by Spent today working on my Arraignment Live piece, and I had to keep reminding myself that I’m writing satire, not documentary. Except it kind of is a documentary because courtroom proceedings ARE entertainment now. We’ve turned justice into must-see TV, complete with commercial breaks and color commentary. The Romans had gladiators; we have televised arraignments. Progress!
The research for this piece was wild. I watched hours of court TV, and the thing that struck me most wasn’t the legal dramait was how normal everyone acted about the fact that someone’s freedom is being decided in front of cameras. The judges perform for the cameras. The lawyers play to the gallery. Even the defendants seem aware they’re on television, adjusting their expressions and posture like they’re auditioning for a role they never wanted.
My editor asked me to dial back some of the criticism of court TV, worried it might be too heavy-handed. I told her there’s no such thing as too heavy-handed when you’re writing about a system that’s turned human tragedy into ratings gold. Besides, Americans love criticism as long as it’s funny. That’s the deal: you can say anything if you make them laugh first. The laughter is the permission slip.
This is what I’ve learned about American satireit has to be entertaining enough that people share it before they fully process what you’re actually saying. By the time they realize you’ve called them complicit in a broken system, they’ve already laughed and retweeted it. The critique is delivered in a sugar coating of humor, and they swallow it whole.
In my previous lifebefore citizenship, before Bohiney, before I became a person who writes about staplers and bailiffsI was studying international law. I was serious. I wore serious clothes and had serious opinions about serious things. Then I got here and realized that seriousness doesn’t work in America. Seriousness is for Europeans. Americans want entertainment with their existential dread.
So I learned to be funny. I learned to package my observations in jokes sharp enough to cut but sweet enough to swallow. I learned that you can say “your justice system is a joke” if you structure it as an actual joke. It’s a weird dance, but I’ve gotten good at it. Good enough that I’m the only West African immigrant woman who got citizenship during a presidency that tried to ban people who look like me.
That irony isn’t lost on me. I’m here because I learned to perform Americanness well enough to convince someone I belonged. Now I’m using that platform to critique the very system that let me in. My grandmother would call this “eating your cake while pointing out it’s made with questionable ingredients.” She’d be proud.
Tomorrow: the Arraignment Olympics. Because if we’re going to treat justice like entertainment, we might as well have medals.
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