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September is a beautiful month.  It seems especially beautiful this year.  The sun is shining often.  The flowers continue to be bright.  The leaves are only showing a hint of daring to turn their brilliant southern Ontario orangy red, and the Queen’s students are as purple as ever with their stiff mohawks, backpacks, and new routines. 

Ahhhh, September … a great time for reflection.  The energy and bustle of the university campus evidence of the world’s constant churn, for as sure as the sun shines in September, a new crop of students arrives … wearing purple skin … some with mohawks … and some with purple mohawks.  Ever worried I might hit one as I crane to focus on a student carrying a mattress, lumber, a toilet plunger, and a flag, September always reminds me to pay attention as I drive through the busy streets of campus. 

The contrast between me … mid-life student … and note-from-Mom-mohawk-toilet-plunging-student is ever striking. 

“How on earth did I end up here?”  I think to myself as I navigate through the sea of comers and goers.  It does seem only a moment ago that I followed up my undergraduate degree with a life education in marriage, parenthood, and divorce.  Mere minutes since I heard him say “Law school?  You can’t go to law school?” as I surfed the web and my mind to find any semblance of confidence that I could and would actually get in and make it through.  So odd.  That person was wearing my skin, living my life, and was so not me.  “Thank God I ended up here” I say with eyes to the sky.

I will never forget the day that I received my LSAT score.  It was a beauty.  On the phone with a friend, she yet again playing the role of cheerleader, when the email alert popped into my box.  “Hang on Sheri”, I said.  “I think I need to check something.”  A pause and a gasp, followed by a gulp - “Oh my gaaaaawd” I say slowly, half-laughing, “I did it.  I really really did it.” 

The score. 

My score.

It was far more than the score I thought I needed as a mature student with a lifetime of unique experiences courtesy of my career in the Army.  It was that very moment that I realized that I could become a lawyer.  That I would become a lawyer.  And here I am.  Becoming a lawyer.

With one small distinction, this September is not that different from the other three that have preceded it.  This year, the pressures of a day job have subsided to the luxury of full-time government sponsored education.  What a gift to no longer balance full-time employment with the demands of school and single-motherhood.  “I will be able to be a better student this year,” I tell myself.  “Responsible with deadlines.” “Attentive.”  “Studious, even.” 

“With even more time to daydream.”

I recognize few familiar faces among the students at the school this year.  Among the unfamiliar, the first years are easy to spot.  They move in large groups, just as I did the first few days I spent at Queen’s Law in 2006.  I hear them bouncing words and ideas around.  Starbucks. Party. Westlaw. Deference.  September takes me back to my first foray into the use of legal jargon – analogous … “a-nal-juss” “a-nal-a-gus” … I just couldn’t get it out of my mouth and feel like myself all at the same time.

“Who are you to use a word like that?” my ‘out of body’ companion self-conscience remarked.  “On a balance of probabilities … circular argument … must be reconciled” I would hear myself say, scarcely understanding their proper use and meaning. 

“Preema fashey”.  “Prima face-ey”.  Oh bother.

“Fraud.” I would think to myself.  

How far I have come in this grand course on getting over myself.  September continues to serve me this platter.  A bit of where I have been.  A bit of where I am at.  A lot of daydreams of where I will go.

“Do you like law school?” she asked me as she fidgeted with the pile of white cardigans for the fiftieth time without even really looking at them.

“I do.” I said.  “I really do.”

“Is it hard?”

“No.”

“I mean not really.” I quickly follow up, instantly feeling the need to qualify what I meant for wont of seeming arrogant and over-confident.   “It’s a good fit for me.  I feel like it exploits the things that I’m good at and those that come easily to me.  Things like reading and writing and thinking.”  I feel pompous.  “Exploits” I think to myself … “seriously?” the internal voice scolds.

“Don’t get me wrong, it is a lot of work and stress, and the volume is quite something to juggle.  But yeah, I don’t find it overly hard.” I say to add a sense of realism to the romance of higher learning.

“You’re probably just really smart.” she adds.

“No, not really.” I quickly reply without thought or effort but suddenly aware of my issue with the label smart. 

“Huh.  I guess I am smart,” I say turning towards her.  “Isn’t it funny how we sometimes feel like we can’t say these things about ourselves.  It seems braggy or conceited.”

“Really?” she says more than asks.  “I don’t think I’ve ever had a problem with that,” she says.  “For one.  I am not smart.”

“Ha-ha”, I laugh, still mentally fixated on me and my sudden awareness of my issue with being smart … or called smart.  I try to shake it.

“My husband is telling me all the time I should be a lawyer,” she says.  I hear a tone of confession in her voice.  “I think he just gets sick of hearing me whine about cleaning other people’s houses.  AND he knows I love to argue,” she says smiling.  “I am always surfing the net for different courses and articles to read.  There’s just something about the idea of being a lawyer that I’m completely drawn to.  I don’t know though.  I wouldn’t really know where to start.”

In an attempt to get away from my own internal discourse so that I can focus on her, I scan her face and her eyes and her body language as I listen.  I want her to know that I’m taking her seriously, but I don’t have ready words to put her at ease, so I just keep listening.  I add the occasional nod as she continues to ramble on.  At 38, she’s about to become the youngest grandmother I know.  She has no undergraduate degree.  A flair for style and home decorating, I am worried she lives paycheck to paycheck.  On a balance of probabilities, law school is likely well beyond her reach.  

The silver spoon is solid and shiny in my mouth.  My entire education has been government funded on account of my acceptance to military college at 18.  I feel somewhat at a loss to tell a “regular” person how they should go about doing what I’m doing at mid-life, but also somewhat reluctant to convey one iota of discouragement.  It’s her choice to pursue or not, and far be it for me to tell someone that something is not possible.

“There’s lots of options for a career in the legal world,” I finally offer.  “Becoming a lawyer is a really long road, but there’s loads of pathways.” I add, feeling myself toss brightly coloured balls into her court.  “There’s paralegals, legal secretaries, court reporters.  You don’t need an undergrad degree to take up one of those.  The shorter paths are worth some thought.”

“Or you could start at the beginning.” I add to let her know that everything is possible.  “It’s a long road.  Costly in time, energy, effort, and even money, but it all just starts with a leap.”

“Yeahhhhhh,” she says rife with doubt.  “I’ll probably never do it.  Life just goes by so darned quick.” 

“I really admire you for following your dream.” she adds after a long sigh.  “I think I’m going to try this one on,” she says holding up a floral sweater fit for a grandmother 20 years our senior.  “I’ll be right back.”

I nod, contemplating her admiration.  It is something. 

How far I’ve come.