Peer Pressure

The words seem to float from the jurors mouth as she read the verdict. She stands before the court, uncomfortably balanced as though held by strings. Her gaze is fixed solely upon the piece of paper which held my fate. Although you could tell normally she would swipe her brown bangs from her dark eyes, which often fell down across her brow while reading, this time she lets them remain, almost as though hoping this helped her remain hidden.

Most of the other jurors stare at her as though awaiting the verdict unknowingly. It wasn’t their sole decision they would tell themselves later, it was a group decision. They would also comfort themselves by the feeling of a civic duty was thrust upon them and they did what was best for society. There will be many thoughts on lonely nights for some of these jurors as they lay in bed; staring at the ceiling, juggling this decision as though they were razor sharp knives performed in a circus act.

A few though look directly through me. They are proud they are better then me and feel a sense of accomplishment for being a part of this sanction of judicial relevancy. They will boost later at the bar, stiff cocktail in hand, how they played their role in the American Structure as they saw fit. That night, neatly pressed suit returned to the hanger in the closet, they will sleep well; never noticing the crack that runs like a spiderweb across their bedroom ceiling.

I hate neither these groups of individuals; neither the guilt ridden or guiltless. They did not cause me to be standing before them, the judge and God. I look down at my hands as these words drift towards me, feeling the sweat on my palm in a trickle. These hands could have gone on to do so much. They could have gained strength from days of hard work, each callous reminding me of accomplishment. They could have felt the soft arch of a woman’s back as I held her tight after a long day. They could have brought laughter to my child’s face as I brought them away from my eyes in a game of peek-a-boo. They could have done so many things.

Instead these hands took themselves away from me; as well as took away my mind, body and soul, when it fired a gun on that fateful night. How could it turn into what is now perceived as a cold hearted murder come from what I once remember myself as. Do any of these jurors know that I won my fifth grade spelling bee? Could they understand how I once wanted to be an astronaut, with dreams of floating in outer space? Or how I stopped Johnny Jenkins from throwing rocks at the school window; not for fear of being caught, but knowing it was a bad thing to be doing. How would they know, I no longer know that boy.

It all seemed to come so fast, as though the levees of my life broke free and water poured in from all sides. Nothing changed; my mother didn’t leave us, my father didn’t start beating me, I just changed. One day I was hoping the girl in the corner of home room would go to the Spring Fling with me, the next day I was ditching home room to smoke pot in the boys bathroom. A world that once seemed filled with brightness suddenly seemed a darker place. The feeling of a justified cause was only justified if it benefited me. I was angry for no reason, which just angered me more. The friends that I would play stick ball in the street were now enemies; judging me and not understanding who I really was. Yet they were the only ones that really tried to understand.

The new group I began hanging out with didn’t understand me, but they didn’t try to understand me. Instead they were in the same angst filled mental state. For some the world is their oyster; for us that oyster tasted disgusting, raw and hard to swallow. Defiance and being tough were better traits then smart and kindhearted. Things started simple, small acts of vandalism and some drugs to keep us entertained. This developed as we got bored with the smaller things and moved on to bigger. Vandalism turned to theft, pot turned to crack cocaine. I was in a haze driven by my own free will, without any control over that freedom.

My parents noticed and did the steps most parents do. They tried getting stricter, which I defied even stronger. They were now just as worthless as my old friends, not understanding, not knowing. They tried relating to me and looking towards ways to help me. I ignorantly laughed at this idea, how could they ever understand what I was going through. Everything just led to me being angrier; at them and at life. Anger is fast fueled when you really have no reason to be angry.

The words finally hit my ears. “We the people, find the defendant Guilty of first degree murder.”

For some, their eighteenth birthday is a day of maturity, independence and achievement. Mine just became a death sentence. Two weeks prior to the crime, yet changing the course of my life indefinitely.

This verdict was justified because it was unanimously decided upon my peers. Yet it was also my peers who unanimously decided to convince me that shooting Samuel “one sock” Johnson was justified. Life can be so ironic.

At this point I was living with my friend in a run down apartment, dropping out of high school to spend more time selling crack. The money was good enough to pay rent, buy a decent car and take out an assortment of women. I felt like I was on the fast track of life. My anger was clouded by my ecstasy of drugs and sex. My judgment clouded by my ecstasy. At eighteen, meager living conditions seem to be elevated when responsibility is knowing when to eat, shit and shave. We lived in the heart of the city, the heart of the action. I had the clothes, the gold and the attitude to show I was now a man.

The proving grounds were pushed further when I was told by my friends that one sock was dealing in our neighborhood. I knew action was needed, but felt tense about doing so. I had never really been in a fight. I’ve been there and backed my friends when they have been. I’ve gone toe to toes with plenty of guys trying to be harder then me. These just usually go back and forth with shit talking and how we could kick each other’s asses as we walk in separate directions. This would need more, this needed to be an example for others if I was to maintain my reputation.

Instead of maintaining my Reputation, I lost my future. What was supposed to be a scare tactic with my Glock pistol, turned into me shooting him. He just stared at me, and continued staring. My friends chanting, he’s disrespecting you, shoot him, shoot him. I can hear it over and over and see his eyes. Cold and hard as ice, yet would not melt. I stood there, arm extended, gun in hand. Praying he would turn and run. It felt like an eternity. I don’t remember squeezing the trigger, almost as though it just went off. He flew backwards and before his body hit the ground I began to run. Yet running can get you places, but will never set you free.

So know it’s been set, my future, the boy who enjoyed ice cream sandwiches and the sound of video arcades. The boy who used to sleep better after his Mom tucked him in and said she loved him. The boy who knew nothing of what the world had to offer. That boy was now a Man that would never find out what the world would have to offer.