The law school dropout
OR, “denied permission to enroll for sophomore year” would be a nicer way to put it. But that’s playing with words, and it means the same anyway—that I was once a law student who never got past freshman year.
They say that as much as you should let your achievements speak for themselves, so should you also refrain from wearing your failures on your sleeve. Fortunately, after two years, I feel comfortable enough to write about it now and call my inability to finish by another name.
But let me start from the beginning.
***
I was working in a government office in early 2004 when I received word that I had passed the Law Aptitude Examination of the University of the Philippines that I had taken several months before. I also learned that I was part of a group that was deemed eligible for registration without having to go through a panel interview.
Imagine my elation—I had put my plans on hold when I embraced responsibilities too early on, getting married at 18, raising one baby after another, having to find a job for milk and diapers immediately after graduation.
Needless to say, I was on top of the world. I felt like my time had come, and that I could conquer anything.
My first days in the College were overwhelming. It’s cheesy, I know, but I got shivers just walking along the halls of the building. The country’s most illustrious lawyers were once also students there, inhabiting the classrooms, taking the stairs, frequenting the library. To me, the edifice was alive with decades of tradition and the promise of the future.
I also took pride in belonging to the evening block composed of students who could not afford to give up their jobs. We were made of tougher stuff, I believed.
But whatever stuff I had been made of started crumbling all too soon. Again, reality caught up with my romantic notions.
Even if the mind knew no bounds, the body surely did. For the working mom (to kids aged 10, 8, 4 and 2) that I was then, there was no other time to tackle the voluminous readings except at night, when every member of the household was asleep. A few bottles of Red Bull served as my faithful companion.
Sleepiness was a daunting enemy. More often than not, I succumbed to it no matter how I berated myself in the morning for doing so. In any case, a good night’s sleep has become a rarity. As a result, I showed up at work looking and talking like a spaced-out zombie.
There were good days, however, when I was actually able to finish the assignment. I read the cases, highlighted the important phrases, then, on second coating, made notes and practiced recitation.
These good days gave me some shining moments. In one class, for example, I was in the middle of reciting when my professor interrupted me and said: “Just listen to her, does she not sound like a lawyer already?” My hair came down to the floor.
These were, sadly, the exception. There were more times I got called on unprepared. Instead of uttering crap, I told my professors I was sorry I could not make a meaningful contribution to the discussion. It actually sounded honorable the first time, but alas, I found myself having to say the words more often—and they don’t sound as good for the fifth or sixth time, either. In that class of extra-busy people, no one is proud of having to make excuses.
The fact was that I was a scatterbrain. In the first semester, I had a professor who implemented a no cellphone policy. The rule was that if any cellphone went off during class, a penalty of 5 would be meted out—not to the owner of the phone but to the person who was currently reciting. One rainy evening, when I was rushing to school half-believing I would ever make it on time, I forgot to put my phone in silent mode. When it sounded, and everyone looked at me, I said to myself, Bingo. The most venomous look, of course, came from the two people who were then reciting.
I wrote a four-page appeal convincing my teacher that his rule ran counter to the provision on fair and commensurate punishment and that punishing people other than the perpetrator of the “crime” was a blatant injustice. That must have been a good day—my plea must have eaten at his heart. He took out the 5s from my classmates’ records and threw them into the wastebasket. He did not even give them to me.
In the second semester, I started working for an Ortigas-based law office. I left my office at exactly five in the afternoon, because I still had to walk from Emerald to the Ortigas MRT station and fall in line at the jeepney terminal in Edsa-Quezon Avenue. I almost always made it to class just in time, without a minute to spare to gulp down some water, comb my hair, or review the notes I made—assuming I made any.
I was also distracted. My immediate environment was a battleground for women’s rights, and I was not getting much support for pursuing my studies.
More than any other thing, it was my inconsistency that brought me down. I aced tests most members of my class failed. But I also flunked tests everyone else passed.
When I saw my grades at the end of the school year, I didn’t have to compute for my grade point average to know I was not qualified to advance to second year. The appeals committee said I was out. I appealed to the College dean, who remanded my case to the committee. My fate hung in the hands of the three-member panel—which, by the way, included my professor who did not like the sound of ring tones and who had become familiar with my arguing style.
I went to the university chapel. Seated at the last pew and listening to the birds chirping, I asked God to move mountains and sway the decision of the committee.
The following morning, I woke up with a very light feeling. No, I didn’t receive word that my appeal had been granted. On the contrary, I felt that I would be able to take whichever way the committee decided. Now that’s an answered prayer.
***
My classmates are now about to end their third year. Soon, they will be putting in hours at the Office of Legal Aid, interacting with the underprivileged and handling real-life cases. In a few more years, they would be graduating and taking the bar.
I’m wondering if I should still do something about this unfinished business, even with another institution. Shall I do it for closure, like those 60-year-olds taking the bar? Or pass on the dream to my oldest daughter in whom I see a younger, more confident version of myself?
Obviously, a career shift is not an option. I’m not even too hot anymore about sporting “attorney” in my name. My reverence for the law remains, though. Knowing it is a good tool in communicating with the public and empowering them to do their share in the development of the country.
Lawyers make a difference. But so do journalists who know how things are supposed to be.
This isn’t an apologia. I believe that if one wanted something bad enough, there are numerous ways to achieve it. I have come to terms with the fact that back then, I may not have wanted to stay in school that badly, else I would have given up my job, risked the family finances, and sacrificed family time. But that doesn’t mean I’ve become indifferent. On the contrary, an unrealized dream at the backdrop is kind of romantic, isn’t it?
***
Last week, I quoted clinical psychologist Arnulfo Lopez as saying that the test of disorder severity is the incapacity of a person to perform well in the three areas of functioning: psychological, social, and functional. I made a mistake. That last one should have been occupational. My apologies.
