Reflecting on a Summer Day

Image from Wikimedia Commons

When I was a child, I thought adulthood would be just like summer vacation. I still have thoughts like that sometimes. 

  On a fast and sweltering Friday morning I collected my keys and wallet from the security checkpoint entering the Justice Center. I gave a big hug to Phil, the sheriff’s deputy who, day in and day out, has the biggest smile in the building. I turned toward the elevators as a woman came up to me saying that she recognized me from a poetry event where I performed. We shared a few words, the kind that are forgotten in the morning rush, and I went on my way. Looking back on it, I should have appreciated the interaction more than I showed. 

  I took the elevator up to meet Mr. James Levin, the founder and lead attorney for LegalWorks. LegalWorks is a small non-profit focused on sealing and expunging criminal records for low-income clients. The clientele is voluminous and varied and storied and weathered. Mr. Levin is a sometimes scruffy-looking lawyer from a generation of beatniks and hippies. More than that, he is a man of theater, carrying a nonchalance, or a tempered, aged joviality from years of performance in one way or another. He stands in the waiting area under the television screening “Chopped” on the Food Network. A handful of clients were sat down while the courtroom was still closed. He instructs me, the summer intern, to call the several late or absent clients.  

  Phone calls are nerve wracking. Many in my generation ignore all unrecognized phone numbers, so I had no expectation that cold calls from my personal number would reach their target at 9:30 on a Friday morning. I counted the dial tones anticipating a voicemail greeting. Dial tones, dial tones, dial tones, the unknown brought me back to the childhood wishings for an elder chaperone to hold my hand. A tired yet rushed voice answered the line and we exchanged: 

  “Hey, I’m Joshua from LegalWorks. Your expungement hearing is starting; can you get to the Justice Center in twenty minutes?” 

  “Yeah, I’m on my way right now.” 

  In the courtroom, it is easy to forget the world outside. The stillness and quiet in the air make like fish tanks or snow globes of wood and carpet. It carries the sound with purpose, pulls your focus to the centerpieced podium and centerpieced judge. I thought to myself, “this is where important things happen.” After a while, it’s not majesty, but gravity weighing the atmosphere; that our client’s lives will be transformed by the outcomes in this room. As majesty gives way to gravity, gravity gives way to improvised rehearsals of formula and longbuilt collegiality easing the latent tensions. The judge, the prosecutor, and Mr. Levin have been doing this every month for who knows how long, and it shows. After a few successful or continued expungements, Mr. Levin introduced me to the judge who I’d seen before in elevators and in passing. They asked about my schooling and my interests, as all the ‘adults’ do. 

  Before we left, I stopped in the Cuyahoga County Clerk of Courts office where I used to work. Hugs and well-wishes are exchanged liberally; I get to brighten their mood and mine. I checked to see if anyone filled the desk chair where I sat for over two years. I checked to see that all my old friends were still there, that nothing much was new, and that everything still goes on one day at a time. They have lofty expectations of me, like I had in gifted schools, and in scholarship programs, and in being the good kid. It makes me feel cradled and cared for. For me, a few floors of the Justice Center feel like home. 

  That evening, I went to a café and read a few poems to a small crowd. A crowd of strangers and friends I’m still getting to know. At the open mic we can take turns being the authority, being the adult in the room. I received my applause and sat down to hear the next poet speak their dreams. I watched the sun go down behind them late into the night and I drifted into summer vacation.