Before law school, it was common for my shifts to start with some sort of chaos. For my work, I would typically walk in, put on my radio, and go over the concerns and plans for the day; that last step depending on time. Sometimes I didn’t have a second to get a radio and instead I dropped whatever was in my hands and sprinted as soon as someone screamed out for help. Other days, it was a calm early shift and the intensity would only pick up once the teenage boys on our unit woke up. As I worked in the mental health field, I started to become more patient and got along with clients who had done unspeakably horrible things. Hearing their stories, I felt anger and sadness in its full array. Later, I became a behavioral specialist after promising my family that I would take on a safer job. And while it was safer, comparatively, it still gave me the same kind of all-consuming passion to make things right. This kind of work is the toughest I have ever done, and I am fully convinced that no other kind of job comes close to the highs and lows of it. I remember the days when I would sit with a client, I remember the tremble in their voice as they described why they needed to go back home so that they could protect their mother or father stuck in a cycle of abusive relationships. No one should ever have to parent or be the primary protection for their caregivers, but love persists.
Years ago, someone asked me a question that I remember asking one of my clients: “So, if you weren’t there, what do you think would happen?” It’s the kind of question where the answer gets stuck in your throat and tears prick the corners of your eyes.
I don’t know.
And I guess it’s one of the most truthful things you can say, admitting that there isn’t a right answer, and even if there was, you don’t know it. Sometimes you just don’t know, and that revelation can only do one of three things. It can drive you into intensity, out of the realm where you don’t feel hope’s wings; it can give you an excuse to bury the feeling down, allowing yourself to continue to do things the way you always have; or it can allow you to act, even if you don’t know what you’re doing just yet.
I decided then that I would work to prevent the trickle down of trauma from one person to the next. No longer would I be on the edge of the highway, desperately grabbing for the child who decided that love couldn’t exist if her family confused abuse as some form of elevated love. No longer would I sit and hear the admissions of domestic abuse that cost someone their freedom. I would be on the other end, watching the warning signs and preparing someone so that they would go onto live their lives without passing down dark thoughts and sadness. As compelling and worthwhile the work was, I felt a need to switch to preventative work. It was a difficult change because of the high regard I hold for the field and the fact that we need mental health care workers and their expertise now more than ever. But maybe this way, I will be able to give someone hope before they even need it.
There is only one known form of time travel. It is more mundane than most people think, but everyone has experienced it. It is how someone can plant a seed and die knowing they will never live to see the flower of their own making. Because even if they are gone, they aren’t really. The effects of their presence will be felt every day as someone passes by the flower and leans down to touch the soft petals and smell sweet rosewater.
Working at Empire Justice Center, I can now engage in this form of time travel, preparing resources for those who will need them years down the line. I have been able to update the past by summarizing new case law so that attorneys can enforce the rights of crime victims in the future. It means a lot that I can be a part of this work that will still help the same kind of underrepresented clients I have worked with in the past. I can learn from and correct my mistakes, armed with more knowledge and the ability to continue making a difference.
I am proud of the work I have done in the past, and I wouldn’t change anything about my experiences. But now that I am a legal intern, I am effecting change in a very different, but equally fulfilling, way. Whether it is through making engaging resources for victims of sexual assault, drafting case law updates, compiling statistics, or working directly with a client; I am confident in the influence it will have when added up with the work that the attorneys at Empire Justice do. I am excited for the future in a very specific and euphoric way. I hope that through my future work, I will be able to pass on this feeling to those who need it.