Humanity on Trial

I’ve met so many people during my time in this state. I first moved here in late 1998. As many of you know by now, I was 21 years old with a young baby. I remember my friend Mary brought me to the International Institute (now Dorcas), and they sent me to West Staff Employment Agency. When they asked me what I did, I said I could work in an office, and they sent me to Traffic Court on Harris Avenue.

I started in November as a temp filing old traffic tickets. I kept getting interrupted because anytime someone came in who spoke Spanish, I was asked to interpret. By February, a very kind woman named Anne Alexander—one of my supervisors—recommended me for a permanent position. It mattered. Not only would I make better wages, but I would be a full-time state employee with medical benefits.

A few years later, I enrolled at CCRI to become a Judicial Interpreter through one of the first pilot training programs. After graduating, the State opened its first Interpreter Office of Court Interpreters at the RI Supreme Court, and I was hired as one of six interpreters. We handled criminal, civil, family court, and workers’ compensation cases.

We saw the best and the worst of the human condition. Families reunited. Marriages ended. People praised for heroic acts. Workers injured at work, nasty landlords and also terrible tenants. We were there when some people were being convicted of murder, rape and everything in between.

What stood out to me, which was very different from what TV often suggested in endless movies and news, was this: good people and criminals came in every color. People weren’t good or bad because they were White, Black, Latino, Asian, or anything else. In some cases they were there because of decisions they made, sometimes in a single moment, sometimes over a lifetime.

In every case, they also had something else in common: someone loved them. Family members and spouses showed up to every court date. They testified about who that person was outside the worst thing they had ever done. I learned that many things can be true at the same time. Someone can do something terrible and still have a history of good. Someone can commit a crime and still care deeply about their loved ones.

You can be any race or ethnicity and commit a crime. I’ve seen it.

You can also be the victim of unimaginable abuse. I’ve seen that too. If you want to understand this for yourself, sit in any courtroom in the state, even if for purely educational purposes, and pay attention to who is there and why.

We also can’t ignore the role the media has played for decades. For a long time, Black and Latino people were often portrayed as servants, criminals, or problems to be solved. While representation has improved in recent years, the damage from those dehumanizing portrayals is real. Those images helped shape stereotypes and erase a basic truth: that we are all capable of both good and bad.

Another thing I learned while working in the judiciary is that due process is a foundational principle under the laws of the United States. At its core, due process means that the government cannot act against a person arbitrarily. It requires notice, fairness, and a real opportunity to be heard before decisions are made that can take away someone’s liberty, safety, or future.

In the most simple terms, due process means you have the right to know what you are being accused of and the chance to respond. In criminal cases, it includes the right to confront the evidence and the people bringing the accusations. Even outside criminal court, the principle exists for a reason: no one should be judged, punished, or removed without understanding what is happening to them and why. Questioning process is not the same as rejecting the law, it’s how the law stays worthy of trust.

To me, due process also means transparency. The ability to see who is exercising power over you matters. When authority is carried out by people who remain hidden, literally, it raises questions we should all be willing to ask. If what you are doing is lawful and just, why should it require anonymity? Why are "agents" covering their faces? Accountability is part of what separates justice from force. Why is a five year old being taken away? Why are people being shot in the streets

This isn’t about denying the need for laws or enforcement. Order matters. Safety matters. But process exists for a reason: to protect our humanity, especially when fear and anger are doing the talking.

That’s where introspection becomes important. Look at your own life. Who has hurt you? Who has loved you? Who have you loved? Think about the people you trust, have you seen both their good and their bad sides? Have you ever had to apologize for being mean, impatient, or hurtful? I know I have. That doesn’t make us monsters. It makes us human.

Some people are simply awful human beings. Some are victims of circumstances, trauma or poverty. Some people snap. You can live a good life and still lose control one day and make a terrible decision. Systems, inequality, and trauma matter, but they don’t erase individual choice from any of us. If you are choosing to go out and cover your face to deliberately hurt people you should be facing the same justice system you are "defending."

After 22 years in the judiciary, I also learned this: you can be a criminal and be documented. In fact, most of the people moving in and out of court, across all races, have legal status. Crime is not an immigration issue. It’s a human one. An unfortunate one without a doubt.

It isn’t skin color or immigration status that determines who is capable of good or evil. It’s the action you choose. I believe that shooting a defenseless person in the street is a criminal act as is taking a defenseless 5 year old away from his family. Humanity cannot be reduced to a label, and justice must reminds us of that every single day.