"It's not the pandemic," my friend Mary shook her head at breakfast this morning. "Reading scores are not coming up, and I know why."
"Kids aren't reading, right?" I said.
"AND," she added, "their parents aren't reading. Most kids never see an adult with a book outside of a classroom."
"It's all screens," I agreed.
"That's right," she nodded. "When I go to any waiting room, the kids are all looking at their phones, and so are the adults." She sighed. "We can't fix that at school."
"It's usually not a good use of your time to ask students to write first drafts and try to comment on all of them soon enough for a second draft," I told my nephew, the first-year English teacher, when he was lamenting how much better the essays he was grading would be if they were revised.
"I'm sure my teachers did that," he insisted. "I remember getting drafts back and then having to do a final."
"Did you do the writing in class or for homework?" I asked.
"Oh, it was all for homework," he scoffed, but then his eyebrows raised in understanding. "Which, of course, no one does anymore," he nodded.
"Right," I agreed. "We call it "retakes" now."
The weather was beautiful today: sunny and about 30 degrees warmer than last week. And there were plenty of people out and about when I walked Lucy this afternoon, but they didn't seem like quite the same set of folks I've nodded to since September. Some seemed older, fewer had dogs, not a lot were on their phones, and many were workers on the job.
It occurred to me then that the neighborhood might get a little lonelier soon. Many residents are federal workers who, in the coming months, will have to start reporting to work in person five days a week.
I can't even imagine how it will be, but I bet the dog walkers in the area are happy.
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.
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!
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!
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.
