Last Friday, I put on two blue socks, a white shirt, and a yellow tie in preparation for a job interview. I've done this more than two dozen times in the last two years. You see, I am a third-year law student, and few things sharpen the tools of personal maintenance and weekly grooming more than the imminent pressure of a law job interview. Last Friday was different, though. Last Friday, I drove into the city's center and paid for my own parking. No reimbursement or validation was forthcoming but that was alright. I interviewed with the public defender's office in my city in hopes of snagging a spot in the relatively competitive internship program. The afternoon was another step in my long journey toward professional self-actualization. Coincidentally, that journey has been informed and shaped by my newly explored socio-political identity.
And sometimes we forget what we got
who we are,
and who we are not.
I think we got a chance to make it right.
keep it loose,
keep it tight.
-Amos Lee
I got that internship. An offer 20 minutes in would have normally relieved the pressure. Last Friday, though, I didn't feel much pressure. It was because I finally interviewed for a job at a place that offers the opportunity to do work on the issues that drive at the deepest depths of my compassionate soul.
College brought many lessons about myself. But that's not particularly unique. Most s college-bound high school seniors find themselves in one way or another. My experience was painfully sincere, though, as I repeatedly slammed my own square peg into a relentlessly round hole.
Self-loathing is an ugly disease that's symptoms multiply with time. Early in college, I wanted nothing more than to be a part of Kappa Alpha Order, the fraternity that dominated Clemson's social scene. I studied the habits of the group's members and mimicked their attire. I talked the way they talked and even put myself through six hard months of the Steve Miller Band because Take the Money and Run
was the first song I remember from one of their parties. I rushed KA, and made it through all of their preliminary rounds. Those familiar with fraternity recruitment know that certain groups require a "suicide" commitment - the promise from a person that they will only seek a bid from that one group. I rejected legitimate opportunities from other groups, sacrificing potentially beneficial personal friendships at the altar of the Order.
When I opened the brown envelope handed to all bid seekers on "bid day," I found nothing but air. Rejected. Denied. I hadn't been good enough. It was the kind of moment that will always stay with a person - standing in a large room with hundreds of people watching, and somehow feeling both alone and like each of those people was closely watching your every move. For the 18-year old without a hint of perspective, the experience is akin to some of the world's greatest personal tragedies. It ranks just below the plight of the Winklevoss Twins and just above Jean Vandevelde's collapse at Royal Troon.
I spent many months trying to dig through the things I had done wrong before shifting from behavioral analysis to personal reflection. "What did I do wrong?" turned into "What is my principal defect?" Looking back, though, I can now see that I did at least one thing right. That was - despite molding my dress and musical preferences to participate in the show, I spent the bulk of the rush period being myself. That square peg hopelessly darting into the round hole. I had shared a bit too much of my unfiltered opinion on Robert E. Lee during a rush party. I had failed to laugh appropriately at certain jokes. And in truth, I probably wasn't cool enough. I had played high school sports. But I had also enjoyed my time on the quiz bowl team.
As it turned out, you would be hard-pressed to find an organization more at odds with the core of my being than Kappa Alpha Order. Far from a perfect child, I did get one thing right. I had an odd sensitivity toward racism at a very young age. My mentor and practical big brother was black. In a move that perplexed even my parents, I decided to purchase a print of Martin Luther King, Jr. when I was 12. In what was either a fit of reverse racism or perhaps a display of juvenile white-guilt, I refused as a youngster to take part in Angel Tree programs unless I could find the wish of a kid with a name that sounded sufficiently "black." That is especially ironic given that I am a white man with the middle name Coby, but I digress.
Kappa Alpha Order stands for many things. Some of them are positive. Many of them are not. At the University of Alabama, the group drew ridicule for parading in Confederate dress past a black sorority's 35th anniversary celebration. The group was suspended at Georgetown College amidst allegations of racism. In my own state of South Carolina, each of the state's universities sends its members to a regressive formal known as "Old South," where supposed adults dress in Confederate threads to celebrate the proud Southern heritage of...something.
As I have moved on in my career, I've grown more and more appreciative that my background does not feature an official association with this racist Southern institution. Because I was dumb enough to be myself during the formal rush process, I feel no need to apologize for the thing that would have dominated my college social life and friendship network.
Past the ghosts of college, I made the arguably irrational decision to attend law school. The law school application process is like many other job or school application processes. It asks the applicant to pen a personal statement - a two-page writing meant to describe the core of the applicant to a group of people who would otherwise see only GPA and LSAT figures. I chose to write about my desire to attend law school in a large, diverse city, since this would provide the best opportunities to serve the indigent population. Like most other unimaginative law applicants, my personal statement told the story of a naive guy who wanted to change the world. It must have been sufficient, because I got in.
Then something remarkable happened. The first year of law school brought a furious rush to the top, where competitive overachievers crawled up the backs of colleagues in a scene right out of the sinking of the Titanic. The legal field was a sinking ship, and only the strongest test-takers got the opportunity to sit in the life boats. Coupled with the reality of debt near $200,000, law school quickly became a pragmatic search for a means to an end. That end, or course, was the ability to feed a family and possibly attend one mid-level concert per year. Little more felt possible during those depraved early months.
I worked hard. To the golf fan, I might have appeared to have the driving range work ethic of Tiger Woods. I made a point of being the fifth person at my law school each morning, because the first four parking lot spots belonged to the insatiable gunners who inevitably bent the laws of physics to arrive early every single day. A man of late-night productivity benders, I was routinely the last human being out the door. I made a pledge to myself that if I did not make grades good enough to land a coveted BIGLAW job, it would be because of an ability deficiency and not a lax-work wart. Again, it must have worked. I made the grades and, in neurotic law student fashion, lined up the interviews with firms named after shapeless old white men and with practice areas like "Corporate," "Oil and Gas," and "Mergers and Acquisitions."
I interviewed well enough and managed to land a coveted summer associateship at a well-regarded Texas firm. They were the kind to wine and dine their "baby lawyers," and the recruiting team showered us with Halloween, Christmas, and Easter gifts in the lead-up to our summer experience. We were invited to lunches, crawfish boils, and other firm-sponsored events in the months prior to the summer. Eventually, we got to wear suits and sit in nice chairs in little rooms with our names on the door. Imagine - a summer associate with a large office and a name placard.
The work was intellectually challenging but spiritually unfulfilling. Our clients were not people; rather, they were "entities." One does not simply have a client meeting with a hospital or a bank. The one client I did meet was a petulant child in a grown-up's clothing. A successful man, he had started a real estate business, and he used our firm to milk every last dollar out of every last deal. He was also an unbearably dominant fool whose hubris threw unnecessary barriers in front of his otherwise capable attorney.
The work environment was loose and the people were talented. In terms of lawyering power and experience, it would be difficult to find an office with more figurative horsepower. The people worked hard, but their ultimate goal was to make an additional dollar. For the young associate, the quest was for a discretionary bonus that would allow for a move up the shoe scale from Cole Haan to Allen Edmonds. For the young partner, the race was to a spot in senior partnership so that he might upgrade from a BMW to a "real" luxury car. For the senior partner, the goal was usually to spend as many hours at the office as possible to mask the realities of a home life broken down by the thousands of weekend hours necessary to climb that far up the ladder. Even the named partners had an unquenchable thirst for monetary betterment, as they were in constant competition with the named partners from right across the street.
A rat race, but not full of rats. The office was full of people who had probably once gone to law school with the naive hope that they, too, might change the world.
At times, I felt unmotivated by the work. One section meeting was arranged for the sole purpose of celebrating the fact that one associate might have a lead on a potentially lucrative client. Imagine that - a firm full of skilled lawyers who consider "success" a metric that has nothing at all to do with quality lawyering. It was about who could, on their rainmaking island, bring the most value to the bottom line. I felt confident that I could be a part of this group. And it scared me to death.
As the summer rolled on, I again felt like that square peg trying to play the game with a round hole. The case where I did my best work was when a partner decided to take a pro-bono cause to help an elderly, disabled man who had been cheated by his homeowner's association. During this time, I cashed big checks. We were paid significantly more than we were worth, and we were treated to expenses-paid fishing trips and baseball games. But something didn't seem right. I found my mind drifting to some of the non-profit efforts I got involved in. Discussions with my dad opened up questions about whether this work fulfilled me at all. "If you're sitting there wishing you were somewhere else," he asked, "Maybe you need to think about whether this is the right career move."
It wasn't. I worked hard, and completed my work, but felt myself wanting more. I had rationalized that if I made enough money, I could do good things with that money, and I could even take the occasional pro-bono case myself. I later started wondering why I needed to add that unnecessary middle man. If what I really wanted to do was help people, why not just work in a job that allows for that?
When full-time offers came around, I failed again. Five of the seven summer associates had earned the right to come back in one year. I was one of the two who got a phone call that said, "I'll just cut to the chase. We aren't going to be able to make an offer." Two days of reflection and self-doubt followed that personal valley. I received text messages from the individuals who had liked my work, thanking me and offering their condolences.
But I knew that once again, I had been myself for better or worse. That led to an extended period of soul searching and this fall's interviews with the JAG program of each of the military's branches. It led to an emphasis on criminal law and a renewed focus on the things I wrote in my personal statement. It led me to take up work with the Texas Innocence Network, a non-profit that investigates claims of actual innocence from people in prison. And on Friday, it led to a moment that just felt right.
I was comfortable in the interview. In my big firm interviews, I had felt somewhat hesitant about discussing my fundraising efforts or my relatively modest upbringing. I felt unable to communicate some of the struggles I had in college and the personal growth that followed those times. But Friday's interview had a different feel. The attorneys told stories about actual triumph - winning the rare trial as a public defender can be an inspiring experience. They discussed the opportunity to meet with clients and to work with young, poor people. When they asked me how I felt about representing a person who I knew had committed the crime, I responded in what now feels like the most idealistic tone possible, "Every man is more than the worst thing he has ever done." The conversation was not about small procedural tactics that might win a few thousand more bucks in pre-litigation. Instead, we talked about the different ways that the office provides both its interns and its lawyers with the chance to make an impact. They smiled. They all had families. Instead of the depraved, "every man an island" feel of the corporate office, this room had real synergy.
It was almost like I was home. I could be myself. And as it's been for the last eight years, being myself turned out to be a good thing.