It's 5:40 AM.
I'm sitting on the trunk of my car, gazing East. It's 67 degrees in Las Vegas; it will reach 91 by the heat of the day. I spent another sleepless night tweaking and rewriting my take-home Contracts Final Exam, and now I'm basking in the reward.
My favorite part of 1L is the sunrises. I've seen my fair share this year; probably more than every other year of my life combined. Each sunrise is another badge of honor, an affirmation that once again I, piddly Trevor, have overcome the darkness and the bitter cold. I've endured once more. I will fight another day, and another night if need be.
"Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai decouvert en moi un invincible été."
Roughly translated, Camus said "In the depths of winter, I discovered within myself an unconquerable summer." This year has proven beyond all doubt that no matter how difficult or insurmountable a challenge may appear, its completion or even sufferance will bring a renewed appreciation for everything that I forget to give thanks for.
I love my hardships. I love my bruises, and my scratches, and my fatigue. I might not appreciate them at the time, but these emblems give me the strength to suffer greater hardships, bigger bruises, deeper scratches, and more profound fatigue.
The darkest nights and the harshest winters instill the brightest sunrises and the pleasantest summers within me. I'll finish up this year. Boyd, I'll see you in August for round two.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Three Hours Ahead and Decades Away
Grandma Hartzell’s Christmas gift from my Dad was flying Emma and me to Erie to visit for a few days. If you are thinking to yourself that this is a paramount example of “a gift and a curse” for my poor Grandma Lorraine, I couldn’t agree more; but like it or not, she is stuck with us!
Although half of my family originated in Erie and many are still living here, Emma and I seldom have the opportunity to visit because of the tremendous distance. It is always a strange experience to escape neon, 24-hour Nevada to fall into a slower, calmer existence back East, but once my anxious nerves adjust to a change that is much more dramatic than the three time zones we have to cross to get here, there is an indescribable calmness that consumes me.
Emma loves the houses in Erie, which she cheerily describes as “little Pi-Phis.” Brick-and-mortar houses are rare in Reno, and the few that do exist in our hometown seem somewhat out of place, as if someone dropped them into the unforgiving desert to fend for themselves. They cluster together near the university and tend not to stray out into the uniform suburbs that dominate more and more of the Truckee Meadows.
Among my many criticisms of Las Vegas, the most poignant is of the stucco wasteland that sprawls out in every direction from the notorious “Strip.” As my Dad put it, Las Vegas is the result of putting fortune first. I couldn’t agree more. At the risk of generalizing, the people that tend to inhabit and visit Las Vegas are often made of stucco as well. There are some people, like the Reno’s misplaced brick homes, that seem to have been dropped into Las Vegas by accident: people of character and strong moral fiber, people made of something other than a flaky paint that could never withstand a hard winter or genuine hardship. But these people are the anomalies, the outsiders.
At the risk of sounding self-righteous, I must make perfectly clear that I’m a stucco person too. I’m even perversely proud of it. Nevada does it differently, bottom line: just as the intense heat thins the blood of long term Las Vegans, so too does the environment become a part of its inhabitants, for better or worse.
Just as Emma appreciates the architecture, I have a certain indescribable fondness for Lake Erie. At least once a day I like to bundle up under what feels like eleven layers of coats, sweaters, and shirts to make my way down to the golf course originally created by General Electric for employees, no more than a mile from my Grandmother’s house. Barges float with painstaking patience across the icy waters, with bright running lights clashing against gloomy Erie’s perpetual dusk.
I didn’t know Grandpa Ed too well before he passed away. I only have one memory of being with him, a nighttime sledding adventure down the golf course hill. Even that memory is abstract and patchy. All of the information I have about him comes to me second hand, but I do know with relative certainty that he loved that golf course at least as much as I do.
He played golf nearly every day after retiring. He played through the winter, which is no small feat in these temperatures: I doubt that I could swing a club under my bundled clothing, which no doubt reminds passing cars of Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” as I waddle down the main road towards the course.
I know that course is man-made, but there is something savagely peaceful about it during these winter months when no golfers walk the course and the hills bend gently under a uniform blanket of snow. A man can really think out there, trudging down the fairways and surveying the lake that crests the horizon. The air is crisp and clean as it blows inland over the waves. I may not remember my young conversations with Grandpa Ed, but when I walk his course I feel like I understand what he was about as a man, and I understand what was important to him. I like to think that is more significant.
If anyone was a brick-and-mortar type of man, I think Ed was. Never have I heard an ill word spoken of him. He realized the few things that were important to him, and indeed the few things that are important in life, and lived by them. It was in large part in his memory that I joined the Knights of Columbus this past semester. I can’t help but think of him every time I see a Knight serving breakfast to the community, or ringing a bell in the frigid cold outside of a store at Christmas time to raise money for those less fortunate. My New Year’s Resolution, and indeed my life goal, is to be more like Grandpa Ed.
Although half of my family originated in Erie and many are still living here, Emma and I seldom have the opportunity to visit because of the tremendous distance. It is always a strange experience to escape neon, 24-hour Nevada to fall into a slower, calmer existence back East, but once my anxious nerves adjust to a change that is much more dramatic than the three time zones we have to cross to get here, there is an indescribable calmness that consumes me.
Emma loves the houses in Erie, which she cheerily describes as “little Pi-Phis.” Brick-and-mortar houses are rare in Reno, and the few that do exist in our hometown seem somewhat out of place, as if someone dropped them into the unforgiving desert to fend for themselves. They cluster together near the university and tend not to stray out into the uniform suburbs that dominate more and more of the Truckee Meadows.
Among my many criticisms of Las Vegas, the most poignant is of the stucco wasteland that sprawls out in every direction from the notorious “Strip.” As my Dad put it, Las Vegas is the result of putting fortune first. I couldn’t agree more. At the risk of generalizing, the people that tend to inhabit and visit Las Vegas are often made of stucco as well. There are some people, like the Reno’s misplaced brick homes, that seem to have been dropped into Las Vegas by accident: people of character and strong moral fiber, people made of something other than a flaky paint that could never withstand a hard winter or genuine hardship. But these people are the anomalies, the outsiders.
At the risk of sounding self-righteous, I must make perfectly clear that I’m a stucco person too. I’m even perversely proud of it. Nevada does it differently, bottom line: just as the intense heat thins the blood of long term Las Vegans, so too does the environment become a part of its inhabitants, for better or worse.
Just as Emma appreciates the architecture, I have a certain indescribable fondness for Lake Erie. At least once a day I like to bundle up under what feels like eleven layers of coats, sweaters, and shirts to make my way down to the golf course originally created by General Electric for employees, no more than a mile from my Grandmother’s house. Barges float with painstaking patience across the icy waters, with bright running lights clashing against gloomy Erie’s perpetual dusk.
I didn’t know Grandpa Ed too well before he passed away. I only have one memory of being with him, a nighttime sledding adventure down the golf course hill. Even that memory is abstract and patchy. All of the information I have about him comes to me second hand, but I do know with relative certainty that he loved that golf course at least as much as I do.
He played golf nearly every day after retiring. He played through the winter, which is no small feat in these temperatures: I doubt that I could swing a club under my bundled clothing, which no doubt reminds passing cars of Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” as I waddle down the main road towards the course.
I know that course is man-made, but there is something savagely peaceful about it during these winter months when no golfers walk the course and the hills bend gently under a uniform blanket of snow. A man can really think out there, trudging down the fairways and surveying the lake that crests the horizon. The air is crisp and clean as it blows inland over the waves. I may not remember my young conversations with Grandpa Ed, but when I walk his course I feel like I understand what he was about as a man, and I understand what was important to him. I like to think that is more significant.
If anyone was a brick-and-mortar type of man, I think Ed was. Never have I heard an ill word spoken of him. He realized the few things that were important to him, and indeed the few things that are important in life, and lived by them. It was in large part in his memory that I joined the Knights of Columbus this past semester. I can’t help but think of him every time I see a Knight serving breakfast to the community, or ringing a bell in the frigid cold outside of a store at Christmas time to raise money for those less fortunate. My New Year’s Resolution, and indeed my life goal, is to be more like Grandpa Ed.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Driving the California Coast with Laura: Days 3, 4, and 5
_______
We slept very little and none too well. Brandyn, DJ, Laura and I managed to fall into some sort of Del Mar/Hot Tub/Coors Light time warp beginning at about 11:30 AM, and by the time we fell out of the warp it had somehow become midnight without anyone’s permission. I ate a whole chicken and went to bed, waking up the next morning with a particularly sore head. Nonetheless Laura and I had vowed to see Tijuana, and nothing could stand in our way.
Tijuana was just as I remembered it. I liken Tijuana to the naughty-boy theme park "Pleasure Island" that Pinocchio visited in the Disney movie: where the youth do whatever they want and transform, to their dismay, into donkeys. For anyone who has ever been to Tijuana or is aware of its notorious reputation, any double entendre with this comparison is purely coincidental.
________________
Laura and I parked her car at the last stop in the United States and walked across the border. I was nervous to have her with me, especially as we walked across the no-man’s-land bridge that spans a dirty, rubbished-filled cesspool that defines the border in that area. We were eyed and sized up by teenagers that, despite being about seven years my junior, terrified me. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that, just as with a bear, I would only have to outrun Laura to ensure my safety.
Nothing bad happened as we ventured around, and it was actually very enjoyable. We ate lunch in a small, dingy basement that made us uncomfortable at first, but by the end of the meal we had befriended the patron of the restaurant: a short old man with a duckbill haircut straight out of a 1930s gangster movie, a tattered zoot-suit to match his hair, and a crooked smile that made us laugh whether or not we understood the joke he was telling.
Laura found a beautiful coat in a small curbside stand. The coat is yellow and black, double-breasted, and best of all cost her only fifteen dollars (though, like most things on the Avenida, probably cost the vendor about two dollars). It was our greatest find of the trip, in my opinion, and her appreciation of the item is surpassed only by how beautiful she looks wearing it.
We ate freshly fried churros from street vendors whenever we happened upon them, and wandered the streets for most of the day. I bought a switchblade knife that Brandyn had asked for, and a San Diego Chargers poncho for DJ. I was unaware at the time that I would have to hide the knife in my inner coat pocket as we crossed back into the United States because apparently the US border patrol is a little more strict upon re-entry then the Mexican border patrol; there is, literally, nothing more than an unguarded revolving door as you enter on the Mexican side.
Brandyn’s cousin Jessica celebrated her 21st Birthday in the gas lamp district of San Diego that night and we joined the festivities. The nightlife in San Diego is incredible, and I highly recommend it for anyone who enjoys the nightlife/club scene. DJ continued to be nothing less than perfectly generous and hospitable the entire evening, and we spent one last night in his home before heading back to Reno for Christmas the following day.
Before we left San Diego, Laura and I went to my Grandma Ringler’s house. We had tea and lunch, which made me very happy. We were on a tight schedule to get back for Christmas Eve, but as luck would have it we met up with my Aunt Ann and my cousin’s girlfriend while we were out for lunch! The drive back was a straight shot up Highway 395, with only a brief stop at sunset in the desert to fire off the .38 special into the nothingness of Death Valley.
___________
We slept very little and none too well. Brandyn, DJ, Laura and I managed to fall into some sort of Del Mar/Hot Tub/Coors Light time warp beginning at about 11:30 AM, and by the time we fell out of the warp it had somehow become midnight without anyone’s permission. I ate a whole chicken and went to bed, waking up the next morning with a particularly sore head. Nonetheless Laura and I had vowed to see Tijuana, and nothing could stand in our way.
Tijuana was just as I remembered it. I liken Tijuana to the naughty-boy theme park "Pleasure Island" that Pinocchio visited in the Disney movie: where the youth do whatever they want and transform, to their dismay, into donkeys. For anyone who has ever been to Tijuana or is aware of its notorious reputation, any double entendre with this comparison is purely coincidental.
________________
Laura and I parked her car at the last stop in the United States and walked across the border. I was nervous to have her with me, especially as we walked across the no-man’s-land bridge that spans a dirty, rubbished-filled cesspool that defines the border in that area. We were eyed and sized up by teenagers that, despite being about seven years my junior, terrified me. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that, just as with a bear, I would only have to outrun Laura to ensure my safety.
Nothing bad happened as we ventured around, and it was actually very enjoyable. We ate lunch in a small, dingy basement that made us uncomfortable at first, but by the end of the meal we had befriended the patron of the restaurant: a short old man with a duckbill haircut straight out of a 1930s gangster movie, a tattered zoot-suit to match his hair, and a crooked smile that made us laugh whether or not we understood the joke he was telling.
Laura found a beautiful coat in a small curbside stand. The coat is yellow and black, double-breasted, and best of all cost her only fifteen dollars (though, like most things on the Avenida, probably cost the vendor about two dollars). It was our greatest find of the trip, in my opinion, and her appreciation of the item is surpassed only by how beautiful she looks wearing it.
We ate freshly fried churros from street vendors whenever we happened upon them, and wandered the streets for most of the day. I bought a switchblade knife that Brandyn had asked for, and a San Diego Chargers poncho for DJ. I was unaware at the time that I would have to hide the knife in my inner coat pocket as we crossed back into the United States because apparently the US border patrol is a little more strict upon re-entry then the Mexican border patrol; there is, literally, nothing more than an unguarded revolving door as you enter on the Mexican side.
Brandyn’s cousin Jessica celebrated her 21st Birthday in the gas lamp district of San Diego that night and we joined the festivities. The nightlife in San Diego is incredible, and I highly recommend it for anyone who enjoys the nightlife/club scene. DJ continued to be nothing less than perfectly generous and hospitable the entire evening, and we spent one last night in his home before heading back to Reno for Christmas the following day.
Before we left San Diego, Laura and I went to my Grandma Ringler’s house. We had tea and lunch, which made me very happy. We were on a tight schedule to get back for Christmas Eve, but as luck would have it we met up with my Aunt Ann and my cousin’s girlfriend while we were out for lunch! The drive back was a straight shot up Highway 395, with only a brief stop at sunset in the desert to fire off the .38 special into the nothingness of Death Valley.
___________
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Driving the California Coast with Laura: Day 2
Point Montara-Santa Cruz-Big Sur-San Luis Obispo - Santa Barbara - LA - San Diego
The Jeep was surprisingly warm last night. We drifted in and out of sleep from about 6:30 AM until a San Mateo County Sheriff abruptly and without invitation opened the passenger side door around 9:30. The Sheriff ran our IDs and then took off; we put our shoes and jackets on to head down to the shore.
We spent the night on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and scrambled down the ledge at dawn the next day to where the waves were breaking violently on the shore. We frolicked like Nevada kids are prone to do upon arriving at the Pacific, eventually tiring ourselves out and making our way to Santa Cruz for breakfast.
After eating donuts at Ferrel’s Donuts and remarking our own feral visages, we headed into town for Christmas shopping. This was largely successful, but the day's crowning event was the decision to purchase the hats that will no doubt come to mark the trip for me. Mine is a fedora, Laura's is a flapper hat. From there we made our way through Monterrey, Carmel, and down through the first portion of my favorite place: Big Sur.
Camping in Big Sur was peaceful. We placed perishable items outside of the car to keep cool during the night, and in the morning when we opened the door of "Club Jeep" the bag holding those items was torn to shreds. Strangely, none of the food had been so much as touched. We looked halfheartedly for tracks before getting confused and continuing down the road for coffee.
Throughout the day, as we continued along the Pacific Coast Highway, we walked around and Laura took pictures. I am anxious to see how they all come out, and I have a feeling I will be pleasantly surprised. I’ll be sure to load some of them onto my Chronicle as soon as possible. Our new hats added greatly to the quality of the photographs.
We spent a good deal of time in San Luis Obispo, watching people walk by our coffee shop and doing some window shopping ourselves. I managed to finish my Dad's Christmas present while sitting next to a loud insane woman talking to herself at the coffee shop; I think the quality of the gift may reflect this distraction.
The last stop for the night was just south of Santa Barbara, nothing noteworthy. A standard McDonald’s breakfast followed in the morning, and then we drove straight through to San Diego, taking the 101 through LA to avoid the misery of navigating that city.
We’re staying with my friend and fraternity brother in Del Mar for the evening. DJ has a beautiful house and has been more than gracious since we arrived. It is hard for me to believe that we got here around noon; the day and ensuing evening went so fast! I hope to see Grandma Ringler again tomorrow.
The Jeep was surprisingly warm last night. We drifted in and out of sleep from about 6:30 AM until a San Mateo County Sheriff abruptly and without invitation opened the passenger side door around 9:30. The Sheriff ran our IDs and then took off; we put our shoes and jackets on to head down to the shore.
We spent the night on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and scrambled down the ledge at dawn the next day to where the waves were breaking violently on the shore. We frolicked like Nevada kids are prone to do upon arriving at the Pacific, eventually tiring ourselves out and making our way to Santa Cruz for breakfast.
After eating donuts at Ferrel’s Donuts and remarking our own feral visages, we headed into town for Christmas shopping. This was largely successful, but the day's crowning event was the decision to purchase the hats that will no doubt come to mark the trip for me. Mine is a fedora, Laura's is a flapper hat. From there we made our way through Monterrey, Carmel, and down through the first portion of my favorite place: Big Sur.
Camping in Big Sur was peaceful. We placed perishable items outside of the car to keep cool during the night, and in the morning when we opened the door of "Club Jeep" the bag holding those items was torn to shreds. Strangely, none of the food had been so much as touched. We looked halfheartedly for tracks before getting confused and continuing down the road for coffee.
Throughout the day, as we continued along the Pacific Coast Highway, we walked around and Laura took pictures. I am anxious to see how they all come out, and I have a feeling I will be pleasantly surprised. I’ll be sure to load some of them onto my Chronicle as soon as possible. Our new hats added greatly to the quality of the photographs.
We spent a good deal of time in San Luis Obispo, watching people walk by our coffee shop and doing some window shopping ourselves. I managed to finish my Dad's Christmas present while sitting next to a loud insane woman talking to herself at the coffee shop; I think the quality of the gift may reflect this distraction.
The last stop for the night was just south of Santa Barbara, nothing noteworthy. A standard McDonald’s breakfast followed in the morning, and then we drove straight through to San Diego, taking the 101 through LA to avoid the misery of navigating that city.
We’re staying with my friend and fraternity brother in Del Mar for the evening. DJ has a beautiful house and has been more than gracious since we arrived. It is hard for me to believe that we got here around noon; the day and ensuing evening went so fast! I hope to see Grandma Ringler again tomorrow.
"Bear Meat" By Primo Levi
"I also know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong, to measure yourself at least once, to find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions, facing blind, deaf stone alone, with nothing to help you but your own hands and your own head."
Read the Entire Article Here.
Read the Entire Article Here.
Whitman, America.
Levi's new ad campaign utilizes some really cool Whitman poems and original imagery.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The Lights and Buzz
Driving the California Coast with Laura: Day 1, Reno-San Francisco-Pacifica-ish
We have been talking about this trip for at least a semester, if not longer. Something to get away after school gets out, and our first extended trip together. Laura arrived at my house at 8:15 AM as I hurried to finish the packing that I hadn’t done for this trip. In fact, my preparations had really only begun about thirty minutes before her arrival. We loaded my two bags into the back seat and took off for San Francisco on I-80, a clear drive on a nearly cloudless day.
When we arrived in the city we decided to visit the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, also known as the SFMOMA. I particularly enjoyed the installations displayed outdoors on the roof, built to withstand the weather and to be changed by the elements. The pieces that evolved unabashedly with time, and no one would ever “touch them up” to avoid the natural effects that fell upon them. I like that.
We went to the grocery store to get a picnic dinner for the beach, and hit the sand just as the sun set. We enjoyed a simple sandwich-and-soup dinner, watching the waves break and talking until the sky was completely dark. It wasn't until midway through dinner that we realized that less than a quarter mile away was where we had finished the Bay to Breakers race in May, our first time spent together after I got back from my bicycle trip.
After dinner we continued down the coast for about twenty minutes before pulling off at an overlook where we set up our "fort" in the back of the Jeep. On top of a climbing pad and goose-down cover, warmly surrounded by sleeping bags, we slept.
We have been talking about this trip for at least a semester, if not longer. Something to get away after school gets out, and our first extended trip together. Laura arrived at my house at 8:15 AM as I hurried to finish the packing that I hadn’t done for this trip. In fact, my preparations had really only begun about thirty minutes before her arrival. We loaded my two bags into the back seat and took off for San Francisco on I-80, a clear drive on a nearly cloudless day.
When we arrived in the city we decided to visit the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, also known as the SFMOMA. I particularly enjoyed the installations displayed outdoors on the roof, built to withstand the weather and to be changed by the elements. The pieces that evolved unabashedly with time, and no one would ever “touch them up” to avoid the natural effects that fell upon them. I like that.
We went to the grocery store to get a picnic dinner for the beach, and hit the sand just as the sun set. We enjoyed a simple sandwich-and-soup dinner, watching the waves break and talking until the sky was completely dark. It wasn't until midway through dinner that we realized that less than a quarter mile away was where we had finished the Bay to Breakers race in May, our first time spent together after I got back from my bicycle trip.
After dinner we continued down the coast for about twenty minutes before pulling off at an overlook where we set up our "fort" in the back of the Jeep. On top of a climbing pad and goose-down cover, warmly surrounded by sleeping bags, we slept.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Thank You Mr. Armstrong (or the advice I heeded, and that which I should have),
Breathe in. Breathe out. Read to the next page. Read to the end of the Chapter. Outline until 7:00, then to Chipotle for dinner. You can listen to one song if you finish this case. Be in bed by 3:00, wake up by 10:00.
Before I left for Boyd Law in early August, I made a list of things I wanted to accomplish by the end of the semester: run a half marathon, play a new sport, join a ping pong club, get a 3.8 GPA, etc.
Now that list is thumb-tacked on the wall above my desk like a demented joke. By the first week in December my goals had become more fundamental: Remember to eat dinner. Brief those cases you haven’t looked at for a while. Remember to sleep. Memorize the elements to those obscure causes of action. Don’t lose it. Try to run today. Maybe run tomorrow. Ok, definitely try to run by the end of the week.
As I packed the last of my things early this morning I glanced up at the list for the last time, and noticed that I had fulfilled only one of the 15+ goals:
10. Make one new good friend.
It wasn’t high on the list. It wasn’t the first thing on my mind when I sat down to write down what I wanted back in August. My GPA was a higher priority. I can’t remember now, but it may have been the highest. In retrospect, it should have been last on the list. The tenth should have been the first.
I received a much-appreciated letter from Ross Armstrong in August, right as I arrived in Las Vegas. Ross is a third year law student at Willamette. When I was a freshman undergraduate, Ross agreed to be my campaign manager when I ran for Student Senate. Ross’ knowledge, guidance, and credibility pushed me into a position I could never have achieved alone; needless to say, I take his advice very seriously.
I re-read his letter this morning, and realized that I had only followed half of it. There are two sections: “Class Success” and “Self Success.” I followed the class advice, but neglected the “self.” Looking at it now, he was entirely correct about how to stay happy and to enjoy life while taking in a large amount of new information. The key is people. Friends will pick you up when you fall behind, and if they can’t help then friends will at least suffer with you.
When the time comes for me to write someone a letter I’ll repeat a lot of the advice that Ross gave me, but I will put “Self Success” first on the list. Then I’ll put “Class Success.” Then I’ll put “Self Success” again, just so that it is the first and last thing the reader remembers. (I learned that in my Lawyering Process course.)
Legal systems are human creations, constructed to maintain order within human social structures. There is nothing natural about a legal system, and therefore studying law without human contact is without merit as well as exceedingly boring. Law is a discipline that is best realized when it is debated, reformulated, and settled, over coffee or in a group study room. The more voices, the merrier.
There are numerous rules and laws, but all are subservient to the Golden Rule. This rule, the basis of Law second only to the human beings themselves, is simple and ancient. It is found in nearly every religion and culture. The Book of the Dead used it as the test of worthiness in crossing over to the afterlife; "He sought for others the good he desired for himself. Let him pass.”
My first semester was as much about learning what to do as much as it was about learning what not to do. It was about trying to see where a behavior or repercussion was treated in the past, is currently being treated, and will be treated in the future, and deciding why it is beneficial for society or else destructive to society. In essence, it’s about trying to do the right thing even under tremendous pressure, and using mental tools other than animalistic emotion to reconcile the “big picture” with the “little picture” and realizing that you will almost always be coming up short in one way or another. At least that’s how it seems to me.
I am so grateful for my fellow students, my professors, Laura, family, Ross, friends, Chipotle, and the workers at the Balance Café.
(Before)
(After)
Before I left for Boyd Law in early August, I made a list of things I wanted to accomplish by the end of the semester: run a half marathon, play a new sport, join a ping pong club, get a 3.8 GPA, etc.
Now that list is thumb-tacked on the wall above my desk like a demented joke. By the first week in December my goals had become more fundamental: Remember to eat dinner. Brief those cases you haven’t looked at for a while. Remember to sleep. Memorize the elements to those obscure causes of action. Don’t lose it. Try to run today. Maybe run tomorrow. Ok, definitely try to run by the end of the week.
As I packed the last of my things early this morning I glanced up at the list for the last time, and noticed that I had fulfilled only one of the 15+ goals:
10. Make one new good friend.
It wasn’t high on the list. It wasn’t the first thing on my mind when I sat down to write down what I wanted back in August. My GPA was a higher priority. I can’t remember now, but it may have been the highest. In retrospect, it should have been last on the list. The tenth should have been the first.
I received a much-appreciated letter from Ross Armstrong in August, right as I arrived in Las Vegas. Ross is a third year law student at Willamette. When I was a freshman undergraduate, Ross agreed to be my campaign manager when I ran for Student Senate. Ross’ knowledge, guidance, and credibility pushed me into a position I could never have achieved alone; needless to say, I take his advice very seriously.
I re-read his letter this morning, and realized that I had only followed half of it. There are two sections: “Class Success” and “Self Success.” I followed the class advice, but neglected the “self.” Looking at it now, he was entirely correct about how to stay happy and to enjoy life while taking in a large amount of new information. The key is people. Friends will pick you up when you fall behind, and if they can’t help then friends will at least suffer with you.
When the time comes for me to write someone a letter I’ll repeat a lot of the advice that Ross gave me, but I will put “Self Success” first on the list. Then I’ll put “Class Success.” Then I’ll put “Self Success” again, just so that it is the first and last thing the reader remembers. (I learned that in my Lawyering Process course.)
Legal systems are human creations, constructed to maintain order within human social structures. There is nothing natural about a legal system, and therefore studying law without human contact is without merit as well as exceedingly boring. Law is a discipline that is best realized when it is debated, reformulated, and settled, over coffee or in a group study room. The more voices, the merrier.
There are numerous rules and laws, but all are subservient to the Golden Rule. This rule, the basis of Law second only to the human beings themselves, is simple and ancient. It is found in nearly every religion and culture. The Book of the Dead used it as the test of worthiness in crossing over to the afterlife; "He sought for others the good he desired for himself. Let him pass.”
My first semester was as much about learning what to do as much as it was about learning what not to do. It was about trying to see where a behavior or repercussion was treated in the past, is currently being treated, and will be treated in the future, and deciding why it is beneficial for society or else destructive to society. In essence, it’s about trying to do the right thing even under tremendous pressure, and using mental tools other than animalistic emotion to reconcile the “big picture” with the “little picture” and realizing that you will almost always be coming up short in one way or another. At least that’s how it seems to me.
I am so grateful for my fellow students, my professors, Laura, family, Ross, friends, Chipotle, and the workers at the Balance Café.
(Before)
(After)
Snapshot Entry
I stumbled upon, while looking at my files from this past semester, this entry dated Novemer 19, 2009. I concluded it today (December 14, 2009) in the way I would have back then:
My little chronicle, so long it has been since I've visited you! Not surprisingly you are just the way I left you, though I have changed a great deal since our Spring love affair.
I don't have time right now to write an entry. I don't have time for much of anything at all it seems, but I am going to write this all the same in case I ever reminisce and wonder how my first semester at Boyd Law really felt. I want to have something to go off of if some bright-eyed young 1L-to-be asks me what he or she can expect.
In truth, my first semester is most like a marathon dance competition. I showed up with my shoes shined and my clothes ironed. Just like my classmates, I felt suave and smart because I had been accepted, I was on my way!
The first dance is a slow waltz through late August and early September. Compared to the break-dance competition I had fretted over and feared, there was nothing to it. There was a string quartet playing; my classmates and I laughed and joked as we made our way slowly around the dance floor, sipping cocktails and feeling ultra-cool because now we were doing something (even if it was learning which hunter should keep a dead fox back in 1888).
Somewhere in October, the string quartet drifted and out was replaced by a disc jockey. I didn’t really notice at the time. I was getting a little tired, maybe missing a step here and there, but nothing to worry about. The class danced on.
The DJ slowly picked up the volume. One song moved seamlessly into the next; the tempo picks up slowly throughout the song, and increases from one song to the next.
Now you're dancing to a heavy house beat in mid-November, trying to keep up with the beat, but when you look around everyone else is double-stepping to the beat! This makes you think that you should be four-stepping to get ahead and keep your scholarship, and this in turn makes someone else eight-step to a beat that, under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t even want to dance to! And everyone is doing it. And everyone is tired.
This was before Finals Preparation had even begun.
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