keep myself occupied.

My phone rang. It was a city number I didn’t recognize. My heart raced. I murmured a quick, silent prayer. “Hello,” I said, “This is Eric Moutsos.” “Hi Officer Moutsos, this is Sarah Brown from HR. I saw that you called.How can I help you?” “Hey, sorry,” I said. “Listen, I’m a bit nervous about this. I don’t want to offend anyone, but I feel like this is something that needs to be said.” “Okay,” Sarah said. “Well, don’t worry. HR has an open-door policy. I’m here to help. What’s on your mind?”

I explained the pie chart from our diversity class and how I felt that, if I ever tried to promote, I’d have an uphill battle for no other reason than because I fit into the 85% white category. I explained how Cynthia came right out and stated that if two people looked equally qualified on paper, they’d automatically go with the minority. When I finished speaking, Sarah was quiet for a moment before finally saying, “Cynthia said that?” “Yes,” I said. Silence. I stood and began to pace. What was Sarah thinking?

A question occurred, striking my thoughts like a bolt of lightning. I stopped pacing. “Sarah?” I said. “Oh, uh, yes, sorry, Mr. Moutsos.” “May I ask you a question? You really don’t have to answer it, but I’ll pose it anyway, if that’s okay?” “Sure,” she said slowly. “ What if a fire department hired a fire chief who had never fought a fire? He had zero training in firefighting, zero hands-on experience, didn’t even goto firefighting school, nothing. But the fire department hires this chief just to make them look more diverse, because he’s a minority.”

Sarah cut me off and with a bit of peppy indignation said, “I’ll tell you right now that wouldn’t happen. That’s not what we mean when we talk about diversity. The person would be clearly unqualified.”I smiled. “Sarah, I’m really glad you said that.”“Why is that?”

“Because we have, right now, a woman deputy chief of police who is over an entire bureau of police officers and she has never been a cop. She was never trained as a cop. She doesn’t carry a gun. In fact, she’s been caught turning on her lights and sirens, even though she has no right to legally do so. Did you know that?”

The line went silent. She had to know who I referred to. Finally, Sarah said, “Is that all you wanted to talk about, Officer Moutsos?” “Just one thing.” “Okay.” “People in our police department don’t dare say anything about these things because they are afraid they will get in trouble. They are afraid to speak up. They don’t want to be blacklisted. They don’t want to be labeled something negative.” I forced a laugh. “I’m afraid myself right now, talking to you, but I believe I needed to say something.” “Is that all Officer Moutsos?” “Ya, I guess that’s all.” Sarah hung up without another word.

That evening, as I headed to work, I replayed my conversation with Sarah. Was I wrong to say what I said? Would I have said anything different? I decided the answer was no. I’d said what needed to be said. Not long after that phone call, I was taking a break at work, having a snack and talking to my current sergeant. After the usual chit-chat about how we were doing, how our families were, and so forth, she turned serious.

“Eric,” she said, “I overheard, at a command staff meeting, about your comments in diversity training.” I rolled my eyes. I said, “Well, there was a chief and some lieutenants in the class. I figured my comments would ruffle some feathers.” “Apparently, you also called HR.” I scowled. “You heard about that?” She nodded. “I guess I’m not surprised. Our department loves to gossip.” “Did you know I never originally put in for this position?” I stared at her. “Serious?”

She nodded. “The department came to me and asked me to be over motor squad. I said I wasn’t interested. A week later, they asked again. I had the same response. I didn’t want the position, so I’d rather be a sergeant somewhere else. Another week passed. Administration comes to me again and this time they don’t ask. They tell me I will be the motor sergeant and I start Monday.”

I laughed. “I’ve never heard of anyone being forced into a promotion.” “Oh,” she said, “You’ve never heard of being voluntold? It gets better. I showed up for training to get certified on the motorcycle. There were a suspicious number of people there, people who didn’t belong to a regular training session. News crews showed up.”

My eyebrows shot up. I leaned forward. “Why would there be news crews?” she said. “Well, I found out the next day when I read the headline in the news. It said, ‘Salt Lake City’s Motorcycle Cop Makes History!’ Eric, it makes me wonder if they just used me for a headline.” She leaned back on her plastic chair and wilted. “That’s disgusting,” I said. “Well,” she said, “it gets worse.” “How’s that?”

She shook her head and snarled. “I’ll never know if my promotion came because I was qualified or because I’m a woman. All it did was create hostility and I know some officers make fun of me behind my back, especially on the Motorcycle Squad.” “You’re a great sergeant,” I said. “One of the best I’ve had; and besides, this isn’t the only place this is happening.”

“What do you mean?” I looked up at her. “Same thing is happening in SWAT.” She glanced away and down at the floor. “I won’t be your sergeant for much longer.” My jaw dropped. “What? Why?”  “I’m sure I’ll be transferred soon. They got their headline. I’m no longer useful here and Sergeant Weiner, the guy who trained you for motors, he wants me gone. He won’t stop until he gets what he wants.”

I shook my head. “I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this crap.” She said, “They use diversity to make themselves look good and feel good.”“Who will be the new motors sergeant after you?” I said. She shrugged. “I think you’ll be temporarily assigned to one of the two other sergeants until someone is selected. Maybe someone the news can do a story on.”

They ended up running her out of motors just like she said they would. They used her. And that’s the very reason why I spoke up. She was an incredible person who always tried to do the right thing. It’s rare to find a supervisor like her. She later retired and got out of law enforcement altogether. I’m just happy she got her pension.