QUITTING THE BAR, TWICE : What the law taught me about faith

Commonweal, May 19, 2000 by Heather King

The thing about law school that is ideal for an alcoholic is that there is only one exam and it is at the end of the course. The first year all the courses lasted both semesters, which meant we didn't have any exams until May. Then we had five, each of which required reviewing an entire year's worth of notes and material. I faced this ordeal by going on the wagon, forcibly tearing myself away from the dreamy part of my brain and switching over to the military part that dealt with useless detail and rote memorization, and burying myself in the basement of the library from seven in the morning until ten at night for fourteen solid days. Actually, this was right up my alley: anything that reeks of the hair shirt, torture, and self-mortification, I'm an expert at. When the marks came out, I was seventh in my class of over three hundred.

This induced in me a brief surge of hope, but getting good marks and functioning in the world are two entirely different things. I did not, for instance, work a single day the whole time I was in law school; by going without new clothing, food, and all entertainment besides a weekly stack of library books, I was able to survive on student loans and the hundred dollars my loving, oblivious, poverty-stricken parents sent me every other week. While the other students were currying favor with professors and cultivating mentors, I was picking up strangers at the Beacon Hill Pub. While the other students were taking summer internships, I was taking the Blue Line to Revere Beach, lying hung-over in the sun for a few hours, then repairing to the Hi-Lo lounge to swill $1.25 vodka gimlets for the rest of the afternoon. I somehow managed to graduate with honors and pass the bar exam but, by that time, I had taken to starting the day with seven or eight Sea Breezes with the cirrhotic drunks at Sullivan's Tap and was more unemployable than ever.

After going back to waitressing for a year or so, I finally stopped drinking, worked as a real estate title examiner for a few years, got married, and moved to Los Angeles. For me, these were all huge accomplishments for which I was deeply, uncomprehendingly grateful. Nevertheless, in spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact that practicing law was still the most terrifying thing I could imagine, I was consumed by the conviction that only by working as a lawyer could I prove I was not the loser and weakling I had always feared myself to be.

After getting sober, I had embarked on a vaguely defined spiritual journey. I had gone through a long stage when I thought everything about the world was wrong, but now, having dimly grasped the concept of humility--like everything else, taking it to its furthest extreme--I was at a point where I thought everything about me was wrong. If law school had seemed irrelevant and boring, I told myself, it was a defect in me, not law school; it was my fear, my reluctance to become a full-fledged dues-paying citizen, my arrogance that made me feel different and alone. Then, too, there was still that concept of The Law, shimmering in my imagination like some Holy Grail. Now that I was sober, I thought, perhaps The Law would give shape to those ideals I was seriously starting to think about: Truth. Justice. Right.