Disarmed

The Children’s Court building in our town is a bleak place. Out front there is an empty planter where parents coming in to see whether the judge will let them have their kids back from foster care put out their cigarettes. In the fall, there is a plastic coyote spinning slowly on a stick stuck in the dry grass to scare away the geese. In the winter, the neglected lawn is at least covered with snow but the traffic on the sidewalk leading to and from the Court is grim. It is a place where everyone is unhappy but for different reasons.

I have spent a lot of time at Children’s Court because of my work as a planning and evaluation consultant. For a couple of years, I was also an advocate for a teenage girl in foster care so I know not to expect anything but the barest of bones when I walk in.

Because parents can be especially upset at the Court and because of all the terrible shootings in public places over the past several years, our county has probably wisely imposed very strict security measures for people coming to Children’s Court.

Today I knew this would make me later than the snowy, slippery, construction zoned drive across town had already made me but I was resigned to taking off my coat, my watch, my boots, walking around the puddles left by other folks to go through the metal detector, waiting on the other side while the tall, silent guard rented from some contracted security company put my big bag through the X-Ray machine or whatever it is three times.

What is she looking for?

“Spoons are not allowed,” she mouthed in a voice several decibels lower than a whisper.

“What?” I said.

“Spoons are not allowed,” she said again.

“I’m sorry. Is there a problem?” My hearing disability means that because I just came in from outside, it will take me at least 15 minutes to be able to hear a person talking normally, a good reason not to be late to meetings.

“YOU CAN’T HAVE A SPOON!”

Damn, I thought to myself. There was indeed a spoon in my purse, the artifact of a crummy Greek yogurt lunch a few days ago. Actually, it was the same spoon that was in my purse the day before when I ‘d come through the same security check but, anyway, I said, “So I should throw the spoon away?” She nodded, apparently realizing that further discussion would be pointless.

So I threw my spoon away, a perfectly good spoon. But, I figured, she’s doing her job. I could sharpen the spoon and escape. Oh wait, I could just walk out. Anyway, I tried not to mind.

Later I told the person I was meeting with about the spoon. And then she told me how one of the parents coming to Family Drug Treatment Court was told she couldn’t bring her crocheting into the building and so she took her ball of yarn and her crochet hook outside to hide them in the bushes and then came inside distraught that she was without her crocheting which was, she said, the only thing that kept her calm.

There isn’t more to the story than that. It just struck me is all, you know how things just strike you sometimes?