Answering the Call

June 2025

I’ve lived in this state for just over a year, and already, I’ve been summoned for grand jury duty. It’s not the first time I’ve received a jury summons—far from it. In every state I’ve lived in, I’ve been summoned, and in two, I’ve served. But this one is different. Grand jury duty isn’t a week or two out of your life. It’s a year-long appointment, where you report regularly to listen to evidence and determine probable cause across a wide range of cases. You don’t decide guilt. You decide whether the system moves forward.

When I tell people about this summons, the response is nearly universal: “Oh man, I’m sorry. I would’ve tried to get out of it.”

People have strategies, they tell me. Say you’re biased. Say something wild and inappropriate. Say you just can’t do it. The goal, it seems, is to dodge the responsibility. And yet many of these same people complain about work constantly, feel overburdened, undervalued, or burnt out. Jury duty—especially grand jury service—could be a break from that routine, a shift in perspective, a rare window into the gears of justice that grind, however imperfectly, beneath the surface of our society.

But we don’t want it. Why?

The obvious reason is money. Civic duty doesn’t pay like your job does—assuming your employer doesn’t cover the difference, and this a big assumption because none of these people bothered to ask their HR about their policy. In every instance when I’ve served, my employer paid. Also, the idea of spending time in a courthouse instead of in a cubicle or behind a screen is off-putting to many. It’s unfamiliar and they see it as an inconvenient. But I think there’s something deeper at play: a disconnect between what we say we value and what we’re actually willing to sacrifice for.

We talk about the rule of law. We talk about justice, fairness, equity. We want a world where these things matter. But when asked to participate, to be the human hands and hearts that uphold the system, we flinch. We make excuses. We opt out. We don’t want to be inconvenienced. I understand why. Time is precious. Bills don’t stop. Life doesn’t pause.

But I made a choice a long time ago. When I’m summoned, I show up. I answer honestly. I serve. Why, because that is what I’d want if I were on the other side needing that jury. And as a bonus, every time I’ve served, I learn.

This time, I’m embracing something even bigger. Grand jury duty, week after week, case after case, is a commitment that most people never have to make. But I’m not just doing it out of obligation. I’m doing it with curiosty, empathy and love. I want to learn. I want to contribute. I want to better understand this complicated world we live in—and how justice is sought, who it impacts, and how the system actually operates, case by case, decision by decision.

As a sociologist, I’ve studied crime and deviance, power and control, norms and resistance. Sitting in a courtroom instead of a classroom offers a radically different vantage point. It is one thing to teach or research the abstract. It is another to witness the reality.

I don’t know what this next year will bring. But I know I will walk into that room open-hearted, clear-eyed, and ready to serve—not just because it’s my civic duty, but because it’s a rare and sacred opportunity to listen, to learn, and to uphold the very principles we say we believe in.

Not everyone can serve. But those of us who can, should. Not out of guilt or fear of penalty, but because this system—flawed as it may be—only works when we do.