My 500 Words

I am a flip-flopper. I have held very strong positions that I later eschew for sometimes completely contrary viewpoints. For some reason the suggestion that someone has changed his or her mind results in a collective conclusion suggesting indecision and ineffectiveness. So without any fear that one day I may have to defend myself to a voting public, I share my opposition to the death penalty and my hope that the United States citizenry will come to a point where we place ourselves above the visceral desires for vengeance and honor our own self respect by allowing those who have committed great acts of evil to live. In my youth, I argued that the death penalty should be utilized because it performed several useful functions. I believed that it served as a powerful deterrent to others so that such acts would be lessened over time. I believed that it served justice as a fair consequence for actions that were determined to be so heinous that death was the only punishment that approxima

As far back as I can recall, I always wanted to practice law. I can document this desire to the 7th grade when a teacher gave my class an autobiography assignment that included a final chapter about where we thought we would be in ten years time. Aside from the misconception of law school being “the hardest year of my life,” the story I wrote captured the enthusiasm that I have for the concepts of rules and freedom and the need for both to achieve happiness as individuals and a society. For me, I knew I could find that happiness in the law. Through good fortune, I get to work with children and young adults as I represent their interests in juvenile court proceedings. I find myself frequently and simultaneously perplexed and amazed by the worlds that these young people create to make some sense out of a nonsensical circumstance. Whenever children become the victims of abuse or neglect the ultimate analysis always concludes that the unspeakable wrongs manifest complete and utter nons

I can’t recall what it was they did. One  might have told a really bad joke and laughed at himself for telling it. Another might have just kept talking when the time had long past to start listening. Someone else might have argued a futile point just for the sake of it. And yet another might have turned a sad situation to pure joy with unfeigned, unconditional  love and devotion. Whatever the circumstance I know that I repeated the phrase, “That’s the Newton in him” dozens of times while I was visiting with family at my cousin Scott’s funeral. I often refer to my family as Newtons whether they are Burtons, Yeatses, Davises, Hansens, Ridings, Demeesters, Salmons, Wilcoxes or Harkers. My dad is Wallace. His dad is Lawrence. His dad is Sam, S.S. or Samuel. His father is Benjamin and his father is Benjamin. Benjamin’s father is Richard and his father is William and his father is believed to be Thomas. Besides being William’s father, all that I know about Thomas is that he was born in B