sometimes memories bubble up

It is Sunday night, and I am staring at a red and white card imprinted with my future, or, to be more specific, my future for Monday, June 29th 2009:

Jury duty.

Blechy. Double blechy with a side of extra blechy.

I meant to call ahead of time and ask for a postponement. That was kind of already a long shot since I'm on summer break and have plenty of time to fulfill my civic duty, but I DON'T WANNA, so I was going to tell them it was my ladies time and then start crying. Also I thought I might tell them I have monkey pox or the Ebola virus.

This all seems like a completely brilliant plan until Sunday night when I realize I have written the date wrong, and I am expected to present myself, Ebola virus or not, at 100 Centre Street at 8:45 a.m. Monday.

But I don't wanna, I whine to Paul. I would like to shirk my civic duty. Paul isn't terribly sympathetic. He loves fulfilling his civic duty. He also really likes the word "duty", but that's a different post altogether.

So, on Monday morning I pack my book, an umbrella, five packs of fruit snacks, and head out. This will be fun, I tell myself. You can people watch. You love to people watch. There, I've got me. I do love to people watch. I also tell myself that I will maybe enjoy fulfilling my civic duty, even though really I think it will be like last semester when I thought taking Political Science would make me like politics but really it just confirmed how completely a-political I actually am.

First, I go to a big building with columns in a desperate attempt to convince someone that I am unable to serve on account of it being my ladies time. I really think I have it in the bag because all the interviewers are dudes, until a lady who looks like a cross between Hilary Clinton and Margaret Thatcher stands up and calls my name.

Dang. She's not sympathetic at all. Also it seems like she thinks my excuse is lame, which it is.

So, 9:30 a.m. Monday morning finds me sitting in a huge room with one hundred and fifty fellow New Yorkers, most attempting to pretend the other one hundred forty nine people aren't actually there, except for the one guy wearing loafers with no socks who talks to everyone in his immediate vicinity.

A most unhappy lady wearing exercise attire enters late, and attempts to convince the clerk she doesn't belong there. She has a tattoo of a spider on her shoulder blade. A fellow slumped over in his chair is snoring.

The jury clerk pulls out an ancient olive green spinney thing from which he pulls names. Mine is the second name called.

It's been a long time since I've been in a courtroom. Six years, I think. I don't like it. I don't like how white and bare the walls are. I look at my jury questionaire. Have you been the victim of a crime? Have you testified at a trial?

Yes, I check. And yes.

I mark the boxes without emotion. It's a fact, like I have green eyes and I like Easy Cheez. It was a long time ago, a different me ago.

The judge calls out our names one by one and we take our seats in the jury box. Angry spider tattoo lady is in my group. Every few minutes she shakes her head, and mutters under her breath. Elliot looks remarkably like a garden gnome, and Lucy, much to my delight, looks exactly like Lucy from Peanuts with like fifty years tacked on. Jennifer sits in front of me. She has a southern accent and is wearing a frilly hot pink shirt.

The defendant sits next to his attorney. He stares straight ahead, sometimes looking down. It's a drunk driving case. He looks young. His suit looks too big, or he looks too skinny. I can't decide which.

It's the prosecutor's turn, and she's picking on different jurors, trying to weed out the undesirables. Elliot has two kids, eighteen and twenty. He doesn't think that would interfere with his impartiality. Lucy ran a victims' advocate center for twenty years. Jennifer attends bible study. One time her boyfriend got pulled over, but it was a really twisty road and also it was raining. She's glad the officer was making sure they were being safe. Now she just has a social drink every now and then. John got pulled over at checkpoint one time, but he hadn't had anything to drink and he felt like the machine was malfunctioning.

Ms. Boerem?

Yes.

You have been the victim of a crime?

Yes.

Can you tell us about that? You can approach the bench, if you prefer.

Uh, yeah. I'll approach the bench.

So, I approach the bench. It's a fine looking bench. This business of approaching the bench is so delightful that the prosecutor comes too, along with the defense attorney. He has a mustache that's been sort of twisted at the ends, like a villain in an old movie, or someone in a barber shop quartet.

It doesn't take long for me to tell my story. I've told it before, lots of times. Usually it's a really positive thing, you know? Like I'm telling someone how I'm a better person now, or how amazing our capacity for healing is. Now, all of a sudden I am flooded with memories I haven't thought of in years and it feels like cold water, like re-opening a wound long since closed over.

Would you be able to disregard your opinions?

I attempt to ignore the twenty nine people sitting to my right. This is the first time in almost ten years that I have had to answer this question. I look at the judge, at the attorneys.

I don't know.

I mean, I wish I could tell you differently, it's just that....

I don't know.

And all of a sudden I am presented with a me who is not impartial. I don't know how I feel about this. I mean, I thought I was impartial. When Paul shaved that handlebar mustache last winter and I actually didn't like it I totally reserved judgement, and while I am a shameless Harry Potter freak, I completely respect the anti-Potter camp. That's pretty impartial.

If I instruct you that the law requires you to disregard your personal preferences and opinions and listen objectively to the arguments of both sides, would your answer change?

No, I say.

I feel for a moment like I am the one on trial. Like judgement is being passed. Maybe it is. That's okay. Maybe it's not. That's okay, too.

I take my seat. The prosecutor finishes, and after lunch, the defense attorney gets his turn. Know what? I don't like the way he uses words. As a matter of fact, I'm not so much a fan of the prosecutor's treatment of the English language, either. It's like words exist only for manipulation, only to extract the desired answer.

One time the defense attorney asks a question and the judge yells out WATCH IT, YOU'RE ON DANGEROUS GROUND, and it's just like Law and Order and it's kind of exciting except for Mustache Guy just re-words the same question and now I want to put him on trial.

It's upsetting. The blank walled room, the bored looking judge, the over-eager lawyers. It's upsetting but then...

I don't know. It's like the old memories bubble up, but then they recede, healed. So quickly. That me is gone, now. It feels like when I take pain medicine, like something being kept at bay.

I am not broken.

It's not like it was erased, because it wasn't, it couldn't be. It's been replaced. Something else lives there, now. A distant relative. Something joyful and wizened like fingers wrinkled from bathwater: visible marks that fade, clean and warm at the same time.

When they announce the selected jurors, my name is not called.

Neither is Angry Spider Tattoo Lady's. I guess she's not impartial, either.

I could have told you that.