The Awakening of Spring: A Children's Tragedy

For the last several weeks, I have been in rehearsals for my most recent play, "Spring Awakening," a musical that chronicles the lives of pubescent teens as they struggle to find their place in the world.  Moritz is plagued by wet dreams.  Georg has fantasies about his well-endowed piano teacher.  Ernst struggles with his homosexual attraction to fellow classmate Hanschen.  Then there's Melchior, a young man who seems to have it all together.  A young man who sees the follies of the adults around him and has in some ways eaten of the tree of knowledge.  He has an insight into sexuality that escapes his comrades, without actually experiencing it himself.

The girls experience their own plights.  Martha reveals her father abuses her, as her mother looks on.  Ilse is thrown into the streets to fend for herself among the bohemians and also falls victim to sexual abuse.  And Wendla desperately craves to feel something - anything - as her naivete tortures her curious soul. 

Wendla and Melchior realize their greatest fears and greatest passions in each other.  Melchior leaves Wendla bruised and broken after she begs him to beat her, like Martha's father beats her.  Upon their mutual and emphatic apologies, they share what Melchior calls "paradise" and lose their virginities to one another.  He impregnates her and is sent to a reformatory, while a heartbroken Wendla meets her end at the hands of an abortionist and an abandoning mother who had previously refused to tell her how children are conceived.  Melchior returns to find that Wendla has died, and has to face life alone.  A real life story with no Disney frills.  Just the grit that comes with living with the consequences of life's decisions.

"Spring Awakening" speaks to me in a way that no other play ever has.  It's about children who just want to know what life is about.  It's about parents who refuse to light their way, for the sake of chastity and pride.  It's about narrow-mindedness and the fact that no matter how much adults shelter their children, children will find the answers to life's burning questions. 

Now, four years after seeing it for the first time, I have the honor of playing Wendla.  Over the course of the rehearsal process, she has taught me so much about my own life and reminded me about my own childhood tragedies.  There have been more nights than I care to admit that I have left the theater in tears, thinking about this sad little girl and the many ways in which I relate to her.  As I massaged the welts left from a beating scene gone too far, I remembered the nights as a child that I fought through tears to examine red handprints on my legs.  When I sing Wendla's plaintiff final song, "Whispering," I remember the times I never felt like I could live up to expectations.  My connection to her makes my performance raw and real, and I am so proud to tell her story...because it's a story that needs to be told.

I told my family about the play, and it was met with mixed response.  The question of whether my father and step-mother would attend remained an open one.  But on opening night, I received the following text message from my step-mother:  "We have read about the play and watched the trailer and you sing beautifully.  However we are struggling with the subject matter.  We also don't want to watch you suffer and die.  We love you and are proud of you, but we will wait to see you in your next play."

My heart hit the floor.  For two reasons.  First, this play was written for the prudes who refuse to face the realities of this world, and unfortunately, my parents are proving to be those people.  Second, no matter how much they love me, they love their comfort more.  Each night after the show, I see parents hugging their children and congratulating them on performing such a challenging, beautiful play.  They appreciate the art, even if they don't agree with it, and they prove that they are proud of their children.  I only wish my own parents could set aside their conservative bias for 90 minutes to support their daughter.  Unfortunately, that prayer will go unanswered.  

Despite my disappointment, though, Wendla has reinforced that this is what I am meant to do, regardless of the support (or lack of support) I have.  Without thought or question, I gave up my winter break to drive 30 miles one way to play rehearsals every day, where I am hit, slapped, and molested by my fellow actors.  I take my clothes off on stage.  I let a fellow actor I've known for just a few weeks kiss me and touch my bare breasts.  I come home with bruises.  I happily give everything I have to this play, this character, this story because my passion outweighs any obstacles that I may face.  

So while I may never get the recognition or appreciation from my family that I feel is due me, I will press on.  

A Con Law "Lessen"

Yesterday I realized why I went to law school.

When I woke up yesterday morning, my feelings were reminiscent of a little girl on Christmas morning.  The excitement, the nervous anticipation, the “I-hope-Santa-brought-me-this-or-that” anxiousness, and the knowing that no matter what I unwrapped, I was going to be elated.  This was how I felt prior to 10 a.m. ET Thursday morning.  My leg bounced under my desk as I tried to focus on the mountain of legal files next to me, but all I could think about was “unwrapping” the Supreme Court’s decision on the Affordable Care Act.  And while I was curious as to the arguments the Court would make, who would write the opinion, and what Obama’s reaction would be, of one thing I was certain.  The ACA would undoubtedly be struck down as unconstitutional.

Many law students, after having taken Constitutional Law, feel they are now Con Law experts.  They will argue circles around their lay friends and family members at any mention of Roe v. Wade, Wickard v. Filburn, or Snyder v. Phelps.  While I generally loathe anything having to do with law school and try to avoid legal conversations with non-law students at all costs, after taking Health Care Law, I found myself on the Con Law bandwagon.  The ACA was a topic of which I could not read enough.  I read the 11^thCircuit’s opinion, with its masterful history of the Commerce Clause and point-by-point explanation of why the ACA is simply an unconstitutional expansion of government.  I read the 6^th Circuit’s opinion, which throws everyone into the health care market by labeling those who are uninsured and actually not in the health care market at all “self-insured.”  I read the oral arguments, in which dark horsemen Alito and Scalia came to battle against ACA proponents Kagan and Sotomayor, the former being the obvious victors.  At the end of my journey I came to no other conclusion – The ACA is unconstitutional – and it is impossible for the Supreme Court to rule otherwise. 

Unfortunately for me, you, and every other American in our great nation, I was wrong.  Reading Justice John Roberts’ opinion yesterday was like opening the last present on Christmas morning – what you hope will be the best of all – and realizing it’s a pair of socks.  Santa screwed up.  But this isn’t about a pair of socks.  This is about our rights.  While Roberts conceded that the ACA violated the Commerce Clause in its effort to compel rather than regulate commerce, his deciding vote renders this concession moot. This decision, in all practicality, allows for unbridled regulation by the government, including regulation of inaction.  By virtue of being alive, you are now vulnerable to – no, not vulnerable to – under mandatory regulation.  (This point, I am making for those of you who think that mandated health insurance is likened to mandated car insurance.  While you are correct, the government mandates you to by car insurance, you are not mandated to buy a car.  If you want to own a car, you have to buy insurance; but if you don’t want to buy a car, then no insurance is required.  The individual mandate is qualitatively different from car insurance in that, from birth, you do not have a choice.  You must buy health insurance because you are alive.  Now how do you feel about it? Feeling free?  I didn’t think so.)  If you don’t want to purchase health insurance, you are going to have to pay a penalty, a penalty that could be up to 2.5% of your household income. 

But wait a minute.  Didn’t Justice Roberts say this is in fact a tax, not a penalty?  Indeed.  Through the taxing power, the Supreme Court says the individual mandate is constitutional.  But what does that mean, in real terms?  How is that different from unconstitutionally expanding the Commerce Clause?  In essence, it isn’t.  But there is something equally disturbing about the majority’s conclusion here.  First, as the dissent points out, the Supreme Court has “never” held that a penalty is a tax.  Yes, the Supreme Court has said that taxes may be so prohibitive that they become a penalty, but never has the Court ruled that a penalty – especially one which is explicitly called a penalty 18 times in the language of the law itself and explicitly denied as a tax by our president – can be considered a tax.  Somehow, though, the majority decided that the non-tax/penalty you have to pay if you refuse to purchase health insurance is actually a tax for constitutionality purposes.  Sounds like a lot to swallow?  Now consider this: Under the Anti-Injunction Act, the court only has jurisdiction to hear cases related to taxes once the tax has been implemented and tax payers have been “harmed” by the tax.  Otherwise, tax payers have no standing, and the court has no jurisdiction to hear the case because it is not yet ripe (Con Law 101).  This is what the D.C. Circuit concluded when it heard this case.  However, in a remarkable feat of linguistic gymnastics, the majority found that it does in fact have jurisdiction to hear the case because while the law instructs that the “penalty” will be “collected in the same manner as taxes,” it is not actually a tax.  The Anti-Injunction Act does not apply to penalties collected in the same manner as taxes that are actually not so bad to be considered penalties, so they should just be taxes…  You’re not crazy.  That doesn’t make sense.  The dissent agrees with you.  The government would have us believe that “the very same textual indications that show this is not a tax under the Anti-Injunction Act show that it is a tax under the Constitution.  That carries verbal wizardry too far, deep into the forbidden land of sophists.”  Thus sayeth the dissent. 

I will not pretend that I am an economist.  I do not have a clue as to how this will affect our nation financially (although I don’t expect it to be positively).  I will not pretend that I am anti-Obama.  I voted for him after all.  I will not pretend that I don’t support affordable health care.  I absolutely do.  But I will also not pretend that the ACA is constitutional, as our friends Roberts, Kagan, Ginsburg, Breyer, and Sotomayor did yesterday.  The dissent is, in my opinion, flawless.  Its logic cannot be challenged with logic. The politically charged opinion, which is now a dangerous precedent, is riddled with what can only be described as propaganda.  It is a desperate attempt to keep the law – which the government admits cannot survive without the individual mandate – from crumbling to the ground.  But as the dissent points out, our Constitution does not have a “whatever-it-takes-to-solve-a-national-problem power.”  The Supreme Court, in its effort to salvage the ACA, has effectively expanded the Commerce Clause to unyielding federal power, destroyed our freedoms, and created a national problem far greater than that which it sought to solve. 

And now I’ve realized the Supreme Court’s decision has ruined two holidays – one metaphorically, and one literally.  Happy Independence Day. 

The Others

Today I am supposed to be doing work.  I have a presentation due Monday on news media in the UK that I was meant to start weeks ago.  I'm starting today.  And by starting I mean I'm reading Wiki articles on "UK media."  Good place to start, right?

This has been the first weekend in a month that I've had to do whatever I want (or play catch-up on my copious amounts of school work).  I've been in a show since December, so my schedule until this point has been booked with rehearsals and performances.  But it seems like I have started paying my dues because this time...I was the star of the show.  

I started writing about my love for theatre about a year ago, while I was preparing for my first audition in two years.  It was a tremendous flop.  Since then, though, I've started developing my talents, brushing off the dust of what I thought was possibly lost for ever, and - most importantly - believing in myself.  In a year I've been in three musicals, and I just recently was cast in a fourth.  And this time, I'm getting paid.  I get a paycheck for spending three hours a day playing make believe with some of my favorite people.  Nothing is better than that.  

Yes, things are looking up for me, despite the fact that I'm still in law school.  I even landed a job doing that too (and, perhaps unfortunately, the pay is substantially better than what I'll be making on stage this summer).  It's not too bad, though.  The people are nice, and I'm realizing that I learn more in class than I thought.  As long as I don't get sucked into the lifestyle of spending 70 hours a week surrounded by papers, files, and computers, I think I'll survive.

My theatre experiences in the last 12 months have led me to realize one big thing - I am never, ever giving this up.  Every night during my most recent show, I waited behind the curtain as the house manager made announcements about the upcoming performances, my heart pounding in my chest and my blood rushing through my veins.  Nothing made me feel more alive than those few moments after the stage manager announced, "Places, please."  And I imagine...nothing ever will.

And that is okay.

Recently I've had to deal with a constant push and pull from people in my life.  Some tell me, "You can still do this and have a real job."  "This is just a hobby; why do you take it so seriously?"  "Doesn't all this play stuff get in the way of your studies?"  Others say, "Whatever you do, don't stop singing and acting."  "You belong up there on that stage."  "I'm proud of you for pursuing what you love."  "What you really want is to be an actor..."  

I'll choose to listen to the others.  

Sh*t my law professors say

Over the semester, I was quick to jot down little "isms" that my professors said in class.  My intention was to type them all up as a memento of my first year of law school.  I thought it would also be fun to share them with the blogosphere.  Some of the quotes won't make sense unless you endured six months with these professors, but some are funny on their own.  They are divided by class for easy reading.  Enjoy.

Property

On sharing a mug with a classmate:  "I don't have cooties.  You have cooties...(under his breath) This is really stupid."

On Newt Gingrich and the Doles sharing property:  "Gingrich is going to make a great president."  "Why shouldn't Gingrich get 1/3 and Elizabeth Dole get 2/3?  She's more rational anyway.  Historically."

On a classmate refusing to give his hypothetical wife any property after divorce:  "That may be that you're kind of a volatile-type personality."

On my criminal law professor hitting my contracts professor over property:  "Neither of them have arms that would be considered deadly weapons."

On landlord-tenant relationships:  "This is a little confusing...maybe simple."

On electricity as property:  "We, our bodies, work on electricity.  Our brain's like fire!"

On buying landlocked property:  "If you buy landlocked land, people are going to laugh at you."

On beaches in New York:  "It's not a very nice beach because it's in Queens, New York, and the water is cold and the people are mean."

On homeowner's associations:  "If someone wants to have chickens and collect their own eggs, or they just like the noise, you may want to be careful."

On just about anything:  "Yeah, no, you're exactly right, right?"

Criminal Law

On forcible rape:  "Is it forcible, or are they just a little kinky?"

On Charlie Sheen:  "He is quite persuasive."  "Charlie Sheen can't make you burn in hell, but supposedly God can."

On Stephen Morse:  "Mainly I put up the picture so you could see his mustache.  It's awesome."

Classmate on retributive justice:  "If someone tried to kill me, I would probably kill them."

On attempted murder:  "Maybe I just wanted to scare the bejeezis out of you.  Is that a word?"

On the res ipsa loquiter test of attempt:  "I remember this because we were on a basketball team when I was a student and we were all under 5'6".  We called ourselves 'Res Ipsa Loquiter' because it was pretty clear that we all sucked."

On attempt:  "You stink as a criminal."

On attempting to kill someone with a water gun:  "Dammit, why won't it kill you?!"

On conspiracy to rob Taco Bell:  "We want to inflict damage on Taco Bell in exchange for all the damage it has inflicted on us."

On conspiracy:  "It begins with a C.  I don't mean to be a wise-ass.  I'm sorry."

On a classmate's case analysis:  "What might be a more common sense answer to the case?  I'm sorry I didn't mean 'sense.'"

On a cocaine hypothetical:  "Students are usually very reluctant to talk with me about where I can get my cocaine."

Contracts

On our class not learning about fraud in torts:  "That strikes me as reasonably awkward."

On Masterson v. Sine:  "That's immensely stupid."

On being frustrated about selling his house:  "If I'm feisty, I apologize in advance."

On Ruttenberg:  "Does it strike you as lame?"

On troubles with a car dealership:  "I bought a different kind of car because they t'd me off."

On working in big city law firms:  "In my course of dealing with other lawyers, there are lots of lawyers who are just lame."

On defendants ignoring specific performance:  "No, go away, I want to play golf or whatever."

On being evaluated by a fellow professor:  "I'm not designed to be a performer, I guess."

On drafting specific contractual provisions:  "That's, like, really tedious or whatever."

On purposely creating ambiguous contracts:  "Now you're going to decide I'm evil or whatever."

On St. Patrick's Day:  "Two questions with one answer.  It's like a McDonald's Shamrock shake.  It's half off."

On forfeiture:  "Courts find that distasteful, distressful or whatever."

On a 1L's perception of law school:  "Tell me how all the pieces move, and then I will be a lawyer."

On explaining substantial performance:  "You're looking at me like I'm a martian or whatever."

On drafting a prenuptial agreement:  "I would think that has to be awkward."

On swearing he saw a raised hand:  "I'm hallucinating."

On ESPN opinion:  "Let me show you what is patently, unquestionably wrong."

On explaining why the ESPN opinion is wrong:  "I'm getting lots of, like, quizzical looks or whatever."

On asking if we understand a 1920s case:  "I'm not trying to be cute or whatever."

On being a lawyer:  "If you don't want to get bitten, get out of the water."

On the belief that it's okay not to like the law:  "Like Mom making you come in when you're a tike or whatever."

On the college campus becoming smoke-free:  "It's like we're a totalitarian state.  It bothers me."

On understanding that there is no duty to mitigate damages:  "We are at the peak, the summit, the matterhorn.  I do not want to move an iota in our understanding, or else we'll fall off a cliff."

On why he cites everything:  "You don't need to type this.  This is just to show you I'm not making this up."

On the possibility that Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton made money by mistake:  "An observation came to mind that shouldn't be shared or whatever, so we'll just leave it at that."

On the MedicAlert company trying to screw him:  "That still frosts my whiskers."

On mistake versus frustration of purpose:  "Now we're all frustrated with my discussion...Oh, man, you're not even going to laugh at that?"

On mortgages:  "It's also a mortgage in aircrafts if I do recall.  I am 92% certain."

On the difference between an obligor and an obligee:  "And I guess the problem is I'm somewhat dyslexic, which makes this really bad for all involved."

On assignments:  "What do I mean by that?  Well, I don't know."

On cases involving electricity: "They don't want anyone to get zapped or whatever."

On transfers versus mergers:  "Maybe that sounds too glib or whatever."

On third party beneficiary risks:  "Might be foolish.  Might not.  Depends on if he's a good gambler or not."

On third party beneficiary hypothetical:  "Let's say I have lots of money, unfortunately a hypothetical."

On wanting to write a challenging exam:  "Maybe you think I'm foolish or whatever."

On writing the exam:  "Maybe I'll be so enamored by the exam that I'll tell you all about it, and I'll have to strike it and start all over again."

On ending classes a week early:  "Maybe I'll just end class then.  I can't do that.  I'll get fired if I do that."

How do you spell "W-I-N-N-E-R"?

     To begin, no, the title of this post isn't a Charlie Sheen reference.

     I have shied away from the blogosphere as of late, not because I have nothing to talk about, but because there has been so much going on in my life that I haven't had the time to record it here.  On my day off, I decided it was finally time to put down my thoughts on paper...or let them go into cyberspace.

     One of the reasons I started this blog was because I needed something to do to get away from law school.  I needed an outlet to vent about contracts, complain about my fellow students, and dream of other things I could be doing instead of writing case briefs or studying for finals.  Over the last few months, my life and my outlook on life have changed dramatically.  

     For starters, I am not spending my summer working in a law firm or interning at the state capitol, like so many of my fellow law compatriots.  Instead, I found my way to community theatre after a three year acting hiatus, and I couldn't be happier.  I am playing Marcy Park in "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee."  For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, this musical takes the audience into the world of competitive spelling, breaking down the traditional fourth wall and bringing four audience members on stage each performance to compete alongside six cast members who are determined to become the next spelling champ.  Each of the cast spellers is a quirky kiddo who doesn't feel like he or she fits in anywhere else, and has found a place to belong during the tough pre-pubescent period of life.
     Marcy is no exception to the odd conglomerate of characters, but she is certainly different than her fellow spellers.  Marcy is the new girl, a recent transfer from Virginia.  However, she is also easily the best speller in the line-up.  She won her own bee back in Virginia the previous year and placed ninth at Nationals in Washington, D.C., an achievement last year's Putnam County spelling champ, Chip Tolentino, only dreams about.  Not only is Marcy a champion wordsmith, but she is also an over achiever in just about every area of her life.  She won her school's handwriting competition, skipped fourth and fifth grades, speaks six languages, and is an all-American hockey player.  There doesn't seem to be much of anything that Miss Marcy Park can't do, except lose.
     But is that really all there is to life?  Winning?
     I've really enjoyed finding the answer to this question during my journey with Marcy.  Although I was never a spelling bee champion myself, I've found that Marcy and I have a lot in common.  From elementary school all the way through my senior year of college, many "Marcy" moments come to mind.  I remember never wanting to tell anyone my grades as a kid because ridicule came to those who not only received the lowest scores, but who received the highest scores as well.  I resented my achievements and was sometimes embarrassed by being called "the best."  When my fifth grade middle school award ceremony rolled around at the end of the school year, I told my mom not to come because I wasn't going to win anything anyway.  Turns out, I walked away with a stack of brightly colored certificates written in calligraphy that stood nearly as tall as I did.  "Top Social Studies Student."  "Top Math Student."  "Best Artist."  The next year was much of the same.  The teachers even decided to give me a plaque because I had the top grade in all four core classes:  math, social studies, language arts, and science.  I was a winner across the board.  Along with that plaque, though, came a curse.  From then on, I was expected not simply to do well, but to win.  My 12-year-old self accepted the challenge.  Instead of taking art, theatre, and choir, classes that reflected my interests, I took the "hard classes," like physics, AP biology and chemistry.  I even took anatomy as an independent study just so I could have that extra weighted "A" credit to boost my GPA.  (My anatomy teacher thought I took the class because I wanted to go to med school.)  At the end of it all, I graduated high school as valedictorian, editor-in-chief of the yearbook, student body secretary, co-captain of the dance team, and "most likely to succeed."  My peers in college gave me the same superlative four years later.
     Marcy Park is very much the same.  Everything she does, she does well.  No, everything she does, she does better than anyone else.  The other kids at the spelling bee are impressed and slightly afraid of her ability to do everything so effortlessly and her maturity that is well beyond her 12 years.  She is no-nonsense, all business.  She's not at the bee to make friends; she is at the bee to add one more trophy to her collection, one more accolade to her resume.  And she is easily upset by those who do not give her credit where credit is due.
     I was first drawn to Marcy as a character because of her surface characteristics.  A girl who does everything right who reminds me of myself - perfect type-casting, right?  I was thrilled to receive the role, but after two months of rehearsals and now a weekend of performances, I have realized just how much more there is to Marcy Park, and she has given me more than I ever thought she could.
     First, Marcy is the only character whose parents are never mentioned in the course of the show.  I actually didn't pick up on this until about two weeks ago when the cast was talking about what they imagined the characters' backstories could be.  Because Marcy's parents are never mentioned, I imagine they don't play a significant role in her life.  They are not her cheerleaders, her encouragers, or her advisors.  They are her taxi-drivers who get her to school, soccer practice, spelling bees and back home again.  This is something I am all too familiar with.  I've realized when you do things well, your parents come to expect you never to fail.  I've had several moments of jealousy when my friends receive the kind of nurturing and attention from their parents that I never got from my own.  Care packages, good luck phone calls before finals, follow-up phone calls after finals, an extra $20 or nice meal during breaks from college were all things that eluded me.  My parents don't think I need those things because they expect me to do well without them.  They don't empathize when I am nervous about a final, and they aren't surprised when I end up doing a lot better than I thought I would.  So I get Marcy in that way, too.  Because she didn't seem to need her parents early on in life, they don't think she needs them now.  I imagine she does.
     Second, Marcy wants to be like the "normal kids."  This facet of Marcy's personality really started to come through when we began running through the show from start to finish.  All of the other kids, although far from normal, are just that - kids.  They mess with each other's hair, pick their noses, give wet willies, and build relationships throughout the show.  While sitting on the risers of our set with the other five actors, I found myself wanting to join the fun, but I couldn't.  Marcy doesn't act that way.  Marcy is too mature for that.  But then I got to thinking, "Is she really?  I'm 23 years old, and I want to give a wet willie just as much as anyone else here.  Why wouldn't she feel the same way?"  I think Marcy really wants to be "in the moment" with her fellow spellers, but she knows that she's expected to set herself apart.  In the end, though, I think she realizes just how much she misses out on by being "all business."  I have felt the same way in various stages of my life.  One time in particular was when I was in Washington, D.C. for a semester.  While my roommates were out exploring the DC night life, I stayed home, in my room, crying and wishing I was at home.  My convictions told me I needed to set an example and fulfill my Christian lifestyle when everyone else was partying, but now I know I also missed out on building relationships with some very bright people who are really going somewhere today.  Now, whenever the cast goes out after rehearsal or a show, I go out too, without question.  I may be tired the next day and may have to work a little harder at the gym after eating fried appetizers, but the relationships I am building with my fellow cast members make it more than worthwhile.  I feel closer to them than I feel to people I've gone to law school with for a year, and I know it's because I made the effort to put myself out there.
     Finally, Marcy resents winning.  Or at least she resents the conventional view of winning.  Marcy has spent her entire life (of 12 years, but still her life) as a winner.  She is the best at everything because that's what she does, not necessarily because that's what she wants to do.  I'm not quite sure what it is that Marcy really wants out of life, but I'm certain that it is not to be a spelling bee champion forever.  She wants to have fun, she wants to live her own life, not the life others expect her to live.  This characteristic of Marcy is the one with which I most identify, and the one that led me to this show in the first place.  Now that I have spent the last two months in the eccentric world of theatre and away from the straight-laced legal environment, I have no doubts concerning the atmosphere in which I belong.  It's not a courtroom.  It's a stage.  And I already have my next audition lined up to make sure our last "Bee" curtain call isn't my last.
     So Marcy has shown me that I don't have to be the best law student, make the most money, or fulfill the conventional title of "most likely to succeed" in order to be a "winner."  I simply need to be happy.  And right now, as far as I'm concerned, I'm carrying the biggest trophy I've ever seen.

The Bane of My Existence

Contracts is the bane of my existence.  After some research, i.e. Googling "bane of my existence," I found that to say something is the bane of your existence means said thing is killing you because "bane" literally means "slayer" or "killing."  In other words, Contracts is the slayer of my existence.  My research revealed that the saying used to carry a very heavy connotation, but now it is common in English vernacular and has since lost its serious meaning.  Perhaps that is this Google Answers scholar's opinion, but I think the phrase can still be very real, as I definitely feel farthest from life when sitting in class discussing whether a court should order specific performance, an injunction, or expectation damages when the amount of the plaintiff's lost profits is nearly incalculable.

I have about nine pages left of this case.  I choose not to read the rest for three reasons: (1) I'm exhausted after a five-mile run and a long day of classes, (2) I'm at the point where I'm just reading words on a page and will most likely have to go back and reread the case tomorrow morning anyway, and (3) I couldn't care less about what happens to these people.  This isn't an issue of whether Harry Potter lives or dies, or whether Bella chooses Edward or Jacob; therefore, I am not emotionally invested in this story.

That's your nugget of lawyerly terminology for the day, and a bonus useless fact about "bane of my existence."  Both are free.  You're welcome.  Moving on.

The other day, a friend of mine from undergrad told me about this book called "The Element."  She described "The Element" as where your passion and what you're good at meet.  She wants to be a teacher, and her eyes light up every time she talks about her experiences in the classroom as a student teacher and as an observer.  She reads books about education all the time, and I know that the kids who walk into her classroom over the next several years are going to remember her for the rest of their lives.  Clearly she has found her element.  As she was telling me about this book, I realized that I am definitely not in my element.

Am a good at law school?  Yes.  Am I good at chemistry?  Yes, but I didn't go to med school for a reason.  Can't do blood.  So again, am I good at law school?  Yes.  Do I like reading cases and doing meaningless paperwork and wearing suits and sitting at a desk all day long?  I would like to answer this question with an emphatic "NO!"  According to the logic skills I have acquired in my legal research class and according to the twin goals of "The Element," I probably shouldn't be doing this law school thing.  Sure it looked great (and fashionable) when Elle Woods was doing it, but I've come to the conclusion that I'd rather have Reese Witherspoon's job than her character's in Legally Blonde.

As I sit in class every day, I can't get over these people sitting on either side of me who eat this stuff up.  They ask question after question and apply for every job and internship that shows up in our inboxes from career services.  Recently my classmates have been having interviews with their respective firms, so there have been a lot of people dressing up, implicitly sending the message, "I have an interview.  I'll be working at a law firm this summer while you'll be lucky to get hired on at Starbucks."  Also recently the weather has taken a turn for the better, and I've been able to dig my dresses out of the back of my closet.  Every time I don a new dress, the classic inquiry is, "Who are you interviewing with today?"  My response is always the same, "No one, it's just a great day outside."  And then I go on about my business as they stand still, baffled and bewildered.

At first I felt a little insecure about my lack of interviews for summer jobs.  I'm used to being the one who has the interviews, who gets the jobs, who succeeds, you know?  But then I had to take a step back and say, "You don't WANT these interviews!  Why do you care if other people are interviewing in their shirts and ties while you're slumming it in a hoodie?  You would rather do anything but work for a law firm this summer."  And then I feel a bit sorry for the poor schmucks as they file into their interviews or crowd into a classroom for a networking event.  (Networking events are a completely different topic that I could write a book on by themselves, so I'll stay away from them today.  Let's just say I think it's brainless to have events in which people meet one another for the sole purpose of using the other person to climb the career ladder, almost parasitic.  Networking should happen organically, not over forced conversation and mediocre finger foods.)

But I also understand something else about my classmates.  They are in law school because they want to be attorneys.  Novel concept, right?  Maybe that's why they enjoy (or at least tolerate) reading cases.  Maybe that's why they ask questions.  Maybe that's why they want jobs this summer.  Ah ha!  An epiphanic moment.  You can high five me through the screen if you like.  I expect to see a handprint on my monitor next time I log on.  It makes sense now.  They like law school because they care, because they are invested, because some day they are going to do this stuff for a living.  As for me, if I never set foot in the lawbrary again, never opened a case book, never wrote a memo again, I would die a happy woman.  That's saying something.  That's saying something huge.

To close, it seems I've identified the bane of my existence, what's slowly killing my spirit from inside the brick, dreary, lifeless lawbrary walls.  Now my task is to discover my element.  A trip to Barnes & Noble is in order.

The best possible worst-case scenario

Last time I left you with the worst-case scenario of what my next entry would be about - failure.  Well, ladies and gentlemen, today I will be talking to you about failure.  However, after some serious reflection, I hardly think it was the worst-case scenario.

I'm not saying last weekend's audition experience was by any means the best-case scenario, but it was definitely good for a lot of reasons.  

First, I was reminded of what it's like to audition for a play.  I felt the nerves and shivers that comes from anxiously waiting (in a frigid theater) for that one shot to show the directors that (1) you know the material, (2) you know how to deliver the material, and (3) you can deliver their material.  I remembered what it feels like to utter lines to yourself over and over again until you either forget them because the words have lost all meaning or you know them so well that they become second nature.  With the end of one sentence automatically comes the beginning of the next.  Thankfully for me, I experienced the latter during the actual audition, although I had my fair share of forgetfulness in the hours immediately preceding the moment I took the stage.  I delivered both my monologues flawlessly, and I felt great about my performance.

Second, I was reminded that I need to teach myself how to read music.  I've dabbled in musical instruments, took piano lessons, and played the clarinet for three years, but all of those skills are long gone now, and I couldn't read a piece of music if my life depended on it.  I've always been able to get by just by listening.  I know I can't keep doing that, especially in an audition.  I immediately tensed up as I heard the opening notes to my music selection, and, well, let's just say I'm glad Simon Cowell wasn't judging my singing ability at that moment.  I probably would never have opened my mouth again if he had.  Bottom line, though, it took guts for me to take the stage and sing my little 45-second ditty.  I have guts.

Third, I was reminded how much I love to dance.  I was a dancer in high school, but never had much in the way of formal training beyond a couple of years while I was 5 or 6.  I just decided my freshman year of high school that I didn't want to be a cheerleader anymore, so I'd dance instead.  And that's what I did.  For four years I only counted up to 8, wore glittery costumes and bright red lipstick, and taught myself any of the technical elements I needed.  It's been five years since I've laced up my dance shoes, and I don't own any proper apparel for "real" dance anymore.  I was optimistic, though, and decided just to wing it.

The second I walked into the dance audition, I felt completely inadequate.  All the girls had dance shoes.  All of them.  What did I have?  $10 tennis shoes from Old Navy.  Most of them had leotards.  What did I have?  Some spandex I bought in England and an old sorority T-shirt.  All of their lips were coated in red lipstick.  What did I have?  Clear cinnamint lipgloss.  So my first instinct is, "Shit.  I'm screwed."  I walked into the bathroom to change and decided to wear the spandex but to keep my shirt on that I wore to the first auditions earlier in the day.  It passed as something someone would wear to dance in, and looked a lot better than a T-shirt.  Then, by the grace of God, I found my only tube of obnoxious red lipgloss in my purse.  Crisis #2 averted.  But I still had an issue with my shoes.  I walked into the audition room and began stretching, still wearing my tennis shoes.  I scoped out the room, praying that someone would be wearing something other than ballet shoes or character shoes - to no avail.  But I did see some girls with no shoes at all (Granted, all of these girls put on shoes later, but that's beside the point.).  I thought to myself, "I can either wear these ridiculous shoes and be self-conscious the whole time I dance, or I can take them off and take this thing on barefoot."  I went for the second option, kicked of the tennies, and began learning the dance combination.  This leads me to the fourth thing I learned last weekend.  I still got it.

It became evident that even though I haven't danced in years and I didn't have the shoes I should have, I can still break it down on the dance floor (or at least learn movements that correspond with 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8).  When it was my turn to perform, I showed them my absolute best, and I know that I did well.  The feeling I had as I walked off the dance floor was the best feeling I've had in years.  It gave me the chills.

At the end of the night, call-backs were posted, and I had to endure the anxiety of searching for my name on the list of the chosen few.  I searched.  And searched.  And searched one more time - praying I'd overlooked it.  I hadn't.  It wasn't there to find.  I walked away with my shoulders slumped, my enthusiasm gone, and my eyes filled to the brink with tears.  I don't like to cry when things don't go my way.  I don't like to wallow in self-pity.  But that night, after my name was nowhere to be found, I cried. And I cried.  And I cried.  I cried because I was disappointed in myself.  I cried because I could have done better, could have tired harder, could have done something different.  But then I cried for a completely different reason altogether.  I cried because I had just had the best day in years, and the day was over.  There weren't going to be more days like that in my immediate future.  No rehearsals, no lines to learn, no dances to perform, no curtain calls...  Instead?  Casebooks, briefs, motions for summary judgment, the Lawbrary.  I cried because I finally, finally had a chance to surround myself with what I really love, and I lost it.  I cried because I had to go back to something I'm not interested in, something I'm not passionate about.  I cried because the feelings I felt that day aren't going to come back anytime soon.

This is beginning to sound like it would be the worst-case scenario.  But it's really not, I promise.  My weekend shed some light - a lot of light - on my life and what I want to do with it.  I'm going to keep reading these cases, keep pretending to be interested, keep doing the work, but I'm also going to keep auditioning, keep singing, keep dancing, keep holding onto that feeling I had last weekend - and to the dream I've had all my life.

Maybe it's not that I'm aimless, per se.  I have a destination.  Now I just need a map.