The day before my first day at my new battalion, Lieutenant DuPont gives us newcomers an orientation lecture on what he calls “everything not covered in the Ivory Tower.” He means FDNY’s EMS training academy.

“Welcome to the real world,” he says. “Nothing’s like it is in the academy, so forget everything they taught you.”

On the job, he says, scene safety is paramount. “A street might appear quiet, but a sudden shattering bottle will let you know that kids like to drop things from apartment building rooftops, aiming for that blue star-of-life painted on the top of our ambulances. They might want to strike the two dots coming out of the ambulance as well.”

“Who’d want to hit us?” Torres asks. She’s also fresh out of the academy. But she’s from the Bronx, and not to be toyed with.

“Our uniforms look like police uniforms,” Lieutenant DuPont says. It’s true. They’re dark navy. “We go everywhere the police go, but instead of guns, we carry oxygen.” He makes a face. “And baby aspirin. But the public generally believes we carry narcotics.” He blinks at us. “Ever try to convince a mugger you don’t have any money on you?”

I can see how hard that would be.

“Our uniforms used to be green and white,” he says. “We looked like 7Up delivery men. But at least no one confused us with PD.”

The truth is that most people would treat us with respect if they understood our job. But many have never dialed 911 in their lives. They see only our blue uniforms.

Lieutenant DuPont goes down the list of vile names he’s been called. But we must be professional. We cannot retaliate. Like PD, we’re under close scrutiny, relentlessly provoked but trained not to rise to the bait. We’re taught to handle a situation without getting sucked into a confrontation. When climbing project stairwells, we shout “Ambulance!” at every landing, to let the people know we’re not the cops. Once, when, after repeated attempts, the elevator would not come to take me and my partner to an elderly asthmatic on the 18th floor of the Nostrand Houses, my partner used his fire key to bring the elevator directly to the ground floor.

When the doors opened, a very large man stepped out.

“So you have the magic key,” he said, angry, “while the rest of us have to wait.”

By the time we got to our patient, her breathing was so bad we had to call for medics to intubate.

Lieutenant DuPont says, “Do not get into confrontations with people.” He sighs. “The public has to remember that EMS, police, and fire come when people call us for help. We provide that help, to everyone across the board. We’d like to be able to do it with the public behind us. But until we can, it’s up to each of you to straighten out whoever you come into contact with – not by argument, but by example. Kill ’em with kindness. Be courteous, be proud. And do your job professionally.”

Some citizens resent the noise our sirens make. Noise pollution, they say. They don’t realize what it takes to get through NYC traffic, and in the case of a cardiac arrest, minutes are vital. But when we use the siren only at intersections, people assume we’re doing it to get through the red light. Some flip us the bird. Some write letters to the mayor asking for a ban on sirens.

“Yeah, until they’re the ones calling 911,” Torres says, in a very Bronx tone of voice.

Lieutenant DuPont jumps on her. “I agree with you. But lose the snotty tone, Miss Bronx, it’ll only tangle you up on the street.” He leans back in his chair. “Look. You want to shut someone up, be my guest. But do it effectively. Do not let yourself get into stupid fights. You’re wearing an FDNY uniform, you’re held to a higher standard while simultaneously being under the utmost scrutiny. Mouth off, and you will be put on the cover of the New York Post, and believe me, it will not be in a positive light.”

I speak up. “If you’re trying to scare us, sir, you’re doing an excellent job.”

But inside I’m happy. I’m in the battalion I was hoping for, close to my home. I’ll be treating the people I live near. I may even know some of them already.

The next day, at 0530 hours, I arrive at the front desk in my pressed navy blue cop-look-alikes uniform. Lieutenant DuPont lays out a radio and set of keys. I’ll be partnered up with Bronson, a guy I worked with a few weeks ago whose nickname is Captain Kangaroo. I’m doubly happy. We work well together, as if we’ve been partners for a long time. And yet this is all fresh for me.

New beginnings, that’s what this job is all about. It’s what we do on the ambulance. Give people another day.

“EMT Klopsis,” I say to Lieutenant DuPont, saluting. “Reporting for duty, sir.”

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician for the FDNY.This column details her observations and experiences on the job. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.