Not Going Native

With a new school year almost upon us, some college students will be preparing to spend portions of it in a foreign land.

There was a time (during my youth to be precise and predictable) when students who spent a semester abroad did so in a country in which they had a passing interest if not fluency in the language and culture. No more. Today, students select destinations for their sojourns having nothing at all to do with their majors, minors or anything in between including family history.

It is difficult to know, for instance, what factors are at work when English-speaking students elect to spend a semester abroad in Australia unless, of course, they like to swim, hike, shear sheep or just be as far away from home as possible. Nor does the attitude at the home universities and colleges of these students offer any insight into this trend. These institutions are often equally complicit in this ironically insular approach to study abroad by demanding little if anything in the way of language skills outbound and no demonstrations of proficiency inbound.

Most student travelers invariably spend their time exclusively in the company of fellow countrymen, living as far apart from the natives as possible. The idea of living with a local family seems so repugnant to them one would think that such circumstances might obligate them to wash the dishes or clean up their rooms. Given they don’t do that at home, one could hardly expect such behavior abroad. Nevertheless, living alone or in an apartment with three or four fellow Americans is the default arrangement.

Contact with the domestic population normally consists of ordering meals or bartering with shop keepers. The students feel no compulsion to learn the names of political leaders and even less to know which party currently controls the government. Friendships with their foreign counterparts is eschewed in all but rare cases. Classes are usually taken separately and, when taught by native instructors, are more often than not conducted in English.

This nearly absolute disconnect does not extend to keeping in touch with friends and family on the home front, however. Many students insist on renting cell phones for the entire semester and using them far more liberally than they do at home. In this regard they definitely go native as cell phone usage in, say, Italy or Spain is far more widespread and intrusive than in the United States.

In the end, many American students return to their native shores far less newly-minted members of the global village than earlier generations. They, and we, are poorer for it.

No Exit

A few years ago I was summoned for jury duty. Like most people, my immediate reaction was to wonder how I might be excused, but my wife, an attorney, convinced me this was highly unlikely. “What if I told the court I consider anyone charged with a crime to be guilty a priori?” I asked her. She just looked at me with disdain. “Ever hear of perjury?” she countered. “Well, won't they let me go when I explain I am a sole proprietor, the CEO and janitor of my company?” I pleaded. "They could care less," she assured me. I knew when I was licked so I returned the required form and awaited what I considered to be my own sentence.

Several weeks later I called the number listed on the summons to learn if my presence was still required. It was. I arrived at the courthouse on the appointed day still contemplating my escape. I was not alone. Nearly everyone with whom I spoke still hoped for a last minute reprieve. Not long after filling out a juror's questionnaire and settling in to what promised to be a long day spent largely avoiding a seat near any television set or incessant chatterers, I was part of a large group called for voir dire, the process of preliminary examination of prospective jurors. As we queued up at the elevator to go to the courtroom on the fifth floor, each of us was assigned a number corresponding to the number on our questionnaire.

When we arrived at the courtroom we were seated in the gallery at the rear according to our assigned numbers. It was a very large room at the end of which we could see the judge seated at the bench, presumably working on various court matters. Nearer to the gallery were the two sets of attorneys, defense and prosecution, seated at their respective tables along with the defendant, who was obviously at the defense table.

As the attorneys swiveled in their seats and eyed the potential jurors among the panelists, they referred often to the questionnaires corresponding to our seat numbers and scrutinized their authors for some telling signs of suitability, at least as they understood that term. Meanwhile, some mumbling was heard among my fellow citizens regarding excuses and exemptions. Even at this last stage some still held out hope.

At the beginning of the review, the group was asked if any among us had relatives who were members of the court, police department or other institutions related to the proceedings. A few people responded positively. They were asked a few more questions and upon further review one or two of them were excused. Despite the small number of our brethren who were freed, those of us remaining brightened at the prospect for dismissal, however dim.

Next, we were asked if anyone among us had been the victim of a violent crime. To my surprise, a much larger number than I would have anticipated replied they had. When queried further about the details, however, most who responded positively had in fact not been victims of "violent" crimes as it turned out, but of lesser ones. Neverthless, once again, one or two people clearly met the conditions and were excused. At that juncture the entire process took a sudden turn.

The judge, who up to this point had remained silent and seemingly uninterested in the proceedings, indicated he wished to address the panelists. He began by thanking us for reporting for jury duty. Continuing, he noted that some of us no doubt regarded our civic duty as a hardship and wished to be excused from further service. While he might be sympathetic under certain circumstances, he allowed, these would have to be very extenuating indeed.

And with that he raised his arm, which heretofore had been covered by his ample robes. It was a prosthesis, plain and simple for all to see, a somewhat pale plastic hand, rigid and lifeless, protruding from his sleeve. The judge continued. As a youth he had been involved in an accident and lost his arm. From that day on he was determined to lead a normal life and did. He never shied away from joining his friends to play ball, regarding his loss as an inconvenience, not a hardship. Now, he merely wanted to offer this illustration to the group assembled before him so that they might know how he understood the distinction.

The room fell silent. No one stirred. Many of the potential jurors simply looked down at their feet, which they shifted nervously. From that point on, no further exemptions were sought nor granted.

As it turned out I wasn’t chosen for that jury or any succeeding ones that day. As I left the courthouse I was satisfied to have served one day or one trial. And I departed certain of one thing: the next time a summons arrived I wasn’t going to hesitate a single moment before sending it back.