When did you become a citizen?

I came wrapped in Americana from the get-go… Born in Houston, of American parents, Girl Scouts, 4th of July, Pilgrims, turkey, with all the trimmings. So, this is not about my harrowing experience, huddled in some tiny boat, making my way here to escape a horrendous life elsewhere. This is about actually becoming a citizen, with a capital “C.”

Out of the mouths of strangers…

It would have never occurred to me to even share it, if I had not overheard a conversation one recent afternoon. I was waiting for a friend in that great American Conference Room, Starbucks. A man and woman were talking about the upcoming elections. (Tuesday, November 3, by the way). “What’s the use in voting–it doesn’t really make any difference–what’s one measly vote?” They were both nodding in agreement about the futility of their personal views ever getting voted into being.

Then the subject switched to jury duty.  Evidently one had gotten a summons that day. Each was suggesting ways to get out of “wasting the whole day, parked in a room full of people who ‘could care less’ about being there.”

I kept my mouth shut with them–but guess what–now you are going to get the ear full that they should have gotten. Since this blog is seen by thousands of people, maybe it’s better this way.

It has become popular to avoid jury duty

I used to be just like them. Jury duty seemed like such a pain in the neck. I felt that way, even more so, when I was selected for one. The case was criminal: aggravated robbery. The guy on trial was accused of robbing someone with a deadly weapon; in this case, a gun. The defendant was Hispanic, with a deep, red slash mark running from ear to ear, across his throat. Multiple scars fragmented his ominous, scowling face. You know the one–if looks could kill. Say you were casting a “Bad Ass” for a western film, he would be your man.

As we learned during the course of the trial, which lasted 3 days, this man was the ring leader of a gang that robbed illegal aliens. His band of outlaws preyed on families who could not report these crimes to the police because of their status as illegal or they would be deported. They made an easy target for these predators who could rape, murder, rob and terrorize their families. Law enforcement rarely put a stop to the escalating carnage because more often than not, they never knew about it in the first place.  It never occurred to me how much danger illegal aliens put themselves in–particularly in this case.

Until one day, a brave man, Javier Dominquez, stood up to testify against this bandido. He said, “Enough.” He reported the crime to the police–the defendant had broken into his home, raped his mother (a separate trial was being held for this) and robbed the family, at gun point, in front of eight of his eleven brothers and sisters. Once Javier went to the police, he was deported within two days. He was knew the consequences of his actions but was ready to return to Mexico, if that’s what it took to round up these predators, once and for all.

Javier had placed himself on the “hero’s journey” to save his family and friends from the ongoing terror of these vicious and random attacks that had gone “unnoticed.” He also risked his life by coming back to the States to testify at the trial. The gang was waiting for him, ready to kill him in order to set their leader free. They filled the courtroom, the day of his testimony in an effort to intimidate him and us, the jury. Javier’s family also stayed away for fear of being killed themselves.  LAW and ORDER could not have crafted this scenario.

The atmosphere in the courtroom was a white knuckle quiet. When Javier walked up to take his oath before testifying, the only sound was of the air, swooshing through the vents in the cavernous courtroom. He stayed the course and told his story.  A guilty verdict was delivered two hours later.

After finding the defendant guilty, we then found out we were supposed to set the punishment which was scheduled for the next day. That put a whole new twist on our role as citizens. Another person’s life was now in our hands. Even though we knew he was guilty of terrible things and even though we found out that he had a history of crimes, dating back years and years–still, to think that we would now be responsible for sending him to prison for life without parole–sent our jury room into another emotional and sober silence. The issue was whether or not he would be eligible for parole. We voted. Only one person said, he should be eligible for parole. We voted again. And again. We went to lunch. Maybe, the light of day and a good burger would change this person’s mind. Nope. A full stomach had strengthened his resolve. And, that resolve turned the tide of the ultimate outcome. The convicted felon would receive another chance, in 15 years. The deal was done. One dissenting vote was all it took. One.

Our lives really are in one another’s hands.

I saw our system work during those three days. I was part of a process created for all of us to benefit from. I got to be an advocate for a very brave man, named Javier, who needed me; who needed all of us to care and to show up to do our part as citizens. Through the process of being a juror, I was actively being my brother’s keeper. My decisions affected the lives of countless people who had been terrorized in their daily lives for years. The ripple effect of just showing up to do my duty, in a room full of strangers, when it had seemed like such a pain to be there–turned me around to the truth. My thoughts, my decisions, my actions do have a profound effect on the lives of others.

Another profound truth in action–the power of one person, sticking to his beliefs, even when the whole room was pressuring for something different. Self-respect and personal power which had always been a nice idea to discuss, became real in the form of this lone man, who believed that everyone deserved another chance in spite of the crimes he may have committed. When asked why he would not relent. He simply said, “Because I believe in the power of redemption.” I will never forget the look on his face, or his tone of voice. No defensiveness or anger that the rest of us had felt toward him for not going along. He was steadfast.

To this day, I still don’t agree with him, in this particular case but my respect for this man and his opinion still stands. Even more important, though, I came away with one of the inalienable right we have in our country to make our own decisions–and the power and responsibility and honor which accompanies that right–a right that is not freely given in many other parts of the world.

So, on those days when you say to yourself–”Oh hell’s bells, what difference does any of it make?” Please, Reframe.

Say to yourself, “What difference do I make?” Count yourself in the game. Know that you matter, very much to the rest of us.

The ocean is made up of tiny drops, coming together to form something so much more. Our vote, our participation in the process of being a citizen does the same thing and it does matter. I am ashamed to say that it took what I just described to you for it to sink in. 

Now, I see that I hold an office in our country. I was not elected to it–I was born into it–the office of citizen. It is an identity that I don’t often think about because it has always just there, for me, like air and water. It is an honor that I need to recognize and respect for the goodness and quality of life and freedom that being a citizen of this country, provides me.

Can you imagine a choir, where all the members expect to have their seat and their rightful robes to wear–they want to hear the music and enjoy the performance–yet everyone in the choir tries to get out of practicing–because they don’t really want to be expected to do the singing?

All for now.

You may wish I had stayed at Starbucks.

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