Who I owe it to

The first time I went into a courtroom I was fourteen years old. I wandered my way through the courthouse and found my family already sitting in the first two rows of the hard, wooden benches, behind the defense table. My cousin, Greg (who was fifteen at the time), was in the beginning stages of a criminal case. His lawyer told my family that we could speak with him if we got there before the judge started calling cases, but the window was brief. 

I spent the entire day prior curating an outfit that represented my family as respectable and dignified. I hoped that the judge could look at me and see someone who was in Pre AP English and Geometry, who participated in academic decathlon, and numerous other accolades. I thought that if I represented us well, it would have some bearing on Greg’s case. If someone like me loved him, then he obviously was a good person.

Greg’s lawyer was there explaining to us the dangers of a trial. He asked us to “talk some sense” into my cousin “before things got worse.” These are the only conversations my family ever had with this lawyer though we had turned our lives upside down to pay him. They were always rushed, immediately before court calls, and filled with his insistence that we “do our part” in convincing Greg to forfeit his freedom. He, of course, reached out to remind us when payments were due for his retainer.

I remember feeling that day, nervous, to the point that it nauseated me to see Greg again. I didn’t know what to expect. This was the first time I could remember going longer than a week without speaking to him. He and I had grown up together. Greg was a year older than me and we were so close we called each other brother and sister. I loved him for his humor, his unique intelligence, his rambunctious outlook on life, and his protective aura. Whenever I had problems, with whomever, he was the person I depended on.

Now, he was no longer in a position to protect and instead needed protection. When he walked into the room, I held my breath until he let out his signature crooked smile and winked in our direction. He sat down and immediately took on his usual role within my family dynamic.

“Damn, your mama let you miss class for this shit?” he asked me, causing us all to laugh.

“The hall (a shortened name for juvenile hall) is easy. I just been in there smashing books and working out. I’ma probably run it by the time I’m out,” he bragged, a play on his intelligence and rambunctious spirit.

“Y’all don’t even need to worry about any of this, I’ma be home soon.” He promised us, more than himself, trying to preserve the protective aura he was known for.

I spent the next few months with a never-ending pit in my stomach, waiting for Greg’s next court date so we could share these brief moments. In the end, neither my nor my family's efforts no efforts mattered. Greg was sentenced as an adult to twenty-nine years, and he has spent every day of his life in prison ever since. He never stopped telling jokes and assuring us that he would be out soon, up until the moment he accepted his plea.

I remember walking into court that last day and even though his attorney had told us what to expect, there was not a single piece of my heart that could imagine a judge actually imposing a prison sentence of more years than my Gregory had even lived. And there was no way anyone would see him as an adult, let alone an adult criminal. At the time, he still had red braces brackets across his teeth. He hadn’t even begun to grow facial hair. Regardless of all of this, he accepted the deal, and our lives have never been the same since.

During the first two weeks of our classes, two questions came up that reminded me of this experience.

First, when reflecting on the Hidden Brain podcast with Shankar Vedantam, Professor Pruitt asked something along the lines of what we all have had to give up in order to get to where we are. When I really reflect on this question, I think my answer is a lot different than many other first-generation students. To get here, I feel like I gave up nothing, but everyone around me gave up everything.

As we have discussed throughout the semester, there are systemtic barriers that run deep throughout the professional and academic world. As put by Tanvi Sakhamuru, this world wasn’t made for people like me. In a weird, and probably cynical way, I feel like there was only room for one person from my background to succeed like I have, and I was just lucky enough that it was me.

Growing up, none of my friends or family had any different dream careers than the mainstream ideas of becoming doctors, teachers, scientists, psychologists, lawyers, etc. Unfortunately, almost none of these goals came to fruition.

It is a sobering thought to feel like everyone around me was held back so that I could strive. This feeling leads me to the second question, which was asked by Alina Ali during week two: why should we, as first-generation students, be the ones who have to spend our lives trying to fix the systemic issues that we didn’t create? (This is paraphrasing and not a direct quote at all). This is a very understandable question. For me though, when I think about the people I know who have spent the majority of their lives struggling, in jail cells, poor, overworked, and with little to no hope for change, there is no other option but for me to use all of the sacrifices they have given me to give back to them and people like them.

When people ask me how I will handle public defense work, I just tell them I was born to do it. In my mind, I remember the moments I spent on those cold, wooden courtroom benches where my family suggested, compromised, begged, and pleaded with a lawyer who deemed us as inferior from the second after we signed his retainer contract. I remember those feelings any time I meet a new client and I know I owe it to Greg, and everyone else who lifted me up, to do everything I can to defend them like they deserve to be defended.

Gregory and I at my eight grade graduation. This was a few months before he was arrested.