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Law in Contemporary Society
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For Present-Day-Me-- By CeciliaPlaza - 14 Apr 2018 I have never been a quiet person. I don’t like to be pigeon-holed or told what to do. I’m hot-headed and stubborn and I put my whole hear into everything I do. But this year, I’ve been quiet. I’ve let other people make decisions for me. I’m subdued. Today, I hit a low point. I walked into a professor’s office without the slightest idea what I wanted to ask. I just wanted to be told what to do. How to write this essay. Needless to say, I’m disappointed in myself. I’m not this person. I’d like to say that “1L made me quiet,” but that would be a cop out. Yes, it has been a difficult year, but so have the rest of my 22 years, and those turned out just fine. I’ve been in high-stakes situations before and thrived. Law school is far from the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ve been doubting myself in ways I never have before. I will be a great lawyer. That, I’m sure of. But present-day-me isn’t. Present-day-me is scared and uncomfortable and out of place and it’s clouding my judgment. The rest of law school has to be about building myself back up, regaining the confidence I had that brought me here.A few weeks ago, I was on the For People of Color Conference student panel sharing my experiences regarding the law school application process. Listening to the other panelists, I realized I had done everything completely wrong. Studying for the LSAT, picking my schools, writing my diversity statement—all of it. Wrong. I had never felt more inadequate. What was I even doing there, sitting on this panel, giving people advice? A year ago, I would’ve said, “who cares? It worked. I did it my way, and it worked. I must’ve done something right.” But that day, all I could think about was how wrong I was—how someone in the admissions office must’ve made a mistake. I’ve been feeling that way for a long time. I’ve spent the whole year feeling intimidated, afraid of rambling or letting loose a half-baked thought. Every time I found the right words to say what I wanted to say, the class had moved on. I had missed my chance. Again. It didn’t matter that I knew the answer, that I’d read the case, that it wasn’t a trick question. I still froze. I told myself it was because I didn’t have the luxury of rambling or getting off-topic or being wrong; I couldn’t afford those kinds of mistakes because they might alert someone that I’m not supposed to be here. But really, I’m the only one questioning whether I should be here. It’s not that I fear I’ve made the wrong choice by coming here. I haven’t. I came to law school because I wanted to do something. Up until then, I thought I’d become an academic. I love conducting research and investigating the issues that truly matter to me. I kept trying to use that research to change institutions. I thought I could say, “Here’s the evidence. Things have to change, and this is why.” Mainly, I was trying to reform the school’s Title IX system—the way they process and investigate complaints and the way they publicize and administer resources for victims. But changing institutions isn’t about the facts; it’s about power dynamics and who has the bigger sword. Me and my research just weren’t going to cut it. I needed a bigger sword. At least, that’s the part I wrote about in my admissions essay. And that part is 100% true. However, I left out the fact that, like some of my classmates, my own experiences with the legal system played a large role in prompting me to come to law school. My mistake was not taking the time to consider what it would feel like to come face to face with that system and with my own history again, and again, and again, albeit in a different context. In fact, I actively tried not to consider what it might feel like. I jumped into law school head-first and started volunteering with survivors of domestic and sexual violence. As much as I hate to admit it, it took a huge toll on me—playing by the rules of the same system that chewed me up and spat me out and made me feel smaller than I ever thought possible. That told me I am not the “right” kind of victim. Here I am, trying to convince myself and all these other survivors that we have to use the system in order to change it, knowing full well that it never worked for me. How can I, with a straight face, tell them it’ll work this time? I keep having this dream: I wake up in the middle of night and stumble to the bathroom in the dark and out of the corner of my eye, I see my reflection in the mirror. At first, the reflection scares me. Then, I think to myself, I just need to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. But the blob in the mirror never gets any clearer and I realize—that’s just what I look like now. That’s what the legal system has made me feel in my own personal life. That’s what law school reminds me of. Feeling small. Lost. Faceless. Present-day-me had forgotten that coming to law school was a power play. Sure, I might’ve lost a fight or two, but I’m not out of plays. Far from it. I’ve been questioning whether I should be here because this year has made me unsure if I can be here—if I can face the “why’s” of the way our legal system (doesn’t) works and still be okay. But when I think about the question, “will you be returning in the fall?” no doesn’t even seem like an option. So, I guess I’ve answered my own question.
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