Public Safety Means Protection: Sherri’s Jackson Story

When I think of public safety, the first question that comes to mind is: Who is actually responsible for it? And when I ask myself that question, my mind takes me on a journey—one that stretches across different stages of my life and reflects the evolution of my understanding. If you don’t mind a little storytelling, I’d love to take you along for the ride.

There was no such thing as community policing—not in our neighborhood. The only time we saw police officers was when someone was going to jail, a kid was getting taken away by a social worker, or someone was getting beaten up.

First Stop: Childhood – West Jackson Roots

I grew up on the West Side of Jackson—Ford Street and Capitol Street to be exact. (And yes, it’s true: the West Side is the best side.) As a child attending school in the Jackson Public School System, I didn’t associate public safety with law enforcement or any official agency. In my world, public safety was personal. It was my mom when I was with her, or my dad when I was with him. When I was at school, maybe—maybe—one or two teachers could be trusted to help if something went wrong. But even then, we had to be careful. Telling a teacher sometimes meant they’d call the authorities, and that could make a bad situation worse.

There was no such thing as community policing—not in our neighborhood. The only time we saw police officers was when someone was going to jail, a kid was getting taken away by a social worker, or someone was getting beaten up. By high school, I had internalized a dangerous, but all-too-common mindset: I am my own public safety. Me—and these hands. And if that wasn’t enough, then and only then would I go to my mom. (Stay with me. I grow. I learn.)

Second Stop: Young Adulthood – Becoming the Protector

Fast forward to my early twenties. I’m a college student majoring in political science, a single mom working two jobs, and still living on the West Side. This is when I first formally learned how government worked—its branches, its responsibilities, and where public safety fits in. But my lived reality painted a very different picture.

As the oldest child in my family, I had taken on the role of protector. I thought it was my job to provide public safety for my mom and my younger siblings. If something happened—anything concerning—I was the one making the calls, talking to authorities, taking charge. I remember one incident vividly: my mom’s house had been burglarized. She called me. When I arrived, there were three officers on the scene. They weren’t investigating. They were standing around, laughing, and talking about lunch. One of them casually tossed my mom a case card, and they all got back in their patrol cars, still chuckling.

That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I fully understood the sentiment behind “F the police.” Their indifference cut deep. That single experience pushed me to purchase a firearm and enroll in firearms training. The belief that I had to be responsible for my own public safety no longer felt like a delusion—it became a necessity. And it expanded. I wasn’t just protecting myself and my child anymore. I felt I had to be the shield for my sweet, churchgoing mom—who believed in the goodness of people—and my little sister, who was 11 years younger and just beginning to grow up in the same streets where public trust was broken, where even in a moment of loss, the people tasked with protecting us laughed in our faces.

(Stay with me—it gets good.)

“You wrote over 40 tickets today. There were two auto burglaries on your beat that someone else had to handle because you were busy doing traffic stops. Who did you help today?”

Third Stop: From Corrections to Community – Becoming Public Safety

At 24, I found myself entering the academy to become a correctional officer at the Central Mississippi Correctional Facility—not because it was my dream, but because I needed a steady paycheck. Financial survival was the only motivation. Day after day, I stood face to face with people who had been convicted of any number of crimes. And in some twisted way, it only deepened the “protector” identity I had developed. I was tough, strict, by-the-book—there to keep order in a place where chaos was the norm.

But beneath the uniform, I was exhausted. Mentally drained. Still struggling financially. Still living in Westwick Apartments—right across from the Queens, if you’ve ever driven through the Westside. I was tired of Jackson. Tired of feeling like no one cared about us. I carried a weapon everywhere I went, not out of fear, but out of necessity.

I remember one day, I came home to find my apartment broken into. I did what you’re supposed to do—I called the police. But when the officer arrived, he seemed more interested in asking questions about the guy I was dating than the actual crime. Barely glanced at the scene. Never asked the right questions. Just scribbled a note, gave me a card, and moved on. Once again, it hit me: these people aren’t here to protect us. They’re not invested in public safety—they’re more invested in policing us.

Three years later, I’m in a different academy—this time, for the Jackson Police Department. I graduate and get assigned to Precinct 4 in North Jackson. Suddenly, the delusion I carried for so long—that I am public safety—wasn’t a delusion anymore. It was my job. But this time, it wasn’t just about protecting my family. It was about protecting an entire city.

Like most rookies, I started hungry. I wanted the stats, the recognition. I wanted to be the officer with the most arrests, the most tickets written. I was proud of my numbers. One day, my classmate Osagie and I wrote over 60 tickets in a single shift. We came in feeling unstoppable. I was writing my stats on the board when I heard it:

“Levviiii! Get in here and close the door.”

It was Sgt. Marie Hampton.

She looked me straight in the eye and asked, “Levi, why did you become the police?”

I replied without hesitation: “I want to help people. All my family still lives here. I feel like every time I clock in, I’m helping keep them safe.”

She nodded. Then came the second question.

“You wrote over 40 tickets today. There were two auto burglaries on your beat that someone else had to handle because you were busy doing traffic stops. Who did you help today?”

I, Officer Sherri Levi—top female candidate in my class, first rookie released without a shadow rider—was speechless. Because she was right. Her question hit hard and triggered every memory I had of the officers who failed my family. The ones who showed up laughing, uninterested. The ones I swore I would never become.

The next day, I changed everything.

I visited every business on my beat. Introduced myself. Gave managers my personal cell phone number. I drove down every street, stopped to talk with residents, told them my name, and learned their concerns. I did this no matter how often my beat changed.

I created a rhythm: the first two hours of my shift, I was on my beat checking in with businesses. The last two hours before it ended, I was back doing the same. I only wrote tickets if a driver was being truly reckless. I still made stops for violations—but I also offered grace. I led with compassion.

I learned that the officers I met in my past—those who failed to show up for us—aren’t the whole story. There are also officers like Sgt. Marie Hampton, who take the time to shape you, challenge you, and remind you what public safety really is. Because of leaders like her, you get officers like me—not with the flashiest arrest record, but with something different. Something stronger.

So yes, when coworkers joked about my low arrest numbers, I’d just smile and say, “There’s no crime on my beat—but congrats on your arrest. Hope that helps yours.”

I became the officer people noticed when I was gone. When I left a beat, citizens would call the precinct asking where I was. If I got assigned to a high-crime area, the numbers went down. I became the officer people called by name—not badge number—because I believed in community policing. I made it my mission not to be like the ones who showed up after my mother’s house was burglarized or after my apartment was broken into.

I became the officer I needed when I was growing up.

I know now that public safety isn’t supposed to rest solely on the backs of moms, big sisters, or even the “strong friend.” It belongs to law enforcement, to local leaders, to every official who’s been given the power and resources to keep our communities safe.

Conclusion: From Protector to Partner

Looking back, one thing about me has never changed: I’ve always felt responsible for the safety of the people I love. As a child, that meant standing guard with my little fists balled up. As a young adult, it meant speaking on behalf of my family, calling the police, and arming myself when they didn’t show up for us. As an officer, it meant showing up for others the way no one showed up for me.

That part of me—that protector—is still alive and well. I still watch over my loved ones like it’s my personal assignment. But here’s what’s different now: I finally understand who should be responsible. I know now that public safety isn’t supposed to rest solely on the backs of moms, big sisters, or even the “strong friend.” It belongs to law enforcement, to local leaders, to every official who’s been given the power and resources to keep our communities safe.

This responsibility requires more than a badge, more than a position or title. It requires a shift in mindset, the kind that happens when someone like Sgt. Marie Hampton sits you down and makes you confront the truth: numbers don’t equal impact. Arrests don’t equal service. And titles don’t mean leadership unless they’re backed by purpose.

I pray for the day when every officer, every city official, every person in power in Jackson meets their own version of a Sgt. Hampton. Someone who challenges them to not just do the job—but to be the job. To remember that public safety isn’t about control; it’s about connection. It’s about showing up—not just with authority, but with accountability.

Because if that happens—when that happens—I believe we’ll start to see the change we’ve been begging for.

And even if that day feels far away, I will always believe this: together, we can make the impossible possible.

Let’s figure it out.

Click here to read the first post in this series: Public Safety Means Protection.

Click here to read Delores’s perspective on public safety, the second post in this series.