Where am I headed? It’s a question all students ask, often to no reply. But for those of us down at the University of Auckland’s Davis library, there were strong indications. The study of law was unashamedly directed towards a future career: we were being prepped for lives as lawyers and all that entailed. It didn’t matter how many of us pretended otherwise; the wheels were in motion and it would take more than flippant remarks and not doing the readings to stop their relentless roll.
Photo: Diego Opatowski/RNZ
Perhaps that was why one graduate felt the need to send a sensationalist group email, detailing his resignation in a poem and calling out his corporate employers in the process. He swanned down to staff drinks for one final beer, his controversial departure a response to the weight of the system and all its expectations. Why were people so surprised? Maybe it’s because no one had given any thought to what the study of law actually entails. Like me, they’d just dived in and gone for it – until it was too late to quit.
It begins innocently enough. You like English, debating and are what they call “capable”. It isn’t long before someone suggests that you consider a career in law. You might have even suggested it yourself. After all, law is a career steeped in prestige, and our social narrative is rich with tales of the lawyer statesman – the Atticus Finches of this world: devoted, hardworking and honourable.
But as the end of my time at law school drew near, it became increasingly obvious that this was a gloss on the turd of the truth. Law was a tough career, one where you would be asked to sacrifice much in the course of your climb to the top – and not just time, but also morals, control and, dare I say it, creativity.
But by the time this reality was realized it was too late for most of us. We were committed; had spent so much time, had so much debt – it would be a brave and foolish move to pull out now.
“Plenty of people do law degrees and don’t become a lawyer,” they told me. “It’s a good general degree, shows you have competence. Employers will love it.”
Well, that much is still to be determined – but the creep of the law was insidious and before long I was caught with the other rats in the race, chasing a summer clerkship and the promise of future employment it entailed. I never set out to be a rat, but our applications came back and I was successful, off for a summer in corporate law and dreading every second of it. I was sure that I didn’t want a life like that, but in absence of obvious alternatives dove in. My mum was so pleased, I’d worked hard to get it, and, after all, it was where I was heading.
If I were to enter this world, I knew I would soon be consumed, putting all my other interests on the backburner for my clients, team, and company
The summer came and went, and the world wasn’t half as bad as I’d imagined. The work was intellectually stimulating, stapling and copying duties aside, and the people were interesting and varied – a far cry from the corporate drones I’d envisioned. But what really grated was the system, the stifling adherence to hierarchy and artificial deadlines. It just seemed so stagnant, vapid, devoid of any creative challenge. It was a culture in itself but, dislike it as I did, I could still see myself falling in line. It was what I’d been taught to do, trained even: what we’d been trained to do. All those hours spent studying, the discipline and commitment to high personal standards – they were to be exploited for the profit of those above me. If I was patient and toed the party line, then my turn would come. Or so I was told.
This was my greatest fear: that my sense of duty might be my undoing. I’d listened to the lectures in Legal Ethics on the role of lawyers, integrity, and Kazuro Isugiro’s parable about the butler who wants to escape his role for love, but can’t. I felt compassion for the guy: in my mind, the role of the lawyer couldn’t be properly dissociated from their person. Or, at least, it couldn’t for me. If I were to enter this world, I knew I would soon be consumed, putting all my other interests on the backburner for my clients, team, and company. It might not have been mandatory, but that was how I worked and the prospect worried me.
There was also the bitter taste work in that realm entailed. It didn’t seem quite right. The rich could afford to pay for the best (read: most expensive) lawyers, and in the long run, the best lawyers get the results. Money talks, and the law is a flexible mistress. There are small victories for small players, but the machine continues unencumbered, and I didn’t want to be part of it.
I wasn’t alone in these feelings, but five years of law school does much more than rack up a considerable (read: near crippling) loan. It also engages one of our fundamental behavioural tics: cognitive dissonance. The time and effort it takes to get through become so out of synch with your own morals and aspirations that something has to give. For most of us this is subconscious – we have worked hard to have these opportunities, and so they must be of value. We shift our perceptions, make allowances and excuses – anything to justify a choice we would rather not own.
This is pervasive and my angsted decision to turn down my job offer was met with surprise from many of my classmates. What would I do instead? Didn’t I feel like I’d wasted my time? Why not just try it for a few years?
Lao Tzu said everything I couldn’t. It’d taken five years and a summer to realize what I had always known, but been too afraid to admit: being a lawyer just wasn’t for me. It didn’t matter how much time I had invested in that life; this was my last chance to change direction. It didn’t matter how nervous I was about my future, or how I would pay off my debt; what mattered to me was integrity, and I was willing to pay the price such uncertainty required.
So my words of advice to any high-school or first-year students considering law? By all means, jump on in. But do so with knowledge of what it entails and where it might lead you. The world has no shortage of lawyers and, despite what people might say, there are a whole host of other areas in which your talents might be better utilised. Already people from my cohort are retraining as doctors, pilots and designers. They’ve seen the dream for the illusion that it is but, like me, have paid a serious cost in the process (in my case, a casual $54,322.32).
I don’t consider my time at law school wasted or have any regrets about my path – but five years is a long stretch to do in the service of someone else’s dream. Make sure you know what yours is first.