You’re kidding me, right?

Today I was reminded that a jury of my peers is a pitiful bunch. My peers have dry skin, unflattering haircuts, ill-fitting clothes, and scuffed shoes. Naturally, I fit right in, except for all of those things. Only one of my peers is non-white. 33% of my peers are men. 54% of my peers wear glasses. One of my peers did not bother to show up at all. If only I had known this was an option!

We the jury watched a video about jurying, and the presenter was a judge with a Barbara Wawa accent. Perhaps you have seen it? It is a gweat wesponsibility to one’s countwy to be on a juwy. That looks a little more Elmer Fudd when I wead it back in my head, but it was classic Wawa, I assure you. Our spirits were collectively broken, because I was the only person trying not to die of laughter. Suburban jurying is a little different, I found. On my last round, in Roxbury, the video was greeted with catcalls and errant “DAAAAAMN!s” But here, everyone just sat glumly, all Lester Burnham.

Then I took a bathroom break and stood outside the court room glaring in the little window and shaking my fist until everyone settled. Two hours, start to finish. My powers are getting better. Then I felt rejected: why they no want me? Is it my stench? Is it my hideous undereye circles? Is it the foul breath from the vending machine crackers I ate for breakfast? Because? Seriously? 8:30? That is too early.

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