The cops who shot Sean Bell were acquitted late last week and there was protest going on at the Queens Courthouse, which is only a subway ride away. Normally, I would have been happy to grab a picket sign, chant and take a stand against police brutality and growing police power in our country.
However, finals are coming up and I couldn't afford to waste any time.
But wait a minute, waste? Is that what I think of protesting nowadays?
Since I have started law school, I have yet to go to a single protest. It could be because the American Bar Association has scared with the prospect of not passing the bar if I prove to be unfit for the profession; after all, I have already been arrested before and it is in my permanent record that I was nearly expelled from my undergraduate institution not once, but twice. But I can't help feel that there is something else going on.
I suddenly came to the realization that I am on my way to becoming a professional, the same kind of people I used to sneer at and say that they weren't hardcore enough to make change happen. Shit, I'm one of them now!
It's no surprise that I feel more and more alienated from the anarchist, feminist bookstores I used to hang out in. As I continue into this professional track, I feel as if I lose more and more ties to activist circles. While I keep reminding myself that I want to get a law degree so that I can fight within the system, I still can't help but feel as if I have lost my street cred.
For instance, back in February, I went to a public interest career fair to try to find a summer internship. (Don't worry-- despite the fact that I am going into law, I'm going into public interest law. Public interest means legal aid, public defense, impact litigation for the ACLU, etc.). At any rate, I had to wear a suit for the numerous interviews I had. However, the interviews were spaced out over several hours and I had a three hour break between my two sets of interviews for the day. I decided to kill time by going to one of my favorite coffee shops-- it is complete with indie music and flyers for radical poetry nights.
But I forgot that I was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase.
It was almost like a scene from a movie. I walked in and the place became quiet. Obviously, I am being dramatic, but I am not exaggerating that my coffee order was screwed up and my bagel and cream cheese took forever, despite the fact there was no line ahead of me. I also noticed a few glares. Yes, of course, I thought, I appear to have either 1) infiltrated your "too cool for school" spot and/or 2) am obviously in the wrong place.
I wanted to speak about how much social justice work I had done in the past. About how I threatened to sue my undergraduate university more than once and about how I canvassed door to door to defeat an abortion parental notification bill. I wanted to explain that I was only wearing a suit to play the part, but that I was hoping to get a job with the Drug Policy Alliance, Brooklyn Legal Aid, Center for Reproductive Rights or the Sex Workers Rights Project. I wanted to explain that I, too, wore beat up converse and torn jeans and that my hair was usually wild and curly and not as gelled and tamed. I wanted to explain that I had a job once that only paid for 2 out of my 3 bills and I took turns rotating which bill would be paid late, which screwed up my credit and resulted in creditors calling my house (and then my job) every day. I wanted to tell them about how I cried when George W. Bush was elected (sort of) in 2000 and again in 2004 and how I was interviewed once on NPR about student activism. I really was the true thing-- it was just under the suit.
Unfortunately, there is no way to say this. I just grabbed my coffee and burnt bagel to go and then headed over to the Starbucks around the corner. Sure enough, I walked in, and no one gave me a second glance.
