Remembering The Dallas Police Officers Slain On July 7, 2016

There are dates that never leave a city, and for Dallas, July 7, 2016, is one of them.

Ten years ago, what began as a peaceful protest in downtown Dallas turned into one of the darkest nights this city has ever known. Before it was over, five Dallas law enforcement officers had been murdered and others were wounded in an ambush that shook North Texas to its core and was felt across the entire country.

The five officers killed that night were Dallas Police Senior Corporal Lorne Ahrens, Dallas Police Officer Michael Krol, Dallas Police Sergeant Michael Smith, Dallas Police Officer Patricio Zamarripa, and Dallas Area Rapid Transit Officer Brent Thompson.

I want their names honored here because names matter. They were not statistics, and they were not just uniforms on television screens during breaking news coverage. They were husbands, fathers, sons, friends, coworkers, and public servants. They had families who loved them, fellow officers who depended on them, and communities that were safer because they chose to do a job most people would never do.

I remember that night vividly, and I remember the days that followed. Dallas was hurting. Police departments were hurting. Families were shattered. People all over North Texas were trying to make sense of something that made no sense at all. There are some events you do not simply “move on” from, and that night was one of them. I watched news coverage until the wee hours of the morning, almost to sunrise, then couldn’t sleep.

For me, it was personal in a way I could feel deep down. I wore the badge myself as a Dallas Police Reserve Officer for more than a decade, and while I would never compare my service to those who wore it full-time, I know enough about that world to understand what the badge represents. I know what it feels like to put the black tape on. I know what it means to walk out the door not knowing what the next call will bring. Every car you walked up to at night could be your last breath. I know the bond officers have with each other, and I know the weight of black tape across a badge.

That black tape is a small strip of material, but there is nothing small about what it means. It says a brother or sister in blue has fallen. It says a department is grieving. It says a family somewhere just received news that will change every day of their lives from that moment forward. It says the person behind that badge did not make it home.

Most people see a police officer in a patrol car, directing traffic, standing at a scene, or walking up to a car on the side of the road, and they may not think much about what that officer accepted when he or she pinned on the badge that day. Officers kiss their families goodbye like everyone else, but there is always a part of the job that is different. There is always the possibility that the most routine call becomes the one that changes everything.

I have known that feeling from the other side of the badge, too. I have had to tell someone their child was gone. I have tried to save a life. I have felt the responsibility of having another officer’s back. Those are things that never really leave you. They stay tucked away somewhere inside, and when a tragedy like July 7 happens, they all come back.

That night in Dallas also reminded us of something we should never forget: law enforcement officers are human beings first. They have spouses waiting at home, children waiting for bedtime stories, parents who worry about them, friends who joke with them, and partners who trust them. They have good days and bad days. They get tired. They get scared. They carry burdens most of us will never see. Yet they still answer the call.

The officers who died on July 7, 2016, were doing exactly what we ask officers to do. They were protecting people’s right to gather, to speak, and to be heard. They were there to keep the peace. They were there for the citizens of Dallas. Then, in an instant, evil showed up.

I have always believed that the best way to honor fallen officers is to remember them as more than the way they died. Senior Corporal Lorne Ahrens, Officer Michael Krol, Sergeant Michael Smith, Officer Patricio Zamarripa, and DART Officer Brent Thompson lived lives of service. They chose duty. They chose sacrifice. They chose to stand between danger and the rest of us. And trust me, they weren’t in it for the money.

Ten years is a long time in one sense, but for the families, friends, and fellow officers who loved them, I suspect it can still feel like yesterday. Anniversaries have a way of bringing everything back. The phone call. The knock at the door. The funeral. The folded flag. The final radio call. The empty chair at the table.

That is why it matters that we pause, say their names, and let their families know we have not forgotten. Dallas has changed in many ways over the past decade, but gratitude should not fade with time. Respect should not fade with time. Memory should not fade with time.

I wrote and produced Black Tape On My Badge because this subject is close to my heart. It is not a political song. It is not meant to start an argument. It is simply a song about loss, respect, brotherhood, and the quiet pain that comes when an officer falls in the line of duty. Anyone who has ever worn a badge, loved someone who wore one, or watched a department grieve understands that black tape does not need a lot of explanation. You see it, and you know.

On Tuesday, the 10th anniversary, my thoughts are with the families of Senior Corporal Lorne Ahrens, Officer Michael Krol, Sergeant Michael Smith, Officer Patricio Zamarripa, and DART Officer Brent Thompson. My thoughts are also with every officer who was there that night, every dispatcher who heard the calls come in, every first responder who rushed toward the danger, and every family member who waited for someone to come home, or worse that their phone was going to ring or officers would be at the front door-with black tape already on their badges.

To the men and women in law enforcement who read this newsletter or listen to the show, please know this: there are many of us who appreciate you more than we probably say. We know your job is difficult. We know it is dangerous. We know it is often thankless. We also know that when the worst happens, you still show up.

May the families of these five fallen heroes feel the prayers and gratitude of a community that remembers. May their fellow officers know they do not stand alone. And may we never see black tape on a badge without stopping for a moment to remember the sacrifice behind it.

This is Black Tape On My Badge. 

Click here or on the photo above for the song and lyrics →

Photo: ChatGPT Plus/CarPro.