In This Room, We’re All the Same

Hello from Jury Duty. I feel like a hostage writing this as I await my turn. I am safe…I think.

Laptops aren’t allowed in the jury room, but luckily phones are—so I’m thumb-typing this poorly. (Don’t worry, I’ll spell-check later.)

I’m sitting in a room full of dozens of people who would rather be anywhere else. Not a lot of smiles. Not a lot of joy. Just people doing their civic duty in a drab gray room equipped with an old Keurig machine, creamer in those little plastic shot glasses, and chairs best described as un-freaking-comfortable.

Oh yeah, and they’ve got the same ceiling lights they use in morgues. All around, good vibes.

The Shared Groan of “Jury Duty”

Jury duty is one of the few remaining American traditions we can all agree on.

Whenever you tell someone, “I have jury duty,” there’s a universal response. It’s like you told them your great aunt passed away. You get the same sympathetic head tilt and soft reply: “Oh… I’m so sorry.”

And it’s very much an American thing. According to one study, the United States holds 80% of all jury trials in the world. Take that, rest of the world.

They even carved it into the Constitution. The Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Amendments all guarantee the right to a jury for criminal and civil trials. The Founders didn’t mess around.

The Great Equalizer

But you know what’s kind of beautiful? The togetherness. Me and my fellow brave (and bored) jurors are in this thing together. No one gets a fast pass. No one gets to skip the line. We’re all subject to the same rules, the same waiting game, the same terrible chemically made coffee.

I’m surrounded by pharmacists, construction workers, real estate brokers, servers, and students.

Age, race, gender, socio-economic background—none of it matters in here.

Think about that. Where else on the planet can you say that?

Air travel? Nope. There’s first class for the rich and coach for the rest of us—smushed together like packing peanuts, praying the person sitting in front of us doesn’t recline their seat.

Healthcare? Hah. Whether you’re on Medicaid or paying hundreds a month for a premium plan, the quality of your care—and your wait time—depends on your income bracket.

Theme parks? Sorry, the “fast lane” at Disney and Universal is literally a giant revenue stream. If you can pay more, you skip the line.

But in the jury pool? We are all equals. No fast lane. No express access. Just a bunch of strangers in uncomfortable chairs under morgue lighting, trying to stay awake.

Still the Most American Thing

And in that way, I don’t think there’s anything more American than jury duty.

We haven’t been this close—literally and figuratively—since World War II. Every generation has had its dividing lines: Vietnam. The war on terror. COVID. Each one split up America in its own way—by politics, geography, class, belief.

But jury duty? It’s one of the last truly democratic spaces we’ve got. You don’t get to choose who sits next to you. And that’s kind of the point.

Jury duty doesn’t care who you voted for. It doesn’t care what you do for a living. Doesn’t ask how many followers you have or what your net worth is.

It just says: Show up. Sit down. Be part of the process. It’s annoying, tedious and it’s wildly inefficient. And it might be one of the most important things we still do together.

Together, in Beige Chairs

So here I sit. Waiting for my number to be called. Probably not going to get picked. But maybe I will. Who knows?

What I do know is this: in a time when most things feel divided, jury duty offers a weird little pocket of unity. Even if that unity involves old coffee, beige carpeting, and strangers silently scrolling their phones for hours.

And hey, maybe that’s enough.

(PS, I didn’t get picked for a trial)