I'll just leave it at this: I have many things for which I am very, very thankful. One of them is you, my readers. I hadn't expected anybody to read this regularly when I started, and it's been an unexpected pleasure.
I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving.
I don't belive it exists. (I'm referring to anonymity here, though upon reflection I could say the same thing of my property outline.) I worked in software for too long to believe in the myth of online anonymity. The one serious effort I could have made to hide my identity would have been not to blog.
Other than not putting my name and school on my blog, I haven't attempted to hide my identity. There are not many female software engineers to begin with, and there are even fewer of them in law school. When I write I assume my audience knows my name. A substantial percentage already do.
So why not simply put my name up?
I tell a story in my blog more than anything. I'm not a pundit. I'm interested in sharing the experience of going back to law school.
But telling a story necessarily means that I tell the story of others as well, not just myself. I have a choice in what I blog about, but the other characters in my blog do not have the same choice.
So I change their details. I change their initials, their gender, the timing of events, and other potentially identifying details. I deliberately avoid gossip that admittedly might make the story more interesting. But, fundamentally, they do not have a choice in what I blog about. My friends, by sharing their experiences with me, are giving me a gift. My return gift to them is this piecemeal attempt at anonymity.
My other motive for anonymity is far more geeky. I chose my moniker, Transmogriflaw, for one reason. Well, actually two, but I'm not sure if the fact that it was a warm summer afternoon and I'd had two mojitos when I started this journal really counts as a good reason. The main reason for the utterly awkward name is that it's completely uniquely identifiable. I think the Latin names for other law blogs are considerably more poetic, but they don't serve as unique identifiers.
A single word unique identifier in our Google-enabled world is a powerful thing. I'd like to hold onto it if I can.
I believe him. I suspect law school does not teach us much about the actual practice of law. Law school, however, is not alone in that respect.
In my prior incarnation, I studied engineering at both the undergraduate and graduate level. I learned a lot about computer science. I took abstract number theory classes, database design classes, computer architecture classes, and a bunch of math classes. I wrote a compiler, built a music synthesizer, and coded endless numbers of little programs which contained linked lists, hash tables, and other data structures that we were expected to know.
What I didn't learn was how to pull a stack trace out of a core dump after being paged in the middle of the night because three servers died. I didn't learn how to write informative log statements so that other programmers could fix bugs. I didn't learn how to code in a team, how to do useful code reviews, how to write highly scalable software.
I did learn all that, eventually. More senior engineers taught me at work. I learned by doing, by trial and error.
I think this is a natural progression, however, and not an implicit criticism of schooling. School is an excellent mechanism for acquiring a mental framework. It's not the only way to acquire that framework, but it's one of the best methods. Engineering school taught me fundamental engineering concepts, a shared vocabulary, an analytical approach to problem solving, and a healthy and needed dose of self-discipline. It didn't teach me much about engineering in the commercial world, but I'm not sure it could have or even should have.
Where school left off, my job began. I couldn't have effectively learned as much at my job without the background I had from school.
One of the best parts about law school is just how much I'm learning. My head is crammed full of new ideas and concepts. I look at the world differently now.
Isn't this departure from one's prior self the best part of education? I know I'm not learning what the practice of law is like. That will come eventually. For now, though, I relish this fundamental shaping of my mind.
"S., would you like to discuss Hanna v. Plumer today?"
S. immediately responded. "No, actually, I wouldn't like to discuss Hanna today, but thanks anyhow."
The entire class giggled.
Prof. Civ Pro arched one eyebrow. "Well," he said, "that's too bad. Sadly, however, you're going to discuss it anyhow."
S. smiled. "Sure. But I haven't read it, I haven't understood it, and really, you don't want to hear what I have to say about it."
Prof. Civ Pro laughed. "Okay," he said, "you've convinced me."
He moved on to somebody else.
I've managed thus far, but now that we are three weeks (three weeks?!?!?!) from exams, little pieces of my life keep slipping out of my scrabbling hands.
Tonight I went to the gym. I'm a dedicated weight-lifter; I get the same relaxation from concentrating on a few well executed reps that one might expect to find in a yoga class.
Normally my mind clears after a few hamstring pulls. Today, however, I couldn't shake law school. My movements were sloppy, and I lost count a few times.
"Okay," I thought, "if you can't beat it, join it."
One.
"What are the elements of adverse possession?"
Two.
"Actual entry."
Three.
"Exclusive possession."
Four.
"Adverse and under claim of right."
Five.
"Open and notorious."
Six.
"Continuous possession."
Seven
"Statute of limitations runs."
I was relaxed when I finished. Perhaps even my down time will be permeated with law until exams are over, but if I end up relaxed anyhow, I can handle that.
Heidi Bond is a law student at Michigan, and, in an exciting development, a fellow female techie going to law school. She used to administer a Beowulf cluster, and if that isn't the mark of a geek, I don't know what is. Maybe she takes notes in code too.
Michael Oliver is a law student in New York who also giggled when he read about Burger King injecting their fries, shakes, and hamburgers into the stream of commerce.
The wise old priest asks the groom, "Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wife?"
The groom, an older gentleman, answers. "I will."
The priest in turn asks the bride, "Wilt thou have this man to be thy husband?"
She too answers in the affirmative. Perhaps there is small sigh from the audience. We are, after all, hopeless romantics at heart.
The groom places a ring on his bride's finger, saying "With this ring, I thee wed. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."
The priest begins to pray. The audience is silent.
And then the groom drops dead.
The priest, acting so cooly that one might think he had grooms die on him all the time, cuts the ceremony short and pronounces the groom and bride to be man and wife.
Were they married?
The court, in a rare nod to romance, held that they were married after they had exchanged their vows. The fact that the priest pronounced them to be man and wife after the husband had died was of no consequence.
This case was a footnote in my book, an illustration of how property transfers to a wife in case a husband dies without a will. The legal issue is what we care about.
But what a story! Imagine the bride, wed and widowed on the same day. Imagine the audience lurching forward as he fell, the grim efficiency of the priest as he declared the dead man married. Imagine the shock, the terror, the tears.
In Estate of Neiderhiser was reduced to five or six lines in my casebook. Once finals are over, I'll probably forget the specific legal point it was making.
The story, however, I won't forget.
Rather like the One Ring, the One Outline is all-powerful and all-consuming. It sucks the life out of all who toil with it. It can turn a perfectly normal law student into a wizened, sushi-eating, light-adverse shrew who carries on elaborate conversations with herself. Indeed, it is truly One Outline, to Rule them All.
Or so I've been told. As far as I can tell, it's all a crapshoot, except maybe the part about the sushi-eating and conversations with oneself.
The Dark Lord of Mordor totally had it easier anyhow. Really, it's his own damn fault he didn't check eBay before unleashing his minions. Would have saved him a world of hassle, and, not trying to make comparisons here, but can law students buy a guaranteed Outline of Power on eBay? Plus, Sauron got to have hottie elves prancing after him in the process.
I sure don't see any hottie elves prancing around my law school.
This is a phrase that my professor mentioned in class and sort of defined, but not really. She gave a sort of example of when you have it, but not exactly what it means. If I combine her example with my legal dictionary, I appear to get conflicting results. This troubles my outline-creating self.
Shockingly, traditio manu brevi appears to be missing from my trusty Gilbert's.
If it helps, it appears to be related to attornment and constitutum. At least, I think it is related because she talked about them all at the same time and the other two, which I do understand, are types of constructive gift delivery.
Doesn't constitutum sounds like some sort of horrid wasting disease? Or perhaps some gross bodily fluid that medical students study?
Many thanks.
T.
They are making me nostalgic. It reminds me of when I did OCI when I graduated from engineering graduate school. The process sounds similar. There is an interview on campus, then an interview at the company.
The actual interview itself doesn't sound similar, though. For one thing, HR departments collectively decided somewhere along the line that an engineer who could do tricky puzzles on a whiteboard would make a good engineer. I always found that a funny assumption, even funnier when you get the same puzzle for three different interviews.
I remember at the last one I said to the interviewer, "Look, I've solved this two times already, and you're not going to get anything out of this, so can we just skip it?"
He laughed, we skipped it, and I got a job offer out of that interview.
In the end, however, I didn't take any of the offers I received from OCI. My sister's housemate's ex-boyfriend had founded a company and was looking for somebody with my background. We chatted on the phone, which led to an interview. We hit it off well, and that's where I went. It was one of the best decisions I've ever made.
I sometimes wonder if the extremely structured nature of the OCI process leads to frustrated employers and employees later on. The best employer-employee situation is one in which the employer wants that specific employee, and that employee really wants to be working for that employer. The problem with OCI is that this sort of pre-hire relationship is difficult to establish because so many people are shuttled in and out so quickly.
That having been said, I appreciate that I was lucky. OCI is a great mechanism, especially in these tough times, for getting hiring employers in touch with students who might not otherwise find a job. Not everybody has a sister's roommate's ex-boyfriend connection.
For those of you going through the process, good luck.
You may have noticed that I added some new law blogs to my law blog list on this page. Check 'em out.
Jstrizzy is a lawyer and a kickass knitter. As somebody who is utterly incompetent at hobbies that require hand-eye coordination, I stand in awe of her knitting tales.
Desiderata and Ditzy Genius are both fellow 1L's. Good reading for when I feel like I'm the only 1L out there. (Objectively untrue, I know, but we all have those moments.)
Unlearned Hand, who has one of the coolest blog names out there, clearly liked the same property hypo that I did. He's both a law student and in the military, so has an interesting perspective.
Lately he started up a group blog, En Banc, which consists of the joint musings of a group of law students. Good stuff, always thought-provoking, especially when I disagree.
Chris at cogitation is in the process of applying to law school and is a fellow coder as well. That's a good combination, isn't it? Not that I've got any self-interest in the answer to that question or anything.
Okay, now I really need to stop procrastinating.
I am by far the fastest typist in my group of friends. This is undoubtedly due to years of abuse as a programmer, and I'm sure I'll end up with bionic wrist transplants some day, but for now it's a handy skill. As a result of this, I often give away my notes to my friends, because I sometimes get something down that the others miss.
What I hadn't realized was how much my years of programming have seeped into my notetaking. Here are some lines from my notes, and the English language translations:
Possession != title Possession does not equal title.
Actual deliv. == manual deliv. Actual delivery is equivalent to manual delivery.
Maj -> Recklessness == Crim Negligence++; Recklessess is enhanced criminal negligence according to the majority rule.
And yes, in that line, I did put a semicolon in my notes, and it bothered me that there was a space between the Crim and the Negligence. Old habits die hard.
I've also realized that if the professor writes = up on the board for a comparison test, I always write == in my notes. I'm constitutionally unable to write 'Recklessness = Criminal Negligence' for something that's not an assignment of value.
This has resulted in a quickie crash course in C semantics for my friends.
I will declare victory when I see a != on one of their outlines.
All that having been said, I do reserve the right to whine a wee little bit here and there, especially as exams approach. I apologize in advance.
It's not the end of the world, but I do wonder what I did to deserve two practice midterms and an LWR draft due all on the same day. Since that day is tomorrow, my weekend has been spent alternating between Crim Law, Property, and LWR.
Not only is it tiring, it feels vaguely sacrilegious to study both homicide and wills on El Día de los Muertos.
We don't chat. The chat room is reserved for questions like, "Did he say involuntary or voluntary?", or, "§45 or §90?", or, "Score! A guest speaker!"
Last week in crim law, however, the chat room took on a new purpose.
Prof. Crim was, as he himself put it, in a snarly mood. One poor student had just been totally unprepared in class. The rest of us cowered in silence. He started going around the classroom and doing lightening cold calls rather than waiting for raised hands.
My friend D. had been up all night working on his LWR memo. He is a good student, and he had done the reading, but he was exhausted. He must have looked vulnerable, because Prof. Crim pounced.
"Mr. D," he said, "what is the defendant charged with in Commonwealth v. Rhoades?"
D. started frantically looking for his brief to find the charge, but, as we learned later, he had accidently misnamed the brief. A silence ensued. This was not a day to face Prof. Crim unprepared.
J. typed in the chat room, "arson & 2nd degree murder!"
D. said, hesistantly, "Arson and second degree murder?"
Prof. Crim nodded. "And why was that charge used?"
M., in the chat room, wrote, "b/c arson isn't enumerated."
D., who knew exactly what M. meant and undoubtedly would have come up with the answer himself if he'd slept more than two hours before class, explained to Prof. Crim that the prosecutor wanted to use a felony murder charge and arson wasn't enumerated in this jurisdiction so first degree felony murder couldn't be used.
Prof. Crim nodded again. "So, could there have been a different charge?"
A., in the chat room, wrote, "extreme recklessnesss, depraved heart but needs mens rea."
D. relayed that information to Prof. Crim, and added that this was a lesser option because it required finding a mens rea.
Prof. Crim decided that was adequate, and moved further in the lesson. D. started breathing normally again.
There is no way that this could stand up to a full-length Socratic questioning. We all agreed, however, that it was really nice to be able to take one as a team for once.
