college of law

Writing in the College of Law, on a Friday night in the winter.

Writing in the College of Law because I can think of no place better to go, nowhere quiet where I can be to myself, not bothered, either intentionally or just from the noise that kids, or adults, or any sort of human being makes that isn’t trying to concentrate, trying to pull hidden secrets, thoughts and stories out from inside themselves.  That can only be done in quiet, with great concentration as if without such solitude the act is about as likely as pulling one’s own heart out. 

Writing at the College of Law I look around at those I have joined: Me trying to write – they, law students, half my age or nearly.  I think of the difference between us - them and me – to be who they are at that age – to be that together at 23 or 25.  To have finished an undergrad degree; to be so certain of their future path; to have not only chosen law school, but to have been chosen by the self same.

Writing in the College of Law at 42, on a Friday night, hung over – at least mildly, just now embarking on a graduate degree – a rather soft one at that – still looking around at those I share this space with, I realize that at 23 they have more together than I do or ever will.  I am unshaven, wearing clothes I’ve already worn for 2 days – 2 other days than this.  I stayed up too late last night, drank too much, was unproductive at work.  They in preppy, perfect, clean clothes, hair cut just so, and shaven – maybe more than once today.  They don’t look hung over.  They don’t look like ‘humanities majors’.  They don’t look like anything but respectable little suits that already drive nicer cars than I.  It’s not that I want what they have, not that I desire the life they will lead, but the difference between the types of people we are, is staggering.

At 42 I still feel the pangs of guilt in my own acknowledgement of the person, the profession and the life my parents would have rather I become, no matter how far away from childhood I travel.  This feeling of guilt and sometimes self deprecation will most likely never entirely leave me – I thought I’d forgiven myself, accepted myself, given myself permission to be who I am.  But writing at the College of Law, I realize this will never be so.  This permission is not mine to grant.

Writing in the College of Law I look at these others – these few elite, wondering where their impetus comes from, what they think about at night, what they dream of when they are bodily dead and I realize it is the solid continuum: the job, the money, the house in THE neighborhood that they are expected in.  Like some train station for which they have a punched ticket and printed itinerary complete with arrival time and cozy berth in which to sleep until finally, in suburban heavens they too spin across lawns on snappers, perfect their golf swings, wash the Escalade, preserve the Ohio State season tickets, and ensure their properly bathed and dressed children receive their own stamped and dated ticket with specific departure and arrival times.  One generation to the next, dust to dust, but shining during the interim, the assumed existence, gathered up with strong, slender fingers.  “Shall we pray another rosary - our progeny to have math skills? That they do not, cannot become artists?  Oh, God no!  Not an artist!  Is there amniocentesis for that?  Genetic engineering?”

Writing in the College of Law my thoughts depart from them and converge upon me – who I was then and who I am now.  Much as these people are merely younger versions of judges and prosecutors, I too have changed very little.  When I was their age what were my plans and goals?  They were nothing like something that could ever be called a plan or a goal.  My appetite for beer and marijuana; for music and poetry; for paint and chalk; for traveling in sweat soaked cars in deserts until the gas ran out.  My unquenchable desire for tattooed girls with heavy black eye liner – my confusion about men with the same, except I know now it wasn’t confusion.  And hitch hiking, sometimes in foreign countries, where my outstretched thumb pled with every passing windshield framed face:  It did not say “homeless and out of work”.  It didn’t say, “Jesus loves you – anything helps – God bless”.  No, my thumb said – “I want to travel in a meaningless direction with no thought of tomorrow other than more of the same.  And I may be on the other side of this same road tomorrow – moving and searching with no particular reason and I hope you pick me up then too.”  It said – “I want to move at a constant velocity and see, taste, smell, touch and bite into everything this obscure life has to offer before I’m dead and cold and nothing more than the asphalt like that I walk upon today.  I want to move and live and breathe so time cannot catch me and make me into parents or my neighbors or students in the College of Law.  I want to move and it is worth all the risks.  It’s worth being robbed – it’s worth risking that knife you may have beneath the driver’s side seat, which I pray to God you don’t show me tonight.  I want to move and never stop but most importantly man, I want to do it for free.  Any takers?”