Not So Different

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was stunning.


She entered the courtroom in absolute possession of determination, self-assurance and flair. The fabric of her African dress swished and flowed as she marched to the front of the room. She flung her brightly colored wrap around her shoulders before she raised her right hand. As she took her seat, she adjusted her perfectly matched head wrap.

I suppose you could call her an imposing figure-her height, her confidence and the abundance of deep purple, magenta and orange fabric she was wrapped in all demanded your attention. Yet, it was the intensity and pinpoint focus of her eyes that caught my attention.



We couldn’t have been more different.

She owned the room while I shifted awkwardly in my chair. She was tall, black and elegantly African. I was short, white and wearing comfortable Nike shoes and mom jeans. Her oversized orange hoop earrings hung from her ears. I fingered my ears and tried to remember where my stud pearls were. We were not just different physically. Geographically, politically, economically and philosophically we were born into opposite ends of the worldwide spectrum.

Yet here we sat, 20 feet from each other--her fate was in my hands.



Her history brought her to the United States, where, many years later, she found herself fighting to prove her innocence. As the lawyers presented their sides, it was clear the case was quite complicated on many levels. The testimony required interpreters for the French and Arabic languages as well as a few unique African dialects. The difference in cultural nuances and traditions often clouded the facts and made testimony quite unclear and certainly more complex. Even the simple definition of “friend” was never quite nailed down. Each day I found myself in a whirlpool of African immigrant history, tradition and culture mixing with the spirit, routine and resolve present in their current, very American lives. It was my job to filter it all through the American judicial system.







Later, I would find out she lived not far from me-just a few miles. I wondered if we shopped at the same stores. I wondered if she was being a good mother to her kids.

Later, I would find out the incident took place half a block from where my daughter was considering going to college. I drove past the door they said she stormed out of. I recognized the very place they said she became guilty. I saw the very place she became bloodied.

Later, I would look up news reports of the incident. Later, I would be shocked at how much information was ruled inadmissible in court. Later, I would wonder if it would have made a difference in the outcome.







But sitting in my jury chair, I knew the only possible answer was “NOT GUILTY”. Was it possible she was guilty? Maybe. Was it proven? Not at all.

When I left that courthouse I went home to cook dinner for my husband and children. Yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Most of all I wondered: Did she leave that courthouse and go home to cook dinner for her husband and children, too? Was it possible that we really weren’t that different after all?





Check This Out!

I’m currently in an “at-one-time-messed-up-rock star/actor” biography reading stage. Somewhere near all of these books on the shelf at the library I found this little gem of a book. Why is My Mother Getting a Tattoo? And Other Questions I Wish I Never Had to Ask by Jancee Dunn. Dunn, many years a rock journalist, is pretty darn amusing in this book of essays. I can’t imagine anyone not finding a bit of humor in her takes on life, her parents, and her siblings and how they all mesh together now that she might be called, by some, middle aged. It’s a quick read and was well worth my time—you should check it out!

Empty Your Pockets

Considering the public nature of the echoing rotunda, I thought his bellowing was a bit too dramatic. “For GOD’S sake! You’ve GOT to be kidding me!”, he yelled to the ceiling. His eyeballs rolled. He huffed.

Given the inherent tension of the situation, I found his hollering was a bit too alarmist. “Did one of you ACTUALLY put TWO Advil…and ONLY two Advil… into this pink plastic bin, send it through THEEE x-ray machine at THISSS courthouse?” He held the pink bin up high, for all to see, and shook his head, in disgust, from side to side.

And seeing a lack of any real threat from my apparent faux pas, I felt his vocal drama was just plain gratuitous. “Is this supposed to be FUNNY? Some sort of attempt at-----humor?” He narrowed his now frowning eyes as he glared at each of us in line.

It was clear the man in the security uniform was annoyed.

I wasn’t trying to be funny, though. I was trying to get to jury duty on time.


I had rushed through the courthouse doors carrying my reusable grocery bag. It had appealing pictures of fruit on the outside and was full to the brim with my lunch, a Regis Philbin biography, some yarn and a crochet hook.

I saw the dour warning signs the minute I entered the building. “STOP! EMPTY EVERYTHING FROM YOUR POCKETS! Place items in plastic bin and proceed to x-ray machine. ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING MUST BE EMPTIED FROM YOUR POCKETS!”

I fingered the two Advil in my jeans pocket. Hmmmm….it was just two Advil.

"YES! WE REALLY DO MEAN EVERYTHING!" the next sign said

The Advil quickly went into a pink plastic bin. I threw my purse into my fruit bag and waited in the slow moving security line. I had plenty of time to read the list of courthouse prohibited items. Striving to be a model juror, I had left my guns and knives at home. Also, thank goodness, I had not packed my skateboard, expandable baton, darts, syringes, corkscrew, stink bombs or fashionable metallic belt into my fruit bag. The last item on the prohibited list, however, caught my eye.

Knitting needles. They were not allowed.

I thought of my crochet hook hidden in the bottom of my fruit bag. I thought of all the trouble I could cause with my crochet hook that would most definitely be frowned upon.

I approached the x-ray machine and mindlessly sent my pink bin and two Advil through the x-ray machine. I anxiously put my fruit bag on the conveyor belt. I turned to the lady watching the camera and immediately confessed my guilt. “I’ve got a crochet hook in there.”

I waited to be apprehended.

She smiled at me. “That’s ok, honey. As long as you don’t have knitting needles you’re good to go.” Shocked, I shouted “REALLY??” inside my own head. I proceeded through the metal detector, a bit disturbed how easily I had conjured up crochet hook mayhem and a bit disturbed that they would have let me have a go at it.


I passed through security with a sense of relief and freedom, grabbing my cleared fruit bag. My bubble of relief was quickly burst by his bellowing. My stomach turned when I realized my security battle was not over. The crowd watched as I began negotiations to free my Advil hostages.

“Well, I’ll be! 23 years on this job and I thought I’d seen it all. Lady! What were you thinking?”

“But…well….the sign…it said EVERYTHING. So I emptied everything…”

“Lady! Do you have any idea the stuff that gets put in these bins every day? You’d better wash those off before you take them.”

I nervously chuckled and promised I would wash my Advil, which I was now in great need of. I walked away, toward the stairs, as quickly as would still seem normal. Unfortunately, he was not done.

“Hey, Advil lady!” he called out. “On second thought, I wouldn’t take those Advil at all. You really wouldn’t believe the kind of stuff I see come through in those bins. Bad stuff…..very bad stuff.” he said sternly. “We’ve got some really crazy people coming through this courthouse every day…..I’m just sayin’.”

And then he turned toward his security partner and said louder than I hope he had intended, “How nuts was that? I’ve seen some crazy stuff, but I never thought I’d see someone do that…….”



Check This Out!

 I recently read the thought provoking book, The Submission: A Novel, by Amy Waldman. A work of fiction, The Submission deals with a contest to design the 9/11 memorial in New York City. A jury judges the entries that were submitted, blindly, without knowing the architects’ identities. The winning design is ultimately revealed to have been created by a Muslim. While I did find the book slow in a few places and I wasn’t sure I liked the ending, I did find it incredibly interesting and timely. It tackled what is a very complicated topic quite well. Where would you stand? Are you sure?

Jury Duty

When I surrendered all of my morning duties to the husband, I didn’t delude myself with high expectations of what would happen when I was not home. During our temporary role reversal, I assumed that the dishes and laundry and floor cleaning would not cross the husband’s radar. I was hoping however, that the husband would ensure that the teenager and the boy, clean or not, nutritious breakfast eaten or not, homework finished or not, would somehow get to school on time and in one piece.

When I left my family for jury duty that morning I was armed with snacks and books and whole ton of patience. I had been told there might be some waiting. And despite inexplicably setting off the security alarm at the courthouse door, I managed to check in on time, fill out my forms and start to prematurely judge all of my new juror friends by their appearance and behavior.

A competent seeming judge soon provided an inspirational and instructional speech on my jury duty experience and the pride I should take in the long and slow process of waiting.

The judge asked if there were any questions. The first question came from a young woman and concerned the form we had all filled out. “It says on the form, ‘Have you ever been a party to a lawsuit?’ Well what if you went to a party and afterward there ended up being a big lawsuit over some stuff that happened that night?”

The next question came from a middle aged woman who cleared her throat and then spoke. “Where it says here on the form, ‘Have you ever been convicted of a felony?’…..well…what exactly do you mean by a….FELONY?”

A man raised his hand and asked the judge, “I already know I’m prejudiced but I didn’t see that on the form. Is there any way I can just leave now?”

Between the judge’s infectious enthusiasm for the importance of jury duty and my new doubts about the capabilities and qualifications of some of my fellow jurors, I found myself more than ready to take part in the judicial process. Within the first hour, a woman began to announce the names of 62 people that were to be questioned for a jury in courtroom number 4. I sent the woman telepathic messages with my brain, “Pick me! Pick me! I’d be good! I got an A in American Government in high school!” I don’t think the woman ever got my silent messages. She never called my name. I was convinced there had been some mistake.

Eventually, my jury duty enthusiasm began to wane as I sat and waited with those who were in the same jury limbo boat that I was. We read our books, ate our snacks and pounded on laptops. We spoke in Korean, very loudly, on our cell phone for 2 hours straight. We complained about President Obama and Sarah Palin and those troublesome Australian tax rates. We bought shoes for $39.95 from our cell phone, confessed our marital troubles to strangers and announced to the room that the pitcher for the local baseball team was a big wussy. But mostly we shifted in our seats and stared at the walls. I never was called to be a juror. After hours and hours of waiting I was sent home. I had earned $20 in jury pay, read two great books and was now able to speak some rudimentary Korean.


I drove in the driveway and my thoughts shifted back to my family. I wondered how the morning had gone for the husband and the teenager and the boy. When I walked into the house it was not the expected dirty dishes or the inevitable basket of dirty laundry or the pesky crumbs that were still left on the floor that caused me to pause. It was the sight of the first aid kit, strewn all over the counter, left in a frantic mess that caused my breath to momentarily suspend.

When I left for jury duty that morning I had hoped that the husband would somehow ensure that the teenager and the boy, clean or not, nutritious breakfast eaten or not, homework finished or not, would somehow get to school on time and in one piece. And I could see from the evidence of the dismantled first aid kit before me that the teenager and the boy, although apparently bandaged, were still, thankfully, in one piece.



Check This Out!

One of the books I read while waiting for my jury duty moment to come was Exile by Richard North Patterson. This legal thriller focuses on the defense of a Palestinian woman on trial for organizing the suicide bombing of the Prime Minister of Israel as he visited San Francisco. I found it to be a nice combination of the expected drama and suspense a novel like this is known for as well as a good dose of information about the Middle East and the often confusing Arab-Israeli conflict. This one was a hard one to put down.

For a completely different kind of book, you might try I'm Off Then: Losing and Finding Myself on the Camino de Santiago. The author, Hape Kerkeling, is a hugely popular comedian and entertainer in Germany and the rest of Europe. His pilgrimage across the Pyrenees to the Spanish shrine of St. James, is the same spiritual journey that over 100,000 people make every year. I expected a book by a "funny guy" to be intentionally funny. This book wasn't. It was most definitely amusing. But somehow, quietly and slowly, meaning and inspiration also snuck their way into the words he wrote. This book started off slowly for me. And by the time I had finished it I knew it would be a blog recommendation.