It all happened too quickly. Bright blue and red lights bounced off the walls of my house as I approached. Inside was a swarm of unfamiliar white men tossing around everything in our living room. One stood by with my seventeen-year-old brother, whispering to him stories of our stepfather being evil. The place I considered sacred -- a safe haven -- was violated. It was torn apart. Shortly after, they flooded out of the house without even putting the pillows back on the couch. They had arrested my stepfather for robbing a store he hadn’t even step foot inside. As a black man with paranoid schizophrenia and a Lions’ jersey, he fit the profile for someone they could throw behind bars without question. Until that point, I had no idea what I wanted to do in life. I had been in a number of shows, but I also excelled in all of my English classes… but history continued to catch my eye. My amalgamation of interests confused me, giving me a headache anytime I heard the phrase, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” It wasn’t until I visited my stepfather in the county jail -- my memory highlighting how much it had changed since I was a toddler visiting my father there -- that the question became less intimidating. America’s justice system isn’t broken. How can something be broken when it’s functioning as intended? It was created and curated to mass incarcerate African-Americans at an alarming rate. It’s a lot more preferable than having to deal with us. A system that started as slave patrols in 1704 still exists today. A system that was created before our very constitution is still alive and well. Given that it was created to oppress black people, I couldn’t ignore how much it affected me and my people. For that reason, I found myself drifting towards law and my plans to pursue English in order to get into law. Law incorporates all of my interests. Courtrooms operate a lot like an acting performance. With the jury as the anxious audience, the curtain rises on the judge presiding over a few lawyers and the accused versus the accusor. Court cases can hold historical significance, setting precedents for generations to come. One lawyer steps forward, putting on their charm to convince their audience the defendant deserves their fate. The next steps forward, drawing the audience’s eye to a new showcase of glitz and glamor, trying to sway them to their side. By the end, there’s a life-changing verdict. Of all the roles in that courtroom, mine would be the defense attorney. Public policy can sometimes help the person being accused, but it works as a trickle-down effect. I want to be able to help people directly. I want to work one-on-one with people like my stepfather, taking note of their stories and fighting the system that has spent so long tearing apart families. I want to stand up for the people being crushed, their voices being silenced. Far too many black men sit in jail for a crime they didn’t commit or with petty charges their white counterparts wouldn’t even be considered for. It’s time for that to change. If it takes a girl from Flint working on a thousand cases individually, so be it. Even with my dreams being so clear-cut, there are still cards stacked against me. Minority lawyers only account for less than 17% of lawyers in America, the number dropping even more for law partners. However, where most would see a barrier, I only see a reason to work harder. It’s illogical to believe racial equality is achievable when one of the factors preventing it isn’t being changed. Black men stand before a white judge with a white jury beside them all while a white lawyer represents them. A CEO wouldn’t ask a mechanic to critique their business because they come from two different places. It’s not reasonable. An all-white courtroom judging a black person is the exact same concept. Law for minorities seems difficult, but it’s never impossible. By simply making it into the room, I can help change a life, and that’s all it takes. One life is all it ever takes to start a movement.