From a fairly early age, I knew that I would be a lawyer. Whether that was my own decision, or a response to the influence of others’ opinions, or some combination of both, is uncertain. People frequently said, “you’d make a good lawyer.” So as early as six, when prompted, I remember consistently responding “I’m going to be a lawyer.” But in truth, it stands to reason that I never chose the law so much as it chose me.
Singularly focused, I slid relatively smoothly from mock trial in high school to pre-law in college to law review in law school and finally home into the legal profession with very few obstacles. And it wasn’t until post-graduation that I would stop to question my chosen profession.
My first job after school was as a civil legal services attorney for victims/survivors of domestic violence in rural Ohio. It was awful. The job – though an important one to be sure – did have some satisfying moments of fulfillment. But by and large, those times were crowded out by the dysfunction present at the nexus of poverty and its resultant powerlessness. Witnessing generational and cyclical devastation was a pain that my heart was not equipped to handle and eventually couldn’t abide. It was abysmal: structural barriers, cultural and socio-economic biases, and well-intentioned folks – like myself, judges, opposing counsel, and guardians ad litem – continually failing to fit family wellbeing into an inflexible framework of hierarchical, adversarial mechanisms for decisionmaking.
In the end, I obsessed. I stopped sleeping. I cried – a lot. I flamed out, fast – within a few years. The bit of harm reduction I could provide felt far too inadequate to sustain. I had participated enough in a profession that consistently failed the families it perceived itself serving. I watched procedures exacerbate and enflame everyday issues (like pickup and drop offs and parenting time), whittling away necessary and continuing connections, making them brittle over the course of a divorce/custody proceedings. That might have been the first – but would be far from the last – time I truly comprehend the phrase “the system is broken.”
Eventually, I wound my way into a quasi-different profession – a law professor. Part of my responsibilities now include a commitment to scholarship – typically critical – which basically means I am afforded opportunities to (academically) trash talk, complaining about existing systems.
But criticizing, calling out, and kvetching about complex issues is ultimately unsatisfying. Yes, I always want to speak truth – to be honest about what ails us individually and societally – but if those issues can’t be accompanied by some forward focus, I’m being kinda problematic. We need currents that allow us to drift toward the dream of a better future not drown us in the dire reality of the present day. In the academy, we have devised a framework for dreaming. We call it “prefiguration” – constructing alternative futures within the contemporary timeline.
Movement powerhouses – Tricia Hersey and Mariame Kaba – often make prefigurative moves. In her book, Rest Is Resistance: A Manifesto, Tricia Hersey (founder of the Nap Ministry) calls us into DreamSpace: “A blessing whispered over your body and around your head.” She implores “Imagine a world without oppression. Take more time here. Visualize softness. Breathe deep. Envision a world centered in justice.” Author Mariama Kaba’s asks us to forgo beginning with the question ‘What do we have now, and how can we make it better?’ Instead, let’s ask ‘What can we imagine for ourselves and the world.”
Thus, for my final article in this justice series, I figured I would prefigure a bit. On a rainy, languid Saturday, I put on the “Sinners” soundtrack, sat down and wrote, tasking myself to envision. But something strange happened because I went backward instead of forward, and had an epiphany of sorts.
I realized that I do not need to imagine the world we will make in this city, because we are already building it. Memories from the prior week flooded my head as pressure from prickly tears built behind my eyes. I thought of watching Sinners with sister-friends for the (respective) 3rd, 4th, and 5th times, I thought of more sinking into separate couches with more sister-friends at SCC, exhausted but still willing to discuss succession planning after a super long day that ended with the NAACP’s Rested Rebel event, I thought of fielding a bunch of questions during the Spokane Community Against Racism (SCAR)’s Platform for Change relaunch party, and I thought of connecting in Circle with the Building Restorative Communities ambassadors as we bring a new paradigm into existence.
The prickles turned into tears, seeping – but don’t worry, they were the good, clean kind – tears that come with a sense of knowing. I rested in the awareness of two truths 1) Sandy Williams is proud of us and 2) this might be the first – but hopefully not the last – time I truly comprehend the phrase “we are our ancestors’ wildest dreams.”
The Dream lives on through women who care for and uplift other women in the Shades of Motherhood Network and it then continues being passed on and handed off to a best friend who creates spaces to care for the babies of those women with the creation of centers like Little Scholars and Raze. The Dream persists because of scrappy, steady, and small OGs who tirelessly work to realize peace like the veterans who advocate for it and PJALS. The Dream stays alive because of the powerhouses – large and small teams of care – that aim to keep us holistically healthy like The Native Project, The CHAS Health Street Medicine Team, Compassionate Addiction Treatment (CAT), and Yoyoy Spq’n’i. The Dream is rooted in the growth and reclamation done by The Spokane Tribal Network. The Dream stays current because of newly forming groups of men striving for better – folks like Everyday Mentors and The Locked in Fathers Alliance. The Dream is safeguarded by organizations like Mujeres in Action (MiA) and Manzanita House, and through Antifascist academics and Western States Center reps who augment our safety when hostilities fester within this region. The Dream celebrates our strength and beauty through cultural organizations building solidarity like Creole Resources and Asians for Collective Liberation. We get to witness the Dream in the scores of art designed by artists that Terrain nurtured and supported to stay, and we get to hear the Dream reverberate in music from the Spectrum Singers and in our stories told by Range, the Fig Tree, and of course, Sandy’s visionary publication – The Black Lens. And the Dream lives on in countless other ways … in the many organizations not mentioned here who do the work daily and through all the individuals who care deeply and commit to this city and its people. We make the Dream real day by day.