There is more than one security lane at the Abraham Ribicoff Federal Building, but only one is open. The line twists into the vestibule. Five people are brought in at a time. Instructions are given in English. Given to each adult. I wonder how many times each day this security guy has to repeat these exact directions. A woman is instructed to empty her stroller, pick up her baby, and carry the child through the metal detector with her. It is all very matter-of-fact and strictly professional, yet feels somewhat dehumanizing.  I wonder what it may take to get one of these guards to even crack a smile for half a second; I mean, that’s something even I can manage on occasion. It’s not their job to be liked and I get that. Still, the coldness and repetition must wear these guys down. How could it not?

Going through security has always been an anxiety-inducing experience for me, whether in a courthouse or airport or Fenway. I try very hard to follow all twelve million rules and remember what non-obvious items are contraband. Nervousness about being dubbed suspicious and searched more thoroughly, unfortunately, presents as suspicious behavior. My recent visits to the Federal Building were for reasons having nothing to do with me personally; I wonder about those who are not me, who had the stress of getting through this process followed by the stress of needing to be in front of a judge for what could be a life-changing decision.

I’m not a lawyer. Not a law student. I don’t do well in situations where there are authority figures like judges and police. Last year, I was invited to be part of a rapid response group that would be notified about potential actions if the Trump administration began to escalate deportations. I’m not an immigrant. Connecticut has been my only home. I am not fluent in Spanish. What I do have is some flexibility in my schedule and firsthand experience going to court without having anyone present to lend support. It can feel intimidating if you are not part of that world of briefcases and suits, and lonely if you are standing alone.

A toddler is swinging his Curious George doll around, demanding attention, as toddlers are wont to do. His older brother is decked out in a Spider-Man shirt. These kids would not get a second look in a grocery store, shopping mall, or on the street. They look absolutely American, draped in pop culture  the way most kids their ages are.

Once through security, everyone waits in a room that looks like a train station, minus the vending machines and television screens. Everyone takes turns trying to keep the kids occupied and reasonably quiet. Food is not permitted, or maybe just not in the courtroom. The signs seem absolute; the website is more detailed. If it’s been through security, it’s probably okay. It’s not entirely clear if phones are allowed in the waiting area, but there are warnings to absolutely shut them off when in the actual courtroom. Nobody wants to do anything that might potentially upset a judge.

It’s a lot of waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, and then getting called into a courtroom.

Inside, there are just a few benches and they seem perpetually packed. The lawyers and judge do most of the talking, all in English. The toddler, now sitting separately from his mother, starts crying and gets stink-eye from one of the legal professionals. He’s carried out of the room during the discussion of his mother’s case.

In under five minutes inside that courtroom, a decision is made, but this woman has to wait for debriefing outside to understand exactly what was said. I’m not confident I could have translated the legalese that would reveal her fate.

For now, she stays.

Someone brings the now calmer toddler back. The kids, being too young to understand everything going on, mostly seem bored by all of it.