Mixed up Messages.

This is a blog. It's mine. Welcome to the show.

[afewwordsworth]

Planet Earth: South Bend

If there are dog days of summer, there are dog days of winter.

Welcome to February.

The South Bendian student’s days start with a mile long walk to school in negative windchills. (They end with those, too.) No matter what direction the student is walking, the snow is driving into their eyes. No matter how many layers they wear, it is not enough. It is, as a scientific fact, always dark. There is no sun to speak of in this forsaken, windswept corner of the earth.

Somewhere in the middle of the day, after barely crawling across the threshold of the school and guzzling enough coffee to fuel a U-Boat from here to Germany on caffeine power alone, most residents will feel the urge to sleep. The creature is still tired from the walk in the dark morning hours, and needs to gather enough energy to complete the rest of the grumbling they have on the agenda for the day. It makes sense, given that they’ve likely put on at least ten pounds of winter weight and their lumpy, misshapen bodies are urging them to go into hibernation.

Whether they succumb to naptime or not, they have to get back home eventually. And even after fighting the elements for the second time in a day, there is no rest for these weary little minxes. Their car will need attention and cannot be neglected, lest it stop working and strand them in this lonely, frozen land. 

These odd creatures will spend more than twenty minutes trying to get the snow off of their cars in the parking lot that their landlord never plows. Usually, these lemming-esque sadness factories of a being do a better job getting the snow on themselves than anywhere else. Once sufficiently dug out, they get into the car and speak sweet nothings into the dashboard in hopes that it will start up the first time. This is only sometimes the case. If you can ever find a dry, warm place to watch this phenomena (say, the inside of said apartment complex), it truly is a sight to behold.

Once (if) the car does start, the resident will take a quick, pot-hole ridden trip to the center of the earth to get the engine warmed up and functioning. You see, the pot holes are so colossal that if a lazy driver hits it straight on, their car will literally fall into the earth’s core and they will never be heard from again — though at least they would be warm.

The days most often end with an exhausted, dejected South Bendian making a rash promise to their own small, dark heart that they will never make themselves go out in such weather again - school and responsibilities or not. It also ends with a refusal to go to the gym, since simply existing is such work. (Refer back to the comment re: weight gain.)

Of course, the next morning, dark and early, the alarm goes off and there’s three more inches of snow to trudge through. The natural instinct of the resident kicks back in, and they will soon find themselves blinded by wind, snow, something called freezing fog, and all kinds of other natural disasters, once again.

This isn’t dedication to their schooling - it is a dogged, natural characteristic that keeps the resident moving. One foot at a time towards the law school, hoping for the center of the earth, for global warming to speed up at a shocking rate, or at the very least - a warm lobby to pass through on the way.

[afewwordsworth]

How to Think About Making a Murderer (I think).

This is going to be another one of those posts where I talk about something that a lot of other, better writers have tackled recently. (See here, and here, or Google).

The first thing I need to establish for us to have this conversation is that there are three distinct worlds we’re operating within:

The story you see on the show  - “True Crime” entertainment. Making a Murderer, the Serial podcast, etc.

What actually happened at trial - every single moment, uncut and unedited

The truth - what really happened, second by second, during the alleged incident at issue

Clearly, there is a lot of overlap between these three spheres. Actually, one would hope for a huge amount of overlap. And in a perfect world, maybe all three of them would be one enormous sphere of justice and virtue and other lofty words.

The problem is that trials, real trials, don’t make good TV. Nobody would watch an actual uncut stream of a court proceeding. They just…they’re boring. Even with the same cast of characters, the same issues at stake, life in prison hanging in the balance: it’s not exciting. It straight up isn’t good TV. (You get some of this in Making a Murderer. Even at crucial moments of the trial, when one side or another is scoring a huge point - it’s hard to pay attention. People in the back are shuffling around, someone sneezes, and the next thing you know you’re four weeks deep into your Facebook feed and you completely missed what just happened.)

And that’s where I run into my first issue: the oft-raised objection to ‘True Crime’ entertainment. This is, at the end of the day, entertainment. It is in the best interest of the filmmaker, the podcast writers, and everyone involved to produce something that is compelling. And they have all the creative liberty in the world to do so. Unlike in the formal structure of a court, to make a documentary, there are no governing rules of evidence. There are no restrictions on using unfairly prejudicial testimony, on using evidence of past acts to show a propensity for that person to act in the same way on this occasion. The list goes on, but the point is so basic that it must be re-stated: these true crime story tellers operate however they please in a space completely defined by rules, structure, and regulations.

These are shows. They deserve to be seen as entertainment, not as gospel truth. The Serial podcast set records, in a time where podcasts have mostly just existed quietly with little attention. It was in NPR’s very real business interest for you to be interested - to think that Adnan is innocent. Or at the very least, to think there’s a possibility he is. Is he innocent? I don’t know. I don’t know if Steven Avery is innocent, either. But I do know that there were humans making those shows. Humans susceptible to pressure from bosses, but what’s more, humans that want to be compelled, too: they want to tell a great story. They want to make something that makes you think, makes you doubt, makes you wonder.

There’s is nothing wrong with that desire. In fact, it is one of the noblest endeavors, given the current chill towards any entertainment that isn’t cut up into 8 second looping videos or boiled down to a pile of hashtags.

So, to avoid disparaging the writers too much, and for the sake of argument, lets say that the writers, producers, and editors all stuck to the facts. They gave you the closest depiction of the trial as possible. You have all the facts the jury did, nothing more, nothing less. 

That, even still, is not the full picture. That still may not be the truth.

Trials and the court system in America are in the business of serving justice. And to a large extent, that’s what they do. They look to find the most guilty party, assign some kind of punishment, and move on.

The distinction here is that truth and justice may not be the same thing. Courts are not necessarily set up to find truth. It just is not the objective. And it can’t be - if the courts started getting involved in digging into the minutiae of every single moment of the day or days at issue, it would overrun the already ridiculously clogged system. It would be impossible for prosecutors to prove each second of the defendant’s day, and guilty criminals would go unpunished. Instead, the way we set it up is that if the truth happens to be found, that’s great. Certainly some cases are much simpler than those featured in these stories, and can be pinned down to the truth easily and efficiently. But in many complicated, contested cases – the point of a trial is to find justice, a verdict, something that can be stamped ‘final’. The point of a trial is to look at the evidence and make a call: are you sure, beyond any reasonable doubt, that this person on trial did this act? The question is not “are you sure we got the truth here? Are you sure that each detail was correct and laid out for you?” It’s “did we do enough to convince you that this is the guy?”

So while maybe the TV show is accurate, and the trial was fairly represented, it still may not be the truth. We will probably never know with certainty the real story of what happened to Teresa Halbach. We may never find the truth. And that’s a tradeoff of the system we have in place. We have to, as a society, decide that we’re okay with trusting the structure to put away people that a jury finds guilty, while knowing that it is still possible that the truth is something different than what was presented to that jury. Maybe Steven Avery did kill her, but didn’t do it in any of the ways described by the prosecution. 

That’s the distinction we need to live with and understand if we start looking into these cases: the court can still get the final guilty/innocent decision right without finding every single shred of evidence and constructing a truthful picture of what exactly happened. At the same time, we have to hold the opposing truth in our heads: the system can get it wrong. Completely, egregiously, life-ruiningly wrong. There can still be foul play, very tragically real prosecutorial abuse, police corruption.

The system is not infallible, but it is as much a part of these stories as the parties in court. To talk about these cases in the vacuum of a true crime series ignores the larger picture, and oversimplifies what is going on.

I still think these shows are important, and can serve as a valuable vehicle for public discourse. People should care about this stuff. Everyday people should know how the system works, should talk about prosecutorial abuse, the deficiencies of public defenders, the coercion that police and investigators are allowed to get away with. I think we should get angry about these things - because they do happen and they are a disease of the system. These are essential, vital, hugely important conversations that are worth having, in whatever forum they occur.

I just think they need to happen in a larger way. Use the shows as a place to start, not as a final verdict of guilt or innocence.

[afewwordsworth]

Pinky and the Brain

There’s a lot of times (more than I’d like to admit) that dropping out of law school sounds like the best move I could make. That a job working paycheck to paycheck in a tropical climate with a tiny, terrible apartment and free time to go to the beach and be tan all the time is within reach and infinitely better than what I’m doing now.

A lot of times I want to forget all of this: loans, responsibilities, school. The competition gets old. The job I’m working towards is still a myth: I’ve never been a prosecutor - what if I don’t even like it? What if I do like it but I’m just naturally not good at it? I know I can work at a tropical bar somewhere with enough competency to keep my job. I know I can live without lots of extra money or nice stuff. Why not make the safe bet, you know?

It could all be so simple.

But I never do it.

Partially due to cowardice: there is an undeniable strength of spirit that goes with truly following your heart. Seriously. If you can do that - I think that’s awesome.

I’m not that brave.

But that’s not the whole thing. I think, to an extent, I feel like there’s a responsibility that comes with education. As someone in law school, even if I didn’t ever graduate or pass the bar, I have vastly more education than the majority of the world’s population. Am I really going to throw that away to live a quiet life on the beach, piddling around in the sand?

Spoiler alert: I’m not. I won’t. Ever.

I’m going to use it.

I don’t think I’m the great hope of a generation. That’s not it at all. I’m not even the great hope of my immediate family. (If you don’t believe that, you’ve obviously never met my dog.)

I won’t cure cancer or be the next President. You can bet on that. (My Twitter account alone is enough to disqualify me from ever holding public office. Not because it’s profane, but because the jokes are so egregiously corny that the people of America would never entrust me with even the most humble of offices.)

I just think, for whatever reason, I have a brain that has gotten me this far. It would be, in a way, disrespectful to all the people that have taught me, mentored me, guided me all these years to throw that away.

It would be, maybe, disrespectful to myself to throw it away.

Maybe there’s a moral obligation we have to use our natural gifts.

Maybe there isn’t.

I don’t really care to argue the finer points of morality with you, anonymous reader, or anyone for that matter. But I do think it would be a shame for a person - any person - to do less than what they were able to do.

I may not be confident in my future: what I’ll end up doing, if I’ll like it, if I’ll be good at it. But I am confident that I can figure things out. And even if being a prosecutor isn’t really “it” for me - maybe using my brain and doing good can be enough.

The work won’t get easier, but I will get better.

And besides, I can always retire to a tropical climate. Shield your eyes, locals: 68 year old Aly brought her bikini, and the forecast is all sun.

[afewwordsworth]

(Punching) Bags Under the Eyes

As a former world neighborhood class athlete, I’ve got a pretty good handle on sport cliches. Unfortunately for ‘normal people’ that aren’t enthralled by cheap plot lines and appeals to competitive emotions, so does everyone in popular media. 

Anyways, there’s this movie that seems to be some kind of like New Age Rocky (hard for me to say definitively since a) I never saw any of the original Rocky’s and b) I’ve only seen 30 second ad spots for the new one but just go with it okay) boxing movie coming out soon. The preview gets really dramatic and the (presumably) main character is like, boxing the air in front of a mirror for some reason. At that time a floating voice comes in from above and says “the toughest opponent you’ll face is yourself,” and the guy gets visibly angrier than he already was (punching the air seems like a manifestation of anger to me but I don’t know that much about boxing) and breathes really heavy and starts punching the air even harder. 

Don’t worry, this is where the worst movie review of all time ends.

But that phrase “the toughest opponent you’ll face is yourself” is what I’m getting at. (Yes, I am one of the poor suckers enthralled by cheap plot lines and appeals to competitive emotions. Remember the Titans was the greatest film of my lifetime and I will fight anyone who says otherwise ON SIGHT.) I mean, it’s something I’ve heard before (refer to above classification as neighborhood class athlete) but, boy, let me tell you: that is so true in law school.

That isn’t to say that there aren’t tough opponents outside of your corporeal body because, trust me, there are a lot of them. Difficult classes, professors that are either so brilliant or so dense that you can only understand every fifth word they say, forced curves that ruin lives, and pressure. Lots and lots of pressure.

Pressure to perform well, to find a job, to have a social life, to lock down interviews with impressive firms, to be this impressive new professional person that you weren’t a year ago. Pressure to somehow pull a good grade out of a three hour test covering a semester’s worth of inanely detailed information about how government agencies work.

The thing about law school is that it’s an individual sport. It’s all on you at the end of the day. That enormous pressure comes crashing down and you either fail or flourish but it’s on nobody’s shoulders but your own.

It’s hard to find a balance when that’s the reality, and the consequences loom so large. Consequences like not getting the job you want, like feeling inadequate, and like you could be wasting an actual metric ton of money and emotional health on something you might not even be good at.

If it were only as easy as simply deciding to perform well under pressure and flipping some kind of switch, I would have fewer grey hairs.

But the toughest opponent you face is yourself, and figuring out how to motivate yourself every day is a fight. Some days go better than others, admittedly. Some days not a lot gets done. Other days you churn out work at a rate that would make Laura Ingalls Wilder blush. Some days you have mental breakdowns and sit in one place for hours staring at a single page, hoping that even one sentence will eventually seep into what has become an impenetrable fortress of a brain. Or…that’s what I hear…

I’m only sure that I haven’t figured out the perfect mix of what it takes yet. Maybe I won’t, in the next year and a half. But I’m trying. 

And at least I haven’t started punching the air in front of a mirror. 

...Yet.

[afewwordsworth]

Lamar Odom and What it Really Takes

Lamar Odom has been in the news lately, because he was found unresponsive due to what is being treated as a massive overdose at a brothel and is in critical condition. This post is sort of about that, but not really.

A lot of better writers with more knowledge of the situation have already written about it. The news has had a field day. Scott Van Pelt delivered a wonderful, worth watching clip reprimanding us for turning him into a side show.

Those aren’t my points - they’ve already been made, and made well.

He’s been out of the NBA for a few years, and for the most part, out of mind.  Until now, while he fights for his life in the hospital. As soon as news got out, celebrity athletes began showing support, via social media. Writers lamented the trials and tribulations of “one of the good ones” in the NBA. People all around the world of basketball seem to be convinced that this guy is a good one that simply just cannot catch a break. They wanted to airlift him to the hospital, but he was too tall for the helicopter, so he had to be driven in an ambulance. Just another bad break.

And, for awhile, none of his family members went to the hospital.

Eventually, stories broke that Kobe Bryant had left a game to be by his side. His estranged ex-wife also reportedly showed up, celebrity circus and family in tow.

But here’s the thing. Lamar Odom was reportedly paying over 100 people’s phone bills. He was, again, reportedly, “helping out” with 50 different people’s rent.

Maybe that’s true and maybe it isn’t. I don’t know the guy. He could be a giant jerk, or he could be as great as everyone thinks. 

That doesn’t matter. Where are all of these people he’s been helping? Where were his buddies that are posting pictures of him on Instagram for the last few days while he was on a bender? The past few months when his best friend died, or when he was badgered about allegedly stalking his ex-wife? I don’t know all the facts. Maybe he was unreachable. Maybe they did try. It just doesn’t seem like it.

Maybe the person who needed the most help was the one that was helping everyone else. Maybe they all took him for granted, until he was found unconscious on the floor of a brothel in Nevada.

I’m not saying that I am the person that’s always helping people. Or that I’ll end up unconscious. I’m not saying that you (whoever you are) are that person either. It’s just that it’s possible that there’s someone like that in your life. And to watch it unfold in front of cameras and news crews is heartbreaking, but to potentially see it happen to someone you know? That, I would imagine, has to be devastating.

I don’t know what the point of this is, honestly. Just take care of the people that take care of you. Emotionally. Not with money, not with stuff, not with Instagram posts. People need more than money or a random social media shoutout. There’s nothing wrong with sending that stuff, too. It just…it takes more than that. 

It just does. 

[afewwordsworth]

Restless Leg Syndrome

A year ago I would’ve given anything to feel comfortable at all in law school. In any capacity. In class, walking on campus, using the library, the printers, meeting new classmates, all of it. Now, even when I don’t understand a single iota of what’s going on in a class (looking at you, Administrative Law), I know how things work. I know how to scan a reading quickly if I run out of time before class. I know that getting a question wrong on a cold call isn’t the end of the world, and what’s better, I know how to hedge my bets to usually get the right answers. I know my classmates: who I can trust, who I can’t, the people that make me angry, and the people that can make me laugh.

My schedule is set, and each week is almost indiscernible from the next. Of course, there is some variation. Some weeks I eat mac and cheese for dinner on six nights, and some weeks I eat mac and cheese for dinner on seven nights. But for the most part, it’s become steady.

Beyond class, I joined new extracurricular activities to try to spice things up. I’m on the law school social committee which is, in and of itself, the biggest irony of my life. I joined a club of undergrad students that do standup comedy. I’ve told my boss to lay as much work on me as he has. I’m taking 17 credit hours. I’m planning on playing intramural basketball, and this Friday I’ve got a law school powderpuff football tournament. I go to football games (which, trust me, are all day affairs). It’s not that I’m bored – I don’t have the time to be bored.

And yet.

And yet.

Steadiness is objectively good. It breeds comfort and maybe the ability to sink into one’s work. I’m not panicked like I was last year. It’s no longer a white knuckle experience every time I walk into a class.

Subjectively though, I chafe at the idea of being in such a routine. I don’t know why. I’m still in school, taking care of responsibilities. But it feels … wrong, somehow.

This isn’t going to end with a paragraph that ties up a neat conclusion with a pretty bow. I have no idea why I feel guilty for being so settled into a routine. I become restless faster than most, I think. Maybe I can find a way to channel steadiness into focus, rather than fickle restless energy.

Maybe I can’t.

Until I figure it all out, there’s always the important work of the Social Committee to focus on. Right now we’re planning the law school Fall Ball. A beautiful evening of grandeur, bowties, and formal gowns that I will do almost anything to get out of attending. Currently, I’m in the midst of an intense negotiation with someone (possibly two people, unclear) named “Young G and Mugshot” over their (his?) prices for DJ’ing the event. Mr.(?) G (and?) Mr.(?) Mugshot drive a hard bargain, so it’s a good thing the social committee has me in their back pocket. 

[afewwordsworth]

On Words and Suicide

If there’s one thing that I know for certain, it is that words matter.

I’ve seen an acronym floating around the Internet: kms. Kill My Self. It’s normally used flippantly, after an impossibly childish statement. For example, “school starts tomorrow ugh, kms.” Alternatively, I’ve seen it used as kys: Kill Your Self. Ignoring the fact that myself and yourself are one word and not two, this is utterly heinous. Heinous.

This acronym isn’t funny. It’s not cool. You don’t seem edgy. I totally understand the feeling you’re going for: exasperation, annoyance. I get that. I don’t get the casual reference to killing yourself. I do not, at all, understand you ever suggesting that a person – stranger or not – is so out of line and so worthless that they should kill themselves. I absolutely cannot fathom that.

Whoever you are, if you’ve ever said “kms” or you’ve ever jokingly said you’re going to shoot yourself because it’s so hot outside or something along those lines, I’m telling you as nicely as I can: stop. It isn’t funny. It isn’t harmless. It isn’t no big deal. 

When I was 16, an 18 year old friend of mine killed herself. She had just graduated high school. She was headed to college in the fall at IU, a place she loved. She had everything in front of her, and now, seven years later, there’s an ever growing list of all the milestones I’ve reached that she never did, and never will. She was two years older than me.

I’m not saying that someone said “kys” to her and that’s what led to her death. I’m not. I’m saying that I don’t know exactly what did lead to her death. I’m saying that words matter, and it’s possible that telling someone else to kill themselves could be a contributing factor.

From this side of things, “funny” jabs at friends that involve saying “ew kill yourself” after they make a stupid comment feels like the most ignorant, poisonous sentence ever. Even when they laugh it off. 

From this side of things, the guilt has never subsided. It’s been seven years. I will never shake the sense of sadness that comes with a friend deciding the world wasn’t worth it. I’ll take that to my grave.

From this side of things, suicide isn’t a joke. Every August 5th, I have to relive the night I found out about Kate. I didn’t see the signs. I did nothing. I still wonder who I should apologize to: her mother? Father? Brothers? Other friends of hers? I can’t apologize to Kate herself. She’s gone.

I know a lot of people think that saying they’re going to shoot themselves or that someone else should kill themselves is only a joke. Most people will read this tirade against colloquialisms and think that I should lighten up. That it isn’t real, and I should get over it. But that’s wrong. Suicide is real. A friend of yours kills herself and, trust me, it’s the realest thing you’ll ever feel. It wasn’t an act of God, it wasn’t a freak accident. It wasn’t cancer, it wasn’t painless in their sleep. It was a choice. And you will never, ever, ever understand it.

We played high school basketball together. One night our team was at the gym watching the boys play. I was sitting in the bleachers, uninterested. Mostly just there to hang out with my friends and avoid going home too early that night. Kate was there, too. She had a lot of friends at other schools, unlike the rest of us, and therefore, she always had other plans. So it wasn’t out of the ordinary when she stood up to leave about halfway through the second quarter. She told me she was leaving, and I said goodbye. Normal.

But she wouldn’t leave until I gave her a hug.

Kate was constantly looking for ways to make me squirm. She loved it. Relished it. Always tried to get a rise out of me, and always got one. Slapping my butt, hugging me against my will, and on a few different occasions I was suddenly awoken from my pre-game nap with Kate sitting on top of me, cackling, pleased with herself for pulling it off.

That night, I eventually folded. She was tall, standing in my sight line, and making an enormous scene. Doing a great job of making me uncomfortable, and laughing the whole time.

She wouldn’t leave until I gave her a hug.

And I complained about it.

A few months later, I attended her funeral after she took her life on August 5th.

I will never know if I could have done something to stop her.

Don’t make the mistakes I did. Hug people you love. Tell them you love them. Stop being flippant about suicide. Choose your words carefully. Don’t make jokes that have dire implications. Because it doesn’t get easier. It’s less raw, it’s less recent, yes. But years pass and more and more things appear on the list of milestones she could’ve reached. Years pass and more and more things appear on the list of things I could’ve done that may have helped.

You never know what you could be looking back on, seven years later, with crippling guilt. Words matter. Take care of the people that take care of you. 

Rest in Peace, Big Mama.

I miss you, from this side of things. I love you. I’m sorry.

[afewwordsworth]

A Breakup Letter to a City I Love(d)

Dear John Tucson,

It’d been awhile since I’d seen you. Almost nothing had really changed. As I prowled through your sun-soaked streets in a car I don’t own, my old haunts rose to meet me. The landmarks remained at their posts, the sky was aggressively blue, and for the most part, things were as I left them. You looked good.

It’s not you, it’s me.

I suppose that as I drove through the neighborhoods I used to live in, work in, play in, I expected to feel the way I did back then. Like this was still somehow the place I belonged, that one place out of all the places in the world that one calls their own.

For a few minutes, in an air-conditioned office on the first floor of a weight room with an old sign I had scribbled on neon pink paper, it was like no time had passed at all. But that’s the thing about time. It always passes.

I’m deeply grateful for what you did for me. You gave me 360 days of sunshine a year when I couldn’t bear anymore grey skies. You rocked me to my core, and built me into a person I could be proud of when I graduated from your finest institution four years after arriving. It was the best, worst, most confusing, most illuminating, happiest, saddest time of my life. And it all happened within your limits. That will never change.

But almost everything else does, and will, and has already.

I’ve moved on. I still love you. I don’t know what other city has replaced you, yet. Maybe no city ever will. I still wish I could’ve stayed, but we both know I had to leave.

I know now that saying “I’ll never go back” can make one feel foolish, small, and sheepish in short order after one of life’s inevitable curveballs. So, I won’t say that. I might come back. I might not.

If I do, I know you’ll welcome me again. A few new buildings here or there, hopefully some repaired roads, and of course – your sunshine.

If I don’t, you’ll always be special to me.

But you are not mine anymore.

I hope that in my absence, you can find room in your heart to take a new lost soul under your wing. She probably really needs the sunlight.

Take care of yourself.

All my love,

-Aly

[afewwordsworth]

Shut-Ins Unite! Individually and Behind Closed Doors!

This summer, I’m working as a research assistant for a professor. It’s a really great job. I still sometimes think I didn’t *actually* get hired but, like, he would feel bad telling me that he didn’t hire me at this point so he’s just going along with it too.

One little caveat: I’m in South Bend for the summer.

Okay. Worse things have happened. Like, WAY worse. I shouldn't even complain. I already budgeted to pay rent here this summer, so I don’t have to pay an extra rent like I would have to had I gotten a job in a random city. This job is super flexible, the work is interesting, and I’m betting I will learn a lot from the professor I’m working for.

It’s just, in the summer, when all the Notre Dame kids go wherever it is they go when school is out, South Bend succumbs to the temptations of bad rock n’ roll, Monster energy drinks, and overweight men shuffling around in flip flops that don’t fit.

The student population is virtually gone for these three months. The law school is, for all intents and purposes, empty. Most of the professors and faculty aren’t even there, and only come in when necessary for a meeting here and there.

I spend most of my time alone; I only meet with my boss about one time a week in person. I can work from anywhere with an internet connection, so a lot of days I just work from home. Translation: I don’t get out much.

All of this leads to a life of relative shut-in-ship. For the most part, I’m okay with that. I like having space and a door that closes, locking the outside world away. 

Unfortunately, though, this means that my interaction with other humans so far this summer has come almost exclusively from trips to Wal-Mart. 

I drive there, allergies permitting, with the windows down and I swear, even with the wind whipping by, everywhere smells like cigarette butts. It’s almost impressive, but not actually impressive, because it leaves me feeling grimy and in need of a shower. A long one. With rubbing alcohol.

Wal-Mart itself is always a fiasco. I hate grocery shopping (runs in the family), and doing it in an enormous warehouse that probably needs to be doused in Lysol and then burned to the ground to rid it of all the bacteria inside adds up to an emotionally trying hour.

Of course, it is not without its positives. I do get to speak to people (when the cashier asks if I want a bag for the milk)(“Yes please”), and like, be around other live humans. Which, in the summer in South Bend, is often pretty entertaining.

 A couple of weeks ago there was a woman next to me that had “Baby Girl” tattooed on her arm, which like, good for her you know? Own it. Except “Girl” was misspelled. It said “Baby Gril.” It was on her arm, open to the world. She carried herself like a proud person. I caught myself staring as I waited in line behind her, but she didn’t seem to notice. If she did, she didn’t care. At one point she kind of made eye contact and gave me that polite half-smile thing that middle aged ladies do. All of these factors led me to actually, seriously wonder if she knew the word was misspelled or not. If I had a misspelled word permanently etched into my arm skin, I would wear long sleeves at all times and hiss at anyone who even glanced at my arm in passing. Followed by a leg kick, if necessary.

Anyways, I opted not to ask Baby Gril if she knew about the error. There aren’t many fights I think I would win, but I’m betting that a fight in a Mishawaka Wal-Mart would be one of the quickest I’d lose.

[afewwordsworth]

Left / Right

It’s been a long nine months, and here I am: a mother.

Wait, no. That’s not it.

It’s been a long nine months, and here I am: a 2L.

Ok yeah. That’s it.

As I look back on the past nine months, one story sticks out that I simply must publish on an open forum, easily accessible to all, because I’m a glutton for punishment and possibly a little bit of a masochist.

Take yourself back to late August, early September. Young, wet behind the ears, innocent Aly has just started law school.

As such, I was nervous. Constantly. I had one single friend, and neither of us were very happy with how things were going. Every day during our break we would sit in a small alcove in a hallway outside of the main reading room of the law library. We’d choke down our lunches as quickly as possible to avoid detection by the roving librarian whose job seems to really actually be yelling at kids eating carrot sticks out of a ziplock bag. Which is ridiculous in and of itself but that's not the point for today. 

Anyways, we always sat at the end of this hallway because there were exactly two armchairs and that way we didn’t look as much like the friendless shmucks we were, it looked more like there simply wasn’t room for anyone else to join us. Plus, that way we didn’t have to talk to anyone else. Again: I was nervous and bewildered 100% of the time, so extra social interaction wasn’t really high on my to do list.

One of these days, we were killing time before our next class, tucked away in our safe little haven. At some point I decided I was going to get up and go somewhere. I don’t remember exactly where I was going, but I left all my stuff at the chairs, so it wasn’t going to be for long. I had nothing in my hands: just myself, and my phone shoved in my pocket.

As I walked down that long hallway in the silent library, suddenly, I was falling. It started abruptly without warning but ended ten minutes later: I think I did at least four full rotations midair before finally settling to a stop on the carpet. Nothing tripped me. Nobody pushed me from behind. I wasn’t going up or down any stairs. It was a level walkway of carpet, but something about it was unworkable for me and my feet that day. Of all my skills, the motor ones are the worst.

Eventually, I landed. I realized what had just happened, and as I came to a full stop realized that I had a few options: 

1) Never get up, wait until everyone left for the night, and run away in the dark. 

2) Get up, make a joke, go back to get my things, and transfer schools. 

3) Die right then and there from embarrassment.

Ultimately I didn’t settle for any of those, though, because I was rudely ripped out of my reverie by one of the (many) people who saw me fall YELLING at me: “ARE YOU OK”? Except it didn’t sound like a question, because it sounded angry. I’m not sure what that was about, but it was loud, and enough to get the attention of everyone who somehow hadn’t seen the fall itself. All eyes on me. On the ground. For no apparent reason.

I unfolded myself from the rug burned pretzel I had become, muttered a few words of reassurance to this person who was either concerned or just pissed that I had fallen loudly while he was studying, and ran away to the bathroom with my proverbial tail tucked between my legs.

People. You don’t understand: I fell with such force and violence that I got a deep rug burn on my knee THROUGH MY JEANS. My elbow STILL has a scar from where it came down, through a JACKET.

The upshot of all this is that, of course, I didn’t transfer schools. Though it did cross my mind. I eventually made more friends. My ego got its tiny little wings clipped, and I had to wear a bandaid on my knee to keep it from sticking to my pants for a few weeks, but I survived okay. A little bit worse for the wear, reminded of how humble I should be (because really, when you do stuff like that, you have no business being anything but humble) but still alive.

After I fell, while still on the ground contemplating my escape, I turned and looked back down the hallway at my only friend. He looked back at me, laughed, and literally put his face into his hand. While still laughing.

And if that isn’t a pretty good image to close out this year on, I don’t know what is.

What’s that Japanese proverb? I think it’s “fall down seven times; get up eight, be thankful for friends that laugh at you when you do something stupid but also that people have short memories and that rug burns heal.”

[afewwordsworth]

One Trip Around the Sun

In life, there are milestones. Some are soul-wrenching, and others are joyful and triumphant.

This is one of the latter.

About a year ago, the world got a little bit brighter. A baby named Ethan was born to my sister and her husband.

My family, god love ‘em, has never been the best at showing emotions. This obviously includes me. (I am probably the worst of all of us.)

And yet, when my sister and her husband told me they were pregnant, I cried.

That was the first of a string of unusually open emotional events, all thanks to Ethan. He wasn’t even born yet. But he was already making our lives better, more honest, and more loving.

This guy can’t even (fully) walk yet. He’s got roughly 2 teeth. On a good day. His favorite outfit is a fleece onesie. And yet, he has brought so much to us all, taught us so much.

My family, normally consumed with our own busy lives and issues, is now busy clamoring for pictures of the little guy. “Ethan cam?” We text. We ask for videos of his latest advancements. (He’s begun pulling himself up and playing with household items that are not actually toys.) Sometimes, he gets on videochat with his mom and laughs when I make faces. Those smiles and laughs make my dreary weeks at law school...worth it. Somehow.

I have become that girl, shoving pictures of him into the faces of unsuspecting friends. If their reactions are less than satisfactory, I determine that they simply don’t understand cuteness. They must not.

At Christmas this past year, most evenings found us waiting for Ethan to wake up so we could battle one another to hold him, play with him, and make faces at him. Imagine that. A pack of wolves, cooing at a baby. Almost like humans.

So here’s to a guy that’s tiny, can’t really walk, can’t really talk, and can’t really understand what he’s done.

It’s huge.

Thanks, Ethan.

And let me say it now, in case we suck at saying it in real life: we all love you. Forever.

Happy first birthday, kid.

[afewwordsworth]

Spring-ish.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year: Spring Break.

A year ago, my dad and I visited Notre Dame. I was trying to figure out if wanted to come here for law school. Even though I’d grown up in central Indiana, I had never been to Notre Dame before. After I got admitted, I started thinking about it more seriously, and figured a visit was in order.

South Bend presented itself honestly on that trip. The strange, slightly scary, culturally bereft outskirts glinted in the–wait, no, the sun wasn’t out. So it was just strange, scary, culturally bereft AND gloomy. Snow was still on the ground in March (as it is again this year) and campus was empty, because it was spring break. I almost missed my meeting with the admissions director because I apparently completely forgot how time zones worked. It's a good thing campus was empty, because my dad and I sprinting across icy sidewalks and slushy parking lots in a halting, jerky, unsure pattern to try to make it to a location that we didn’t quite know how to get to would have drawn a crowd. Somehow, neither of us fell, we found the building, and our skirts weren’t dirtied. OUR skirts. Joking. As far as you know. After that, things calmed down but didn’t really turn super normal, either. Touring the campus was confusing because NONE OF THE BUILDINGS HERE HAVE SIGNS ON THEM THAT ANNOUNCE WHAT THEY ARE. (This is clearly a sore spot for me, as I still have struggles finding new places on a campus with seventy million identical buildings. Beautiful architecture, well manicured grounds, and yet, I have no clue where anything other than the two buildings I normally go to are.) We both fell on the ice, but only bruised our egos so it was fine. For the two days we were here, our diets were 50% candy bars and 50% Five Guys.

Even in spite of all of those weird, cold, ugly weather experiences, I ultimately decided to come to Notre Dame. 

A year later, I’m here, still aware of the shortcomings of South Bend. Still unable to traverse ice in a graceful manner. However, I have learned to layer clothing to stay warm. I love candy bars and Five Guys. Today the sun is out, birds are probably still hibernating or in Florida or doing whatever they do in the winter, and it’s 41 degrees warm. A heat wave. Swimsuit weather.

Somehow, some way, despite all of these things, I can’t imagine being anywhere else for law school. It may be something in the water. Actually, no, it really might be. South Bend’s water quality is terrible (ranked a 47 out of 100 on the EPA’s scale). But this school has a way of getting under your skin in a way I can't articulate, but am thankful for.

Whatever it is, I’m just glad I have an excuse to break out my bikini. 

[afewwordsworth]

#Nah.

It’s snowing.

That sounds gentle and wonderful but it isn’t. It’s violent. It’s … it is pouring snow. That’s not a well known phrase, but that’s the only way I can describe this. Snowflakes are driving sideways into the faces of the people unfortunate enough (or dumb enough) to be out in it right now. I know about the snowflakes in the faces because I’m sitting in my apartment watching them out my window. Read: not being the most productive I’ve ever been in my life. 

So far I’ve counted six different people outside running. One of them was wearing shorts. It’s like I’m watching a monument to man’s arrogance being built in real time, slippery step by slippery step. Guys. Come on. Blizzard conditions, working on ten inches of snow, and these people really think “wow it would be a great time to go running right now!” (Perhaps my previous comment of ‘dumb enough’ now makes a little more sense.)

There is legitimately not a single non-emergency in the world that would get me out of the indoors right now. And if we're being honest, most emergencies probably wouldn’t do it either. I can sit on a broken arm for a day or two until the roads clear up. I’ve got enough dry foods (mac and cheese – 15 boxes) to last at least a few days (I eat a lot of mac and cheese don’t judge me). I really could not be more against the idea of being anywhere in the world without a roof and four walls.

Snow and I get along fine as long as it stays outside and I stay inside. Even seeing live coverage from Phoenix for the Superbowl isn’t entirely upsetting. At least, it isn’t upsetting for today because I know there’s no part of this day that will involve me walking to school or driving anywhere on the unplowed streets of South Bend.

So excuse me, but I really need to turn up the heat in my apartment, crack a soda, and watch more lunatics trot by in ten inches of the white stuff. I hope one of them falls. Does that make me a bad person? Probably. 

Happy Superbowl Sunday, everybody.

[afewwordsworth]

Snickers: the Laughing Kind and the Candy Kind

Ultimately irreverent, always wrinkly, often hungry. 

This is who I am. At some level, I'm being sarcastic. But on a more honest level, I'm just being…honest. 

This past week, I participated in a public interest law immersion program in Phoenix. The point is, pretty much, to try to encourage students to pursue a career in the less glamorous and wildly underpaid field by introducing them to people who do good work. We parade around the city, shake a lot of hands, have a lot of meetings, and talk generally about public interest law. The hope is that participants (me) will become inspired to join in the good fight and never look back. 

As you may have guessed, I did a lot of "looking back," if you will. Though I made no concrete decisions regarding my "Career," (I use quotation marks because as of now, it's a totally fictional figment of my imagination) I'm not one to get inspired quite as fully as the organizers of the program may have hoped. Instead, I did a lot of smiling, nodding, and making sarcastic retorts in my head. To give you a quick glimpse–one of my personal favorite pieces of advice we were given was, "Try to get the best grades you can." This was truly life changing. Before that individual said that, I was trying to get the worst  grades I could. Thank GOODNESS they set me straight. 

In all seriousness, it was an eye opening experience. But the biggest thing I learned wasn't about jobs or employers, it was about myself. It was coming to terms with those things I listed at the top. Yeah, I am irreverent. I make snide comments, I tell jokes, people laugh, we all move on. That's just how it always goes. Further, even though I try my hardest to appear professional, I'm always wrinkly. Even if my outfit is very grown up, matches, and is even clean, there's bound to be a couple of enormous wrinkles. And yes, I'm highly motivated by food. I'm constantly keeping an eye out for snacks. This is who I am, fat kid tendencies and all. I've known these things for many years. The new part is that I realized that I need to be free to actually do and be those things to feel comfortable. And therefore, I need to find a place to work that puts up with me in all my awkward, sarcastic glory.

Yes, I will grow up a little. Yes, I will be professional. But I will never be happy in a place that I'm not allowed to be just the tiniest bit snarky. Never. If everyone is perfectly wrinkle-free and put together, I'll spend my time feeling uncomfortable and out of place instead of focusing on my work. I think realizing and acknowledging this is a good step. I may not have any concrete career ideas, but I feel like I'm getting closer to understanding what I'm looking for*. And that’s a good thing. 

(*…it’s snacks. I'm looking for snacks.)

[afewwordsworth]

1/6

My first semester of law school has come to a grinding, screeching halt. I have lived to tell about it, though I'm not quite sure how. The first thing that needs to be said right off the bat is that this was the longest four months of my life. I've done challenging things before, been through long days and periods of sleeplessness. But never have I had such a harrowing series of days and weeks strung together. It seems like I've lived in this little apartment across the street from Notre Dame for at least a year. And yet. (Over break I'm going to check for grey hairs.)

Finals themselves were, to borrow a term of art from the law: unconscionable. To walk into a test and know that whatever you can cough up during that four hours will be 100% of your final grade? That those frantically scribbled sentences will represent four months of diligent, hard work? That's stress like you can't believe. My personal strategy to combat such anxiety was to simply trick myself into a level of denial that none of those things were happening. Of course, these things were happening, and did happen. We'll see how well that approach actually worked out for me when grades are released.

One thing that I can't seem to justify in my mind is the way that the curve at this school operates. It could either be really great for me or really awful, and I suspect it will function in both of those ways during my three years here. The thing is, it's a forced curve. So you're never in control of your own destiny. If you write an A exam, but so did 20 other kids, you'll be forced down on the curve because only so many A's can be given out. And therefore, the evil reality of law school kicks in. Success isn't about how hard you work and how much you know.  It's really about how well you can perform under pressure and how you performed in relation to the other 45 kids sweating and sleep deprived, herded into the same room, taking the same exam you are. That's it. Which is at once terribly unfair and awfully intimidating. So, again, I choose not to think about it. Ignorance really is bliss. (For now. Until grades come out. Are you sensing a pattern yet?)

 The final thing I'd like to note is the sense of camaraderie I feel has been cultivated between my classmates. Even I, an antisocial shut in, can't help but feel that the misery we endure bands us together. Last night I was celebrating the end of the semester with fellow 1L's. I stood watching the strange, erratic, passionate dancing of a whole lot of very smart individuals who, I'm guessing, never won any awards for their twinkle toes. A friend of mine stood next to me and said "wow. I just really love these kids." And I had to simply laugh and shake my head in agreement. Beyond all of my bah humbug and through my anti-people stance, watching them dance and just enjoy each other after going through our first set of exams was a breath of fresh air. They're super weird. Many of them aren't very good dancers. But so am I, and neither am I. These weirdos sat through hours of lectures, confusion, cold calls, and the upheaval of beginning law school with me. I wouldn't want to be in a place where people don't dance at the end of a semester like that. I don't want to go to a place where people don't care about the other people around them. Though, to be sure, there are some of those kids here, the vast majority of my classmates are truly good people. I'm glad I'm surrounded by that. (And I'm also really thankful that I didn't injure myself or anyone else when I joined in the dancing.)

I'm glad I survived. I'm glad that I'm 1/6th a lawyer. I'm glad I didn't assault anyone in a stress-induced rage.

Thanks for the dance, NDLS. See you next semester.

[afewwordsworth]

A Journey of 1,000 Miles Begins with a Single Cookie

I have never run a marathon. 

Due to an ankle with screws in it, a quite literally broken back, and general queasiness at the thought of running for longer than twenty minutes without stopping (what, no snack breaks!?) my usual trots on the treadmills at my apartment complex last eleven minutes. My whimpering after the fact goes on for an hour. 

Marathons suck. I know this because I am a human with the ability to think “wow, twenty-six point two miles? In a row? RUNNING?” 

But this is a constructive knowledge. It’s inferred. I know that marathons would be absolutely terrible because I know what a tiny piece of it is like, and I’m extrapolating that on a larger scale. I can sort of get to the idea of what it would kind of be like in my head, even though I haven’t done it. (And never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER will.) 

You guessed it: this is an analogy for law school. Why else would I talk about running? Gross.

Remember those weeks of college when there was something huge due in every class? And once you finished that week you had nothing to do for the next three? Law school is like that one crazy week, every week. 

Those weeks were the worst. They sucked. I hated them. But once things started getting turned in, once I could be done stressing about a class, I breathed deeply and adjusted my elastic waistband, content to return to Netflix and eating dinners off of the TV tray in my room. 

Unfortunately, law school has seen much less waistband adjusting (although my waistline is bound to expand on its own thanks to stress eating) and Netflixing.

But you know what has been really nice? People in my life are doing that same kind of extrapolation I was doing earlier with marathons. My mom has been sending me stuff in the mail constantly–of note: the latest package included cookies AND frosting (see previous point about expanding waistline)–I get videos of my nephew to cheer me up on bad days, my friend sent a care package when I got sick, and all kinds of people have offered help, home cooked meals, a ride to the airport, even a place to live over the summer if I need it. Someone I haven’t seen in four years told me last weekend “if you ever need anything, ever get sick, you call me.” That floored me. Nobody is doing this because I’m a shining star of a person. If anything, law school has done the impossible and made me even more insufferable. Pure goodness of heart is driving these gestures.

None of these people I’m referring to have been to law school. They’ve never had this experience. It’s not like they are empathizing with me because they were in my shoes once. Beyond that, none of them are actually obligated to do any of these things. I chose this, and I should be able to do it with or without the kind gestures of others.

But they care, and they look at my life and realize that it probably would be nice to have cookies, to eat a real meal, or to get three different kinds of Reeses in the mail. (To that point, yes, it was really, really nice for all of those things to happen). Because if we’re being honest, the first year of law school is...calamitous. And that's just how it goes. So I guess the point is to say thanks. I owe you. All of you. Once I’m more of a human (read: done with this first year), I’ll take you out for coffee or something. Not all at once. That’s impossible. But the sentiment stands. 

Law school, my good friends, is a marathon. It’s a grind. And it’s hard. And I feel extremely lucky to have people holding signs up while I plod past the mile markers that say “run faster” and “you’re drooling, close your mouth."

[afewwordsworth]

Do Buffaloes Wear Leotards When They Tap Dance?

I need to preface this by saying that I love my living situation. The apartment is nice and new and clean and close to campus and I live by myself which means the whole fridge is mine and I control the thermostat and can wear jammies without judgment and none of this in any way is meant to complain about it because it is great. (Read the preceding sentence in an escalating cadence). It simply is also rife with exasperating circumstances and jokes regarding and stemming from said circumstances. (Starting to get concerned that every post starts with a sweeping disclaimer.)

In my short time as an adult (living away from home), I have lived in multiple dorm rooms, a condo, and for one glorious summer; a couch. Now, however, I have embarked upon the magical journey of apartment living. I didn’t really expect it to be different from living in a condo. I mean, same idea: a number of units with tenants stacked on one another. And yet. And yet. Let me tell you, it is a whole new world.

In the condo I spent most of my college years inhabiting, my roommates and I were the only students in the development. The average age of the residents, if you didn’t count us, was 167. Give or take a decade. Now I live in an apartment complex that actually requires you to be a student. Specifically, you’re required to be a graduate student. And thus comes the first head scratcher: I never actually had to prove that I was a graduate student. Or a student at all. I think at some point I told the leasing manager (we will get to her, don’t you worry) that I was going to be in law school. Other than that, my student ID was never taken, they never gave me a polygraph, nothing. So there’s that.

Next: I am on the second floor. And while most of the time it really is rather quiet for being a building full of students, it just so happens that there is a family of tap dancing buffalo that live right above me and practice every night at about 10pm. (The routine needs work. About halfway through they lose emotion and the audience loses interest. Perhaps there should be a change of rhythm in their tap sequence in order to...wait. I digress.) Have I witnessed this? No. I'm keeping an eye out for hoof-shaped tap shoe shoeboxes in the dumpsters outside, but to no avail so far. As of now, the evidence is entirely circumstantial but you should trust me because I’m almost a lawyer*. 

The most interesting aspect of living in an apartment is the interaction with the property manager. This one woman is basically in charge of the home life of two entire buildings full of stressed out alleged grad students. Her name is Jeri which is a little upsetting to me just because that seems like it should not be the name of a lady but I assume she had no say in the matter so I try not to hold it against her. There’s an urban legend floating around (ok, fine, I started it) that she actually lives in the leasing office. The leasing office itself is not just an office. It has a full kitchen, which seems a little strange, right? One time, on a whim, I opened the fridge as I was passing through. (I'm like a child–I touch everything). It was fully stocked. A few days ago I went in to get a package and there was a loaf of bread sitting on the counter. One, single, solitary loaf of white bread with a few slices missing. Coincidence? I think not. Someday when I have free time or 12 hours of free time at night I want to do a stakeout of the office and see if I catch her in her jammies getting a snack from the kitchen. I suppose she could live there and that it wouldn’t be so strange since she’s the manager, but it still strikes me as weird and kind of hush hush and thus I have made it into a rumor. You have to make your own fun. Stop judging me. I can feel it.

Speaking of the package room, (which I do speak of, in a bewildered tone, often), it is out of control. There is a room designated for packages in the leasing office. Ok, makes sense, our mailboxes are too small to fit packages. The leasing office is accessible 24 hours a day with a key, so you can get your package whenever. Still following. Once you actually enter the room, it gets hard to follow. Literally. Because there are boxes. Everywhere. The shelves typically have some packages precariously perched on their extremities, but usually the majority of the mail is strewn across the floor, one on top of another, in dirty piles that have been rifled through by the last poor soul to try to find their item, and generally a big fat mess. Trying to dig out a package is a challenge that should not be taken lightly. According to Jeri, the room is “organized.” I use quotes because the day she sent that message stating that she had "organized" the package room, I stopped by. As usual I was greeted by the cacophony of cardboard that is always there, and noticed that there was a package addressed to her thrown on the floor. She was in her office a few feet away, totally unaware, basking in the glory of telling us all the room was organized when indeed it was not. (The humanity!) Unless she is using a highly sophisticated system that requires the floor and disregards things like alphabetical order and unit numbers, it has never been organized.

One last thing about property managers: they love signs. Ours has put at least 15 different signs on every entrance door to the building over the last two months. After a few weeks of confusion, I think I have parsed out the system that these operate under. This is a working theory, and may be wrong. Nevertheless, so far, I’ve determined that a sign typed in black font is inconsequential (We will be testing the pipes in the units today September 26th I apologize for the inconvenience), all caps means it might happen but likely won’t (SORRY FOR CONFUSION WE WILL BE ENTERING THE UNITS TO TEST THE PIPES TODAY SEPTEMBER 27TH I AM SORRY) and written in red ink plus all caps means that she might lose her mind (WE WILL BE TODAY, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 29TH ENTERING THE UNITS TO TEST THE PIPES. SORRY FOR MIX UP).

Of note: it is unknown if anyone actually had their pipes tested.

I assume there will be follow up sign soon.

*I am not really almost a lawyer. I am at least three years away from that title. And that's if I actually, like, pass. It sounded cool and I went for it. Thank you for your consideration.