Things to be Said

I've been gone. A long time. Last night doesn't count. I had been out at a wedding a long time.

But that wedding made me think about things. About pure love. And happiness. And here is what I realized: Love does not make us happy, we make us happy. Love enhances the great lives we all live, but it does not define us. Yes, we are complete with the person we love, the one person we choose, but we are not they.

I looked at Karen and Jeff this weekend, and was overwhelmed with emotion. Two people who love each other so dearly is powerful to see. It didn't make me sad for what I don't have, it didn't make we wish for something in the future. It made me ecstatic about right now.

I stood, on the balcony of the Kennedy Center, looking out at the vista, this amazing scene, and I was so happy. And hopeful.

Here is to the couples who love, laugh, struggle, fight, scream and love again. I am blessed to be in so many of your presences.

Anxiety

I don't even know if I spelled anxiety right. But for the loyal readers here we go.

I had brunch with a great friend today. And it was great, and lovely, and sad. Sad because we spoke about the men we loved and lost. Not lost in that kind of "poof, they're gone" kinda way, but poof, wow, they're married. Poof, here we are. Wait, where are we?

Poof, Here I Am. I am an attorney. (no, shut up, I am). Poof, she is the head of Senate Appropriations. Poof. here we are.

I feel like sometimes we do what we don't want...but we learn, grow, and love from it. And we land where we do. I miss being in love. I do. but it will come (I say) and when it does it will be awesome.

Acceptance

My representation of my client is now over. It ended in an ugly, no holds barred kind of fight. And it was demoralizing.

My partner and I were accused of many egregious things, most of which I care not to discuss ever again. Many of which hurt me to my core. We clearly lost. But it was a bad loss. One that we could never have predicted. I remain hurt, and distracted. And feeling guilty, for some reason.

In this life, we have the opportunity to help people. To make a difference. We can make a difference in one person's life. And I attempted that, to my own peril. We take chances, we make decisions--we bet our stakes on things. We hope they work out, that there's some payoff to our own sacrifices. But inherently we know that sometimes we lose.

We lost yesterday in court. And we lost badly. We lost in a way that was degrading, and sad and wrong. We lost because of the immigration system. I wondered, as I held my client, sobbing, if risking my passing the bar exam was worth it. I missed classes, didn't write essays--I put my own professional career in peril. And I did it because of the conviction of what we were doing was right.

And I know, in my heart of hearts, I would do the same thing again with no thought. If you want details about yesterday, email me. I can't go into here because it's too painful. But there is something empowering working the hardest you've ever worked for someone other than yourself.

I am sad. And I am hurt. And I might not pass the bar exam. But I will never regret the work I've done to date, and I will never regret working for my client.

Life, I think, is about our relationships with other people. What you gain from them, and what you learn about yourself in the process. Sometimes it's wholly positive. Other times it takes a little more to find the truth. My truth right now is that I made the right decision--I will never regret that.

Reading

So, I have this amazing bookshelf filled with wonderful books, many I have yet to read, now that I've fully unpacked. I have received books at every major holiday from friends and family over the past three years, have continued to buy them if they seem compelling, and occasionally get them as random gifts in the mail. However, it's rare that I have time to sit down and read for pleasure-- I was at the beach in May I read "The Other Bolyen Girl" which was wildly entertaining (the movie is horrid), even though it is basically a trashy romance novel disguised as historical fiction (aren't those the best though???!!!).

Anyway--the past month has been a fury of work and very little down time--I feel like I've been moving at warp speed since January, and even when I sleep it's generally quite restless and disturbed. It's hard to wind down when you've been shuffling back and forth between major tasks for 18 hours a day, and I've been trying to find ways to let my brain kind of release before I turn the lights out. I've tried watching a mindless 22 minute tv show online many a time, though that has yet to work.

So the other night, I was perusing my bookshelf just to see all the great books I had to look forward to when I zeroed in on a book my Uncle sent me out of the blue this past semester. I had not had a chance to start it, though he described it as a book that could be read in small intervals and would be highly entertaining. I picked it up and thought I'd give it a shot.

So the book is called Anonymous Lawyer, and it's by a young Harvard Law grad who began a fictitious blog by the same name. The premise is that that book is written by a hiring partner in a major law firm in a major city at the start of the Summer Associate season, and it's written partly in blog format, and partly in emails between Anonymous Lawyer and his niece, Anonymous Niece.

It's HILARIOUS. And frankly, for anyone who has ever been, is currently, or is planning on being a summer associate in a BigLaw firm, it's frighteningly true to life. And for all the non-lawyers out there, if you've suffered through summers or three years with a loved one or friend (or anonymous blogger you've never met who may, or may not, occasionally blog about the trials of law school and firm life) and want a glimpse into some of the ridiculousness experienced, you have to check this book out. While I have been laughing out loud at a lot of different "posts", I've also been silently cringing knowing that there is more truth to his account than there is fiction.

So. While it's not The History of the World in 7 volumes, it's what I'm reading right now. And many thanks to my uncle who sent it to me! The past few nights I've been sleeping better and better after reading before sleep--and be warned, you might just start getting your own emails from Anonymous Niece before too long :)

Uplifting

This is awesome. And so is this. Not just because I have a special place in my heart for the Kenyan refugee camps after working in one, or because it just goes to show every person who scoffs at more liberal immigration policies some of the remarkable individuals our immigration system as saved, but because the back story, particularly of Lopez Lomong, is a tremendous story celebrating the most remarkable aspects of humanity.

I know--the Olympics are filled with those heart wrenching public interest stories that make millions of people around the world silently tear up behind the pale glow of our televisions for three weeks every couple of years. But read Lomong's story differently this time--read it and ask if you would be that family in Syracuse, NY, or the elder children to the younger in Sudan. It's touching, and made me wonder if American teenagers, or anyone, would act in the same brotherly way if faced with such adversity.

I suppose even if the answer is "no" to all of the above, it's a good story nonetheless. Go USA!

Roots

I've had a friend staying with me the past 10 days--she and I were in Peace Corps together, and she just arrived back in the states after remaining in West Africa working since we finished in 2004. Since she's been with me, we've gone apartment hunting, furniture shopping, neighborhood sightseeing and we've caught up. And it's been great. I feel like I've been in this town long enough that you forget to get excited about the city, the neighborhoods, the newness of moving to a place after being away for so long. And it's been interesting to see her beginning to adjust to figuring out how to begin to plant roots here, and more important, how to adjust to being comfortable making decisions that will have a semi-permanent impact on where she's residing.

We were browsing the stores on 14th St today looking at furniture and homewares in some of my favorite places in the city. I found a lovely chair that I bought on impulse, she got ideas about how to slowly make her shiney new apartment her own. And as we walked out of one of the stores, she turned to me said "Now I have culture shock. This is the first time it's really set in". I asked her what she meant, and she said "it's the fact that I'm considering all this big furniture, this heavy hard to move furniture. How am I going to move it all?" I breezily replied, without much thought into her comment "Oh don't worry, all these places have delivery services--they move it for you!" She paused and said something more profound that the meaningless way in which I interpreted her comment "No, I mean, I'm buying big things, things I can't just throw in a bag and move when I'm ready to leave--I'm buying things that can't pack and travel--this feels final".

I know the way she's feeling, and I know the feelings she's struggling with. When I started law school I felt itchy and uncomfortable, thinking that this decision I was making meant that I HAD to plant roots--I could not just get up and walk away when I was ready for a new adventure. And I adjusted...until it ended. I cut off my hair a couple of weeks ago. As one unnamed person in my family once told me "honey, you're hair is your best asset". It was definitely time for a trim, it was looooong, and it's not fun to have long hair in this town in the summer because it becomes like a wool blanket. But instead of getting it trimmed, I lobbed off about 10 inches. It was liberating to a point, but it still felt...like something else needed to happen in conjunction.

I have been thinking about my decision since I did it, and was thinking about the last time I made a drastic styling decision. Exactly 6 years ago before I left the city to go to Peace Corps I walked into another fancy salon in town and had them do the same thing--cut it off--new style, new adventure. And I realized this time, the missing link is not having an adventure to go along with the style.

I've become more and more anxious about starting my job in the fall. I don't want to go back to where I'm heading, I don't know if I can live thorugh a year of working for the people who will be my bosses. Over the past month I've slowly realized the importance of joy, and happiness, and contentment in life. So, I've started exploring new options, sent some emails, have begun getting my ducks in a row, just in case I need that escape hatch if things become too bad. But unlike 6 years ago, I've also realized I've matured enough to realize that my roots no longer yank up as easily, and forcing them will merely cause peripheral destruction that is neither necessary or beneficial. But I don't think a change is far from coming-the winds are blowing in that direction as is my hair.

In Memory of My Grandma

On Sunday, June 1 2008, my grandmother passed away. It was a topic I wanted to wait and address on this blog, because I wanted to let the loss sink in and give my family who are loyal readers of this blog time to process. Today is her memorial service in Phoenix, AZ. My mom and dad are there, but I was not able to make the trip due to my bar exam studying and client representation.

My grandma was a wonderful woman--she was a tough cookie, and she held more love in her heart for her family than anyone I've ever met. She raised 4 amazing children and had 8 grandkids when she died. She will be deeply missed.

I paused this afternoon at 5pm EST, when the memorial service was beginning in AZ. I remembered the last conversation I had with her before my graduation. She never missed a family event, graduation, wedding, holiday, not until she was unable physically to be present. But talking to her made me know that she had the beaming smile on her face we all knew and loved.

I am posting below the tribute my sister wrote and I consulted in, adding my own favorite memories to her work, that was to be read this afternoon by my mom. I see my mom in my grandma, and see her as her own person as well. My mom has the same remarkably elegant grace in everything about her--her smile, her love, her compassion, her skin, her heart. I know I will see my grandma a little bit in my mom, and she will live on in our hearts through her family.

Losing her meant losing my last grandparent. But losing her also meant knowing there is one more angel on my side, and I will never take that for granted.

Clarice H Johnson

Clair was a lot of things to many fabulous people, but to the three of us she was our grandmother. Although we three were unable to attend this service we are celebrating her life with all of you in spirit. Spirit really should have been grandma’s middle name. Everything she did with us and for us was full of vivacity and grace, from teaching us the fine art of Estee Lauder makeup application (CD was always jealous of our rouged cheeks) to charming the wait staff at restaurants with broad smiles and anecdotes of her life.

She was a traveler who loved a good road trip, especially with her grandchildren. We grew up down the road from our three cousins, N, K and J, and grandma and grandpa took us in pairs on two week adventures over the course of a few summer vacations. CD and I traveled to Virginia theme parks, making stops along the way to visit grandma’s family. It was there that I learned to love the south, a trait that later became associated with my mother, Leigh. There CDand I were introduced to Stuckey’s Pecan Log Roll, sweltering summer heat and the charm of grandma’s southern accent blossoming over iced tea and magnolia trees. But the real treat were the matching shirts grandma ordered for the four of us from the back of a Tropicana orange juice carton. “It’s so we don’t get lost from each other.” She said as she handed us our new theme park uniform. I don’t know who was more humbled wearing the short sleeved- palm tree covered-Tropicana advertising-yellow button downs: CD or grandpa. But we never lost each other.

DLS and KRP went the following summer to Florida, where they canoodled with the Disney characters at meals and splashed among the many pools along their journey. Again, this was a driving trip, and they could always count on grandma to navigate them in the direction of close friends and family. Although this crew was sans matching shirts, they were not for want of good food and lots of laughs. At every restaurant grandma would chat up the waitress and tell her exactly what they were doing and where they were heading; she had an uncanny knack for making friends wherever she went. As you all know grandma was never at a loss to share stories of her four children and eight grandchildren. She also welcomed new arrivals to our family with more than open arms. It was not unusual for grandma to tell our friends that she loved them after meeting them for the first time. This is what our girlfriends, boyfriends, spouses and best friends all remember about grandma. Always the hand being held, a smile so big you couldn’t help but try to match it, and the comfort of knowing she would always love you.

She also shared her passion with us in the form of pie dough. Our mother was never much of a baker, so when grandma came to visit we knew we were in for a tasty baked delicacy. She was a patient and encouraging teacher, virtues that the three of us have come to embrace in our own adulthood. Pie crusts would be made in for hours on our butcher block, gracing the bottoms and tops of only the most deserving of fillings. Some of her signatures were lemon meringue, pecan, apple, cherry with a lattice top, and of course, mince meat. But the pies weren’t what we looked forward to the most, rather the scraps of dough grandma would never, ever waste. Once the dough was in the fridge to chill, the real treat was born into mouthwatering cinnamon pinwheels. In the oven for ten minutes and voila! Scraps transformed into bubbling, flaky treats just for the kids. She was to us what Julia Child was to the world: a passionate cook with secret family recipes who would rather share her love of the art than to squander the recipes in a dark cabinet.

Grandma was like that with everything in her life. She wanted all of us to be a part of what she loved the most, whether it was taking us to Broadway shows at Christmas, sharing coveted board game secrets at family gatherings, or bringing us into her family roots, proudly and passionately. As we grew older we too, wanted Grandma to be a part of our milestones, and she never skipped a beat when it came to graduations and weddings. She was proud of that, and the photos from JDK's wedding in July sparkle with her matriarchal essence and humble pride, which she was so deserving of.

In closing, we would like to share with you some words from CD which he wrote soon after learning of grandma’s death:

“The only thing that I can keep seeing over and over and over again in my head is how happy and smiley and energetic Grandma was for JDK's wedding last year. How she burst forth from her chair like a laughing child, or how she absolutely beamed with pride and joy as Jess and dad made their way down the aisle, and her two youngest grand-kids got to participate in the wedding. She got to see all of her kids, and all of her grand-kids at once, at ONCE (and that NEVER happens anymore), and she soaked up each moment as only she could.

Did we? Did we soak up those moments? Did we embrace the family as she did then, or any other time that we gather together? Do we look at each of these opportunities and grab them and never let them go and think about them for weeks or months afterwards? Or have we been taking for granted the times that we get to see each other, and those other family members that pop in seemingly randomly to our lives. I get sickened by the fact that it takes a moment like this to hurtle me back to the days that I thought were just last year, last week, last month, and really live them again.”

As Grandma would want us to do, capture your moments with family and friends, not just in pixels and paper, but with embraces and stories. Take a good road trip if you must, make a pie or apply the perfect shade of red lipstick, but ALWAYS remember to tell each other how much you love them, even if you’ve just met.

We'll miss you grandma, and love you always.

On This Father's Day Weekend

I assume most readers have not only heard about Tim Russert's death, but have also seen him on TV now and then over the past 17 years.

The sudden death of Mr. Russert has lead me to think contemplatively about my own father, someone who I consider to be a role model, a leader, a confidante and a friend. And it has made me unwaveringly grateful to have this man as my father.

For years, my sister and I shared a bedroom. Our walls were papered with butterflies and sunshine and the two of us slept, side by side, for 12 years, in twin beds. I remember one night when my sister was beside herself. What was it about and how old were we? I have no idea. All I know is that J could not pronounce the word "comfortable". She laid in that bed crying and crying, and none of us understood why. My dad came up, and sat on the edge of her bed. He talked to her, tried to soothe her. None of us had any idea why she was so upset. So Dad came up with a trick. All she wanted was to be able to pronounce "comfortable" correctly. So he said:

J: repeat after me: comfort a cow

j repeated that

Dad: J: comfort a bull

J repeated that.

Comfort a cow

Comfort a bull

After about 2 minutes, J had it. We still talk about comforting a bull to this day. It's a great family memory. But more than that, it's a great memory of our dad.

My father is not one to give compliments easily. He is judging and can be harsh. But he is one of the greatest, most patient listeners I can imagine. He is not emotional, he is rational. He is loving, and he is fair. He has taught me to be the most amazing woman I can be, and he has supported me, without question, in that endeavor.

I graduated from law school last month, and I defended my first client a month before that. My father was present at both events. I do not strive to live up to some image my father has, but rather aspire to embody the lessons he has taught me. Raise my voice. Question everything. Challenge yourself. Embrace who you are. Respect where you come from. Love your mother.

My dad comes from the most noble of backgrounds. Military service has been paramount in his life. None of his children followed in those footsteps, and I can only speak for myself with my reasoning. When my dad encouraged me to go into ROTC at UVA I sheepishly looked at him and said: Dad, do you think they'll have an issue that I have a fundamental issue with guns?" Dad looked at me and said "Hmm. yeah. Maybe ROTC isn't right for you.

But the bottom line is this: every path I have chosen has been embraced and accepted by my father. It has been encouraged. And his support has pushed me to where I am today.

I love my father more than anyone can imagine. And I respect him. If I can be half the lawyer and half the person he is in my life, I will die a lucky and blessed individual.

Happy father's day, dad. I am who I am because of you.

Motion Denied

As some of you may recall from April, my experience representing my first client did not end as we had hoped, and as we learned later, did not end at all. The experience has been priceless in showing the power of the court, as well as highlighting the responsibility of representatives in accepting client's cases.

To back pedal a bit...after the debacle that occurred in my client's hearing and after she continued to blatantly lie to us in the immediate aftermath, we filed a motion with the court to withdraw from further representation for a number of highly valid reasons. While we knew there was a chance, as there is with any motion, that the judge could deny our request, we hoped he would not and really believed that we had presented good arguments for our case. More than a month after filing the motion we go the judges order: Motion Denied. After the emotional roller coaster we had all hitched a ride on, it turned out we were not given passage off of it quite yet.

The news came a couple of days after my graduation. We were not wholly unprepared as we had talked about this possibility, my partner's and my responsibilities and rights, and a contingency plan if the worst were to occur. But to actually be faced with this reality had the same effect of having the wind knocked out of all of us. How were we supposed to go back to this woman who we could not trust and try and piece the truth together? How do you have faith in her as an individual?

Clinical programs are interesting--they present myriad choices for the students everyday. Some with distinct right and wrong decisions, but there's a lot of ambiguity to the choices we have to make as well. The first big one that I confronted was: do I stay on this case or do I bow out and let the others take the reins from here? After all, I no longer am a student at the school, our clinical grades had already come out. For all intents and purposes, I was done with the clinic. But then the grey area came quickly creeping in. This was my client. This was not an abstract "real life simulated" project that I could skip away from on a whim. My partner and I, no matter how dishonest our client was with us, had invested more time and work into her case than I've invested in almost anything. And we know her--we know her better than the advisers know her--we were in the position to be more effective than anyone else. The decision was made harder by the realization that her next court appearance is 11 days before I take the bar exam--studying for the bar while trying to fix the egregious issues that the hearing presented was daunting. But when I flipped it one more time, it was also daunting to know that the judge had ordered us to stay on. How do you wade through a choice like this?

I've never been one to easily walk away from a commitment I've made to people. I faced this in Peace Corps at one of my lowest hours, when I was sitting in our regional house, talking to my parents, feeling completely dejected, exhausted and frustrated and wanted to just come home. I had been there a little over a year and the effects of trying to help make change in a tiny village that as headed up by some of the most intensely chauvinistic men one could imagine was draining. I was explaining all of this to my parents and my dad said (and I'll never forget): Listen. You can come home right now if you want. No one will think less of you and no one will judge you. But if you think there is even the slightest chance that you could help make a lasting improvement and difference for this village you owe it to yourself to try. If you don't think so, then come on home. But don't quit just because it's "hard".

Basic advice, but true advice. I stayed and finished a remarkable project that is still highly successful, asserted myself as an individual and woman and made some of the most amazing friendships I could imagine. And I applied that same advice to this situation. Yes, it would have been infinitely easier to step back and hand over my roll to someone else. To walk away and let others sift through the rubble of my client's case. But would that have been the right thing to do? I didn't think so at the time and a month later I am absolutely convinced I made the right decision.

It was hard to sit with my client for the first time since we said goodbye to her and explain the ground rules for this time around. It was hard to look at her without April 11 swirling around in my mind. But I think my partner and I have been grown immensely individually and as representatives with the lessons we learned in round one. Over the past couple of weeks we've started a new foundation with her--one that is based less on the emotional pull of her story and more on the task at hand: repairing her credibility and trying to keep her in the U.S.

There are some members of our team who feel doing the bare minimum is all that's required for her. My partner and I disagree. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it fully and to the best of our abilities. We've made a lot of changes in our representation. Her husband is no longer present while we interview her, or involved in her case at all. We've laid out exactly what is on the line, and how bad it could actually be. But we've affirmed that we will do everything in our power to give her a second chance provided that she no longer is dishonest with her.

We waded through the lies last Sunday. And they don't actually affect her asylum claims at all--they do affect her credibility horribly. So game on. We're not expecting to win, but we're not prepared to fail either. I guess we're prepared merely to give her a second chance and do what we can to help that chance be successful. I suppose in the end that's the only thing any of us can hope for.

A Room of One's Own

It's been quiet around these parts as of late. It's been a busy and emotional month, but a good month, over all, and a reflective one at that. Since May 9, 2008 I finished law school (kind of), graduated, went on a week long vacation with some fabulous gals to a fabulous beach, said good bye to my grandmother, celebrated my grandmother, was told I am still representing my asylum client from Rwanda, almost missed being able to take the bar exam, began studying for the bar exam. Like I said, it's been a busy month. So my apologies if I've left the three or so of you who read this hanging, and for my inability to update on all the above stated events, as they truly are all stories of their own.

So another month has passed and more transitions linger everyday. I began my bar exam studies last week--and it has been off to a rather rocky start as I've been trying to find the distinct balance between that and representing my client into her July 17th follow up hearing. Finding the balance has been disruptive to plans I've already made and have had to cancel, and I've let people down who I feel like I've been letting down since the beginning of January. I'm blessed to have such patient and loving friends and family, but it's still tough, every time it occurs.

My family was in town for my graduation, which was a joy, to say the least. Some stayed with me, some in a quaint little bed and breakfast near my apartment. It was fun having people see my apartment, though I had not had time to fully unpack or decorate since moving in (I know I know) as this year has just kind of gotten away from me. It was fun to be able to have people over, to not have roommates, and to be able to just relax in my home with my family. I don't think my entire family felt that same sense of joy...

It's not a secret to anyone who knows me that I generally lead a trail of chaos around my life. That goes for my apartment as well. I do well not only with white noise, but "white clutter" as well. I'm not dirty, but I am often the queen of well organized piles, all of which I know by heart and that have their own filing systems. Every week or two I make one big "no more clutter" purge, spend an hour organizing, all for my hard work to descend shortly there after with a kicking off of shoes, dropping of purses, strewing of keys etc.

When my mother arrived at my apartment for graduation, she noticeably grimaced. Needless to say, this semester has been far more chaotic than any part of my life I've experienced before, and while I cleaned my apartment before the family arrived, it was not completely declutterized (I thought it looked lovely). She held her tongue and nothing was said...until the first phone call home after everyone had departed post-graduation.

"DLS, we have to do something about your apartment"
"What's wrong with my apartment"
"You're not in college anymore. You look like you're in college"
"Mama DLS, you KNOW what this year has been like for me"
"Yes. Which is why I'm going to let YOU pick the week I come back and we spend working on your apartment"

We've had this conversation now about three times since May 18th. I think she really means it.

So, truth be told, I have not actually hung any of my gorgeous pictures and paintings I've collected over the years. There are still unpacked boxes that I, frankly, no longer even notice as being out of place. I had a bookshelf with one shelf still actually in tact, another next to it empty as there was a chair and some other...stuff...blocking my access. Suitcases sit at the foot of my bed...packed, as if I'm planning to be able to escape at any minute with more than a full wardrobe if need be. And I still don't have a silverware organizer. All my silverware is just kind of thrown into a drawer with clean dishtowels and clothe napkins.

But today something snapped. I got rid of my desk when I moved here, and have used my tiny little table in my kitchen for whatever table work I needed to do. it fits my computer and one small book, basically. I've been fighting with it for the past week, willing it to have more space, and strangely enough, it never seems to grow. So today, after coming home from bar class, sweating my buns off, in a bad mood and trying to study on this postage stamp of a table I lost it. I began not only purging my piles and reorganizing them but I also began purging furniture, like that useless bookshelf, and cleared myself a space, a big space, right in front of my two enormous windows that look out onto the street below. When I moved from my parents home they gave me a sideboard that folds out to become a full table, made of a lovely wood that's weathered decades in our family's history. To date, it's been sitting against a wall, all folded in, acting as my mail/keys table/dry cleaning table. I zoned in on it and realized how much delicious space it would provide if I just moved it over to the window and unfolded one of its leaves. I hauled sh*t down to the bulk garbage area of my building, moved my couch, moved and put away everything in the way of this window area and set up the table.

The only thing missing is hanging things on the wall to make this place I finally created perfect. Now I feel like I have a room of my own, with a desk of my own, and windows to the outside world and a place to focus and do my work. Moving everything took me about 45 minutes total. It's amazing what a difference that can make.

Simple Pleasures

I love living in a city. While I enjoy going home to the rolling hills of my little state now and then, nothing beats being young in a metropolitan city. I love that I've never owned a car, can walk just about anywhere I want to go, am surrounded by free stuff: museums, monuments, concerts, films, parks and so much more. It's great to be able to gather with girl friends on Saturday mornings for brunch in one of 100 different restaurants, to stroll afterward and pop into furniture shops, shoe shops, any kind of shop you want. I love the freedom. A lot of time I actually like the anonymity a city provides, because within the great anonymous place, you can create your pockets of familiarity with people and vendors who you frequent and enjoy. Almost everything in the city where I dwell is generally peachy...except for one tiny detail: the grocery stores.

I know. It seems strange that out of all the goods and bads that places have to offer, this is of particular annoyance to me in this city. But really. I've come to notice how frustrating the grocery stores in this city can be. Where I lived for the two years prior to my new apartment had almost no grocery stores. Certainly, there were none accessible without a car. We heard rumors and murmurings of this grocery store or that one "coming soon!" but it never happened, and I don't think it's actually going to happen for at least 5 more years.

But then I moved to another, more lively, part of the city this past year. I was thrilled to be a 1.5 song on my ipod away from a Safeway, and a 4-5 song walk away from Whole Foods. Heaven! I thought. I quickly learned that at Whole Foods it is somehow near impossible to walk out of the store with less than 50 dollars in groceries (and not that many groceries, I might add) and at Safeway you're lucky to find half of the items that they supposedly stock as most things you want are sold out (hence the loving nickname most residents have given this Safeway as: The Soviet Safeway). And the produce kind of makes me want to cry.

So, you can, by this point, imagine my interest when I heard that just a few blocks north of me a shiney new Harris Teeter had opened! At first I thought this was another urban myth, just like the Harris Teeter urban myth from my days in the sleepier neighborhood. Then I assumed that while the store may bear the name Harris Teeter, it's probably like the Secret Safeway over on 19th street that does not say Safeway anywhere on the outside, and is about 1/8 the size of a normal grocery store.

Well, after a lovely brunch today, my friend M and I decided to make a trip to this new grocery store, having opened its doors just a few weeks ago. We were skeptical. Very skeptical. And then, it happened. We walked into the produce section, then the fish, then up and down the aisles. And we realized: Holy Sh*t. This is a god honest, full blown, wide aisled grocery store with food stocked, produce fresh, lightbulbs working right here not 4.5 blocks north of us! We savored it. Positively strolling up and down the aisles. Stopping to stare at the array of cleaning products, cereal, baby food (no idea why) "ethnic food", frozen food, cheese etc they had to offer. It was nearly tear inducing.

While I have spent many hours creaively looking for ways to procrastinate during exams, this is by far the best one we've found. And thanks to this shiny new store, not only did it allow me to procrastinate while shopping, but now blogging about it as well!

God Bless Harris Teeter. God Bless every one of them.

The End of an Era...or Something

I have finished all classes I will ever take while in law school today, and it feels great, if not a little anticlimactic.

It's strange to think that all of the knowledge that law school provides has been given to me, and now it's my job to figure out what to do with it. It's strange to think that I won't be returning to school next fall, I'll be beginning my professional career. And it's strange to think that so many of my friends will be dispersing throughout the U.S. in the next few weeks and months.

I've said this before, and I continue to feel this way, I like the endings of things almost as much as the beginnings. There is a great sense of accomplishment in closing the book on a very formidable experience and moving forward to something different, possibly better, but certainly challenging.

This has been a remarkable 3 years. I've met some of the greatest people in the world, I've lived and worked in a refugee camp on the border of Somalia, studied in London, questioned myself, fell in love with a boy, have been challenged intellectually, sat in a room with one of the most well known Supreme Court Justice's, represented my first client, was betrayed by my first client, lost the love of the boy because of my own bad decisions, found a mentor, landed a job, worked with Darfurian rebels on their negotiation skills, and found my voice.

I'm proud of myself. And I feel great about this accomplishment.

Forgiveness

Forgiveness is a tricky beast. We all want to forgive things and people in our lives, but I think most people secretly harbor things inside them that they've resolved to forgive. A friend, co-worker, confidant, significant other, parent, whomever.

I got an email from my former client last night asking for forgiveness. It was an emotional email--clearly written with emotion, but also evoking emotion from me. She asked for forgiveness, thanked us, told us she would never forget us, that we were always going to be part of her family. She said that she didn't understand, before this, the impact keeping a detail like the one she kept from us would have on her and her life and her relationship with us. She asked for forgiveness again, at the end of the email.

This is something my partner and I have been struggling with. It's like the demise of any relationship, people naturally seek closure. It can be said that we had closure in our final meeting with them, when we withdrew from further representation--and that's true. We had professional closure. But we did not find the personal closure that I think is necessary for my partner and me being the kind of people we are.

There's this great song by one of my favorites called "The Mercy of the Fallen", and I can't help but listen to it repeatedly while thinking of the concept of forgiveness applied to my client. I think what's keeping me from an instantaneous reply to the email I was sent is an unclear sense of how I want to forgive. This is a different situation than I've ever been in, and I think this circumstance calls for something other than a mere "I forgive you".

The truth is, I DO forgive her. I actually wonder if there is anything to forgive. Can I blame a young woman for her desperation? Can I blame her for making a mistake? Can I blame her for a choice she made that turned out to be the wrong one? I think I can be angry and hurt, I can feel a sense of betrayal, but if I were in her position, I have to wonder if I would have done the same.

I was raised by my wise and forgiving and wonderful parents in the Episcopalian church. I went to Sunday school every Sunday, I attended church afterwards with my family, we participated in the seasonal events in our church. But then the most remarkable thing happened: I left for high school at a boarding school just across from our state. And I discovered other religions, and I began to question the one I was raised in. My parents did not balk at this, they did not chastise me, or show disappointment. Instead, they encouraged me. They encouraged me to learn, study, believe in what I found truth, light, solace and comfort in, even if it was not found in the church in which I was raised.

And what I found was the common thread of forgiveness and truth. I found the same kind of peace that any religion provides. And I made the independent choice to believe in something more informal than any one religion or any one book. I began to believe in humanity and individuals. I began to believe in my own power as an individual to make good and conscious decisions. And I always believed in the power of forgiveness.

I remember the first time I really lied to my father. I was 8 or 9. I told a lie, I don't remember what it was, but it caused me to be filled with guilt. I remember lying in my bed in my yellow and white striped bedroom and crying. I went downstairs to the kitchen where my parents sat discussing the kinds of things they discussed, and I, tearily and dramatically, told my father my lie. He did not chastise, he did not yell. He did not remain angry. He did not walk away from me. He forgave me, easily and honestly, and gave me a hug only fathers can give, and he continued to love me.

Certainly, the current situation in which I find myself is not the same as the lie I told my father as a child. But shouldn't the response be the same? If we cannot embrace individuals, humans, friends, after a lie, won't we end up somewhat lonely and suspicious? Isn't truth and comfort found in our ability to forgive?

I think I will continue to contemplate this. I might contemplate this in the most serene place I can think of in Washington DC this Sunday--the most gorgeous cathedral that overlooks this fair town. I have not made peace yet with the events of the last 5 days, but I need to. I think inside I forgive my former client, my former friend. And I know I need to forgive on the outside, and I need to tell her that.

Our lives remarkably complex. There are things in my life that I hold onto, that no one can see, that dictate choices I make. Some of those choices are noble and good, sometimes they're self serving and greedy. I cannot force blame, or anger, or ill will on this young woman, who was trying to find something better. I don't believe she came into this actively wanting to decieve us, to hurt us, to make us question the very beliefs we hold. I think she was desperate, and sad, and looking for something, searching for something better. And in the end, I not only can understand that, but I can forgive her for that.

I just need to discover how, and I am confident I will.

Reality

Thursday, April 10, 2008:

My dad arrived this afternoon for a 2 day visit revolving around my very first hearing for my very first client in my professional career. My partner and I feel great--everything is in its place, all papers filed, completed, rehearsed. I've finished my 17 minute closing statement, added the finishing touches, and just finished rehearsing it for the last time until we're in court tomorrow and I actually give it in support of my client. It's emotional at times, there are paragraphs that are harder to get through than the ones that outline the pure law that's applicable to the case at hand.

My client is ready--she's nervous, we're all nervous--but it's the good kind of nervous, the kind that comes when you understand the gravity of the case at hand, when you realize that a 4 hour hearing will dictate the path of not only your life, but your infant child's as well. When you prepare to tell, in entirety, your entire history, filled with horror and sadness, struggle, and constant running.

We're ready--we've worked so damn hard in the last 3 months. We have done every single thing we can to make sure no stone is unturned, statements are compiled, research is done. I've spent more nights awake and at school in the last month than I have ever spent in my entire 12 years of schooling--but for something that is good and true, something I believe in, someone I believe in.

I sat in the 70 degree sunshine with my partner this afternoon and we talked about how lucky we were to have to the client we have--we talked about wanting to remain in their lives even after this hearing, watching the baby grow up, supporting them in their endeavors. We talked about the possibility of walking away from this with a win in our first case.

I'm excited. This is the kick-off of what I hope to be a long career after law school working for causes and individuals who I believe in, helping folks raise their voices, and allowing myself to be awed and inspired by individual stories of people who have lived lives far different from mine.

I feel good about what will happen, and where we will be in 14 hours. I am filled with hope.

Friday, April 11, 2008:

I don't know where to begin. I don't know where to end, or where it did end. I am still unclear as to how our work was unravelled so quickly, how our case violently departed from the path it had been on, how one person who we have come to trust and care about could deceive us so fully.

The judge in the case was supposed to be the wild card. My clinic had never had a case before him, and we had not been able to see him in action over the semester. Immigration judges vary in their...professionalism. There are some who treat the process as it should be treated: with respect for people coming before them, they're balanced and the process works as it should. There are A LOT of immigration judges who are the opposite. They decide cases before they hear them, they lack sensitivity, they lose sight of the fact individuals are sitting before them, and dehuanize the process.

The judge in the case turned out to be remarkable--he was kind--he was tough, but he was kind--he was professional, he treated our client with the utmost respect and dignity. He was soft spoken and while he was intimidation, it was not as a result of what he projected, but rather because of the position he filled. He treated my partner and me with respect, knowing this was the first time we had represented anyone in a court of law.

The preliminary matters were taken care of swiftly--we won some of the matters, we lost some, but we made great arguments and we hit a stride of comfort. The nervousness dissolved and we became comfortable with our own voices and representation. Our client did a remarkable job on direct examination. The judge asked questions and it was clear he wanted to grant asylum. We were filled with confidence, but not cockiness. My partner and I were moving well together, and as we closed our direct examination of our client, we cheered inside for our client and for her poise.

The government began their cross examination. Every question that was asked, we had anticipated. I made notes on my closing and for redirect. My partner did the same. 10 minutes in, 20 minutes in, we continued to feel good--this was as we had prepared for, and the client continued to remain calm.

And then it happened. It was about 10:15am. Hearing had been going full speed ahead for over 2 hours. And the government asked to approach the bench. She had impeachment evidence to introduce. We had no idea what it was, but we didn't think it could be anything we couldn't handle. How wrong we were.

I can't go into details, and I don't want to. But the evidence was devastating to the case. It was evidence that discredited everything my client had testified to all morning and all semester. It put every single detail she had recounted into question. And it was information that had been specifically withheld from us by the government.

As more and more questions were asked, more and more lies were told. We watched the tightly knit fabric we had knit unravel. We saw the demise not only of our case, but of the faith we had felt so strongly in our client not 2 hours before. Our brains raced with what we were hearing--we had no idea what to do, or say. I could not look at my client, sitting up there, lying. telling lies I knew were lies. Digging herself a hole that was so deep and wide I could barely see her anymore by the end of it.

We met with her after the hearing, mainly to find out what the hell was going on and to get her to just tell us the truth. We had to tell her the consequences she was facing as a result of what she had said. We had to get some sort of explanation. We had to find some sort of validation in this stranger who sat across from us. And we got none of it.

We got more lies. More denials. Every last glimmer of the client we believed we were representing disappeared. It was shocking.

Sunday, April 13, 2008:

We have withdrawn from representing my client further. The judge reserved his decision until a later date this summer to allow the government further time to investigate my former client's case.

We met with everyone today to tell them the decision to withdraw and give her an opportunity to sign a statement to correct the record from the false statements she made on the stand. Our ethical obligations force us to do this, and if she refused to correct the record herself, we would be obligated to do so for her.

Her story changed no less than three times during the course of our 60 minute meeting. It was one of the most emotionally difficult conversations I've ever had. And when the meeting was over we walked away from a woman we would have done anything to help 2 days ago.

This has been emotionally draining. It's been a great learning experience, for sure, but it's been a really really tough personal experience.

I feel betrayed. And I'm angry. I don't know what to believe and I don't know if anything my client told us over the last three months is true. I suspect there are truths, and part truths in her story, but I'm not confident that much of it is accurate. I do know that her story of the genocide, and her family, is not fully true. Not everyone died and it probably did not happen how she said it did.

But I'm not allowing this to make me cynical about this process. This does not ruin this kind of work for me, and I look forward to being able to start again. I know that there are a lot of people who need this kind of help, and I know that there are a lot of people who have come from places where they cannot go back. And I know that I can do this kind of work, and I can do it well. I don't know if we became to emotionally involved in this case. I don't think we did. I mean, how does one NOT become emotionally involved in cases like this. I also don't believe that living life with emotional distance from people is a worthwhile way to live. But it stings a little more when things like this happen.

I wish the destination we had reached had been better. I worry about the impact this will have not only on her case, but on her husband's and everyone else who is involved with her. I worry the most for the baby, an innocent bystander in all of this.

So case closed. Thanks to everyone who has been so supportive through the semester. I could not be more blessed with the friends and family in my life.

Those We Remember

We seek refuge from a lot of things in life. We seek it from work, school, politics, the banalities of the daily grind. We seek it from the real world, responsibility, reality, fate. We rarely seek it from things people actually need the refuge for around the world.

This is because we're lucky. Every person reading this blog is lucky in some way or another. We're lucky because we might have amazing families, friends, a job, a roof over our head, metro cards in our pockets, a political opinion, a social opinion, an opinion about fashion, movies, music, pop culture, other cultures. We're lucky because some of us might have all of the above. We're lucky because we're allowed to have all of the above, to seek it out, to work for it, wish for it, write about it.

Most of us do not have a day that comes around once every 365 days, where they are forced to remember and mourn the death, gruesome and brutal, of their entire family. Or the following 100 days spent hiding in a basement.

But some of us do. And for those people, that once a year has come around this week.

The Rwandan genocide began 14 years ago today, April 7. 11% of the Rwandan population was wiped out in a 100 day killing spree that engulfed the entire country. Almost an entire ethnic group slaughtered. Sure, most of us have seen Hotel Rwanda or read We Wish to Inform You Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families. This is not an obscure genocide.

But it's been a little different for me this year. My client is the sole survivor in her family. She was 9 years old 14 years ago. And she has shared, in an eloquent, heartbreaking, empowering and raw way, her story and her life and her family with me this semester. Suddenly, the reality of this anniversary is a little more intense, and always will be from this year on.

So take a moment, and think about the things we seek refuge from, the things we are thankful for, the people in our lives, our families, our friends, and those who have saved us throughout our lives, even in the most seemingly insignificant ways. And then take a moment and think about those who sought refuge 14 years ago in churches, schools, basements, homes, friend's houses and fields, and the refuge they sought that did not save them.

And remember.

The Longest Days

I've never shirked from hard work, particularly when it's work I feel passionately about. And in the last year, I've definitely been pushed to my limits in terms of how much of myself I'm willing to give to something without sacrificing myself. It's a hard line to balance, and I think a lot of people spend a lot of their life figuring out where that line lays for them.

This week has been a week I've never imagined--I've never had to imagine--in terms of how far I can push myself, and how willing I am to push myself, for someone else.

My client's hearing is on April 11. We have 700 pages of documents to submit by Monday. They have to be perfect. We are the first "team" to have a hearing this semester in our clinic, meaning our deadlines are accelerated more than anyone else's. I've spent a couple of nights at school this semester working on various aspects of our client's case with my partner, but I had no idea what I was walking into when I left my house Tuesday morning at 8am. I had no idea I would not return to my apartment until Friday morning at 5:12pm, having slept for 3 hours total since leaving, and almost losing my mind in the process.

I've learned a lot this week--there are times for sacrificing what you need for the sake of someone else. There are also times when you need to step back to look at the big picture to evaluate the situation properly. There are hard conversations that need to be had with people, and sometimes the hardest ones yield the greatest results. Immigration is never black and white--there are always motives, conversations, details that we will never know.

But there are also the less tangible aspects of life: intuition--something we are born with and we can never ignore, there is belief in the good that lies at the heart of everything in everyone, and there is simple human resolve.

Fatigue is powerful, but so is drive. I never, ever want to remain awake for as many hours as I did this past week. It makes you unable to extricate yourself from the weeds of what you're working on. It's isolating and it makes you crazy. By Friday, when we expected to hand in our final draft of the documents we had poured ourselves into, when we got a shock from the government attorneys at 9am, we felt a soul crushing misalignment of life. We learned that no matter how prepared you are, no matter how hard you work, no matter how much you believe, there are always twists in the road.

I went home on Friday and slept from 5:30pm until 8:30am today. Every plan we had before yesterday has changed, and the reality of the situation has morphed into something that is almost unrecognizable from what it was just yesterday. But, in the clarity of rest, the drive does not wane. And that's encouraging.

I've learned that we do what we can. We work as hard as we can, but the work that we do will not always determine the outcome of the case at hand. No matter what I do, how well I plan, how hard I work and how many hours I remain awake will not guarantee the outcome we desire.

In the end, everything I've learned reaffirms what I already know: There is never a fault in extending yourself farther than you thought you could. We don't know what will happen in the next 14 days. But in the end, we'll know that we worked our asses off, maybe have made some wrong decisions, tried to make as many best decisions as we could, but will always believe in the actions we took..

The next 11 day will be hard. Really hard. But I know I have it in me. And I suppose sleep can wait a while, right?

When I Grow Up....

Here's what I'm going to do.

I'm not going to withhold knowledge and expertise I have on things. I mean, I figure, at some point in my life I'll have to be some sort of an expert on something that someone other than I care about, right?

Well you've heard it here first: When and if that time happens, I will happily participate in inquiries from honest and good law students who are trying to help someone. I will not brush them off like flies on my sleeve. I won't dismiss them rudely, telling them to read a chapter of my book rather to engaging in the work they're doing, even if, after that engagement, I realize my knowledge won't be of the kind of use that they're looking for. I will give people the same respect that a few generous souls have given to my partner and me, even though those generous people could not help us as we had hoped they could.

I won't ignore people, even if it's the 100th email I've received that day. And I won't hide behind a resume/portrait/profile like the wizard did in Oz.

We can't help people all the time, but we can always show them courtesy and respect without being dismissive.

And that's all I have to say about that.

The Souls We Connect With

Have you ever stumbled upon the life of a person you've never met but feel like you share a bit of a soul with? It happened to me today and I'm now voraciously researching a woman I would have liked to share a space with for even a moment in life.

I met today with a former U.S. Ambassador, and a woman who lived in Rwanda for the years leading up to the genocide. My partner and I had the amazing fortune to ask her questions and listen to her story of the life she led in Rwanda, get her insights, pick her brain. I sat captivated by the knowledge she shared with us, and of the memories that clearly still haunt her about the beginning of April, 1994. There were times when she would recount specific moments in time after President Habyarimana's plane was shot down signally the beginning of the 100 day massacre, the country spiraling out of control, the U.S. refusal to act, and her attempt to save a friend and colleague by allowing him to come over her wall to her compound as Hutu militia hunted and eventually killed him as he hung from her wall attempting to arrive at safety, and her frustration, regret, and lack of understanding were palpable.

She told us a lot of stories. Some that gave us pause as the one above, some that were heartwarming and highlighted the goodness in so many people, and one that got me researching and caused me to stumble onto the life of a woman named Rosamund Carr. Here is a link to a write up that was done following her death in 2006. And there is so much more information out there.

I think she's a lady I would have liked. I know she's someone I would have liked to meet. She is certainly a soul to be emulated, one to learn from, and an example of what one person can do to change the world.

Never Again

We say, as a country, never again. But we are cowards.

We stand by and watch the horror of Darfur unfold, but we take no action.

We allow our civil liberties to be depleted, but we sound no fury.

We watch, complacently, as our government searches wildly for enemies that do not exist, while our brothers are slaughtered.

We stand, silently aside, watching our world deteriorate, but we only see those with benefits.

I feel sad for us. And that's all I have to say.

Actually, it isn't. take a minute. Take 20, and go to www.youtube.com and search "Devil Came on Horseback". You don't even need Netflix. you can watch it for free from your computer. Watch it, and think. And be angry. And indignant. Or just watch it. Never again...until now. God help us all.

Poem

Things fall at your doorstop at the most unexpected times. This was given to me today by a solid and supportive gal. And I don't think I've read anything recently that has captured the truth that this poem does in relation to the battle I am engaged in. Enjoy.

IF.....

IF you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, ' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

--kipling

Appreciation

Blogging is interesting. You "meet" people through the pages of your words who share a similar sense of release that comes with pouring yourself onto a computer screen. My all time favorite new friend, GirlTuesday, and I share a common "real life" friend in her smallish state so our meeting was not completely coincidental. But since getting to know her from her blog has made me, quite frequently, do a double take at the similarities we share.

She posted, a few days ago, a lovely poem by ee cumings. Everyone should read it--once again she's posted something that has personally come at the most exact time for me. I am looking forward to the day (that's coming soon) where we get to sit across a table and chat face to face.

Houseguests

So I spoke about being a little lonely in my last blog. Part of the reason is that I come home every night and am welcomed by the company of my television in the background or the internet. I know, it sounds pretty pathetic, but it's kind of the way my life is right now.

This past week I had one of my best friend's from Mali stay with me--it was unexpected, and I was asked to be hospitable after being awake for 26 hours, but I could not gladder (is that a word?) I said yes.

My friend had keys to my building and apartment since he's stayed with me before. It was delightful to have someone at home when I got home, to chat with, to vent to, someone who very much understands that trials that go along with international work. But not only international work, work that really means something to you.

This morning we woke up and my friend went to get bagels and coffee. We spent the next two hours reminiscing about Mali and talking about the life we led together there. We talked about the reality of my case, and for the first time in a long time I talked about the grand and real fears I had surrounding it. My friend has a way of quietly reassuring and affirming the fears I have--while ever so strongly supporting what I'm doing.

I have a lot of support in this endeavor--my family being the most devout--but for a few days it was comforting to have my friend here.

A lot has happened this week. Most of it negative. The world of immigration is fickle, and it is always a struggle. I still don't understand how a country founded on immigrants can be so blind to the pressing needs those seeking refuge as to turn them away at the gates.

It's comforting having a friend in town. If for no other reason than the sheer familiarity of the space where you exist--a sort of shout out to the fact that you're not going insane. I already miss my friend, as I sit here in a quietly peaceful apartment. Having company that soothes and understands is the most priceless there is.

Coming Down From Being Up

This semester has been a toughie on a lot of levels. Academically it's been intense, but I've not regretted one decision I've made, particularly the decision to take part in this clinic and to have the chance to represent my first client.

It's been really, intensely, truly emotionally difficult. It's difficult to look at my client and realize my partner and I are responsible for her case. It's difficult legally--figuring out the claims we'll make and how we'll support them against seasoned lawyers and judges. It's been difficult from a friendship perspective--feeling really isolated and lonely while all my friends are enjoying their last semester of law school.

I don't know if one of the difficulties has been more difficult than another. They are fundamentally different on a lot of levels. I've developed an emotional connection to my client that is exhilarating and terrifying. On the one hand, I feel truly connected to a cause I believe fully in, and I believe in my client. On the other hand, and on a somewhat harder hand, I feel like I have become really affected by her story. I remember this from the refugee camp--hearing a story and having your heart break a little bit with every probing question asked. Realizing, as each question is answered candidly, the gravity of the work that is being done. Feeling like, at the end of the day, it's hard to separate yourself from your client. I've spent countless nights lying awake thinking about her. About her story. Dreaming about aspects of her story. And they're not good dreams. They're devastating and jolt me awake only to find myself securely scattered between sheets and my comforter.

I guess the above difficulty is directly related to another: feeling a little isolated from my best friends. My gals are the best that exist, but this has been a lonely semester. A lot of time has been spent in my apartment, getting home from school at 10:30 or 11pm on a Friday night. I sometimes wonder if this is foreshadowing of the next few years. I think this is particularly difficult this semester as it is so emotionally tough--both because of my client and the innate fear I feel in my own abilities as an advocate. I've never done this. I've never defended anyone aside from myself. I've never had to sit in the silence that follows a series of questions to determine whether or not my client was a virgin when she was brutally raped. I've had to sit with the stories I've heard, but I don't think I've ever been so connected to the outcome of something as this.

I was at school today from 11am yesterday until about 3:45pm today working on my client's case. I've not slept yet, 36 hours after last waking up. I can't seem to wind down. I've resorted to a glass of wine (or two) with the hopes that will do the trick.

It's hard to come down from being up, I've learned. I stood outside the Law School this morning at 4am, gazing at the haze that hangs over the city on the misty winter/early spring day, indulging in a habit that is admittedly gross, but I'm addicted to nonetheless. It made me wonder, in that quiet sort of moment, if this is what I'm made for. I guess I wonder that a lot. I mean, I KNOW I'm not made for corporate law, but I do wonder if I am made for this.

In the 2.5 years since starting law school, I've never felt so dedicated or emotionally invested in anything as I have in this case. I don't think that's strange, considering the past 5 semesters have consisted largely of lecture classes while this semester consists largely of client representation. But it's more than that--for a moment I feel emotionally invested in the law. Maybe in a person. Certainly in a person.

I wish I had a Yoda to direct me. At times I would settle for just about anyone. But I know that the reality is that I have to rely on myself. It's been a slow lesson to learn, I guess. But it does not make me less lonely. And at the end of the day, or 36 hours, that's kind of how it is. We all struggle with how to deal with the hard in our lives. I'm still working out how to deal with the hard in this case. But it's coming. I promise...And you know what? Talking to my dad at 7:15am, 22 hours after waking up, sometimes is priceless. It's strange, I did not mean to end with this. But there are definitely voices that give reassurance, love, support and, most importantly, understanding. All in all, it's not a bad way to "start" the day. Or end it, with that memory. There is strength in those who unconditionally support.

My New Favorite Procrastination Website

This is hilarious. Everyone should read it. And laugh hard.

That's all for today.

What Do You Do When....

The Judge you're arguing before is a complete asshole?

There are wrinkles in every case, whether it's the client who won't cooperate, or witnesses you can't find, or evidence that is unobtainable. But what if the wrinkle in the case is that your judge actually does not like asylum seekers, or immigrants for that matter? Or, in our case, student representatives. What do you do when cards are stacked against you before you even walk in the courtroom?

I spent the day emailing practitioners in the last jurisdiction where my judge spent the majority of his time. Email after email to people in private practice who have spent time representing asylum seekers pro bono. Who I am hoping have advocated before my judge. Who can give me some insight into this person's demeanor on the bench. Email after email that will most likely be ignored. See, we can't get firsthand experience observing my judge. He does not allow student representatives to observe his proceedings. He does not allow anyone to. This is rare for judges.

One email this afternoon did not go ignored. In fact, it was answered within 5 minutes of my sending it. To a man who has a booming law practice in the large city where my judge once practiced. And who has represented myriad asylum seekers pro bono.

Dear Sir:
This is who I am. This is what I'm doing. This is why I write, for the slim chance you may have had a case in front of this person. With the slim hope you'll give me the time of day.
Most Sincerely, DisgruntledLawStudent.

I received a reply instantaneously.

Dear DLS: I have not, sadly, represented anyone in front of this person. But you know what? I am a member of a list-serve of lawyers who surely have. May I post this request? By the way, keep fighting the good fight. I support you. Most thankfully, AmazingLawyer.

Dear AL: Thank you. DLS.

There is something comforting in the small community in the U.S. that does this kind of work. And what I am slowly learning is that the people who do asylum work have a network of people who think in the same way we all do: We can make a difference. We might not be able to change the world, but we can change lives.

On the eve of a 6 day weekend (faculty retreat), I left school at 10:30pm. Every minute was worth it, and every minute I thought of my client, the others who are doing the same work as I, and I know that we can be successful. But lordy, will it be hard.

I fear, at times, I am not strong enough for the work I am doing. Emotionally, that is. I met with my advisor today and he said, in his ever supportive way, that we are doing a phenomenal job. And that he has grown connected to our client through us. And that he will be unimaginably saddened if we don't win for a client who so clearly deserves asylum. The pressure remains on us. I just hope we're doing everything we can for her. I think we are.

Stories

I am an avid reader--especially when I have lots and lots of time and days spent listlessly lying on the couch in Vermont, or on a beach chair in Maine, or in the middle of Africa--whether it be West or East, watching the lizards pass the time in the same lazy way that I am.

But the stories I love the most come from my sister. Her writing is electric, poignant, personal and always from the heart. A lot of the stories seep with remnants from her favorite writers, but they are never stolen from them. There is influence in the authors we love the most--whether it's the magical realism that stream from Allende and Marquez, or the subtle sadness of life or times past that infuses Plath, Steinbeck or Woolf.

But my favorites of my sister's repertoire are those that chronicle the stories that she has experienced or encountered. She is witty and loose in the stories she tells, and animated like no other person I've met. She has spent years studying and dissecting the greats, in an effort to locate her own voice. And I was fortunate enough a few years ago to be home, somewhere between Peace Corps ended and Law School started, when she was completing her undergraduate degree in Vermont.

I've written about my sister's and my relationship before on this blog--the slow movement from sisters to acquaintances to genuinely great friends. When I had those months at home when I came home from Mali and was applying to law school, generally getting used to the pop culture, consumer based first world life that is the United States, I had the opportunity to be a critic, an invited critic, of my sister's writing.

Her portfolio was personal, raw, and alive. She would read her stories to me, and ask me what I thought. I have never felt so personally involved in the process that is creative writing than the times when she would sit in her desk chair in the room we shared for years, with me perched on her bed, one hand propping my head up, and she would read to me. Read from her book of stories she had developed painstakingly over the past few years. Some of them were so overtly personal that they made me shiver with emotion, and some, some of her best fiction, were crafted in a way that made the reader become so invested in the characters, the places, every image would be perfectly projected into my mind to the point that when the story would end, I would be craving more, but left feeling like I knew where these characters were heading.

Occasionally she posts snippets, mere glimpses, of these stories on her blog. She also includes simply hilarious stories of her current life as an English teacher in rural North Carolina. She posted recently a shortened account of a 12 hour delay in Chicago. I'll never forget when she revealed this story to my family. She read it aloud after her harrowing, multi-day trip on train across country, over Christmas when we were all home. She had my entire family in stitches. My favorite part, and one that remains even in its shortened version, is her names for the different people she encountered. My favorite, of course, being "Chicken Tenders".

She told me when we were home this past Christmas that when her computer crashed she lost many of her best stories, some of my absolute favorites. One of which, called Kid Fears, I thought could have been easily published in any literary magazine. I think she's starting to reconstruct those, and it fills my heart with joy.

The Kindness of Strangers. Take Two

I have to share this story since it was a MAJOR gain for my partner and me today, so I hope it makes you want to stand up and give someone a high five like it did us.

One of the hard things about all of our cases this semester is getting the good, solid corroborating evidence that is needed to back up a client's case. It's important in any client representation, not just asylum cases. But the method of obtaining this kind of information is doubly as difficult when most of it is sitting soundly in your client's country of origin. Or in the brains of experts who we don't know and don't know us. Or it just doesn't exist. We've sent email after email to people asking if they would speak to us, answer questions, be a resource and we've come up empty each time (though we're not above stalking people, and frankly, that's what it's coming to and we're ok with that).

Today we had a meeting with one of my partner's friends who spent the summer in Rwanda working for a group called Voices of Rwanda and had the opportunity to witness some of the Gacaca court proceedings while he was there. The Gacaca court proceedings are central to our client's case, so we've been working to learn as much about them, the good and bad, the critiques on the system, the impact on communities and get real feedback from people who have witnessed them and studied them to help solidify our argument for our client. My partner's friend gave us great information, photos and video clips he took, and recommended that we see a documentary that was made in 2006 called In The Tall Grass that revolves around these trials.

After the meeting we continued to research and work, and I started exploring methods by which to obtain a copy of this film. Not available on Netflix. Not in our library or the libraries I could find in DC. The website lists a few different organizations that reportedly were selling the video, so I clicked on each one. I think two of the 5 links worked. So I started making phone calls as there was no information on either website indicating that they were indeed selling this video. Here's the scenario of the first phone call:

Phone is ringing. It's picked up by what I assume is the receptionist and I say the following: "Hello, I'm calling because I'm looking for a copy of In the Tall Grass and I was told that your organization was selling copies of this documentary" to which the receptionist replies: "Uh, I don't know that film, and I'm pretty sure we're not selling it and never have, but let me connect you to the woman who would know" "Thank you so much" I respond. I'm transfered to a line and it rings a couple of times. At this point, I'm pretty sure I'm being screened, but regardless, I know I can leave a message. The voicemail picks up and this is what it says:
"Hello, you have reached XXXXXX. I appreciate your call and will be working in EUROPE UNTIL JUNE 2008. For urgent matters, please call my European number at xxx-xxx-xxx-xxx. Thank you."

Umm. Am I insane or was I totally just given a huge f*ck you by the receptionist? With that lead in the toilet I then call organization number two, which I now am seriously in love with. I give the same spiel to the receptionist there and she cheerily connects me to someone else, who actually answers the phone. My (well rehearsed, at this point) speech is then given to her and she says "OOHH man, that's a toughie. I've definitely heard of the documentary but we actually never sell them, but you know, let me connect you with Gwen in Media, I bet she will be able to give you some ideas!" "Great! Thanks!" "Oh, and if you're cut off, here's her extension. Just call her back directly. She's great and will definitely help you!" So I wait as I'm being connected and another receptionist picks up. "Hi, can you please connect me to Gwen, my name is DisgruntledLawStudent" to which this nice lady immediately says sure! and connects me. When Gwen picks up I tell her my deal again and she confirms that the film is FANTASTIC but that they were not selling it. BUT! instead of hanging up, she put me on hold so she could try and find a contact number of someone who could help me! When she came back on she was apologetic saying she didn't have the information she thought she did, reiterated how sorry she was, suggested a few different routes, wished me luck and we said out goodbyes. Dear Gwen, thank you for not being a complete a**hole.

So. One of the routes she suggested was amazon.com since apparently a lot of documentaries that are not released end up there. So I go onto amazon and find that they DO have a copy and they're selling this one hour documentary for the reasonable price of....$99.00. You've got to be kidding. We cannot afford that! Feeling more and more deflated, my partner and I consult and talk out our options. I decided that I had done too much already to just give up, so I decided to find out who made it and email him directly.

So I did some more research and found the name and email of the director/producer and wrote an email basically explaining our situation, describing the importance of the video, the fact it was being hocked for a hundred bucks on amazon and asking him to help us. I also threw in a request that he let us call and ask him specific questions since he had spent so much time observing the process. I mean, it can't hurt, right? What is one more ignored request to add to a quickly growing pile.

About 4 minutes later my google mail popped up with a new email. It was none other than the lovely director who said he would be happy to send us a free copy, to chat with us etc and that it would "be best to talk before Feb. 13, since I'll be in Haiti after that...".

YES!

Here is the letter back to him I immediately composed in my head and edited before I sent it: Dear Mr. Metcalfe. You are delightful and kind and have reaffirmed my faith in humanity. Wanna get married? But don't answer that till after Valentine's day. You might jinx our happy life together.

Anyway. The point of this very long story is this folks: A) it never hurts to ask; B) not everybody sucks; C) Stick with the bleeding heart humanitarians and not the academics and things will be just fine.

High fives all around...

'Tis The Season?

I've had an interesting debate with some of my gals over the past couple of weeks about whether or not there are "seasons" for beginning and ending relationships. We came across this question recently as it was seeming to us that everyone we knew was falling out of relationships. Some more gracefully than others.

While discussing this over brunch one Sunday about 3 weeks ago, one of our friends who holds a high position at a rather (very) well known web company nodded enthusiastically when the relationship season question was posed. She insisted that her company has actually done studies on this--and have found that there is a higher number of breakups during the time between New Years and just before Valentine's Day (we'll consider this the Bermuda Triangle of relationship seasons) than any other time of the year. While we were all slightly cautious toward embracing this idea, it all did make us wonder if we were all engulfed in this tricky and unkind Bermuda Triangle.

Between that conversation and now, the path of destruction that this season has made has left few people in my close and far flung circles quite battered. It seems as though every time I run into someone, pick up the phone, shoot an IM of Google Chat to a friend there is a story on the other end that generally revolves around a (clearly blind) boy, uncharacteristic behavior from that boy, and then said boy crushing my gals to a pulp. While I was cautious a couple of weeks ago to embrace this idea, I can't say I am any longer. (And to anyone wondering: No, this has not happened to me this time around. Apparently you actually have to date in order to attempt to precariously make your way through breakup season).

Some of the damage has been far more debilitating than others. I have a couple of friends who were just moving along in a new relationship, everything calm and smooth and then BAM. They're in the Triangle. I have other friends who are a little more heartbreaking. One whose three year relationship came to a bloody end very abruptly. I think it will take her a little longer to recover from the effects of the Triangle.

While I loathe nothing more than Valentine's Day, this year I'm actually looking forward to its arrival so the fog that has engulfed all my friends can finally lift.

Check Your Emotion At The Door

This is what we did in Dadaab. I mean, we had to, in order to get through 8 excruciating interviews a day. In my current case, it's not as easy as that.

My partner and I spent hours outlining and identifying our goals for our client, case and semester at the beginning of this process. One of them was to remain emotionally connected...and removed. We reasoned this by systematically telling ourselves that the only way to remain objective and do our jobs to the best of our ability was to keep a distance emotionally from the stories that were shared with us, the life in Rwanda that was unceremoniously yanked from her in 1994 and the life she rebuilt both in Rwanda before she was forced to flee and now in America, finally finding peace in a very distant land.

But over the past three weeks it's been more difficult than anticipated to keep this distance...distant. From meeting our client's husband briefly for him to pick up papers at school and being greeted with huge hugs 3 weeks after meeting them, to entering their home at least once a week to conduct interviews to allow them to keep their newborn safe and sound so she can grow stronger, to listening to the gruesome details, the nitty gritty ones most recently of the trauma she endured, and being able to look at her, with a shakily controlled voice and honestly tell her what a remarkable, strong, and courageous woman she is has made it hard to keep this emotional distance.

My partner and I have been lucky in the respect that our client is...a dream. She is credible. She has a solid story. She remains, to this day, stoic in the choices she made that lead to her to actually haveing credible fear of returning to her home. She is unapologetic for the fact that she chose to harness her grief, pain and loss into helping other orphans who were in a far worse position than her. After losing the last family member she had, she has remained devoted to making sure that the people who perpetrated crimes that we can barely imagine are properly punished.

And we are lucky because, as we realize more and more each day, we are in the presence of a truly phenomenal woman. There is a remarkable aura of hope in this 22 year old woman. There is a remarkable aura of peace. And forgiveness. She has channeled her devastating past to create a future that is paved in nothing but loveliness. And my partner and I are lucky enough to be present for some of that.

I am not a religious person. I was raised Episcopalian, and find great comfort at times, such as my good friend's wedding at the National Cathedral, in the peace that organized religion can provide. But I am by no means devout. Or even occasionally wistful for my days of weekly church or Sunday school. But I am spiritual, in a way that I can only feel. I believe in fate, in karma, and in being a good person. And I truly believe that the adversity we face makes us stronger and more resilient people if we open ourselves up and allow it to.

One of my favorite books is "By The River Piedra I Sat Down And Wept" By Paulo Cohelo. He's most well know for the Alchemist, which is a fine book, but not, to me, in the same league as Piedra. I've been thinking a lot about the book in the recent week because of one section. And it makes me think of my client, and really, all of us:

"There is suffering in life....and there is defeat. No one can avoid defeat. That is why
it is better to lose a few battles in the fight for your dreams than to be defeated without
ever knowing what you're fighting for."

And isn't that true? My client has based her life on a fight. The good fight. And lord, has she been defeated. But I cannot emotionally distance myself from her or this case when I open my eyes and realize that she has never, ever, stopped fighting for her dream.

And I begin to feel again how blessed I am to be her representative. And her friend.

This is Why

I vote Obama 2008.

http://www.dipdive.com/

Yes We Can repair the world. There is nothing false about Hope.

The Good One Liners

There are times in every gal's life when the right path is not always evident. Do I buy that pair of $325.00 Michael Kors shoes on my student loans, or do I not? (Not, P.S.). Do I go out on a date with someone who is completely not my style? Do I walk back into a relationship that may, or may not, be what I'm looking for? Do I attend the nuptuals of someone who I can't reconcile my feelings for?

Whatever question we wrestle with, the decision is never arrived at before extensive consultations with the troop of gals. The Michael Kors decision was made, at the better advice of H, after an hour walking around the Barney's in DC admiring the beauty of my feet, staring at my (very full) credit cards, going back and forth at the cost/use ratio of the shoes, and then finally forcing H to take my hand and drag me out of the store, swearing she would not let me back in for the shoes for at least...one month. I never bought the shoes, and my (again, very full) shoe closet is none the wiser or emptier.

But those are the easier decisions we make with the consultation of our girlfriends. The harder ones hit at the core of who we are as people, adults, women, individuals. And no matter what the take is of the group, they are often largely independent decisions that are arrived at from a lot of soul searching.

I've been fairly content, as of late. I saw that movie everyone has been raving about, you know, the one about teenage pregnancy called Juno, and I loved it, as, like, everyone in America has. But there's this one line that's particularly striking to me. Juno's pregnant, and her dad says "I didn't think you were this kind of girl, Juno" (or something like that) and she responds "I don't really think I know what kind of girl I am".

I loved that. And empathized with it, thinking back on age 16. And the craziest thing was I identified with it, at age 28.

I wonder at what point you begin to know what kind of person you are, and if it varies for everyone. I see my friend M, who has a baby and husband and house identifying who she is through that and many other things. I see my cousin J continuing to define herself not through the negative but through this amazing empire she continues to create and dominate throughout the U.S. And it's inspiring. But I don't know if I know what kind of girl I am yet.

What do we define ourselves based on? Surely not relationships, but what? Every day I stare at a wedding invitation from one of my very best friends, an invitation to a joyous occasion, and I can't bring myself to fill it out, because I know my feelings for this person are not wholly reconciled. I continue to shove it farther and farther under my pile of unread mail, hoping it will disappear. But it doesn't. I mean, I know what my response is, it's just a matter of filling it out. My friend C said she would fill it out and seal it up and send it for me, and I think I might take her up on the offer. But I am left with asking myself again, if I can't do this, what kind of person am I?

I guess I'll start by what I know, and maybe we can narrow it down from there:
1. I know I'm a great friend.
2. I think I'm a fairly passable sibling.
3. I am a humanitarian.
4. I am, again, passably intelligent.
5. I am loved by more people than I can count on 20 hands.
6. I know I have great friends.
7. I have the most amazing family (both immediate and extended) that a gal could dream of.
8. I am alive.

In the grand scheme of life, that list of eight is not so bad. But does it tell what kind of person I am? Not really. There's this great song I've been listening to by Regina Spektor called "Hotel Song" and it's been my contemplative rhyme, as of late (ignore the references to cocaine). I've been thinking a lot about who I am, and I have yet to come to a solid conclusion. So I guess like Juno, I don't really know what kind of a girl I am. But I suppose life is about continuing to discover that.

The Kindness of Strangers

I am realizing quickly, this semester, how many remarkably obstacles there are in representing an asylum seeker/immigration law. It's fascinating (and often infuriating) and I already believe that I am becoming a better lawyer through the process that our clinic forces us to go through.

One of the greatest challenges I've faced is language issues with our client. My client speaks Kinyarwandan. A little French. A smattering of Swahili. And basic English. It's not easy to find translators, and it can be quite frustrating when you realize (as some of my colleagues have) that they have clients who are really only fluent in a very obscure local language--and that the current translator they have brought has some sort of conflict of interest that will make it difficult to continue to use said translator.

Language barriers aren't new to me--having lived in a village where only about 3000 people in the world spoke out dialect of the language, it can be hugely frustrating. To be in a country where you can't find anyone who can speak the dialect can kill an asylum case. It's a serious issue, and we've all been learning how to deal with it.

When I came home from Peace Corps I joined a couple of the PC listserves. Mali Peace Corps, Peace Corps general, whatever was out there. I have never checked the threads, until I actually needed to post something myself.

This week I have posted 3 dire requests for translators--for my client once and for two other classmates later. The response I've gotten is incredible. I've been put in touch with Nweh, Mina and Kinyarwandan speakers all over the US. I've received words of wisdom, advice, encouragement from people I have never met, but who have been PCVs as well. And I've never been more grateful for the outpouring of kindness from strangers.

In the capitol city, there's a saying: If you throw a stone you'll actually hit two returned peace corps volunteers: the stone will hit one and ricochet off them and end up hitting another. Everyone in this town, it seems, has done Peace Corps. It's not novel or really that interesting at all here. But let me tell you, it has been the most remarkable experience having all of these people who don't know anything about me, step forward and offer their help, or friend's names. All because we each made the decision to spend just over 2 years as volunteers all over the world.

I've often said, and I will continue to say, I would not trade those two years for anything in the world. And frankly, I would do it again in an equally as challenging community. And the experience I've had this week solidifies it even more. Having a group of strangers move to act for my (and my client's) benefit has been profound. And I am grateful to each and every one of them. I think I'll start checking the threads from this point on. You never know when you'll be able to help someone else, and I would hate to miss an opportunity to return some of the kindness I've received from strangers.