Found it.

I recently finished a summer internship as a legal clerk in the Domestic Violence Prosecution Unit of the Office of the District Attorney General. The internship was an amazing experience, and has certainly shaped my future career. Prior to working at the DA’s office, my exposure to the criminal justice system was limited to television and movies. After a quick introduction to prosecutorial life, the seven prosecutors in my assigned unit threw me right into the fast lane. I followed them to court appearances, negotiations with defense attorneys, interviews with victims, and even a visit to a crime scene in the projects. Prosecutorial work is very fast-paced and exciting. There is never a dull moment down in the courtrooms or behind-the-scenes.

From my limited exposure to prosecutors on television, I expected the fast pace and quick thinking; that is what drew me to the job initially. I will be twenty-six years old when I graduate law school. At this point in my life, I cannot imagine sitting behind a desk in a law firm waiting for the chance to step in a courtroom. I want to be in the middle of the action now, while I’m young. Money and fancy offices can wait. Most of the prosecutors I’ve met have a lot in common. They are young, energetic, overworked, underpaid, and the happiest group of lawyers I’ve ever met. They find fulfillment in their work and happiness in the time they have to themselves – a rarity in the legal profession.

After the first week or two at the DA’s office, the job seemed manageable. There weren’t a lot of particularly difficult legal issues to deal with, and minimal research and writing. The hardest aspect of working in domestic violence seemed to be getting victims to come to court or to testify once they got there. So many victims are terrified of their abusers, or too compassionate to prosecute, making the prosecutor’s job difficult, if not impossible.

As I got more involved with the cases that the attorneys in my office handled, I started to realize that the hardest parts of prosecutorial work had to do, not with the legal aspect of the cases, but with the ethical and moral dilemmas attached to every case. As I watched how the attorneys handled suppressing their emotional responses in order to follow the law, my respect for them grew exponentially.

This is what I want to do.

Law school is kind of like hell

Law school is kind of like hell, except that it’s not quite as hot. It’s like a guy – a bad boy – the kind of guy you know you shouldn’t date, but then you find yourself in a committed relationship and you can’t quite figure out how to get out, or if you want to. You’re afraid its going nowhere, and he’s driving you crazy, but you just can’t let go. That’s law school. It’s the good and the bad and the very, very ugly. It’s grueling and competitive; it deprives you of everything you’ve ever enjoyed doing during that archaic concept you used to call “free time.” You can’t have friends outside of school because:

a) you don’t have time for them, and

b) you can’t talk about anything besides law and that bores them.

You make lists and outlines constantly because:

a) it’s a good way to procrastinate but still feel like you’re accomplishing something, and

b) you think in outlines now.

You look forward to weekends because it’s a great opportunity to catch up on your income tax reading, and maybe even review notes from the previous two weeks. And even though you’re busy as hell, you engage in activities to make your life busier than hell. You compete for law review and moot court and mock trial and you join organizations, start organizations, attend meetings, meet with professors, join study groups, and anything else that might add to that one page resume.

Not to mention the job search. Sending out dozens of resumes and waiting for the rejection letter. If you actually make it to the interview phase, you interview and then wait for the rejection letter. You write and re-write your resume and draft twenty cover letters, all the while wondering why you did all those things you did before law school because none of them really matter anymore. All that matters are those grades, honors, and accomplishments you do in those three precious years. All the jobs, volunteer work, and great references no longer mean shit. Your 4.0 GPA in college means nothing next to your 2.5 or so GPA in law school. Graduating summa cum laude with a double major in four years felt like an accomplishment until I got to law school, where everyone graduated summa cum laude with a double major in four years at least. Lots of your fellow students have more than a Bachelor of Arts; some have MBAs, Ph.D.s. Some were professors when you were still in college.

So why, why, why, why did I choose this route? I’m here voluntarily; no one is forcing me. There are other things I could have done. I could have taught French in France or gotten my masters in English. I could have taught, maybe even at a university. I could have been a writer. Those would have been enjoyable jobs, so why did I decide to put myself through three years of hell and tons of debt to be a lawyer?

I know why I did it, and why I will continue to do it. I know why I’ll stay in all the “extra-curriculars,” work hard on law review, and harder studying for exams. I know why I’ll send out the endless stream of resumes and participate in the mock trial competition and wake up early and stay up late and forget to eat and overdose on caffeine and spend countless hours in the basement of the ugly old library. I know why I put myself through this hell. It’s the same reason I never can let go of the bad boy relationship.

Because I f*&^%g love it.

the hurricane

The wind that made up those devastating hurricanes hundreds of miles south is passing through the open windows of my apartment. The air that smells so fresh and feels so cool carries the remnants of a great city that used to be a kingdom overlooking a vast lake. Traveling up north, I was proud to say how close I lived to New Orleans, how I’d walked on Bourbon Street, eaten at the Café du Monde. I’d brag about how I could distinguish a southern Louisiana accent from a Memphis one, claiming it was the prettiest accent in the South. I’ve always been proud to be a Southern girl, and loved talking about how deeply rooted my family was in the Southern states. I’d spent summer breaks visiting my aunt down near Gulfport, my cousins in Shreveport and Beaumont, and the family reunions in Deweyville, Texas. I remember driving along the gulf coast with my brother from Alabama to Florida, listening to Otis Redding and admiring the beauty of that part of the country. My cousin, her baby and I made a trip down to Long Beach to visit my aunt one summer. We ate the best shrimp in the world and my aunt made blueberry muffins with fresh blueberries. It was the baby’s first time to see the ocean. She probably won’t remember it, but I will never forget how adorable she was in her little yellow swimsuit and white floppy hat, playing in the sand and clinging onto us when we would carry her a few feet into the water.

My aunt has the most beautiful accent. She says “Nuolins” in a way only a true Southern woman can. Sometimes the reporters on CNN make me mad when they pronounce it “Nu-or-leeens,” as if correcting our pronunciation. Sometimes I’m just looking for someone to be mad at. All of us Memphians just want to be mad - at the President, FEMA, the state and local governments – but the evacuees aren’t like that. They aren’t trying to blame anyone, they just want to get back to their homes, if their homes still exist. Some of them just want a place to sleep, some water and food, some kindness. I went to my grandmother’s house today where about ten of our relatives are staying because they have no where else to go. They had brought some shrimp up from the gulf and made a feast that they took great Louisiana pride in. I had a couple intimate conversations with relatives I hadn’t seen since my elementary school years. They try not to talk about the Hurricane, about their fears that, when they are allowed to go back, there will be nothing to go back to. My great-aunt Bessie lives on the same property where she and my grandfather and the other twelve or thirteen siblings grew up. She was worried about the cows, horses, and dogs. Her concerns were not for money or her own well-being. She even felt guilty worrying about the dogs, with so many more serious problems. She said a friend of hers stayed back with her terminally-ill mother who passed away right as the hurricane approached. The authorities said they would not be able to pick up the body for days, maybe longer, because the roads were impassable and the rescue teams had to focus on rescuing the living. Aunt Bessie’s friend weathered the storm with her father and her mother’s body. They couldn’t even leave their house. Aunt Bessie felt so sorry for them and said it put things in perspective for her. She has probably lost everything she has ever known, yet her main concern is that other people have it worse.

My great-uncle Jerry hadn’t seen me since I was a kid, but he and I bonded quickly once we found out that we were both outcast democrats. His jovial nature made us all feel like everything was going to be fine, and he gave us reason to laugh when we needed it most. When he heard from a friend that every pine tree in his little town was broken in half, I could see the fear and shock set in. As he left the room, he told me what he had heard. “That’s everything I’ve ever worked for. That’s it, I don’t have anything else.” I couldn’t think of words to respond with, so I muttered something about “at least you have your family.” He was very kind and knew I was speechless, but I regretted even trying to console him. How can you console an elderly man who has just lost every personal possession he has ever owned? I wanted to cry but I didn’t feel worthy. Instead, I did the dishes and took out the trash. I really was learning what speechlessness felt like, something I had never experienced before.

CNN keeps searching for something excitingly horrible to report. Hurricane Rita wasn’t as devastating as Hurricane Katrina a few weeks earlier, so they have to act like they are relieved. They are like hawks, just sitting there waiting for the next death count, the next government error, burning building, broken levy. There is a lot of destruction from Rita, but its not in a major town, like the New Orleans disaster, and it didn’t hit land with the terrible force that Katrina did. At the same time, the reporters act like because an entire metropolitan area wasn’t wiped out, there is nothing significant to report. They mention the hardest hit areas in Beaumont, Port Arthur, and Galveston as if these losses are insignificant. It’s sickening.