When the jury summons arrives, I understand why many Black folks feel a mix of frustration, skepticism, and fatigue. For generations, the justice system has not been consistent, kind, or fair to our communities. Too often, it has been the opposite.
But I also believe something deeply: jury duty is one of the most direct forms of power the public holds inside the justice system. And for Black communities, showing up in that jury box is not symbolic—it is protective.
Historically, Black Americans were excluded from juries through law and intimidation. That exclusion helped create courtrooms where decisions about our lives were made without us.
Even today, the aftershocks of that history remain in the form of mistrust, barriers, and underrepresentation.
Still, jury duty is one of the few places where ordinary people—not politicians, not prosecutors, not judges—can directly shape justice. Jurors decide whether someone goes home or goes to jail. They decide whether a family is separated or kept whole. They decide whether evidence is strong enough to support the government’s case. Those decisions are sacred, and they require voices that reflect the real community.
There is also evidence that representation changes outcomes. Research and legal scholarship have repeatedly shown that diverse juries deliberate more thoroughly and reduce the risk that bias drives the decision. One widely cited national examination by the Sentencing Project documents the scope and impact of racial disparities in incarceration and the systems connected to them, which helps explain why jury diversity and “who gets included” matters so much in real life—not just in theory. (See: The Color of Justice: Racial and Ethnic Disparity in State Prisons.)
But here is the truth we don’t talk about enough: Black underrepresentation on juries is not only about people ignoring summons. It is also structural—built into law and policy.
For example, testimony submitted to Maryland’s General Assembly explains that current Maryland law permanently disqualifies people from jury service if they have been convicted of a crime and sentenced to more than one year—even after they have served their sentence. (See: Maryland General Assembly testimony on SB 97 — Courts—Jury Service—Disqualification.)
That matters because the same testimony notes that 71% of Maryland’s prison population is Black, which means these exclusions fall hardest on Black communities and shrink the pool of potential Black jurors. (See: ACLU of Maryland testimony included in the SB 97 packet.)
Think about what that means in practice: entire segments of the community are legally blocked from being “peers” in the jury box. That is not just a statistic. That is a real-world removal of perspective, lived experience, and fairness—especially in cases involving policing, poverty, housing instability, and family dynamics. So yes, I understand why people are tired. But I also know this: when we are not present, decisions still get made. When we don’t show up, the jury box becomes less reflective of the community, and the justice system becomes even less accountable to the people it serves.
Serving does not mean we endorse everything the system has done. Serving means we refuse to let the system operate without community balance.
When a Black juror is in the room, it changes the room. It introduces context. It slows down snap judgments. It forces clarity. It pushes deliberations toward evidence and away from stereotypes.
It ensures that the “reasonable person” standard is not defined by only one life experience. And here’s another reality: the courts have responsibilities too.
Jury duty should not feel like punishment. It should not be a confusing, all-day experience where people miss work, scramble for childcare, and sit in uncertainty with little communication. If we want stronger participation, the system must be more respectful of people’s time and circumstances.
Clear instructions, timely updates, reasonable accommodations, and efficient scheduling are not “nice extras.” They are basic signs that the court values jurors as essential public servants.
This is also where administrative leadership matters. The clerk’s office touches jury service in real and practical ways—summons communication, scheduling, and access to information.
When that process is clear and modern, participation becomes easier. When it is disorganized or inaccessible, it reinforces the very distrust that keeps people away.
I’m a Black woman who believes in justice that is not just promised, but practiced. And I believe jury duty is one of the most powerful ways to practice it. Civic participation is more than voting. Jury duty is where the community directly shapes what justice looks like—in the moment, in the room, and in decisions that change lives.
If we want a justice system that recognizes our humanity, then we have to be present where decisions are made. We have to protect our neighbors, our sons, our daughters, and our elders with our attention and our discernment.
Because a “jury of our peers” is not automatic. It is built—by who shows up.