Love Letters from Heather

To the guy I met in Chicago’s Criminal Court whose name I have long forgotten.

When I was 12, my mother and I went apple picking on a crisp fall day. On the drive back home, apple in hand, my eardrums were jolted by the sound of smashing glass. I felt the lurch as my body pressed mercilessly against the seatbelt. While my mother was busy trying to right the car and keep it from rolling, I was engaged in staring straight ahead at a tree that seemed to be getting far too close far too quickly.

It all happened in slow motion, senses heightened, slowing time. “Tree,” I yelled.

She stopped. Just. In. Time.

She took stock of me, seeing that I was unscathed, half-eaten apple still clutched tightly in my right hand, a habit I still have to this day: hanging on to things too long.

As we stumbled out of the car, several other vehicles who had witnessed the accident pulled over, rushing to make sure we were okay. On the other side of the two-lane highway, the man who had hit us stumbled out of his car, walking over to his front bumper, scratching his head in a rather confused manner.

It was slowly dawning on him what had happened. He had hit us from behind. He staggered to the side of the road and my mother noticed him, suddenly alarmed about HIS safety.

“Someone needs to check on him, to find out if he is okay.” Even in this situation, she was worried about others.

He was okay. He was also very, very drunk. He could barely walk.

When the police arrived, they assessed the damage.

“The car is ruined,” I said to the officer.

He responded kindly, “You can always fix a car, but you can’t always fix people. You are very lucky.” That was a life lesson worth receiving early, and I appreciate his words as much today as I did at 12.

After that day, people who drank and drove were evil in my mind. I had no tolerance or concept of what trauma, addiction, or bad decisions meant.

Six years later, in the mid 80s, I lived in southern Michigan, attending university there. For our Intro to Psych course, we had a field trip to two of Chicago’s court systems: criminal and civil. If there is any doubt of racial inequality, spend a few hours at each of these places, and all questioning will be erased. In the criminal court we were thoroughly searched and then briefed on behaviour—don’t wear a hat a certain way (could be a message to gangs), stay in a group, behave. The people on trial in this building were overwhelmingly visible minorities, unlike the thoroughly white occupants of the civil court we would visit that afternoon. It was sickening to see.

A friend and I found a courtroom to sit in, settled near the back, and watched the proceedings. Most of the people who went before the judge were waiting for an actual hearing date. I think the term was preliminary hearing. One young man in particular caught my eye.

He was one of the few Caucasians going before this particular judge. He was close to my age, well dressed, and looked like he could be a friend of mine at school. He was polite and respectful. During a break, I spoke to him. I don’t remember what I asked or said, but I know we spoke. It is more of a feeling than a recollection of specific events when I try to recall those moments. I think I asked about his situation, and then he talked about being remorseful. I think he may have asked questions about what I was studying. I can’t be sure. I just remember the sense of talking to what felt like a friend.

The time came to leave, and I headed out. Remembering his name and the courtroom number (that has long since left my brain), I decided to check the docket. I was curious about his charge: manslaughter under the influence of a controlled substance. He killed someone while driving drunk. I almost physically jumped back, aghast and confused.

It was at that violent collision of black and white in my mind that I first began to discover the world of grey.

At first, cognitive dissonance dominated my thinking. Two opposing opinions were in the ring, fighting for the knockout. Until I realized that both sides could co-exist without having to throw a single punch.

Thank you, whatever your name is, for opening me up to some of the nuances in life. In realizing and recognizing some of my biases, judgements, and pre-conceived ideas. In showing me that there are ALWAYS two sides and inevitably room for a wider perspective.

Thank you, wherever and whoever you are.

Happy Valentine’s Day,

Heather

PS. I hope you went on to make your life count despite your devasting and critical mistake, and I hope those you hurt found a modicum of peace in their lives.