By admin
Unlike most people, I want to be on a jury. I’ve been summoned at least four times, but never made it to the box. Until now.
I am Juror 7. I am sitting in a criminal courtroom with 29 other prospective jurors. The judge is a man in his 50s, not humorless, but mostly businesslike at this stage of things. He explains that the cadence of his speech is a bit slow so the Mandarin Chinese translator can keep up.
The defendant is a 30ish Asian woman, slim, dressed in muted colors. The translator is for her, so she is, presumably, Chinese. She is accused of prostitution. Two undercover police officers will be testifying against her. Both attorneys are women. I am certain this is not a coincidence.
The judge asks each juror some basic info about marital status, occupation and jury experience. He asks our views on prostitution and if we have “any answers” to the questions on a sheet we were given outside the courtroom. (These are about impartiality and connections to law enforcement and lawyers.) I think his phrasing is odd. We all have answers to these questions; it’s just that for some of us the answers are all “no.” It’s the yeses he is concerned with, so I guess if the answer is “no” we don’t really have answers.
About half the jury pool has friends or relatives in law enforcement—both on the “law” and “order” sides of things. A few have had bad experiences with the police. Two have been victims of a crime. No one thinks this will adversely affect his ability to be fair and impartial in this case. Juror 5, however, insists that she thinks the police are always right, no matter what, because she is afraid of them. She says she never disputes her tickets because she knows she cannot win. The judge tries to discuss this point with her logically and fails.
The defense attorney appears to be in her 40s. She is wearing a brown, longish flared jacket unbuttoned over dark trousers and a white shirt. She has 10 minutes to question the jurors. She seemed almost timid during introductions, hard to hear—but not anymore. Now her style is rather professorial. I imagine this is what it’s like to be in law school. She speaks quickly and her sentences are a bit meandering and complicated. She starts by explaining an idea and then segues into a question. I have to pay close attention to figure out if my answer is yes or no. I feel badly for the people whose English is poor. She asks me a question, and I say, “Absolutely,” feeling lucky that I followed her Byzantine thought process. Her questioning seems random, but I’m sure it is as well-planned as it can be in the short time she had to prepare.
The prosecutor is younger. She had seemed very confident in her dark pantsuit, short jacket buttoned all the way, but now a few cracks are showing. She stands at the lectern with her notes, where the defender moved about during her turn. She even rests her head on her hand at one point. Her questioning goes very quickly. I do not think she used her whole 10 minutes. She tries to ask us if verbal testimony would be enough, or if we would require a tape recording for proof beyond a reasonable doubt. The judge cuts her off, saying she is asking the jury to make a judgment about evidence before we hear it. I feel a little bit sorry for her—but just a little. I wonder fleetingly if this is intentional, to garner sympathy from the jurors.
Jurors 9, 12, 19 and 30 all profess trouble with the English language. Most have been in the US close to 20 years. They say they cannot read. They have all taken a US citizenship exam—in English. They have trouble answering the judge’s questions. He is clearly trying to determine if they are using this to get out of jury service. Jurors 19 and 30 claim they cannot treat both sides in this case fairly. Nineteen cannot explain why, but talks in circles, similar to what I have heard my Russian and Armenian neighbors do. Thirty says it’s because she’s afraid she will not be able to follow the proceedings. After a sidebar consultation with the attorneys, the judge only dismisses Juror 9.
Her chair seems to be cursed—or blessed, depending on how you look at it. The next 4 jurors seated there are all dismissed.
Juror 2 has pink hair. She’s wearing Doc Martin 10-eye boots and a black leather jacket. She’s a dog walker and believes prostitution should be legal. She is dismissed by the prosecution—no surprise there.
Juror 3 is an actress. Nobody familiar. She sees prostitutes as victims. She doesn’t think the courtroom is the right place to help them. She is dismissed by the defense—I am shocked by this.
Juror 24 is a first year medical student. He is wearing very ripped jeans and drips attitude. But when he speaks I am impressed. He thinks prostitutes are often victims of sexual abuse or other childhood trauma. He is dismissed, too.
Juror 29 is an administrative judge. He is the only juror wearing a tie. I had to look up what an administrative judge is. According to thefreedictionary.com, he is “a professional hearing officer who works for the government to preside over hearings and appeals involving governmental agencies.” Oh. I was not around long enough to see if he was cut. He may be one of the few jurors left.
Juror 7 is a writer. She wears funky glasses and sips compulsively from a pink water bottle. She explains that while she believes that people should be free to do as they choose with their bodies and sexuality, prostitution holds so many opportunities for exploitation that she is not sure if legalizing it is a good idea. I am dismissed by the prosecution. I am disappointed but not surprised.
There is a consistent parade of jurors out of our courtroom. Within 15 minutes of being dismissed, I have my Certification of Jury Service and am heading for my car. I hear from Juror 24 that there are only a couple of us left. The judge is sending for more jurors. We wonder at the number of jurors who have been cut, but these musings don’t get very far. We get to the parking structure and part ways. I wonder if any of these people might have become a friend, if we had served together. I will never know.
By admin
I’m a writing mentor with an organization called WriteGirl. I meet weekly with my 15-year-old mentee, C, at the Huntington Gardens and Library. We write together about this and that, and each year WriteGirl publishes an anthology of the work of all the girls and their mentors. (You should pick one up!) I’m tired of all this writing just sitting in my journal, so here is a story I wrote during one of my meetings with C.
Moving Day
Shelby sat on the floor, hugging her bent knees, staring blankly at the boxes when she should have been packing. Moving again—new house, new friends, new school. Her features hardened as she thought about it, mouth tightening and eyes narrowing in an effort not to cry. Standing weakly, Shelby tripped through the cardboard maze, barking her shins on the loose flaps of the unsealed cartons. She reached a pile of stuffed animals and scooped up a furry armload, ignoring the bite from the scrapes on her legs.
Unable to see the way back over Snowy and Frisky, Hephzibah and Elton, Shelby charged heedlessly into the maze. She stumbled and tumbled hard into stiff corners and rough edges, adding a bruised hip and elbow to her catalogue of injuries. She lay motionless in a heap on the floor, listening for footsteps. No one came.
Shelby started to cry, angry at the boxes, angry at herself, angry at her toys. She sat up and hurled them across the room at the waiting box. Onetwothreefour. Elton hit with a kunk and slid down the wall. Hephzibah and Snowy pmphed into the animals already packed away. And Frisky made a small groaning noise as he umphed to the floor beside the box.
Stricken with guilt, Shelby stared over the cardboard battlements at her loyal friends. Her tears renewed and redoubled as she crashed back to the box. Blinded, she reached down and picked up the nearest toy. She was still wrapped around Frisky, the black bear’s fur matted and wet, when her mother came into the room.
By admin
I’m a writing mentor with an organization called WriteGirl. I meet weekly with my 15-year-old mentee, C, at the Huntington Gardens and Library. We write together about this and that, and each year WriteGirl publishes an anthology of the work of all the girls and their mentors. (You should pick one up!) I’m tired of all this writing just sitting in my journal, so here are a pair of stories I wrote when C and I sat on a bench speculating on the inner lives of the animals.
Smarter Than Your Average Squirrel
An Englishman sips his tea in the dappled sunlight, his body arranged on the bench in a close approximate of relaxation. He tips his head toward his watch, face obscured by a canvas gardening hat. He studies his phone, his watch, his phone, but time does not move any faster. He glances around, stares at his watch again, looks up. He stills, smiling slightly, wrapping both hands around the paper to-go cup, to keep warm or in prayer. His eyes follow the zigzag path of a squirrel as it makes its cautious way across the park, tree to tree. “Secret agent squirrel,” he thinks, slipping the phone into his pocket. He adjusts his hat, rises from the bench, casually checking for a tail. He sets off after the squirrel. “Gotcha.”
* * *
The tree rustles, close to the top at first. Slowly the movements migrate lower, circling the tree in fits and starts until they stop, and a gray squirrel emerges from the undergrowth. He sits up on his hindquarters and glares at me accusingly. His tail twitches and I grow roots, unable to move for fear I’ll scare him away or inspire him to charge. He tilts his head to the left, so I do, too. We stand facing each other, the squirrel and I, heads cocked toward the sun. He never blinks, and I feel certain he will be able to read my thoughts if I continue to meet his stare. He begins to slowly rub his tiny front paws together, and I struggle not to do the same. He seems diabolical, holding me in his thrall. I am about to break away when he speaks. “Are you going to eat that?” he asks, inclining his head toward my half-finished sandwich.
By admin
I’m a writing mentor with an organization called WriteGirl. I meet weekly with my 15-year-old mentee, C, at the Huntington Gardens and Library. We write together about this and that, and each year WriteGirl publishes an anthology of the work of all the girls and their mentors. (You should pick one up!) I’m tired of all this writing just sitting in my journal, so here is the story that will appear in the next anthology–available in January. C and I each used the rare book stacks at the Huntington as the setting for a scene.
Those Meddling Kids, With Apologies to Scooby Doo
“Did you hear that?”
“What?” “No.”
“Shh! I’m listening…” Claudia hissed, louder than she intended. They all froze. The air conditioning hummed. There was a faint buzz from the overhead lighting.
After a few minutes of squinty-eyed, purse-lipped concentration, Adam shrugged. “Nope. I must have imagined it.”
Claudia glared at him. Jane looked thoughtful. “What did it sound like? Or, well, what do you imagine it sounded like?”
“I don’t know… it was like a scrapey-thud. Or a jingle-smack. Or maybe a whiffle-whomp?”
“Dude,” said Mitchell. “I hear that all the time.”
The others turned to Mitchell, expectant. He smiled back and blinked at them blankly. Jane stared at him as if she might see the answer through his skull. When this proved unsuccessful, she prompted, “And…”
“Huh? Oh! It’s the sound my bike makes when I take a dive on the Boardwalk.” Mitchell spoke with absolute certainty.
“And did you fall off your bicycle a few minutes ago?” asked Claudia.
“Uh, no. I mean, I don’t have—”
“And do you think someone else might—”
Adam cut in. “Claud, stop it.”
“What? I’m just trying to establ—”
“Enough. Leave him alone.”
“It’s okay, man. She’s right. If there is someone riding a bike in here, they’re in loads more trouble than we are.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Shh! Did you hear that?”
“Oh, no. Not you, too, Jane.”
“I heard the whiffle-whump.” Jane’s voice rose to a barely audible squeak as she spoke. “Like Marley’s Ghost is walking around wrapped in chains, only… if Marley were made of books.”
“Yes! That’s it exactly.”
Whiffle-whump. The sound caught Claudia mid eye-roll. “No way…”
“Way.”
“Um, dudes? Ya know that mummy’s curse thing? The one I told you about? The one you all laughed at?”
“Mitchell, you saw that in a cartoon! It wasn’t even this library. That one was in Alexandria—in Egypt!”
“Yeah, but you said the Alexandria library was destroyed a while ago, and that sign back there said this one has lots of scrolls and stuff, just like in the cartoon.”
Whiffle-whump. It was getting closer. They looked wide-eyed at each other for a moment, before simultaneously screaming and taking off in search of the nearest exit, each in a different direction.
By admin
…and neither is George W. Bush, apparently. Now, I haven’t read his book, nor did I see Kanye West’s post-Katrina accusation, or any recent interviews with Bush or West. So my highly informed opinion is based on clips I’ve heard on the radio–of Matt Lauer’s interviews, to be precise…
What struck me most was George II’s deep pain at being called racist. (Well, West actually said he “doesn’t care about black people,” which, I suppose, is about the same thing.) Yes, looking back on one of the most devastating disasters in our history, the president is most concerned about his image and fragile feelings. Mr. Lauer was also concerned about this, so he checked in with West, emphasizing that this was the only time in the entire 3-hour interview when G-II became emotional. Not, it would seem, about the tragic loss of life and cataclysmic damage to personal property and an historic city. Nope, he was crying because mean Mr. West said he didn’t care about black people. Poor President Bush: he’s so sensitive. (Lauer went back to Bush after speaking with West to get a response to his response–way to make the news, Matt.)
Which, of course, has nothing to do with me. Except…
I was a party a few weeks ago, at a friend’s house, let’s call her V. I didn’t know anyone there, except V’s immediate family. It was a big party, so I got a drink and milled about. I met new people, sat with some of them at dinner, exchanged contact information. A good evening all around. In the car on the way home, I got to thinking. Most of the people at V’s party were African-American. Most of the people I talked with were white. Not all, but most.
Did I do that? Not on purpose, of course, but still… Or did we all do it, black and white alike. I told this story to another friend, M, who had a similar experience. M has gone a number of unintentionally segregated parties. She attributes the chromatic separation to the fact that the host’s white friends and black friends are from different parts of her life, and don’t know each other. Each group hangs out with the people they know, who all happen to be the same color. I don’t have this excuse, since I didn’t know the black people or the white people. But it could be part and parcel of the same impulse. Right? I’m not racist.
A few days later, I was at a restaurant, trying to flag down our server–a slim, young, Asian woman. It took only moments for me to discover that all the servers were slim, young, Asian women. Not in a uniform, but all in variations of black and white: stripes, solids, plaid even. I had no idea which one was ours. My companion was equally flummoxed. We shared a slightly embarrassed they-all-look-alike moment, and enjoyed a good belly-laugh before I caught the first server passing by to make my request.
I’m not a racist.
So why do I feel vaguely icky about these two events? I feel guilty, even. But, really… should I make a greater effort to talk to everyone at a party? If I pay attention to the color of their skin for a more balanced party-going experience, is that affirmative action socializing? Racial profiling? Would that be even worse? What if we have nothing to talk about, should I soldier on, just to be balanced? And would I have recognized my server any better if she had been white? Probably not. Maybe I’m not a racist, but a classist?!
No, I don’t actually think I’m racist. But I’m not color blind either. And I sort of expect myself to be. I think I should probably lower the bar on this one. I can admit that I am more comfortable around people like me. And, really, that’s not unreasonable–we all are, based on any number of factors, not just skin color. They call them affinity groups, and affinity groups are good too, as long as you’re not friends with Bernie Madoff, that is.
By admin
Brit comedian Eddie Izzard does a bit about a school guidance counselor. “Aim lower, you’re British,” he advises, over and over. The student’s aspirations are gradually reduced to the comically macabre performance art of “putting babies on spikes.” If you’ve seen it (it’s in Dress to Kill), you’re smiling right now. If you’ve seen other Eddie Izzard routines, you believe me that it’s funny. If you’ve never seen Mr. Izzard perform, you are wondering how this could possibly be funny. Take my word for it, or watch a sample (contains profanity).
I noticed a similar lack of ambition, or perceived lack, in the Hollywood adaptation of Nick Hornby‘s book High Fidelity. The movie changed the location from London to Chicago but didn’t much change the story, except for the ending. [Spoiler alert] At the end of the book, Rob finds happiness as a club DJ, the only thing he ever really loved doing – and, of course, gets the girl. In the movie, Rob becomes a record producer with a hit single – and, of course, gets the girl. It bothers me that the book’s ending was not seen as “happy” enough for the movie (This is completely my own interpretation of the change, BTW. It may not be why it was done at all.) And it isn’t just the difference between books and film. Even British films tend to be smaller, more personal, just ask Eddie (more profanity).
I find it interesting that in America, finding joy in your passion isn’t enough for a happy ending. You need fame and fortune, acknowledgment from the world at large. The Brits aren’t any less ambitious – they used to rule the known world, that’s pretty ambitious – they just have a more liberal definition of success. You don’t have to be rich, or rule the world, or the record industry, to be considered successful and happy. You just have to pursue your dream. Perhaps after the U.S. has conquered the world, we’ll be content with smaller successes, too. Oh, wait, we won’t be doing that – we elected the other guy.
But this does seem like an awful lot of pressure to put on schoolchildren. Since only the tiniest percentage of people achieve the sort of success seen in American movies, since our culture venerates a type of happy ending few can expect, since we clearly should not be satisfied with ordinary lives, we all are doomed to disappointment and a chronic sense of inadequacy. As a child, I was told I would grow up to do great things. What are these things, I wondered, and if I don’t do them, will I be a failure?
Kids today do have one outlet, one sure way to achieve real American success – reality television. You can be famous just by being foolish in front of millions of people. You may be one of the few who get rich, so toss your hat in ring and start behaving badly. If you happen to be rich already, you have a leg up on the rest of us. In just a few weeks you could become a recognizable face, a popular personality, a villain people love to hate. You could have the caché of Dr. No, Lady Diana or Michael Vick by next Tuesday.
This, it would seem, is where our rabid ambition has led us. There are moments when I am proud to be American, glad that the accident of my birth landed me here. President Obama’s election was one of those moments. Watching TMZ, was not.
According to the World Database of Happiness, we in the U.S. are currently ranked 20th in the world for average happiness level. We drop to 68 when they take into consideration the disparity in happiness levels among our population. I wonder if we’d be happier as a people if we could find a new way to define success.
By admin
The Olympics started with a tragic accident, and we watched Nodar Kumaritashvili die, over and over. NBC played those four seconds at every break, it seemed. I couldn’t watch it. Part of me wanted to, just to see, but I had to turn away and fast forward through it. Did you, like watching the proverbial train wreck, find yourself glued to the screen? Did you stare at his body, tossed again and again off the track? Did you want to see it? Would you feel deprived if you couldn’t?
The people have a right to know. The press declares its freedom and gives us what we want. What they think we want. What we must want, since their goal is to draw the most eyeballs, generate ratings, ad sales, revenue. Anything that doesn’t interest us quickly disappears for lack of ratings, so we must want to see death, destruction, tragedy.
But do we have a right not just to know, but also to see? To be shocked, horrified, exhilarated, entertained by the death of someone’s son, husband, father, brother, friend? When they switch on the TV, they see him, too – is that fair? Is it right? There are far more of us – the hungry public – than there are of them – the grieving loved ones – so majority rules, right?
Is that it? Is the world run like a playground?
I felt the same way about the photos from Abu Ghraib. These human beings were humiliated and degraded. Not only that, it was captured on film (or bits – whatever). Let’s compound their misery and this horrible mistake by showing the pictures to the whole world. Great idea!
A friend suggested that the media must show these things, or we would cry cover up. Fine. Let the journalists look. Let them be our eyes, our witness. And let them report. That’s their job, isn’t it? Let them tell us what they saw, share their shock and horror, and we’ll forgo our more prurient tendencies. Maybe that will help us to be a little more human.
By admin
I was sick last week – down with a flu for five days. An enforced stay-cation. Idleness without guilt. I spent most of my days on the couch watching TV and drinking tea. I watched a lot of TV – really, a lot. And so I feel I should take this opportunity to confess publicly: I love television.
And not just the good stuff on PBS or Discovery. Give me Tabatha’s Salon Takeover and RuPaul’s Drag Race. Launch My Line and So You Think You Can Dance. Fringe, Heroes and Doctor Who. Gray’s Anatomy, Private Practice and House. Bones, CSI and NCIS. I am addicted to Project Runway and Top Chef. I don’t give a fig for cars, but I can’t stop watching Top Gear. I love staying home to veg in front of the TV. It is with guilt and embarrassment that I reveal my weakness for the “Big Bright Green Pleasure Machine.”
But, why a confession? you might ask.
I am not supposed to like television. I am supposed to be far too sophisticated, too cultured, too busy to waste my time with the boob tube. I should find it boring, pointless, grating or cloying. I should be appalled by the poor quality, the ridiculous plotting, the vacuous people… but I’m not. (Well, there are some shows that fall below even my watchability threshold.) I am a disgrace to my upbringing – a failed culture snob.
I worship my DVR and I’m done trying to hide it.
By admin
“You’re not fat enough to be an American.” I heard this statement recently on the BBC’s “Top Gear.” And it was funny. Even the young, not-at-all-fat American woman laughed, albeit uncomfortably, when it was said to her. According to the World Health Organization, the US falls at #3 worldwide in percentage of obese adults, behind the Pacific Island nations of American Samoa and Kiribati. Not that the Brits have all that much to celebrate – they’re at #10. There has been a lot of discussion in the last decade about why we’re getting fat and how to stop it. The first question seems pretty simple.
You may have noticed a billboard for Coca-Cola with the tag line, “Enough for your meal.” It is touting the new twin pack of 50 ounce bottles of Coke, implying that previous packages have been inadequate. That’s right, those old 2-liter bottles do not hold enough for a single meal. When feeding your family, you need a full 100 ounces of Coca-Cola to be sure you don’t run out. Really?
Now, I don’t even like soda, so this concept is completely alien to me, but EEW. How many people are at this “meal” for which 100 ounces is “enough”? Are we feeding octo-mom’s brood? God forbid someone should have to drink water, and whatever you do, don’t give those children milk. (Sorry, octo-mom, I’m sure you don’t pour cola down their gullets.)
As of the 2000 census, the average family had 3.14 members – up about a half point from the previous decade – so let’s say that families have grown slightly faster and presume that today the average family has 4 members. That’s 25 ounces, or just over 3 servings, of Coke for each person. The billboard shows two bottles of regular Coke, so we’ll use that in our example… According to Coca-Cola’s Website, that’s nearly 300 calories and 90 grams of carbs – presumably all from sugar.
I know I’m not the only person flabbergasted by this campaign. I know this because I’ve marveled with my friends and seen others marveling, too. One woman even posted a picture to Flickr. So, I guess the only question left is, “How do we stop it?”
By admin
What happened to Day Six? you might ask… it happened, but I missed it. Yes, for the first time in my life, I missed a shift. I was mortified. The manager said, “It happens.” Really? Not to me. And no one called, so I didn’t even know I’d missed the shift until two days later. It seems that sometimes schedules are changed at the last minute. Now I know.
So Day Seven was a Saturday – the last Saturday before Christmas, to be precise, and the URL was hopping. I raced up and down the stairs of hell a dozen times an hour, maybe more. Most people were very nice, and some were even patient. I tried on sneakers for a man shopping for his wife – assessing the arch support. We went with the black ones. I found snow boot stand-ins for a woman who had recently had surgery on her foot. It needed to be soft and unzip, unlace or unbuckle all the way down, so she could get her swollen foot safely inside. The answer? Mukluks! I don’t think I realized these were an actual brand of shoes until I started this gig.
For my much needed and well-deserved break, I made a bee-line for the mall Santa. Not to sit in his lap and rattle off my list – just to watch. He is one good looking Santa, even with the coccyx cushion. I don’t think the facial hair is real (I wasn’t close enough to tell), but it is very good. And he has the jolly twinkle down to a science.
Most impressive, perhaps, is his sincerity. He listens with earnest attention to each and every child. And some of those kids have a lot to say. One girl of about nine stood before him, weight shifted to her right, in serious discussion for nearly five minutes. Santa was rapt the entire time, focused and in character. There was not one ironic glance. No hint of levity. Santa is listening, and he cares. That is a skill.
I returned to the URL and to hell refreshed and restored. Ready to charge up and down the stairs for a few hours more….
