A Knock at Midnight(20)
I was thinking a lot about dreams deferred—my childhood fantasies of becoming a lawyer. I recalled my childhood insistence about the profession whenever anyone asked, how I’d written essays about it and put my entire class in Bogata on notice about my future as an attorney in my eighth-grade valedictorian speech. By college, I had lost confidence in that vision. And by now, the dream that had seemed so clear to me as a child had faded at the edges.
But it still lingered. As I hunched over my old friend and mentor Ken’s borrowed books in my cubicle, studying for the CPA exam, the image of Clair Huxtable’s power suit and handsome briefcase arose from the depths of my past and pressed on my consciousness. I wanted to be a powerful businesswoman, to follow in the entrepreneurial footsteps of my father and his father. From my work at PricewaterhouseCoopers, I knew now that corporate law could be an avenue for just that.
At lunch with Ken one July afternoon, borrowing more of his used books—with my own rent and some of Jazz’s, and the money I was sending to my mom for prison commissary, I couldn’t afford new ones—I tentatively broached the subject. Ken always talked straight to me, and I knew he’d tell me what I needed to hear.
“Ken,” I said, “you know how you’re always saying that the key to advancement is to add value to whatever you’re doing?”
“Ah! You remembered!” Ken said, delighted. “And to wherever you are. Yes.”
“I’ve just been thinking,” I began, “maybe with all I’ve learned working at PwC, maybe I’ll have value to add elsewhere. I was just thinking that after I get through this CPA exam…maybe I’ll try law school. I don’t know. It’s just an idea. What do you think?”
Ken’s face lit up. “Go for it. Brittany, I’ve known you for years now. I’ve witnessed you excel with every step you dared to take. Why not this one? In fact, I’m doing the same thing! I haven’t told many people yet, but I start at SMU in the fall.”
I left that lunch with a newfound sense of purpose. I’d been shooing away thoughts of law school for a while now, chastising myself for being overly ambitious, especially now with all that our family was going through. But here was Ken, already on his way. He’d always walked the path right before me, pointing out next steps. If Ken could do it, I knew I could.
* * *
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TWO MONTHS AFTER the humiliation of the dog pound, Jazz and I went to visit Mama together for the first time. It was supposed to be a contact visit, but we still couldn’t hold her. If we touched her for longer than ten seconds, we’d be screamed at by the guards, who we’d already seen bark out reprimands to other visitors in the most humiliating manner possible. Mama wore a white prison top and bottoms made of a thick, coarse cotton. The shirt and pants were unevenly cut and hung on her thin frame, the neck low and loose, exposing her jutting collarbones. She’d tried to make a joke of it—Can you believe they make us sew our own shit in here? She laughed and we laughed, our laughter masking our deep pain and the fact that we were sitting in a visitation room talking about how prison uniforms were made.
We spent the whole hour talking over each other, trying to catch up on what we’d missed. We bought three flavors of chips from the vending machine and poured them on a napkin in the middle of the table so we could share, had peanut M&M’s for dessert. “I have not had an ice-cold Coke since Lassie was a pup,” Mama said and laughed, drinking hers as if it were the last one on earth.
At the end of the visit, we took a picture. I’m wearing a black T-shirt that says GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN. Jazz, in her oversized green polo, has a hand in her jeans pocket and a slight lean to the left, an attempt to look at ease. Mama stands between us, a hand on each of our shoulders, her chin raised unnaturally, her lips barely managing a grimace. All of our shoulders are stiff with the tension of the day. We wear forced smiles, but our eyes are blank, frozen. Stunned.
We laugh now at how awkward that photo looks; laughter eases memory’s pain. But I remember standing in that visiting room, the way my cheeks ached as I tried to smile for the camera. How nauseous I felt after hearing my grown mother ask a guard for permission to use the restroom. The cold concrete, the clanging of steel on steel that kept the body constantly on edge. And how empty. Empty from crying, empty from the confusion. Months had passed, but still none of us could believe what was happening.
Every single month, Jazz and I went to see her. The long drive to and from the prison, the rudeness of the guards, their absolute power over our mother, and our silent tears in the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the way home took their toll. But on Monday morning after a visit, we set our emotions aside and went to work.
* * *
—
MY MOTHER WAS in prison, and I carried that knowledge with me every minute of every day. But I had to keep steppin’. Now that I’d decided to pursue my dream, I had to apply to law school. I didn’t know a soul besides Ken who’d gone through the process, and by now he was buried in his first year at SMU. I needed help but had no idea where to look for it. The only law firm that I knew by name was Baker Botts, and that was only because they were housed in the same building as PwC. But it was somewhere to start.
Law firm websites are the best resource for an aspiring attorney. You can find pictures, detailed bios of attorneys, even tidbits about their personal life. Things like that have always helped me with the visualization my dad encouraged. As I scrolled through the Baker Botts attorney bios, my interest grew. So did my confidence. I can do this, I thought. But I still didn’t see exactly what I was looking for. I didn’t see a reflection of myself in those glossy, smiling portraits.