Law school dreams punctured my otherwise tranquil undergrad experience. I quieted the volume on my internal can-can’t war and began the most labor-intensive research project on legal careers possible. My search covered nearly all of the books in UNR’s Career Services Library about how to choose which professors to write letters of recommendation, how to write the perfect personal statement, and how to select the right school. Some books revealed how to overcome the epidemic of depression, suicide, and alcoholism that afflicts legal scholars more than any other professional group.
I sought anything to scare myself away from law school, only increasing my determination to apply. I rented “The Paper Chase” and mocked the main character’s floppy 80s hair style, ignoring his very real struggles with his demonic Harvard professor who bombarded him with questions in the notorious Socratic Method. Even people at the airport tired to dissuade me. One man told me about how he applied to law school, got in, stayed a very short time—then fled. At parties, I ignored dinner conversations about people who went to law school, had nervous breakdowns, and were never the same. I read Scott Turow’s brilliant novel, One L, a semi-autobiographical tale of a tortured Harvard law graduate who had taught English composition before applying to law school. He saw his highly-educated classmates’ bewilderment as they squirmed to avoid being called on in class. Horror stories about case briefing, group outlining, and final exam preparation flashed before me. I ignored them all, even the jokes from attorneys saying that if you were smart, you wouldn’t want to be a lawyer.
Don’t listen to the nay-sayers, I thought. Law school couldn’t be all that bad. Besides, what other career would bring the prestige, excellence, and money that law could? Even if the first year stressed out almost every lawyer I interviewed, most of them turned out fine once they found their niche.
The LSAT, however, should have diverted me. It contained many a bogus logic question on absolutely nothing to do with law. The better you did on the LSAT, the better you would perform during your first year of law school. The test didn’t correspond to a law student’s achievement in the rest of law school, nor did it have anything to do with a lawyer’s success after graduation.
The LSAT was a beast: a 4.5 hour test comprised half of logical reasoning, a fourth of logic games, and a fourth of reading comprehension questions. The 30-minute writing sample did not factor into the score. Law school admissions committees only wanted to make sure you could string a semi-coherent sentence together. As a writing major, I was ticked that the one thing I thought I was good at didn’t count.
One particularly bright blogger on a law-prep website I frequented, (nontradlaw.net) advised potential LSAT sufferers, er, studiers, to do this:
“When you reach a boring reading comp question, pretend you’re reading about the most fascinating subject on earth. For example, say one of the reading excerpts is about the migratory patterns of birds. Say to yourself: “Oh! Wow! I always wanted to learn about the migratory patterns of birds! Whoopee!”
As fun as it sounded to feign enthusiasm through the entire marathon of a test, I always ran out of brain power by the fifteenth question of each section. I downloaded my first practice exam for free from the Law School Data Assembly Service (LSDAS) website. The site has everything from study books and online applications, to a service that distributes letters of recommendation. I didn’t attempt to take the test in real time. I did a few questions a day instead. The result devastated me. I scored a 140, ten points below the average.
LSAT scores predominantly determined your chances of being admitted to a highly-ranked school. The highest score you could achieve: 180. If you scored a 179 (the 99% percentile of all LSAT test takers), you had a pretty good chance of getting into a Tier One school— Yale or Harvard, according to US News and Review, my favorite online rating system. The lowest you could score on the LSAT was 120. Average was 150. You would have to get at least a 149 to even be considered for admission to a third or forth tier school. If you scored below that benchmark, you might as well not bother applying.
I had no choice but to sign up for the only test preparation program in Reno: Kaplan. I charged $1,099 to my credit card to enroll in a month-long course consisting of four-hour lecture sessions, online exercises, and four practice tests.
On the first day of class, a Saturday, I arrived at the Mackay Science building on campus, only to find it vacant. I headed up the stairs to a locked classroom on the second floor. Twenty minutes passed, till another student came and hung out in the hall across from me.
“You’re taking the Kaplan course?” I asked. “It’s today, right?”
“Yeah,” she said, in a non-committal way, and looked down so she didn’t have to chit-chat.
“Where’s the teacher?” I said.
Five minutes later, he appeared, striding up the stairs in a hurried fashion to unlock the room. He had short, brown hair and wore a business suit in various shades of pale yellow, from the tie to the coat. He bore some resemblance to Noah Wiley, and might have been mistaken for attractive, until he spoke, stressing syllables in short, staccato strokes.
“Sorry I’m late. I’m dying of thirst! Does anyone know if the vending machine works?”
By now, two more students filled the room, and we stared at him blankly.
“Just a second,” he said, scurrying back out of the room.
“Bah!” we heard him exclaim from the hallway, followed by a thump as he pounded in desperation on the soda machine.
“Does anyone have a dollar?!” he asked, returning to the room. “The machine wouldn’t take mine.” He held up a pathetic, crumpled bill.
A hippie girl sitting in the front left row donated a crisper one.
When he finally settled down, he leaned against the front table and winked at the student in front. “I’m Jacob Travis Fartherlee, he said. As if his name alone should impress us. “Call me Travis.”
Apparently he didn’t want to be associated with anything Biblical, I thought as I stared at the two Kaplan books on my desk, both the width of telephone books.
Travis told us about himself—for the next half hour. He had studied geriatrics, but switched to logistics, then to law because he was such a kick-ass LSAT taker. Over the next month, we discovered he had an irritating habit of launching into 30-minute anecdotes about himself. He told us the diversions served as a reprieve from the weighty LSAT material. Travis also hit on every girl in our Kaplan class, including me. He often came up with his own hypotheticals modeled after exam questions—one in particular had to do with my mom buying my underwear. What possible relevance does that have to the LSAT? None.
In one of his many digressions, Travis said: “Some people don’t like me so much. But if a jury is full of females, I’d make ‘em like me. All my ex-girlfriends liked me.”
Ex-girlfriends.
On another day, he felt the need to confess: “I know I come off as arrogant sometimes. I’m really quite mellow.”
I resisted smirking as I scanned to my books. Although we covered all aspects of the test during class, we never lingered on any type of question before moving on. The result was a schizophrenic sampling of LSAT questions, with no attempt at mastery. I ended up repeating my Kaplan course twice and postponing the test two times. The almighty Travis was the only teacher available. Originally I had enrolled during the summer before graduation, but at the time I was too busy focusing on my thesis. It didn’t help that I was still deciding whether or not to go to law school.
During my retake, Travis offered to give us one-on-one advice. When he met with me in the adjacent classroom, he sat on top of one of the student desks and said: “Gina, you have to stop thinking this test doesn’t matter. I know what your problem is: you’re a plodder. You just go through the questions and don’t stop to think about the answers before reading the multiple choice options.”
“Fine,” I said. I took issue with his label, but then again, I did sweep through the test despite diminishing concentration. “I do fifteen questions in a row and get them all right, but then I lose focus and get tired. I just run out of time and pick B.”
“You should complete the first fifteen questions of each section, then skip to the end and attempt the two or three easy ones. Because of the way the LSAT is scored, getting one or two more questions right could mean the difference between getting into law school or not. It’s a game.”
As much as I disliked Travis for wasting time talking about himself, he was right. The second LSAT class ended, and I still wasn’t ready. Panic time. I complained to the Kaplan manager, who offered me, of all things, a private tutoring session with Travis to make up for my poor Kaplan experience. After one session, I canceled. I just couldn’t learn from someone I didn’t respect.
And then I met Anita.
Without Anita, I never would have gained admission into law school. I was starting to think I would never raise my LSAT score above a 150.
Some people you just know should be attorneys. Anita was one of them. Her straggly black hair fell in thin curls over her large frame. She wore black pants with an elastic waist and a tee shirt with a ketchup stain from her son’s French fries. I could hear her laugh from down the hall, and she almost never stopped talking.
Anita and I belonged to Phi Alpha Delta Pre-Law Fraternity (PAD), which hosted a practice LSAT, compliments of the Princeton Review. We charged $15 to test-takers. Only five people showed up, including Anita and me. By then I had taken three or four practice LSATs in real time. As always, I spent too much time mulling over the answers before running out of time. Anita didn’t have any such problem. She finished every section with about ten minutes left. She told me after that she had enough time to hum a tune in her head and think about the boxes she had to move later that day. The family of three who occupied the upstairs rooms and lived rent-free in exchange for babysitting her two kids was moving out. Anita and I talked after the test culminated and the proctor called time. It would take two weeks for the Princeton Review to mail us our results. We promised we would report back to each other as soon as we could.
Anita’s score came back: 162.
162!? On her first LSAT! With a diagnostic score that high, she didn’t really have to study to get into law school. I told her if she wanted to go to Yale, her dream school, it wouldn’t hurt to improve her score. We quickly made a pact to study together for the June LSAT. My score had disappointed me as always: 149.
I set our study regimen. We took eight timed practice tests during the span of three weeks. I saved Kaplan’s online explanations and reviewed the answers to my tests—right and wrong, for every single question. I made crazy notes to myself in the margins of the tests in red, purple, and blue colored pencils, chastising myself for errors, marking a big “Yey!” for questions I got right. Anita didn’t need to resort to such cheerleading. She didn’t really have to review her answers since she didn’t need to gain points. Although we followed a Princeton Review study book, sheer repetition seemed to increase my scores the most. The LSAT wasn’t meant to be fun. It was designed to weed out the weak minded and the slow.
By the end of those few weeks, I had every question type memorized according to Kaplan’s labels and knew which ones I should bother attempting and which ones I should skip.
In the evenings after we finished our practice tests, Anita and I would sit for hours in my car discussing how it went. I would mostly listen to her talk about her life. Between her husband, her kids, and school, she had a lot to juggle. She didn’t waste time at all. She completed her homework, took her kids to school, made dinner and everything. And on top of that, she was going to be a lawyer.
I just had school. The LSAT mania had taken over both of us, but for Anita, the race was not as desperate.
A few days before the real LSAT, we decided to take our last practice test, the most recent previously-administered LSAT, in the same room where we would be taking the real test. We wanted to simulate the experience, get comfortable with the room, and visualize success.
I scored a 153. I don’t remember what Anita got.
I should have been happy. I passed the 150 mark, increasing my score a nearly impossible ten points. But I wasn’t happy.
“What’s wrong?” Anita asked. Her eyebrows furrowed, and she spoke as if I was a four-year old who had just fallen down.
“This means I’m not getting into Davis,” I said. I completely ignored the small victory I had achieved after a year of torturous studying and telling myself I was stupid. Davis was my dream school, but you needed at least a 160 for the admissions committee to even look at your application.
“But you got over a 150,” Anita said. “You should be happy. You’re going to get into Boyd.”
The odds of getting into my most realistic choice, Boyd, were good. Once I finally took the LSAT, I received a 152, no surprise. Test day felt like any other day because we had taken so many practice tests. Boyd’s median admittance score for full-time students hovered around a 154. I wasn’t off by much. Boyd only cost $8,900 per semester for in-state Nevada tuition—an incredible bargain—and because I planned to practice in Nevada to stay close to my family.
I had applied to six schools. Berkeley and Davis were dream schools, but basically out of the question. Boyd was my “perfect fit,” and Willamette and New England School of Law were my back-ups. I applied to Chapman as another backup, even though I didn’t really want to go there. They had an elder law clinic, which was the only appeal. The LSDAS online service, which came free with the LSAT registration, had a handy GPA and LSAT calculator that predicted which schools you would likely gain admittance to. For the most part, it was right.
By the time I had completed the LSAT, written my personal statement, compiled my letters of recommendation, ordered my transcripts, filled out my online applications, and sent in my application fees, the process was finally over.
I got into Willamette and New England, no problem, but I knew I wouldn’t attend either school; they cost too much, and I didn’t particularly want to move to Oregon or Massachusetts. “Sorry, but thanks for playing” letters from Berkeley and Davis followed, and so did Chapman’s, which came several months later because they wait-listed me.
When I received my letter of acceptance from Boyd, I stared at the white stationary with the bold, red and blue UNLV logo at the top, and grinned.
It is as it should be, I thought.
But somewhere, behind my pride, my hard work, and my head-banging stubbornness, I whispered to myself in quiet desperation: this means you really have to go.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Query Letter
One of the first steps to finding an agent and getting a book published is submitting a query letter. I've drafted the one below and am getting ready to send it out. Any thoughts?
To: Agent
Subject: Query: Tales of a Law School Dropout
Dear Agent,
What would you do if you found yourself pursuing a disastrous career path? Stick it out? Suffer for the rest of your life? Or do what I did—quit!
In Tales of a Law School Dropout, a 62,000 word memoir, I share what I wished I had known before going to law school. This book appeals to two audiences: people who are entertaining the idea of pursuing a legal career, and those who are just looking for a good read.
Law school has a way of multiplying your greatest weaknesses tenfold. After four months of studying gobbledygook at the Boyd School of Law in Las Vegas, I feel lucky to have anything left with which to tell my tale. My desire to make legal language understandable to everyone drew me to law school, but I discovered there were better ways to accomplish that goal.
Similar books on this topic like Scott Turow’s One L and Deborah Schneider and Gary Belsky’s Should You Really Be a Lawyer? touch on the tortures of law school but don’t delve into detail about the dropout’s perspective. Retention is a real issue in any academic program—so far nobody has been brave enough to discuss law school retention in a personal, candid way.
I am a master’s student in Higher Educational Administration and hold a BA in English-Composition and Music from the University of Nevada, Reno. I work as a Registrar. My passion for education drives me to share my knowledge with those who need the truth about law school. Five years of Toastmasters has taught me storytelling techniques that appeal to broad audiences, and has given me the confidence to speak up about an otherwise taboo subject.
Thank you for your help, and I look forward to talking to you.
To: Agent
Subject: Query: Tales of a Law School Dropout
Dear Agent,
What would you do if you found yourself pursuing a disastrous career path? Stick it out? Suffer for the rest of your life? Or do what I did—quit!
In Tales of a Law School Dropout, a 62,000 word memoir, I share what I wished I had known before going to law school. This book appeals to two audiences: people who are entertaining the idea of pursuing a legal career, and those who are just looking for a good read.
Law school has a way of multiplying your greatest weaknesses tenfold. After four months of studying gobbledygook at the Boyd School of Law in Las Vegas, I feel lucky to have anything left with which to tell my tale. My desire to make legal language understandable to everyone drew me to law school, but I discovered there were better ways to accomplish that goal.
Similar books on this topic like Scott Turow’s One L and Deborah Schneider and Gary Belsky’s Should You Really Be a Lawyer? touch on the tortures of law school but don’t delve into detail about the dropout’s perspective. Retention is a real issue in any academic program—so far nobody has been brave enough to discuss law school retention in a personal, candid way.
I am a master’s student in Higher Educational Administration and hold a BA in English-Composition and Music from the University of Nevada, Reno. I work as a Registrar. My passion for education drives me to share my knowledge with those who need the truth about law school. Five years of Toastmasters has taught me storytelling techniques that appeal to broad audiences, and has given me the confidence to speak up about an otherwise taboo subject.
Thank you for your help, and I look forward to talking to you.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Chapter 1: Cultivating the Dream
One seemingly ordinary day during my junior year of college, I was sitting in my Literature and Law class when suddenly, I knew—I could be an attorney.
The law school admissions process challenges applicants to submit a short narrative detailing why they want to attend law school, what makes them qualified, and what drives them toward graduation. I opened my personal statement for admissions committees with the sentence above, but reality paints another picture.
It began the fall semester of my junior year when I signed up for a class vaguely titled “Topics in Literature,” a course deceptively about law.
We were analyzing a judicial opinion. I usually made it a point to review the last few assignments before class, but when I pulled the one-page photocopy out of my notebook’s overstuffed pocket, I discovered I had not read the homework. I skimmed it quickly, found the language confusing, and decided to wait until the discussion to hear how my classmates hashed through it. Reading legalese induced instant amnesia. I would read a sentence, and it wouldn’t register in my brain.
The judicial opinion sparked a lively debate amongst my classmates. They scrutinized the sentences like dissecting lines of poetry. We searched for story structure, characterization, and voice. One of the older ladies in the class commented on the lofty language the judge used to emphasize Americanism. It was beginning to make sense. For the first time I realized that analyzing legal language was like examining literature, something I had been doing all along in my other English classes—something I was good at.
I could do this, I thought. I could be a lawyer.
As soon as the thought materialized, I discarded it like a used Kleenex. I had studied classical piano, and double majored in writing. I had no business thinking I could be a lawyer. Maybe I could make something of myself. Maybe if I became an attorney, I wouldn’t be so timid.
My thoughts shot back and forth like a madwoman’s metronome. Can-can’t, can-can’t, can-can’t.
Despite my interest in the law from class, I pursued something much closer to my safety zone—English with law intermixed. I later found out my Lit and Law instructor, Anne Hartman, specialized in plain English, a movement to make complex language understandable to everyone. I discovered a cause to fight for, and most importantly, a thesis topic: plain English and the law.
I emphasized my achievements in my personal statement, so I penned this:
"One seemingly ordinary day during my junior year of college, I was sitting in my Literature and Law class when suddenly, I knew—I could be an attorney. I was so steadfastly focused on completing my double major in English and music that I had not considered the idea before. Our class was analyzing the language of a judicial opinion, and although the words seemed opaque at first, I was fascinated by the way our class slowly unraveled the meaning of the judge’s words."
Inspired, I decided to write my honors thesis on the plain English movement. I wanted to explore ways of making legal language understandable to diverse audiences. As my research progressed, I realized I wanted to use the skills I had learned from studying plain English to translate legal language for clients.
In short, I embarked on a plain English crusade. I wrote numerous papers in my English classes criticizing the language of the law. I crafted a persuasive research paper arguing that Merrill Lynch needed to translate the legal hodgepodge in its prospectuses into plain English so ordinary people could invest intelligently. Nearly everyone in my English classes agreed legalese should be abolished and replaced with straightforward, unadulterated language the everyday reader could understand. I criticized law schools and law firms for adhering to antiquated legal boilerplate. Ideally, I believed most people want to understand the law they interacted with daily. Even the most complicated of legal concepts could be explained clearly.
I was out to change things. After two semesters of research and writing, I finished my honors thesis about making the language of the law more understandable to the general public. The Plain English Movement: Clarifying Legal Language for Modern Audiences was my crowning achievement.
The honors director and my thesis advisor, Dr. Anne Hartman, praised my efforts and hailed my work one of the best in the honors department that year. I thought I had found my calling: I wanted to translate legal language to make it accessible. Sadly, no “legal translator” jobs existed, so I opted for the next best option—I applied to law school.
I diligently researched my new career path and diplomatically explained away any uncertainty in my personal statement:
"Eager to explore my newfound interest in the law, I launched myself into an extensive research project on legal careers. I took a year off after graduation to make sure I really wanted to be an attorney…I interviewed attorneys from various fields of law. Most of the attorneys and judges I interviewed did not know what area of law they wanted to practice in before they went to law school. Even so, they helped me glimpse the many possibilities a law degree can offer."
A Juris Doctor (JD) had much to offer, as I found during my yearlong quest for a field of law I would enjoy. I toyed with many options:
"Multiple areas of law intrigue me: appellate law (because of my love of writing and research); contract law (because of my fascination with language); judicial clerkships (because of my respect for the system); child advocacy (because of my work with children); elder law (because of my empathy for my grandparents’ struggles); and environmental law (because of my desire to effect change). Even some of the more technical areas of law interest me, such as bankruptcy law or transactional law because they appeal to my detail-oriented side. By the time I took the LSAT, I knew why I wanted to go to law school. Becoming an attorney will allow me to use my skills to help others: to represent them, to counsel them, and to give them hope."
The thought of helping people intrigued me, but I had no idea how lawyers actually helped people. The brunt of my counseling experience involved listening to my friends’ problems and offering them suggestions. From what I could gather from TV, most lawyers resembled snakes. I joked that I would grow a forked tongue if I became an attorney.
Up until my “ah ha” moment, I had studied something as far away from law as you could get: classical piano. In my personal statement, I had to ever-so-carefully ask the law school committee to “please forgive” that digression:
"The skills that allowed me to master Beethoven sonatas will help me analyze cases in law school. Each piece of music I studied took months of preparation and practice until I could synthesize its multiple subtleties into a cohesive, finished work. Studying music theory allowed me to see how various rules applied to actual music, which often follows logical structures. Learning to perform classical music gave me an unshakable sense of discipline, patience, and focus. Although I do not envision myself becoming a concert pianist or teaching piano as a career, I value the time I have spent learning music. I hope to apply my talents to the law with equal zeal."
My piano teacher at UNR, Dr. Irwin, knew better.
I ignored the quizzical look on Dr. Irwin’s face when I told him I was applying to law school.
“You’re too nice to be a lawyer,” he said.
“There should be more nice lawyers,” I replied. He smiled without showing teeth and shook his head. I knew I wouldn’t be asking him for a letter of recommendation. Why would the admissions committee want to hear from a piano teacher, anyway? I was going to be an attorney. Besides, I didn’t want him mentioning how I had cried during one of my piano lessons the day he had forbidden me to use the word “can’t.” After my tears had subsided, he had joked that the mark of every great piano teacher was the ability to make his students cry.
Fear had stopped me from becoming the concert pianist my high school piano teacher told me I could be. As I progressed, the more terrifying piano performance became. Playing live felt like what I imagined a caveman running from a saber-toothed tiger would feel: pure, adrenaline-laced fear.
Every time I played at one of my “juries” (final exams for music majors were called juries, although they bore little resemblance to the real, legal thing) my cold, clammy hands sweated profusely. My fingers slipped and left dingy smudge-marks of perspiration mixed with dust on the keys. My left foot tapped uncontrollably against the soft pedal, while I tried to hold the other leg steady so I wouldn’t overdo the sustain pedal. I’d mess up in places I never messed up before. In my other classes, I prided myself on my dependability, but piano performances could be unpredictable and infuriating, no matter how much I prepared. Dr. Irwin kindly did not mark me down for my less-than-inspired performances. He told me not to worry—he knew I worked hard all semester.
I couldn’t be a concert pianist, so I opted to teach. I ended up teaching group piano lessons at a local music school the year before law school. Every time a student canceled a lesson because of a soccer practice, baseball game, ballet lesson, or any other activity more fun than piano, I felt foolish for pursuing teaching as a career. A few of my exceptional students made it worth it, but I fought discouragement every time I nagged my other students to practice.
I was accustomed to achieving more. I had graduated summa cum laude, earning myself the accolade Senior Scholar of the College of Liberal Arts, which was awarded to the graduate with the highest GPA from every college in the university. I had a brilliantly ambitious plan to attend law school, take the tortuous entrance exam—the LSAT—and gain admission to the only law school in Nevada, the William S. Boyd School of Law, in Las Vegas.
After perusing the school’s marketing materials, I listed many reasons why I wanted to go to Boyd in my personal statement:
"Boyd offers multiple opportunities to help me achieve my goals. The community service program will allow me to help unrepresented people and put my plain English skills to the test. The Thomas & Mack Legal Clinic offers ample opportunities to help children through its child welfare and education clinics. Participating in the Nevada Law Journal or the Society of Advocates would sharpen my writing and advocacy skills and prepare me for judicial externships. Boyd is my top choice because I plan to focus my future practice in Nevada. The same determination that drove me to become the Senior Scholar in the College of Liberal Arts at the University of Nevada, Reno will propel me to succeed in law school and beyond."
True, my experience teaching piano didn’t qualify me to work on serious legal issues facing children today.
I recall buckling under a six-year-old brat’s argument during one piano lesson:
“C…D…E,” I sang as he plunked the keyboard with sticky fingers.
“Do you have to sing?” he said, looking up with his nose scrunched.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I said. “How about trying it again with both hands?”
He shot me a look of pure distain: “Lady, who do you think I am? Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to play with both hands?!” he said between asthmatic breaths. “I’m not doing it!” he declared, giving my leg a small kick.
Great. I get beat up by six-year-old piano students. What kind of lawyer am I going to be? On the upside, I’d caught about a cold per month from my piano students, so my immune system would be in tip-top shape by the time I’d be ready to go to law school.
I wanted to go to the closest law school to home. During all four years of college, I lived with my parents. My mom babied me because I was the youngest. I was her little classical pianist. She made my lunches. She drove me to school—dropping me off outside the music building in the morning, and picking me up outside the student union at night. All I had to do was study, which I excelled at, a fact I certainly played up in my personal statement:
"Education has been my wholehearted focus for many years now. When I think of why education means so much to me, I realize how grateful I am to have the opportunity to apply to law school."
Now I had to introduce the one thing that would lead law school committees to believe I would make it past the first year. I needed to demonstrate some captivating reason to persuade them I would finish law school, beyond being a curious, studious, intelligent person with an interest in making the law more understandable to ordinary folk. I had a reason, but I didn’t want to use it. I didn’t want to talk about it, but I did anyway:
"When my dad was young, he was sent to a Japanese internment camp, an experience we rarely discuss. Nevertheless, my father’s experience quietly remained an unmistakable influence on my desire to further my education with excellence. Our family has never let the injustices of the past overrule our faith in the future. No matter what hardships we may have faced in our family history, we can overcome them through education. It is my duty not only to further my education, but to use my knowledge to help others in need."
My belief in education had begun to fail me as graduation approached. If only I had known a liberal arts degree was tough to apply. Out of my double major in music and English, it was easier to find a job in music. English was an incredibly broad subject. I had no idea what to do with it.
The prospect of law school represented hope. Hope that I would make something of myself, hope that I could use my transferable skills of writing and research and become some high powered, high-earning official, even a judge. Hope, perhaps, that I would prove I was smart enough to graduate from law school. Hope that against my intuition, I could transform myself from an overly-sensitive English major and stage-fright pianist into a powerful, confident attorney.
The law school admissions process challenges applicants to submit a short narrative detailing why they want to attend law school, what makes them qualified, and what drives them toward graduation. I opened my personal statement for admissions committees with the sentence above, but reality paints another picture.
It began the fall semester of my junior year when I signed up for a class vaguely titled “Topics in Literature,” a course deceptively about law.
We were analyzing a judicial opinion. I usually made it a point to review the last few assignments before class, but when I pulled the one-page photocopy out of my notebook’s overstuffed pocket, I discovered I had not read the homework. I skimmed it quickly, found the language confusing, and decided to wait until the discussion to hear how my classmates hashed through it. Reading legalese induced instant amnesia. I would read a sentence, and it wouldn’t register in my brain.
The judicial opinion sparked a lively debate amongst my classmates. They scrutinized the sentences like dissecting lines of poetry. We searched for story structure, characterization, and voice. One of the older ladies in the class commented on the lofty language the judge used to emphasize Americanism. It was beginning to make sense. For the first time I realized that analyzing legal language was like examining literature, something I had been doing all along in my other English classes—something I was good at.
I could do this, I thought. I could be a lawyer.
As soon as the thought materialized, I discarded it like a used Kleenex. I had studied classical piano, and double majored in writing. I had no business thinking I could be a lawyer. Maybe I could make something of myself. Maybe if I became an attorney, I wouldn’t be so timid.
My thoughts shot back and forth like a madwoman’s metronome. Can-can’t, can-can’t, can-can’t.
Despite my interest in the law from class, I pursued something much closer to my safety zone—English with law intermixed. I later found out my Lit and Law instructor, Anne Hartman, specialized in plain English, a movement to make complex language understandable to everyone. I discovered a cause to fight for, and most importantly, a thesis topic: plain English and the law.
I emphasized my achievements in my personal statement, so I penned this:
"One seemingly ordinary day during my junior year of college, I was sitting in my Literature and Law class when suddenly, I knew—I could be an attorney. I was so steadfastly focused on completing my double major in English and music that I had not considered the idea before. Our class was analyzing the language of a judicial opinion, and although the words seemed opaque at first, I was fascinated by the way our class slowly unraveled the meaning of the judge’s words."
Inspired, I decided to write my honors thesis on the plain English movement. I wanted to explore ways of making legal language understandable to diverse audiences. As my research progressed, I realized I wanted to use the skills I had learned from studying plain English to translate legal language for clients.
In short, I embarked on a plain English crusade. I wrote numerous papers in my English classes criticizing the language of the law. I crafted a persuasive research paper arguing that Merrill Lynch needed to translate the legal hodgepodge in its prospectuses into plain English so ordinary people could invest intelligently. Nearly everyone in my English classes agreed legalese should be abolished and replaced with straightforward, unadulterated language the everyday reader could understand. I criticized law schools and law firms for adhering to antiquated legal boilerplate. Ideally, I believed most people want to understand the law they interacted with daily. Even the most complicated of legal concepts could be explained clearly.
I was out to change things. After two semesters of research and writing, I finished my honors thesis about making the language of the law more understandable to the general public. The Plain English Movement: Clarifying Legal Language for Modern Audiences was my crowning achievement.
The honors director and my thesis advisor, Dr. Anne Hartman, praised my efforts and hailed my work one of the best in the honors department that year. I thought I had found my calling: I wanted to translate legal language to make it accessible. Sadly, no “legal translator” jobs existed, so I opted for the next best option—I applied to law school.
I diligently researched my new career path and diplomatically explained away any uncertainty in my personal statement:
"Eager to explore my newfound interest in the law, I launched myself into an extensive research project on legal careers. I took a year off after graduation to make sure I really wanted to be an attorney…I interviewed attorneys from various fields of law. Most of the attorneys and judges I interviewed did not know what area of law they wanted to practice in before they went to law school. Even so, they helped me glimpse the many possibilities a law degree can offer."
A Juris Doctor (JD) had much to offer, as I found during my yearlong quest for a field of law I would enjoy. I toyed with many options:
"Multiple areas of law intrigue me: appellate law (because of my love of writing and research); contract law (because of my fascination with language); judicial clerkships (because of my respect for the system); child advocacy (because of my work with children); elder law (because of my empathy for my grandparents’ struggles); and environmental law (because of my desire to effect change). Even some of the more technical areas of law interest me, such as bankruptcy law or transactional law because they appeal to my detail-oriented side. By the time I took the LSAT, I knew why I wanted to go to law school. Becoming an attorney will allow me to use my skills to help others: to represent them, to counsel them, and to give them hope."
The thought of helping people intrigued me, but I had no idea how lawyers actually helped people. The brunt of my counseling experience involved listening to my friends’ problems and offering them suggestions. From what I could gather from TV, most lawyers resembled snakes. I joked that I would grow a forked tongue if I became an attorney.
Up until my “ah ha” moment, I had studied something as far away from law as you could get: classical piano. In my personal statement, I had to ever-so-carefully ask the law school committee to “please forgive” that digression:
"The skills that allowed me to master Beethoven sonatas will help me analyze cases in law school. Each piece of music I studied took months of preparation and practice until I could synthesize its multiple subtleties into a cohesive, finished work. Studying music theory allowed me to see how various rules applied to actual music, which often follows logical structures. Learning to perform classical music gave me an unshakable sense of discipline, patience, and focus. Although I do not envision myself becoming a concert pianist or teaching piano as a career, I value the time I have spent learning music. I hope to apply my talents to the law with equal zeal."
My piano teacher at UNR, Dr. Irwin, knew better.
I ignored the quizzical look on Dr. Irwin’s face when I told him I was applying to law school.
“You’re too nice to be a lawyer,” he said.
“There should be more nice lawyers,” I replied. He smiled without showing teeth and shook his head. I knew I wouldn’t be asking him for a letter of recommendation. Why would the admissions committee want to hear from a piano teacher, anyway? I was going to be an attorney. Besides, I didn’t want him mentioning how I had cried during one of my piano lessons the day he had forbidden me to use the word “can’t.” After my tears had subsided, he had joked that the mark of every great piano teacher was the ability to make his students cry.
Fear had stopped me from becoming the concert pianist my high school piano teacher told me I could be. As I progressed, the more terrifying piano performance became. Playing live felt like what I imagined a caveman running from a saber-toothed tiger would feel: pure, adrenaline-laced fear.
Every time I played at one of my “juries” (final exams for music majors were called juries, although they bore little resemblance to the real, legal thing) my cold, clammy hands sweated profusely. My fingers slipped and left dingy smudge-marks of perspiration mixed with dust on the keys. My left foot tapped uncontrollably against the soft pedal, while I tried to hold the other leg steady so I wouldn’t overdo the sustain pedal. I’d mess up in places I never messed up before. In my other classes, I prided myself on my dependability, but piano performances could be unpredictable and infuriating, no matter how much I prepared. Dr. Irwin kindly did not mark me down for my less-than-inspired performances. He told me not to worry—he knew I worked hard all semester.
I couldn’t be a concert pianist, so I opted to teach. I ended up teaching group piano lessons at a local music school the year before law school. Every time a student canceled a lesson because of a soccer practice, baseball game, ballet lesson, or any other activity more fun than piano, I felt foolish for pursuing teaching as a career. A few of my exceptional students made it worth it, but I fought discouragement every time I nagged my other students to practice.
I was accustomed to achieving more. I had graduated summa cum laude, earning myself the accolade Senior Scholar of the College of Liberal Arts, which was awarded to the graduate with the highest GPA from every college in the university. I had a brilliantly ambitious plan to attend law school, take the tortuous entrance exam—the LSAT—and gain admission to the only law school in Nevada, the William S. Boyd School of Law, in Las Vegas.
After perusing the school’s marketing materials, I listed many reasons why I wanted to go to Boyd in my personal statement:
"Boyd offers multiple opportunities to help me achieve my goals. The community service program will allow me to help unrepresented people and put my plain English skills to the test. The Thomas & Mack Legal Clinic offers ample opportunities to help children through its child welfare and education clinics. Participating in the Nevada Law Journal or the Society of Advocates would sharpen my writing and advocacy skills and prepare me for judicial externships. Boyd is my top choice because I plan to focus my future practice in Nevada. The same determination that drove me to become the Senior Scholar in the College of Liberal Arts at the University of Nevada, Reno will propel me to succeed in law school and beyond."
True, my experience teaching piano didn’t qualify me to work on serious legal issues facing children today.
I recall buckling under a six-year-old brat’s argument during one piano lesson:
“C…D…E,” I sang as he plunked the keyboard with sticky fingers.
“Do you have to sing?” he said, looking up with his nose scrunched.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I said. “How about trying it again with both hands?”
He shot me a look of pure distain: “Lady, who do you think I am? Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to play with both hands?!” he said between asthmatic breaths. “I’m not doing it!” he declared, giving my leg a small kick.
Great. I get beat up by six-year-old piano students. What kind of lawyer am I going to be? On the upside, I’d caught about a cold per month from my piano students, so my immune system would be in tip-top shape by the time I’d be ready to go to law school.
I wanted to go to the closest law school to home. During all four years of college, I lived with my parents. My mom babied me because I was the youngest. I was her little classical pianist. She made my lunches. She drove me to school—dropping me off outside the music building in the morning, and picking me up outside the student union at night. All I had to do was study, which I excelled at, a fact I certainly played up in my personal statement:
"Education has been my wholehearted focus for many years now. When I think of why education means so much to me, I realize how grateful I am to have the opportunity to apply to law school."
Now I had to introduce the one thing that would lead law school committees to believe I would make it past the first year. I needed to demonstrate some captivating reason to persuade them I would finish law school, beyond being a curious, studious, intelligent person with an interest in making the law more understandable to ordinary folk. I had a reason, but I didn’t want to use it. I didn’t want to talk about it, but I did anyway:
"When my dad was young, he was sent to a Japanese internment camp, an experience we rarely discuss. Nevertheless, my father’s experience quietly remained an unmistakable influence on my desire to further my education with excellence. Our family has never let the injustices of the past overrule our faith in the future. No matter what hardships we may have faced in our family history, we can overcome them through education. It is my duty not only to further my education, but to use my knowledge to help others in need."
My belief in education had begun to fail me as graduation approached. If only I had known a liberal arts degree was tough to apply. Out of my double major in music and English, it was easier to find a job in music. English was an incredibly broad subject. I had no idea what to do with it.
The prospect of law school represented hope. Hope that I would make something of myself, hope that I could use my transferable skills of writing and research and become some high powered, high-earning official, even a judge. Hope, perhaps, that I would prove I was smart enough to graduate from law school. Hope that against my intuition, I could transform myself from an overly-sensitive English major and stage-fright pianist into a powerful, confident attorney.
Table of Contents
Ch. 1: Cultivating the Dream
Ch. 2: Getting In
Ch. 3: The Big Move
Ch. 4: Orientation
Ch. 5: Day One
Ch. 6: Classes
Ch. 7: Briefing
Ch. 8: The Socratic Method
Ch. 9 : Competition
Ch. 10: Guardian Angel
Ch. 11: Legal Writing
Ch. 12: Outlining
Ch. 13: The Midterm
Ch. 14: The Fall
Ch. 15: Too Little, Too Late
Ch. 16: Thanksgiving
Ch. 17: Counseling
Ch. 18: Finals- Prep
Ch. 19: The Final Push
Ch. 20: The Decision
Ch. 21: The Fallout
Ch. 22: Too Nice to be a Lawyer
Ch. 23: The Move Back to Reno
Ch. 24: What Next?
Ch. 25: A New Start, A New Dream
Ch. 2: Getting In
Ch. 3: The Big Move
Ch. 4: Orientation
Ch. 5: Day One
Ch. 6: Classes
Ch. 7: Briefing
Ch. 8: The Socratic Method
Ch. 9 : Competition
Ch. 10: Guardian Angel
Ch. 11: Legal Writing
Ch. 12: Outlining
Ch. 13: The Midterm
Ch. 14: The Fall
Ch. 15: Too Little, Too Late
Ch. 16: Thanksgiving
Ch. 17: Counseling
Ch. 18: Finals- Prep
Ch. 19: The Final Push
Ch. 20: The Decision
Ch. 21: The Fallout
Ch. 22: Too Nice to be a Lawyer
Ch. 23: The Move Back to Reno
Ch. 24: What Next?
Ch. 25: A New Start, A New Dream
A Virtual Critique Group
Hi everyone,
I started this blog so I can create a jury of my peers, of sorts. The goal is to publish my first book, Tales of a Law School Dropout, by the end of this year. But first, I need your help. The book is almost done. Give me your feedback! If you are a pre-law student, lawyer, or anyone who has followed a career path that just wasn't right for you, I want to hear about your experience.
Every two weeks, I submit ten pages (more or less) to my critique group. The process is fun and is a great way to write a book. Now you can be part of my virtual critique group!
Please let me know what you think.
Thanks!
Gina
I started this blog so I can create a jury of my peers, of sorts. The goal is to publish my first book, Tales of a Law School Dropout, by the end of this year. But first, I need your help. The book is almost done. Give me your feedback! If you are a pre-law student, lawyer, or anyone who has followed a career path that just wasn't right for you, I want to hear about your experience.
Every two weeks, I submit ten pages (more or less) to my critique group. The process is fun and is a great way to write a book. Now you can be part of my virtual critique group!
Please let me know what you think.
Thanks!
Gina
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