Juror 33

I figured that if you put me in a room with 100 of my fellow Arlingtonians, I would know at least one, and so that was what was on my mind as I rode the elevator to the 10th floor of the courthouse for jury duty this morning. And sure enough, shortly after checking in, I spotted a teacher from my former school busily working on emails and grades. Then, when they called everyone's name "in random order," I heard one I recognized; a student who I knew from swimming and basketball was staring at her phone across the room. I never would have picked her out of a crowd (clearly), but it had been about 15 years since I'd seen her last.

They asked us to be there at 8:45, "not too late, not too early," but they were still checking folks in at 9:30. The court employees obviously had a system; there were several pointers listed on a whiteboard with the legend "never erase" scrawled across the top, but I was struck at how it still seemed that they were making it up as they went. This was especially true when they called us up by rows of tables to receive our 50 dollar bills; the signature sheets were strewn across the table, forcing prospective jurors to pass them back and forth like bread baskets at a restaurant.

It was eerily quiet up there as we waited, too. Everyone looked at a screen or a book or a newspaper or out the window at the planes landing and taking off over the Potomac. At around 10:15 they warned us to use the restroom and stow our electronics because someone was coming to take 26 of us into the courtroom. I quickly realized that they were calling us in the same random order we had answered attendance to, and I was sure I would not be in the group. The other teacher was, though, and I knew my name was only a few after hers.

Once they left, we were given no further instructions for about an hour. Then they told us to hit the bathrooms again because they were coming for a few more. This time, my name was the seventh called, and I quickly gathered my things, accepted the laminated sheet with the number 33 printed on it, and lined up out in the hall. A short time later, we were shown into the courtroom, and the first 12 of us took our seats in the jury box while the other 14 sat in the pew-like audience section.

It was unclear if this was another trial or the same one-- there was no sign of the other 26 people. In a few moments, we met the judge, the Commonwealth's attorneys, and the defense attorney (all women), and voir dire began. I was surprised by how much information they gave us about the case and also a little shocked that it was a sex offense trial. Not only that, but it was basically a she-said-he-said situation, although there was some type of audio recording. 

I answered the questions honestly, but there were none posed to me directly. There were no clear reasons to dismiss me out of hand, and as the many sidebars went on, I wondered how I would be able to weigh the evidence if I was chosen when it was all testimony and circumstantial. I also dreaded spending the predicted three days immersed in such an ugly situation. Still, I was willing to meet this obligation, and I was curious to see what the experience of serving on a jury would be like.

They brought in the remaining 16 prospective jurors from the other group, and we listened to the judge describe our duties as the attorneys made their strikes. In the end, I was the last person struck, and I have no idea if it was a prosecution or defense choice. As I stood for a moment at the back of the room with the other 20 people who were also exiting the court, I looked at the 13 people who were chosen. 

They were young, in their 30s and 40s, except for one man who looked to be in in his late 60s. They were a diverse group, on the surface: several races and ethnicities seemed to be represented, and one woman wore a headscarf. More than half were men. I was a tiny bit disappointed, but not really, and I silently wished them all the best of luck as I headed out into the cold, bright January afternoon.

Contact High

The big box store was not too busy when we flashed our membership card and entered the enormous warehouse this afternoon. It was time to replenish our bulk stock of some of the staples we buy there, and after a busy day at school, Heidi was up for a little retail therapy, too. 

She was hoping for some Valentine's Day lights or decorations but was pleased to find a pair of Gap cargo pants instead. As we made our way back and forth across the aisles, I noticed that while they didn't have much for Valentine's Day, they were flush with Lunar New Year goodies. As I looked around at my fellow shoppers, I saw many couples or families who appeared to be shopping for that very holiday.

"When is it?" Heidi asked me when I pointed out my observations. 

"Wednesday," I told her as a woman with the happy air of someone on a joyful errand pushed her cart loaded with dumplings, wine, and other treats past us, a little boy and girl skipping excitedly behind her. 

I could actually feel their holiday spirit and that of others around me, and it was wonderful! Before I knew it, there was a spring in my step and a smile on my face. Welcome to you, Year of the Snake!

No Matter the Movie

We met Bill, Emily, and Treat at the movies a little before noon today. We were there to see The Brutalist and knock ten Academy Award nominations off our list. The film was long: three hours and 35 minutes, including a 15-minute intermission, and it depicted a lot of hardship, cruelty, and some resilience, too. 

The five of us blinked in the sunlight as we exited the theater, unsure what to make of it. We all agreed the acting was good, but we stood in a tight circle on the sidewalk, processing for several minutes, sharing observations and questions. Then we agreed to meet again next weekend for another movie. 

Oscar season is here!

Thrifty Thrifting

I usually end up tossing the discount coupon they give me at the thrift store donation center. At those times, my mind is on clearing out rather than acquiring more, and I never get around to using it when my attitude is otherwise.

Today, as I waited in a line of cars driven by folks with a similar disposition of dispossessing, I saw three high school-aged girls walk up with a couple of items each. They dropped them into the bin, accepted the coupon, and proceeded into the store. I admired their shrewd saving sense, even as I waved off my own coupon. 

Books for the Dub

I love listening to an audiobook while I'm cooking, and this evening, it was The Lion Women of Tehran by Marjan Kamali, a story spanning decades from the 1950s to the 1980s and crossing oceans from Iran to New York City. The novel was well recommended, but I think I chose it in part because last year, I listened to Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar. I was profoundly moved by that story of a young man who had moved with his dad to the States from Iran after his mother was lost when her plane was shot down by the USS Vincennes. 

When I was in high school in Switzerland in the late 1970s, several Iranian students were attending the school, too. Scions of wealthy families connected to the Shah, most were enrolled at our American school to learn English abroad, but not so far away as the United States. Those kids were a cultural force, and knowing them, living in the Middle East myself, and following the political upheaval of 1979 and beyond is definitely a draw for me when it comes to an Iranian setting.

In high school, we all learned Persian cussing. To this day, I could call bullshit or tell someone to go fuck their mom in Farsi, a skill I'm marginally proud of. At any rate, tonight, the main character in the novel describes her love of learning geography, and one of the examples is Portugal. "In our language the country is called Burtuqal," she says, "which means orange."

I've been to Portugal, and I know that vocabulary; the word for orange is the same in Arabic, which I learned in school in Saudi Arabia. But I never made the connection. How can it be that Portugal is named after oranges, or oranges after Portugal, and I never knew it? 

But how glad I am that I know it now!

Foxsplain Me

Who likes this shit?

It's a fair question in light of this week's news cycle, right? 

Who really thinks it's a good idea to pardon violent insurrectionists, gag government health agencies, conduct personal loyalty tests of federal employees, and install a Diet Coke button in the Oval Office? (And let's not even get started on the environment, reproductive rights, immigration, and transgender issues.)

I just don't get it, but although I'll never agree with such perspectives, I can't live the next four years condemning 51% of the electorate as selfish, ignorant morons. So, as a critic seeking clarity, I'm adding to my news providers. 

We'll see how that goes.

Eyes in the Sky

There's been a lot of helicopter traffic around here lately. 

Such roof-rattling whomp, whomp, whomp is not unheard of in these parts: Washington, D.C., is right over the bridge; we can see the Monument and Capitol from our balcony. The Pentagon is even closer, only a couple miles away. Even so, there seems to be an uptick in activity this week.

I've done my best to limit my media consumption and stay as positive as possible as a democratically elected president takes office and implements policies with which I disagree profoundly. Still, the sight of the wealthiest man in the world giving a Roman salute in celebration of this administration and witnessing the merciless codification of the hateful, revenge-driven rhetoric that framed the campaign has been hard to shake off. 

And then? 

There are all those helicopters.