It's been a year since my last post.
There will be more updates about my life (the entirety of which is Georgetown Law) in posts to come, but I wanted to do a re-introductory post in media res, jumping into the middle of my effort to keep social justice in the front of my mind while my peers accept incredibly tempting paychecks from big firms. Obviously there's no judgement from me about that -- it's hard to make a living nowadays, and being a professional lawyer for a corporation or a big firm is jaw-droppingly admirable. Many contribute an incredible amount of time and effort to pro-bono endeavors, and I tip my hat to them.
However, that's not what I want. And it's hard to remember that. So without further hesitation, here it is:
___________
The smell of prison stayed in my nostrils all day. It was a mix of
lunch meat and orange antibacterial cleaning solution. The smell made me
sad and a little nauseous, but most of all it made me think about how
it sucks that after being released from prison, you can still smell it.
I wasn’t in prison for anything punitive (which hopefully isn’t
entirely shocking to any of you). I was there because I work at the
Street Law Clinic for Georgetown Law, and we were putting on a mock
trial for the inmates at the Incarcerated Youth Program. Normally
another high school would have competed against these kids, but you have
to be at least twenty-five and jump over all kinds of red tape to even
be allowed in the facility. The clinic had wrangled together a few
willing law school students to head to the prison the day before finals
week and compete as the defense team, which probably absolved the karma
of Georgetown Law at least a bit.
Myself and a few of my peers were dressed in suits, carrying copies
of hastily written direct examinations. We were thoroughly searched
(“uh, no, I don’t have anything foreign in my bra. Thanks for checking
anyway, though.”) and lead through not one, but three double-locked
mechanical doors. The elevators required two simultaneous key turns to
operate, and there were at least five cameras in every hallway, tracking
everything.
We eventually arrived in the chapel, the only space big enough for a trial, on the fifth floor of the
enormous building. There, in orange jumpsuits, were the “attorneys
representing the plaintiff”. In reality, they were twelve boys in their
late teens with amateur gang tattoos cloaking their arms, missing teeth,
and white-knuckled grips on their chairs. These boys had been prepared
by one member of the Street Law Clinic, a man from my Alma Mater (go
banana slugs!) who had guided the young men in the writing of their
crosses, directs, openings and closings. Behind them were sitting parole
officers, prison security, and a few scattered moms with tears in their
eyes.
Without going into too much detail about the actual trial (although I
could talk for hours about it if you ask me), I was floored. These boys
had memorized eight-minute-long opening statements, had learned how to
“be” attorneys, and referred to law students they had never met as
“Counsel” and “Your Honor.” I was testifying as a fake tattoo expert in
trial, and I had to take long pauses in my testimony to choke back tears
of amazement when a young man with three stick-n-poke tear tattoos
asked the judge to “direct the witness to answer the question” during
one of my evasive moments. A few moments later, a law student said
something objectionable and almost the entire incarcerated youth team
jumped up to object, before falling over in giggles.
The best part, though, was seeing their faces during the feedback
portion of the trial, after all the arguments had ended. They were told
for the first time maybe ever, by strangers, that they were good boys
and had done a good job. There literally (and I take that word very
seriously) wasn’t a dry eye in the room. I had printed out these cheap
certificates of participation the day before, and I watched the boys
carefully fold them and bring them to their cells. One kid handed his to
his mom for safekeeping. The boys’ mouths silently moved as they read
the words on the certificates to themselves. “For learning the law and helping to promote justice in his community.”
It’s been a while since I had done anything but study for finals,
walk my dogs, and serve beers in my nighttime bar tending job. I was
growing complacent and falling into the “rut” that I was terrified of
the moment I accepted the offer by Georgetown. Making the decision to
contribute to the incredible happenings at the prison that day
jumpstarted the part of my brain that had been dozing off since the last day I taught, and reawakened my passion for social justice. Those
boys had risked a lot to be a part of that trial — they were mercilessly
made fun of by other inmates — but they chose to compete because it’s
what they believed in. They stayed true to what they wanted to change in
the world despite their surroundings. They participated in something
that reminded them that there was something to be done.
And I guess that’s sort of my point, after all of the above
ramblings. It’s important to be reminded of the reasons why we do
things. I have a picture of me with my two favorite students in my
locker at law school, and whenever I think about how much money I would
make at a big firm, I go hold the picture for a while. I’m not helping
who I want to help if I work at a big firm.
And that’s why I ended up being grateful that the smell of prison was
in my nose all evening, and even into the next day. It was unpleasant,
but it reminded me of why I’m in law school. I want young men in poor
communities to participate in mock trials and learn about the law from
classrooms, not from prisons.
It’s just, sometimes we need reminding.
