Stereotypes and Self-righteousness

(cross-posted at blah blah blog)

As one of the editors of IndieInk, I agreed to participate in one of its weekly writing challenges. This week, my challenge was from Sir: “He/She placed the stereotype on the anvil and began hammering it into something sharp and deadly that could be used to open the minds of the self-righteous.” And, while that’s poetic and all, it doesn’t really fit with this blog or my writing style. But it does lead into the idea of stereotypes and self-righteousness -- and, with that, a story.

When I was in my last semester of law school, I worked as an unpaid intern in the county public defender’s office. (I've mentioned it before, in passing.) I had great, lofty goals about what I would be doing there – the kind of lofty goals that only a 22 year old with no real-world experience could have. Mostly, they were along the line of defending the wrongfully accused, reforming the criminal justice system, abolishing the death penalty, etc., etc. Oh, the naïveté of youth . . .

The internship was jointly supervised between the assistant chief of the office and one of our criminal law professors. We had a classroom session each week, where we learned, essentially, the basics of how to practice law as criminal defense attorneys. And during the week, we were required to work a certain number of hours at the office. In bigger cases, we were required to work under the actual attorneys – and generally, they were busy enough to be thankful for whatever help we could provide. In smaller misdemeanor cases, the clients could agree to let us act as their lead attorneys, with assistance from the supervising attorneys.

Early on in the semester, the professor asked us what kind of cases we were uncomfortable with. My answer, as an upper-middle class sheltered suburban girl was easy: I wanted nothing to do with domestic battery. I didn’t want to envision a world where men hit women, where families were anything less than happy and stable. And, of course, if a fight escalated to the point where an arrest was made, in my mind it was clear that the man must have hit the woman. Accordingly, I, perhaps self-righteously, did not want to defend those men.

Of course my professor saw that as an engraved invitation to assign me to a pretty horrible domestic battery case. And lucky for me, the defendant had agreed to let me be his lead attorney. Worse yet, even though it was a misdemeanor, my client had been sitting in jail for days, because the arrest was a violation of his probation, and if he plead guilty or lost at trial, he was facing mandatory jail time.

My client was a stereotype: a young black offender with a history of violence and drugs. I remember going to the county jail to see him. I was frightened out of my mind. I remember the security, the sound of the doors closing behind me, the fear as I was led to a private interview room where I was to meet with my client – alone, without any of the guards to protect me. When my client was brought to me in shackles, I was scared to death.

I finally relaxed enough to start talking about the case with him – whether he would be interested in a plea deal if it meant that he would have a reduced sentence. But he kept maintaining that he was innocent. I didn’t believe it, not for a second. Not with his violent background. Not with the photo in the case file of his cute little girlfriend with bruises on her face and arms. I firmly believed that his desire to fight the charge was posturing, or a fear of having to do real jail time.

But then I remembered that I was there to do a job. I also remembered, from our classroom sessions, that we needed to examine the facts of the case carefully, avoid responding instinctively and jumping to conclusions, and instead, use our intellect. And so, I started digging through the files, interviewing witnesses, piecing together a defense. First I researched my client's alibi for the night of the attack, but it was a bit shaky.

But then the tide turned: I found out that the alleged victim, my client’s ex-girlfriend, was also the mother of his child, and that she had been pressuring my client to sign away his parental rights to the child. I also found out that the officer that helped her fill out her statement was her new boyfriend. The officer-boyfriend had taken the photo of her injuries, handwritten the affidavit detailing the fight, had her sign it, and one of his co-officers witness it.

After I interviewed her, the prosecutor dropped the charges against my client.

Do I think that the ex-girlfriend was a victim of violence? Unequivocally, yes. After all, it was before digital cameras, and the police report had that horrible, horrible picture in it. On the other hand, do I think that my client was innocent of the charges? I’m still not sure, but I am firmly convinced that the outcome of the case was correct.

If I learned anything from the case, it’s that not everything is what it appears to be. And I am certainly glad that I opened my mind enough to prevent stereotypes, prejudices, self-righteousness and biases from getting in the way of doing my job.

Moving forward, looking back

I almost never think of you at all anymore, but, for some reason, you're on my mind right now.

Maybe it's the fact that I was in your neighborhood today. On the train, and then, on the bus, I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for you to materialize out of nowhere. It made me nervous. What if you were angry about the way I stopped responding to your calls, your emails, your texts. What if you glared at me? Or worse yet, what if you looked at me with sadness or remorse -- the same forlorn, lost look that spoke to me in the first place? Here's the funny thing -- I know I did nothing wrong. Turnabout is fair play, and I did nothing to you that you didn't do to me first, worse. So you have no right to make me feel this way.

Or maybe it was because of the hurricane brewing out at sea. Remember our hurricane, the one that almost ruined our second date? Instead, we just sat inside and talked and talked and talked. I wonder if it would have turned out differently if we hadn't been stuck inside together for all those hours at the very beginning. Would my guard have stayed up longer -- long enough to keep you from worming your way in, pretending you were something I needed, and then running away?

I know it's over, way over. And today, these thoughts of you were just a momentary detour, a quick glance back in my rearview mirror. Next time I look up, they'll be even further behind me.

Solstice

You and I, we've reached our solstice. I am finally at the furthest distance out of your orbit. Can I resist the gravitational pull?

I'm getting stronger, day by day. I need you less, I want you less.

I've been waiting for this moment. I haven't felt this alive in ages. It's as if the blood had stopped, but now, it's pouring back, like a dam has broken.

I went outside in the dead of night to stare at the eclipse. It was freezing, and even in the middle of downtown, breathtakingly quiet. The moon was blood red.

It's funny that the longest, darkest night is also the brightest.

The Deep End

(Also posted at IndieInk, December 2010.)

It was hot and we were restless. We roamed around, looking for trouble. The swimming pool caught his eye. He grabbed my hand and pulled me in that direction.

“It’s been closed for hours. We’ll get in trouble.”

“Not if we’re quiet.”

“I don’t have a bathing suit.”

He looked at me with a wicked grin.

“Or towels.”

He shrugged, and then took off his clothes and jumped in. I hesitated, but then stripped down to my bra and panties. “Really?” he laughed, and then splashed me. I jumped in the deep end.

The water was refreshing at first, still slightly warm from the day’s sun. I floated aimlessly on my back, lost in thought, while he swam up and down the length of the pool. Occasionally I would steal a glance at his muscular arms.

We stayed in the pool for a long time, too long. My teeth started chattering; my body shivered. He noticed and came up to me, grabbing me in a bear hug. I had never noticed how strong he was, how warm he was, before that moment. He kissed my neck and shoulder; I lay my head against his chest, and time stopped. I didn’t want to be the one to end the magic.

Finally, without words, he grabbed my hand and led the way out of the water, to the locker room, all the way to the back to the showers. He turned the hot water on, and held me up against the wall, kissing me, more and more aggressively. I could feel the cool tile pressing into my back. I held on to him tightly, not because I thought he’d drop me, but because I wanted to stay in that embrace and melt into him. “This is what letting go feels like,” I thought to myself.

All these years later, on hot nights when I can't sleep, this is the memory that fills my head. I wonder where he is now, what he is doing. I wonder if he's lying awake somewhere, feeling the heat, remembering. I hope it's one of those things he can't forget either.

Sleeping In

(Also posted at IndieInk, July 2011.)


I lingered in bed this morning because of the holiday. I reflexively reached my hand across to the other side, forgetting that you're not there anymore. Remember all the hours we spent here? Do you think about it at all? For me, on days like this, it's like you never left. Your ghost lingers -- the ghost of us lingers. It haunts me.

I was never entirely sure that I loved you until the day you left. I suspected, but I was never certain until that instant. Maybe it's because I only really love things that are too broken to salvage, like the furniture I insist on rescuing from my neighbors' trash or the ratty old sweater that my mom wore when I was a kid. I see the most beauty in the imperfections and the history that they represent. And so, only when I had a complete historical narrative of our past and present and future could I see that it was, indeed, love.

It's more than that, though: I only knew that I loved you when I knew that it would never be. I only love the unattainable, the mysterious, the forbidden. I don't like realities -- the Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays, the rote, the routine, the mundane. I like the Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays, the late nights and late mornings and the lazy afternoons, the departure from the norm and the potential for the unexpected. And so, I love the holidays. I just loved them a little bit more when you were here too.