The moment my son rounded the doorway to step into the courtroom, his wrists bound close to his waist, a part of me died.
I am not being dramatic.
Seeing my son paraded out in line with 6 other inmates, shuffling in their floppy slides, killed the mom I once was. The jumpsuit stamped PRISONER made him, undeniably, property of the State.
Responsibility for his life and well-being had changed hands overnight.
No, I am not the same person that arrived to that courthouse a few years ago. That woman, that mother left her body in slow dissociation. She ascended the paneled walls of that courtroom as a vapor and watched the rest from outside of her body.
My writing today requires recall from outside of me. Try as I may, I can’t get inside of those long moments otherwise, and I am not sure that I want to.
Spectating
American legal proceedings and their outcomes are interesting to watch unless it is your child, your brother, your mom.
If you look around a real criminal courtroom, you can tell who the moms are in the gallery. We look like squirrels. Darting eyes, hunched shoulders, hands busy in front of us with a shredded Kleenex.
When I saw him, the urge to stand up was powerful as was the pull to go toward him. We were not allowed to speak. Instead, I covered my mouth with one hand and wrapped the other around my ribs, bent inward on myself. One leg crossed tightly over the other; it was the posture of a mother holding an invisible baby.
In some gesture of confidence, I winked and nodded at him as if to say, “Your mom is here. I got you.” Like I could do anything at all; I was as chained down in that moment as he was.
His attorney was a brief comfort, and not because he was particularly good. He was the only person who could get next to my son. Before the judge entered, the attorney walked over, touched my son’s shoulder, sat down, and leaned in to whisper. Someone had showed him some humanity.
But that assurance did not last.
Pangs of skepticism and betrayal stabbed me as his attorney began exchanging jovial quips with the prosecutors table. Lunch plans were being discussed. I watched the judge laugh with his staff as he entered the doorway. The normal 9 to 5 work rhythm for the entire front-half of the room drummed on. Condemnation and indifference, in chorus. Papers shuffled. Chairs scraped across the floor. A heavy door closed somewhere in the distance.
Just another day here, folks.