Sealed with a court order...

I remember learning in my early teens that—in the state of New York, at least—juvenile records are "sealed" once you hit 18. (Having revealed when I learned this, I'll wait a bit before explaining how and why so as to build suspense.) I remember this little factoid for a number of reasons, most of which will become clear in due course. One thing I remember quite clearly was how emphatically I was assured that the records were "sealed," and that having been "sealed," no one, up to and including God himself, could ever "unseal" them. At the time it seemed kind of silly to me that they would even bother to keep a record that nobody was ever again allowed to view, but at the time I wasn't really in a position to question the way things worked. (I mostly just nodded and tried to look contrite.)

At 19, I decided to join the US Navy. This decision involved a couple of key factors. First, I'd just finished my freshman year of college, after which said college and I had mutually agreed that it wasn't working for either of us. The stated position of Potsdam State University of Arts and Snowdrifts was that I probably had some growing up to do. Personally, I think they had commitment issues. So, college didn't work out and I needed to try something new, but I decided to try something old instead, and moved back in with my parents for a while so I could soak up their disappointment at point blank range while I "figure out what I wanted to do with my life."

Apparently, what I wanted to do with my life was work at dead-end minimum wage jobs and stay out late drinking too much and getting far too stoned. Before long, I found that this goal was incompatible with my mother's primary goal at that time; to be able to stop crying from shame every time she saw me. Since I was pretty sure my behavior wasn't going to change any time soon, I figured I needed to at least do her the courtesy of removing myself from her sight so she could maybe get some sleep again or at least have some time to fuss over the problems her other 5 children were having with life.

Which is why I one day found myself walking into this huge black borg-cube of a government building in downtown Syracuse, where I filled out reams of forms, took a fairly easy test, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And... (you get the idea.)

Finally, some guy in a nice, crisp uniform came over and asked me to come with him. We went and sat down on opposite sides of his nice, efficient borg-cube desk, where we had a nice chat. Some time during this chat, he surprised me with a question I had not anticipated...

"You indicated on your dee-dee-one-eight-two-four-echo that you've never been convicted of a violent crime. What can you tell me about this incident?" At which point he slid a file folder to me across the desk.

(Resistance is futile.)

There, unsealed and laid bare for anyone—up to and including God—to see, were the records of certain exploits, undertaken by me, as well as the details of my apprehension, prosecution, and subsequent conviction. As it turns out, there is an authority beyond God, (at least where sealed records are concerned) and that authority had asked to have those records unsealed. What really messes with my mind to this day is that, in order to ask to unseal the records, the military first had to be aware that they existed. I suppose it's just as well that they could unseal them, because, in the final analysis, it is probably better to have the records unsealed and my sins known, than to simply have them know that I'd done something nefarious, the details of which were perhaps too horrendous to reveal.

Okay, so that's the background. As to the specific why and how of my learning about the sealing of juvenile records, I'm going to leave that for my next installment. I don't know about the rest of you, but I think this one's gone on long enough.