Moments Alone, in St. Louis

By Managing Editor: Joshua Brown 

I landed at the St. Louis airport on an early Wednesday afternoon and got on the train to downtown. I noticed a young man leaned over a handrail high on something and another selling the remaining trip on a used bus pass. They let me know that this place can’t be too much different than my hometown, Cleveland. The familiar sights eased my nerves in a state I haven’t been in since I was a small child. After setting my bags in the hotel room, I stepped out into the clear, warm afternoon where the Gateway Arch stood above me gleaming down sunrays that squinted my eyes. Happy couples took pictures and walked their dogs along the pathways. And down a few steps from the park was the Mississippi River, calmly flowing southward. 

   Solo trips are journeys into identities, where a few still moments ease me into modes of self-reflection. Because I am a stranger in a city I don’t know. Because all that I brought with me are clothes and ideas. I stood on the riverfront for no more than thirty minutes watching the soft waves and the rowdy dirt bikers pass because, as much as I wanted to be, I was not there for a vacation. I came to St. Louis to attend a conference of the Midwest Black Law Student Association; networking, networking, and official business. I came to represent my school, my BLSA chapter, and, somewhere amongst all that, my own black-law-studentness. 

   I did get a few moments of downtime to explore the city. An Old Courthouse museum told the story of Dred Scott and down the road any civil procedure student would recognize a building engraved “International Shoe Co.” I treated myself to an evening walk where I found myself enjoying dinner and live music at an upscale jazz club before following the scarcely peopled streets back to the hotel. 

   The conference sessions were worth their time and I enjoyed being there. I met black lawyers of all fields and backgrounds; judges, transactional lawyers, and sports agents. As expected, many of the conference sessions gave time to questions of what it means to be black and a law student or lawyer. One session, concerning careers in public service, caught my ear when a speaker responded to a question about the relatively low incomes in public service careers. The speaker made a point that can be summarized into a promise made to us students: ‘You will not be destitute.’ The conviction in the speaker’s voice was solid and, to me, somewhat disturbing. 

   I was not disturbed because of any thought that she might be lying or inaccurate. I was disturbed by the prospect of her being true; that we, in that little conference room and walking the halls of law schools, are beyond the fears of poverty that effects so many people and disproportionately effects black and brown people.  

   The speaker’s promise is jarring when viewed against the harsh realities that so many people faced outside the hotel walls. I had just seen unhoused black men sleeping face down on pavement for rest the night before. I saw old men standing at bus stops asking for spare change. I thought back to home; at my internship with county public defenders, looking into defendants’ faces and mugshots. I thought back to depressed juries. There are murders on the streets I grew up on. Thinking of all these people, I wonder how I am any different from them. 

   Particularly, I think I was startled because the comment reminded me of the divisions between the social, political, and economic strata that shape our world. Even conferences promoting diversity in professional careers are emblematic of class distinctions due to the privileges necessarily acquired through academic achievement. Presence in the room is itself a symbol of status. 

   It is not a cause of shame to acknowledge our privilege as law students, though I think it is important to understand the dangers of alienating ourselves from those less privileged. I believe it is important and beneficial for all lawyers to be in connection with the community. This profession has a mixed reputation, especially among disadvantaged groups. Lawyers can often be viewed as being complicit with systems of oppression while also being acknowledged for their utility. I imagine that negative reputations can be refuted and alienations can be bridged through efforts of community service and engagement, and through pro bono work. 

   As I reflected, I began to see legal careers as an opportunity to embrace the total breadth of social variety. A law degree is special because it provides the tools to make tangible changes in the lives of underserved communities while also holding the social capital to push for institutional change. Lawyers can bridge gaps in communication between underrepresented populations and privileged elites. From homeless shelters to expensive jazz clubs, lawyers will never be out of place, and we can use that mobility to make positive change. 

   On the Sunday afternoon after the conference concluded, it was time to return home. I got on the train towards the airport with my bags, my tweed jacket, and my hair pulled back. A man looked me up and down and asked, “what do you do?” 

   When I told him that I am a law student, he replied by jumping into his story of how he lost custody of his children and how his ex-girlfriend cheated him out of $500. When he was done, he asked me for advice that I couldn’t give him, but I made it an effort to lend him a listening ear as he talked through his troubles. I hope that even while I am not yet a lawyer, the practice of acknowledging each person’s humanity and treating them as equals reflects well on the legal profession.