Dear journal,
Today, for the first time, I take my seat as a juror, Juror 37. I have been summoned before, but never chosen. This time, however, I am not merely an observer of the civic process but a participant within it. As a teacher of government and civics, this feels like the culmination of something I have spent years both studying and teaching: the living, breathing act of citizenship.
There is a quiet dignity in the process itself. The formality of the courtroom, the measured cadence of the judge, the deliberate questions from attorneys, all of it feels familiar, yet different when experienced from within rather than from the outside. I once served in an arbitration, but this is something altogether more profound. Arbitration feels procedural; jury duty feels constitutional. It connects the citizen not merely to law but to legacy. It is a tangible reminder that democracy depends not on institutions alone, but on the engagement of its people.
As Alexis de Tocqueville observed, “The jury… invests each citizen with a sort of magistracy; it makes all men feel that they have duties toward society and that they take a share in its government.” That sentence has lived for years on my classroom wall, serving as a provocation for discussion. I have used it to teach students that democracy is not a spectator sport: it is participatory, often inconvenient, and occasionally uncomfortable. Today, those words are no longer an abstraction; they have form, weight, and consequence. I am, for this brief moment, a citizen-magistrate tasked with balancing justice and mercy, law and conscience.
Teaching civics has always been about more than textbooks and tests. It is about cultivating habits of the heart, what John Dewey called the “moral spirit” of democracy. Citizenship is not defined by voting alone but by the willingness to engage, to deliberate, and to care for the common good. To serve on a jury is to inhabit that ethic of care. It is a reminder that the ideals of justice and equality must be continually enacted by ordinary people, one case and one verdict at a time.
There is also something deeply human in this duty. To sit among strangers—each of us drawn from different walks of life, each asked to weigh truth and consequence together—feels profoundly egalitarian. No one’s title or status matters. The CEO and the custodian, the teacher and the retiree, each become equals in the eyes of the law. This, too, is a form of education: the democratic classroom writ large. In that space, we practice listening, reason, and empathy. We practive the very skills I ask of my students every day.
As I sit in that jury box, I feel both small and significant. Small, because the machinery of justice extends far beyond any individual’s reach. Significant, because it requires each of us to give it meaning through participation. My name will not be remembered; no plaque will mark my service. But that is the beauty of it. Democracy endures not through spectacle, but through quiet, consistent acts of belonging. Jury duty, like voting or community service, is one of the ordinary rituals that keep the republic alive.
When I teach about the separation of powers or the Bill of Rights, I often remind my students that the Constitution is not self-executing. It relies on citizens to interpret, defend, and uphold it. Today, as Juror 37, I understand that truth with new clarity. To serve is not a burden; it is a privilege. It is a momentary embodiment of the civic faith that has sustained this nation through centuries of conflict, progress, and renewal.
In a time when cynicism often outweighs engagement, and outrage replaces dialogue, this act of service feels radical in its simplicity. It is a reminder that justice, like democracy, is not an abstract ideal. It is a shared endeavor. And so, as I take my seat and listen to the first words of the case, I feel the quiet pride of a citizen doing his part. Not as a teacher explaining the system, but as a participant living within it.
Always,
Dave
PS Well, it was an interesting morning. The defendant didn't show up to their hearing, so the jury was dismissed. I remain "on call" for the remainder of 2025. Maybe I'll get my opportunity to sit on a jury next time.