My instructor likened studying for the bar to training for
some sort of epic athletic event. I distinctly remember his admonition:
"The bar is like a marathon, not a sprint. You can't cram, and if you
study too much too quickly, you'll burn out."
If you've ever done something really tedious in
your life, I guarantee this is worse. It is boring even for those who loved law
school. For me it was absolutely excruciating.
Because of my fundamental ambivalence about
being a lawyer, I kicked and screamed every step of the way. I couldn't
bring myself to do the practice essays or the sample performance tests. While
others paced themselves for the long haul, I went to the movies. I knew I was
courting disaster.
In my increasingly frequent nightmares, I could
almost hear the snickering of my future colleagues when they discovered I
hadn't passed. I imagined the pain and public shame of having to go through the
entire process again.
The test was a month away, and my fears only intensified
as the date approached. When a month before the test came around, I went into a
panic and finally started studying.
Two
Months of Studying in Three Weeks
Driven by blind fear, I settled into a grueling
regimen. After the daily video lecture, I secluded myself in the most remote
corner of the law library I could find. I reviewed my notes and commercial
course outlines for hours and hours, as though my life depended on it. I took
breaks only to go to the bathroom or get more caffeine. By the time I got home
at 6:30 p.m., my body twitched uncontrollably.
After a few days of this unrelenting schedule, I
started to feel I was gathering momentum. But was it too late? How would I cram
two full months' worth of studying into three weeks? As I told my roommate at
the time, "My life is on the line."
The
Morning of the Test
The day finally arrived. That morning my stomach
was in my throat. I neurotically checked and rechecked to make sure I had
everything: picture ID, pens and pencils, and earplugs-I had lots of earplugs.
After passing through what felt like Customs, I
took my seat along with 3,000 other would-be lawyers. The countless rows of
metal tables on the floor of the convention center were straight out of a Kafka
novel.
From the distant front of the room came a
disembodied male voice. For 30 minutes, it delivered test instructions in an
amplified, droning monotone: "You will have exactly three hours to
complete Section One; you will have exactly an hour for lunch, and then you
will return for the afternoon session, which will consist of a performance
examination lasting three hours."
Finally, the dreaded words came: "You may
begin."
During the test itself, I remember suffering
almost every conceivable distraction. Concentrating was almost impossible, even
with my scores of earplugs. Whenever someone got up to go to the bathroom,
whenever someone sneezed, I looked up. An almost continuous stream of pop tunes
kept running through my head.
Somehow I survived, and two and a half days
later the test was over. I didn't feel triumph or anxiety or even relief. I was
numb and fairly certain I had blown it. The more people I spoke to afterward,
the more this seemed to be confirmed.
My
Theory of Failure
I was working at a large law firm. There, I
developed my theory of failure. The theory holds that failure always contains
an underlying lesson. The difficulty comes in figuring out what that lesson is.
That's why you see people making the same mistakes over and over again.
I was sure I would soon have the opportunity to
learn the lesson of failing the California Bar exam. In fact, I already knew
what it was: that I shouldn't be a lawyer.
Bar results were due out the day after
Thanksgiving. As the cruel date approached, various doomsday fantasies repeated
in my mind. I thought again about my likely humiliation at the law firm.
The night before the results came out, I got
almost no sleep. I found myself pleading with God to let me pass. For good
measure, I threw in some metaphysical arguments. I told God that there was
nothing for me to learn from failing the bar-nothing that I didn't already
know.
