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From the ramparts

I write and all of my mind tumbles onto  the keys from space in digital format. I write in between jobs, internships, clerkships and bouts of emotion. I’ve finally figured out that the bar exam is only a test, that employment is only a means and that a calling is hard to locate without a center of gravity. I have filled and filed, stored and unpacked my head, degrees and clothing. I’ve waited for an usher to take me from the safe dependence of schooldays to a place of mere competency. Rather than a person it seems to have come as a matter of time, a reckoning of my own mind and acceptance that smacks of just desserts.

I owe so much, in dollars and cents for my education. I owe even more to the women and men of my class, whose friendship, camaraderie, and tears have been the stuff of normality since the day we met on the grassy lawn in South Royalton.  They have held me up,  and pulled me down when sleep deprivation and too much pressure warped my sense of sense. There is life in the friendship of people who know where you have been, how much you paid to get there and how much it takes dig out the parts that matter. Classmates are the people whose dues get paid in real time, who get the letters that accept and reject and the pass or fail nod for this license or that one. They don’t embarrass you because they know when to ask  and when to stay silent.  I owe any success I have in the future to the girls from NBLSA who help me live in the now. I owe the most to Torend Collins.

I’m happier, post grad with all of my paperwork insecurities done and dusted. I am pressing toward the mark with a strong sense of the person I’m in it for, me. And after all of these hours, I’m still willing to risk the rest of my life in pursuit of my potential. This certainly means more applications on file and highlighters at the ready. Wish me luck!




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