Sidewalk Sitting

Tuesday morning, I waited in line outside of the US Supreme Court for almost eight hours. I arrived at 4:30 am and sat down on the sidewalk curb next to a co-worker. The Supreme Court has perfectly trimmed shrubbery; I can say that with authority. I passed about 40 people as I made my way to the back of the line. About 30 of them arrived prior to 2:30 am, some with sleeping bags and food supplies. I couldn't help but think we looked like a twisted form of Occupy Wall Street in suits. It rained lightly on and off for the next couple of hours and I waited for the sky behind the Capitol dome to change to morning colors.

At 6:15 am, one of my friends texted me, "Be safe out there! The weather woke me up and it sounds pretty nasty." As if on cue, the sky lit up with a flash of light. We spent the next hour watching lightening bolts in the distance and then watching the streams of rain pour down the side of the umbrella. The lights illuminating the dome of the Capitol turned off around 7am and the sky behind the dome turned a cloudy gray. The rain eased up, but the line ahead of us became saturated with bodies. Unfair place-holding resulted in an increase in our line number. We went from about 40 to about 60 then 69 and 70 by the time a guard handed out numbers and moved the line to the steps of the Supreme Court.

At 8 am, they let in the first 50 people. So we stood. And waited. To see how many would enter in the next round. At 9:45 they let in another 10. There was a chance we would be able to enter for the second argument at 11:00 am. So we stood. Then sat. And waited. To see how many would enter in the next round. By 10:30 am everything began to get hazy. Conversation slowed down, my brain stopped thinking in complete sentences. Perhaps It stopped thinking at all. I caught myself zoned-out, staring at the Senate Office Buildings, trying to remember the feel of the cool air-conditioning after a long summer's walk. Trying to remember the smooth floors, the hallway lighting, the carpet and wood in the judiciary committee room. Not being able to remember much of that at all, actually. A life time ago, really.

At 11:45 am, one of the guards approached us quickly and we all sprung up. They had enough room for 15 more of us to hear the last part of the last argument. We went through security, bound up the stairs, threw our things into lockers and waited, again, to walk into the courtroom. I had only been in the Supreme Court once, a few years ago, and my memories had faded. I had forgotten how strong the pillars stood, how high the ceiling towered, how even the floor seemed embedded with authority. How small it could all make you feel.

They opened the courtroom door around noon. After almost 8 hours of waiting, we finally walked into the courtroom.

I had been in there before, briefly, on a tour. It was smaller than I remembered. The Justices sat in their chairs this time and a rush of adrenaline hit me as I took my seat. The State was presenting its case. I disagreed so strongly with the argument that I had a hard time not dismissing it as illogical, nonsensical, and weak. Weak as in failing to do anything other than blindly follow authority. I'm going to leave the legal critique for another person in another venue, but I will say this much:

I have come so far. Without realizing it, I have come so far. My Con Law I professor made me nearly hyperventilate. I avoided him in the hallway because I was terrified eye-contact meant he would call on me in class. I re-read cases multiple before class because I didn't know which footnotes were the important ones.* I struggled with the Dormant Commerce Clause. I struggled with many clauses. Some days, I thought the opinions were certainly written in a foreign language. (Which yes, law is.) However, I sat in the US Supreme Court on Tuesday and respectfully disagreed with the State's argument. I understood every word. I knew the weight behind each sentence. I have carried the weight of each concept. Juvenile. Life. Without. Parole. Rehabilitation. Public Safety. Accountability. Intent. Adolescent. I have come so far from those textbook pages and multi-colored highlighters. I have come so far from diverting my eyes to avoid the Socratic Method. I have become fluent in a language that allows me to stand up for my ideals.

We listened to the State's argument and the brief rebuttal of the Defender, who used the opportunity to present closing remarks. We stood up and exited the courtroom with the rest of the crowd. We walked down the stairs and squinted into the sun and I wished my hair didn't feel so dirty.

I texted a friend who also happens to be a housemate and took her up on her suggestion to get lunch. She works in a House Office Building, so I stood in line for security. I remembered this time. The July heat, the weight of the suit jacket over my arm, the cold air streaming out the doors, the minutes in line hoping they didn't amount to too late. I remember the rush of energy that came with walking through the metal detectors, putting on the suit jacket and heels, and clickclacking down the hall. The last time I was in this building we met with a Representative and then flyered the whole building. My feet hurt and I promised myself that graduating law school would mean next time I would only have to participate in the first half of the day's activity. High hopes, I still had. But on Tuesday, I met my friend and we walked to the cafeteria for lunch together. I apologized for my lack of coherent sentences and tried to wipe the goofy grin off my face. The past and present wrapped up together can get complicated, but it can also make me deleriously happy.

After lunch, I called my mom as I walked past the fountain, the Capitol building, and up Louisiana Avenue towards Union Station. How many times that summer did I walk the very same sidewalks? Gushing excitement and joy in the sunshine, saying this. is. it. That summer, it was almost every day. A lot has happened since that summer. In the world and in my world. But still. I called my mom and gushed. In the sunshine, walking long-lost steps, I gushed. These days are fleeting, I know, but I earned them. I waited the eight hours. And longer.



[If you are interested in the substance of the juvenile cases, the briefs and oral argument transcripts are on the US Supreme Court website. Media coverage includes the New York Times, Washington Post, and CNN, among others.]

*Dear 1Ls, Buy a hornbook. It's not cheating. I promise. It's a lifesaver. And a memo I got too late in law school. Love, Emily. P.S. Footnote 4 in Carolene Products is The Important One.

Suits & Bracelets

She wore a bright-colored, glass bracelet, peeking out from under her black suit jacket. Matching suit pants. Wavy, long hair cascading over her shoulders. On some days, pulled into a simple pony tail.

She pulled out leather chairs in the Hill conference room and sat down with authority. But also sank into quietly into coalition meeting chairs without disturbing the loud rounds of hellos and announcements of personal ego. Her emails distributed out-of-office notifications with phrases like "six weeks" and "Guantananamo Bay"- but she spoke mostly of rafting trips and sun on California beaches. She smiled more often than not.

I cut my hair the summer before in favor of a shorter, older, more professional look. I wore naked wrists and naked earlobes.

More often than not, I still do, but two falls ago, I let my hair grow longer.

I want pant suits with perfect pressed lines hanging in my closet. I want the confidence to slip into one at a moment's notice and stand up quiet, loud, proud, with ease for what I believe. I have the belief, I have the knowledge, listen.

Most of the time, I want to wear jeans. I want to carry my camera everywhere and actually snap the shot. Stop. Move to the left. Bend down, stand on my toes, weave through the crowd, feel the eyes of the crowd, but take the photo anyway.  I want to take the photo and not notice the eyes. Everyday.

Write. Everyday. Write with a pen in a moleskin, notebook, journal. With the tumblr, twitter, gmail distractions closed and tucked away. Write with honesty at the core. Live with honesty at the core. Everyday.

Travel. As a lifestyle. Not a vacation. Not work. Buy tickets, pack the bag, and leave. Walk new streets, eat the food, say hello to new faces. In these moments, I am an extrovert. Sleep in tents, on trains, hostel bunk beds, airport lounges. Bring a pen. Bring the camera. Go, go, go.

Listen to music. Live. Stay up too late on a weeknight, lose my voice on a Saturday night, sing along, dance. Be inspired. To feel it. To express it. To share it. All of it. Listen to those songs on repeat, download the latest album, remember the old favorites. Fill the days, the hours, the minutes with melodies, harmonies, lyrics.

Drink more water, eat more protein, think about yoga on Saturday afternoons, pop a few vitamins, use more hand lotion, let the rest of it go.

Let most of it go.

I'll find my own bright-colored bracelet and slip it on under the cuff of my black pressed suit. 

Dismantled Suit, Iron-Worn Pants & Buttons Loose, I Am Here

 virtual tour

The summer interns arrive in droves. They wear crisp suits, fresh faces, and bright eyes. Razor burn along the jaw line and a forgotten dab of shaving cream behind the ear. Toe nails painted with summer colors and tucked under flipflop straps. We tuck our winter toes under the seats; has the season changed already? Our weathered faces point down or out, practiced at processing the sights their bright eyes soak up.

I had bright-eyes, too. Three summers ago, before and before and before... when I could walk to work each morning under the gaze of the Capitol building and watch summer thunderclouds wrap themselves around her dome in the evening. I wore those crisp suits until they melted my skin and wilted in the summer heat. I learned to stand in the entryway of Senate Office Buildings long enough for the sweat to evaporate and the goosebumps to form before replacing the suit jacket. Three summers ago, when I spent mornings standing in line outside the committee room, afternoons with a press-pass in hand, and evenings on conference calls dissecting proposed amendments.

I've rolled my eyes at politicians. You know this, you've seen me. But I've also stood in a church pew holding back an "amen" at grassroots campaigning and in the back of the state legislative library in our almost his-and-her suits, flipping through volumes of this and that and this... searching for nothing and coming up so close. I've sat on the couch in that office across the hall of flags. And with my legs crossed in the third row of the of the committee room.

Three summers ago, I threw my arms around her in the marble-walled bathroom four doors down from the mark-up. We celebrated the passage and our late-night work sessions outside the third stall until those-who-did-this-for-a-living walked in with tiredhappy faces. I took mine, with its wet eyes, for a celebratory milkshake that afternoon.

Three summers ago, before and before and before...

Before I learned that which means nothing to me can rise to mean everything and then settle into nothing again.

I am here again. Miles from the Capitol building, but I am here again. Dismantled suit, iron-worn pants and buttons loose, I am here again. Tired eyes, but I am here again.

All that's glamorous has fallen away.* The marble-faced buildings and the echo of my heels down their never-ending halls, the dark, wood panels of the committee room and spiral staircases, the balcony rocking chairs. The playful smiles and my eye rolls. The I know, I know, I know...

I work through tangled, misguided legislation passed in capitol buildings I've never entered by politicians who's faces I've never known. Slip my feet in and out of flats under my desk and leave them hovering over the green carpet. We adjust the air-conditioning and belly laugh until tears fall from our tired eyes.

I am here again and I am here for the first time and I am here for everything that's not glamorous. I am here for everything that's important.



*With exception, of course. Patience, Emily. Patience.

Maybe This Is It?

The last time I was here, the cardboard cut-outs of Hillary Clinton were 50% off.  Tourists stopped to take photographs with a two dimensional Obama or McCain.  Memory re-orders the shops.  I deem them misplaced but almost rejoice that they are all still here.  I know the best place to buy lunch, which line moves the fastest, how to find tiny altoids (downstairs at the convenience store tucked around the corner from the escalator).  The Starbucks line still falls out the door and accidentally mingles with the Hertz rental car line.  I remember how empty this space feels at 10pm.  It always  seemed like we were the only ones in the city who needed a late-night coffee to make it the 3 blocks home.  We probably were. 

I had forgotten the friendly nature of people here.  How much more they smile.  How much more I smile.  I recognize faces, although mine goes unnoticed.  My heart breaks a little when that face is homeless.  Still sitting and staring and chanting.  I almost walk two blocks in search of my favorite - he was a kind head nod and small smile every day that summer.  I don't want to walk by the old office and old "apartment", so I tell myself he is fine and almost believe it.  I still see faces of people who aren't here.  Who were never here with me.  People I have not thought of in months.  I'm surprised that this hasn't faded with time, and I wonder if it ever will.  Will this city always remind me of you?  I had forgotten how often someone asks me for directions: "I don't know *shrug* I'm sorry!"  I apologize that an ipod on doesn't mean resident, and they apologize for breaking my stride.  We meet in the middle of the sloppy apologetic puddle and move forward.  Kindness. 

This time around my thoughts form stories, laying words like bricks, but I'm not sure there is a foundation. This time I decide not to walk through the Senate office buildings and head straight for the Museum of the American Indian.  I stop and breath in the Capitol building.  Inhale and exhale peacefulness.  My eye searches for photographs and captures viewfinder shots differently than two years ago, when I played tourist with my camera and resident with my heart.  I sit in the shadow of the museum and watch the waterfalls cascade.  I'm gentle on myself for not remembering the symbolism of the architecture and landscaping.  Note the importance I assign this knowledge.  I pick up a brochure on my way out and promise to take the tour next time.  Next time.  Feel daunted and assured. 

At the end of the day I'm in Union Station, sitting in a gray suit with a pen in one hand and a Starbucks in the other.  If I am trying to reconcile parts of me - professional and personal - then maybe this is it?

State House

[originally written 2008]

2-12-08
Warm, yellow, light wraps its arms around me. Almost gently whispering, encouraging, a distant dream that I crawl towards on scraped hands and knees. Warm, yellow, light raises me to my feet, an arm around my shoulders, it provides support, absorbs my chills and uncertainty. It bounces off the marble floors, as if it pours straight down from the high rise dome. Softly encouraging a path not clearly marked, pointing out how far I have come already. In the warmth and embrace of its arms, I can set aside the doubt and appreciate the grace of this house, the pages bound in maroon, the decades of framed photographs, and picture the rocking chairs on the balcony. Surely wide-eyed, and infatuated with the architecture, the people, the issues, even the coffee in the Styrofoam cup he hands me. Reluctant to depart, but encouraged and uplifted. A loosely connected goal dancing in the distant future. For a moment, I could almost reach out to it, in the warmth of the yellow light.


4-9-08
I find the steps myself this time. The clank of my heels almost familiar, but the Appropriations sign hangs above my head, and I have to spiral up one more flight. A sea of faces, I scan for familiar ones, but I find none, so I take a seat in between. In between the House and the Senate.

This time I don't notice the light of the third floor, until we travel down a floor or two, stopping in the doorway of a darker hallway. A familiar face, and it takes me a little while to place why. A familiar con law issue, and it takes me a minute to remember why. A familiar admin term, and I know why. We pass through the doorway. Upstairs, I now have a friendly face to sit with, a reassurance that I understand more than I think I do, and a place in a conversation about a Bill I had never heard of. Sitting between two attorneys, I am not an attorney. Do I want to sit here as an attorney?

When they depart, I am left to watch my own thoughts run a treadmill race. Division into legislators and onlookers. I am somewhere in between. Lost in a sea of their pilot language, I try to translate with involuntarily squinted eyes. I know the importance of understanding the language, understanding the process, even if I never plan to stand in their place. I do not want to stand where they stand. Do I want to stand beside them - not on the floor, but in theory – helping to shape the conversation?

We leave for lunch, and I willingly sink into the familiar, concaved, red couch and look around. A coffee machine that that leaks water, books filled with rainbow highlights, and a hanger that probably once had a home in the car. Familiarity became an understatement as soon as we passed through the doorway. I wait for a comment about the lack of protein in my lunch, but he lets it pass. We let our conversation wander. To others it may seem like our own pilot language, but this one comes naturally for me, no need to translate. With two people it seems impossible to sit in between, but even when an additional friendly face arrives, I'm not worried about the in between.

At the end of the day, I'm not sure where I belong, but not I'm entirely lost either. At least I can find my way to the stairs.

Another List

I really do like lists. However, I promise that this blog will not become a compilation of the many lists in my life. (Although, that is a neat idea...) This is the 25 Random Things About Me list that everybody is posting on facebook. I love, love, love reading everybody's lists, but I can't bring myself to post mine on my facebook page. The reasons why I hesitate could probably be covered in no less than three hours of analyzing with my girlfriends, so I won't try to go into it here - but I will post my list here.

1. I love fried green tomatoes, but I've only had them once, and I can't remember when it was or who made them for me.
2. The Kogod Courtyard is one of my favorite places to spend an afternoon with a cup of coffee and a pen in hand.
3. I have an extremely high tolerance for sugar and probably eat more candy than most people you know.
4. I can't wait for Midnight Sun.
5. I hate to clean. Unless something is bothering me, then I clean compulsively and excessively.
6. Going to William Smith was the best decision I ever made, going to law school was the best mistake I ever made.
7. I am fantastic at living in small spaces.
8. I want Stacey London's wardrobe.
9. The year I spent in "Rural State" as an AmeriCorps VISTA was one of the hardest, most rewarding, and most worthwhile experiences I have ever had. It has become a core portion of who I am.
10. I have given some serious thought to becoming a truck driver.
11. I slept through the entirety of Red Dragon and the remake of Chainsaw Massacre (which we saw in the theater). This sleeping-through-movies-habit is part of the reason why I have probably not seen most of your favorite movies.
12. I could write pages about the amazing people in my life. I am trying not to reference anybody in this simply because there are too many important things to say about so many people that there is not enough time or room. That being said, I have amazing people in my life.
13. I learned to drive on a standard car, took my driving test on a standard, and have now driven a standard for about 10 years.
14. I love the hws bank of Seneca Lake, especially on a clear night.
15. I once taught a course called "LifeSkills" to middle schoolers. But I learned more from them than they ever learned from me.
16. I have an infatuation with capitol buildings and the work that goes on in them.
17. I've never been to Alabama, but when my cellphone is on "ring," the tune is "Sweet Home Alabama." (And has been for years.)
18. Oh, I could tell you stories...
19. Pandora's avant garde jazz station and a cup of coffee make Sunday afternoon homework tolerable.
20. Currently in my bag (aka purse), I have my keys, cell phone, wallet, LLBean slippers, and a Research Design text book. Normal, right?
21. I have had 18 roommates since I graduated high school, and I think that every single one of them would agree on at least one thing - I am never home.
22. I spent a semester in L.A. learning how much I hated the inner workings of the entertainment industry, a lot about myself, and not much of anything else.
23. I'm not "well traveled," but I hope to be someday.
24. I love to read, but I can't find the time to read during the semester without cutting into precious sleeping time. Blogs almost fill my cravings and allow me to sleep.
25. There was a time in my life when I could rotate my own tires, change my own oil, and predict an appropriate play during a football game. That time has passed.