Law School Redux
My second-to-the-last column for the Star. Written on Justin's Mac notebook in his apartment on St. Marcel (soon to be home for the next month, complete with cable TV and DSL, yahoo!!).LAW SCHOOL REDUXThe last time I was in a law school classroom was a good five years ago, and I still can remember that feeling of terror that gripped my soul, made my palms sweat, and paralyzed all speech patterns as soon as the school bell rang (to think that I was the teacher then).
And so I swore off anything remotely related to legal education (which probably explains my aversion to watching The Practice or Your Horror, er Honor) and blissfully plodded through my career aided only by that wonderful thing they call PhilJuris, Supreme Court circulars, and gossip from fellow lawyers about some new ruling or another. But then again, I’ve always had a short memory, or, to put it even more precisely, a masochistic streak, and one day a few weeks ago I found myself back in the classroom, getting (or at least trying to get) educated, and falling asleep in the middle of a lecture.
I guess the fact that I’d be learning more about the law at the Sorbonne in Paris deluded me into thinking that this time around would be different. Or that I’d be exchanging intelligent conversation on jurisprudence with a hundred other lawyers and law students from all over the world in one of Paris’ oldest universities. But some things never really change, and I’ve finally come to the conclusion that law school is truly hazardous to your health.
Mental and otherwise, I mean. When I first got my casebooks and materials for two classes, I knew right then that this wasn’t the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had. Lugging two tons of material back and forth and trying not to accidentally assault anyone in the Metro with your heavy load is definitely not fun. What’s worse is trying to make heads or tails out of all the weird comparative law cases they ram down your throat while the whole City of Lights is exploding all around you.
Trying to stay alert in class after a night of serious drinking (now I remember why and how [ex-writing partner] and I acquired the habit in the first place) is still something I haven’t quite mastered yet, despite all the years of trying to stay alert in court after having had one too many. Stale law professors likewise seem to be a universal curse, and I immediately reverted to my old habits of passing bitchy notes and playing hangman with my seatmate, just to keep me from passing out from sheer boredom. I also began to digest cases again, a tedious task made even worse by my anal tendency of writing notes in different colors of ink.
Speaking of which, there are a few things that are different from the good old days at Malcolm Hall. A laptop is now
de rigeur, which in my opinion takes the discipline out of selective note taking; although it qualifies you for a job as a court stenographer. I’ve had to resist reaching back and slapping the girl behind me who was annoyingly tapping away, transcribing everything but the drool that came out of our professor’s mouth. And all those lovely American case series books were so much different from our pathetic photocopied text books that we used just to get kickbacks from our book allowances.
But aside from that, I kept getting a strange feeling of déjà vu, especially while discreetly snacking in the middle of Professor Picard’s dissertation on the French appellate system. The sinking feeling I used to have walking back home to face a ton of reading material was back, with the recurring nightmare of not making it in time for your exam then waking up in a pool of sweat, realizing with relief that you passed the Bar seven years ago. The weirdest thing was that one of my lawyer friends actually lived through that…after we had studied through the whole night, he almost had a coronary (in the process giving me one as well) when he couldn’t get his laptop to print out his notes for the open book finals until five minutes after the exams had started. Tsk tsk, so much for laptop notes; give me a notebook and pen any time.
Relationship dynamics are pretty much the same as well, confirming my theory that law school is just one big professional high school. Cliques immediately started to form from day one, although for the first few days we had a tendency to travel in big, noisy hordes that could never get a table at the tiny cafes. After that, the wheat was separated from the chaff : the nerds who traveled halfway around the world to get an education locked themselves in their dorm rooms, the clubbers hit almost every dance club in Paris til the wee hours whilemiraculously making it to class the next day, and the drinkers managed to discover some of the nastiest pubs on the planet in an effort to find a place where people spoke English. Some kids, barely out of their teens, tried to hook up with anyone and everyone willing and able, which provided this aging soul with hours of entertainment pleasure. Then there were the usual ugly rumors spread about who was going out with whom, and who liked who, and who was in bed with whoever the night before. That too was entertaining for a while, before I started to get sick of adolescent behavior.
But now that finals are over and almost everyone has gone off somewhere, I remember why those four years in law school were some of the best of my life. I did some crazy things, studied my butt off, survived the ordeal intact, and made friends for life. And that’s how I’m feeling right now, hanging out in vacation mode with a few buddies from both ends of the earth who I know I’ll not forget any time soon. This brief excursion back to law school was well worth the experience, notwithstanding the damage done to lungs and liver!
18 August 2002
Return of the Comeback
I was surfing the Net when I came across an archive of some of my old Philippine Star columns - the last few articles, in particular, before my writing partner and I officially "fell out" - not of love, as some people are wont to believe (triple yuck!), but out of each other's favor. Good thing we got too old to continue writing for the Young Star, and thus our writing tandem just "faded away" discreetly (better than mutual homicide). But, anyway. Here's the very very last article I ever wrote for the Star, via the old Court of Last Retort column. Was fun while it lasted, but we all need to move on sometime (thank God) :-)
Backgrounder: I wrote this when I was hibernating in Chicago, right after my Sorbonne expedition (Ney was a "resource person" via instant messenger and voice chat). My world was falling apart at the seams, but, looking back, I wouldn't have gotten to "where I am" without the turmoil I was going through what I did. I thank God for the storms that show us what and Who really matter in our lives. And for giving me a sense of humor that never quite abandoned me even in the toughest of times!GQ(Chicago, IL) Chivalry is not dead; neither is it just a brand of preserved squid. It may be moribund, given the actuations of some 21st century Neanderthals, but there are still some remnants of the old school of good manners and proper gentlemanly conduct that have kept alive my flagging faith in the male species. This, my friends, is an ode to those men who defy all standards of modern macho indifference and who have staunchly insisted on observing behavior that is both gentle and genteel.
I grew up in an environment where gender equality was the norm. My family has for generations encouraged excellence in whatever field its female members decided to pursue, even if it meant breaking traditional expectations of staying home barefoot and pregnant. The school I went to didn’t give a flying funicular about your sex, sexuality, or sexual preference. The career I chose required boozing with the boys, busting balls, and basically being a bad-assed bastard. But while I consider myself a full-fledged feminist (or perhaps because I am one), I’m still a sucker for being treated like a lady instead of a gender-less coequal. My best guy friend Ney, who has volunteered himself as a resource person on the topic, explains the reason behind this is that chivalry makes a woman feel more like, well, a woman, and “no matter how independent or contemporary a girl may be, she’ll always enjoy being treated like a fragile, delicate, treasured thing.” While I don’t quite approve of the comparison to bone china or petrified butterflies, I can understand where he’s coming from.
And I’m not alone in this sentiment. Major
pogi points are awarded to any guy who insists on opening doors, standing up when a woman arrives or leaves, and taking extra care of any member of the female persuasion, whether he’s interested in her or not. Girls will swoon about a man’s good breeding and impeccable decorum, even if they make the mandatory protestations to the contrary. It gets to the point when you actually count on certain behavior from men – like walking on the dangerous side of the street, pulling out chairs, or carrying your shopping bags --- and there’s always a tiny bit of disappointment (as well as a major drop in market value) when they fall short of expectations. But then again, according to Ney, “I enjoy being a gentleman to women who don’t demand it from me.”
Pinoy men are, for the most part, spoiled brats who think themselves the center of the universe and are therefore not exactly poster boys for chivalrous behavior. This makes the rare Filipino gentleman all the more esteemed, with thanks due to his mother who actually taught him good manners instead of tolerating uncouth conduct. Our resource person says that gentlemanliness is less about being polite than showing genuine respect towards the opposite sex, and that this behavior is acquired over years of being sensitive to women’s needs, starting from immediate female members of a man’s family. The scarcity of this breed of well-mannered males has in turn spawned a generation of Filipina women who wouldn’t recognize a refined gesture if it hit them over the head. I should know; there was once a time when I kept on scooting up and down the back seat while my date played
patintero with the car doors trying to figure out why the heck I didn’t stay where he’d seated me.
The Europeans have a thing or two to teach most other men (or women, for that matter!) about gentility. I had dinner recently with two perfect gentlemen from Denmark and Austria: they poured the Kir, savored their salads, gently criticized their entrees, and engaged in light, dining-friendly banter while all the time closely attending to their female companions…and both of them were barely out of their teens! I honestly expected them to get up and start waltzing after the meal. Americans, despite being given a bad rap, aren’t so bad either. There has always been some nice man to help me get my carry-on in and out of the overhead compartment (which I can never manage to do due to er, vertical limitations), and one of the guys I went to school with refused to let me walk to the Metro in Paris by myself at night, no matter how much I indignantly threatened him with bodily harm. These are the little gestures that stand out because they’ve become so uncommon, which is sort of strange because they’re very simple acts that require hardly any effort but produce spectacularly appreciative results.
And so, with the end in view of reviving the comatose art of gentlemanly behavior, here’s a little list of doable items that will hopefully promote proper courtly conduct and earn you those much needed
pogi points in the process. But one last piece of advice from the gallant Sir Ney of the computer table: consistency is always the key. If you act the gentleman only to impress or if you’re selective in treating certain women in a special way, you’ll be eventually be exposed as a second-hand, trying hard copycat who will immediately revert to boorish ways once you get what you want.
1.
Open the door, open her heart. It’s the most basic gesture that many modern men have unfortunately failed to observe. Don’t rush ahead and let the door slam in her face; instead, unobtrusively pull/push the portal open and step aside, letting her go through first. The same applies with car doors…make sure she’s safely in the vehicle and buckled up before zooming off and leaving her eating your dust. An optional action is opening the door to let her out, but by the time you jump out into traffic to get to the other side she might already be halfway into the mall.
2.
Get up, stand up. This may be a little unusual, not to mention a tad unwieldly, but it’s endearing to witness the few men who actually stand up upon a lady’s arrival and departure. However, this is the one rule that requires selective application: it does not require bobbing up and down on your chair every time a waitress approaches the table, and may be waived in case one of the women in your company should unfortunately suffer from incontinence.
3.
Walk the extra mile. Once upon a time, a friend and I tried to teach (insert ex-writing partner's name here) the art of escorting a woman to her car at the end of the night, a gentlemanly practice that is not only polite but extremely considerate. No matter what they say, women will always appreciate the fact that you make sure they get home safe and sound, unmolested by fly-by-night traffic enforcers out to make a quick buck, kidnap-for-ransom gangs, or (ex-writing partner).
4.
Carrying the burden. Now this a girl could get used to…men who will not only actually shop with you, but who will take every little bag off your hands so you’re free to scrounge about for more finds. I have male friends who insist on burdening themselves with all the packages I manage to accumulate over a whole day of shopping; one guy even insisted on carrying my hand bag while I went through the racks. Hmmm, but now that I think of it, my purse did match his shoes.
5.
Nice guys always finish first. Gentlemanly conduct, at bottom, is basically a manifestation of decent human behavior. No amount of door-opening or chair-pulling can compensate for an inconsiderate, churlish personality…a true gentleman is one who is chivalrous inside and out. Thank goodness for these rare specimens like Sir Ney who continue to fight the good fight and keep looking out for damsels not necessarily in distress…may their tribe increase and prosper!
23 August 2002
Men Are From Mars...
My mentors in the realm of committed relationships happen to be two Christians I look up to and deeply respect. But right there, across the dinner table,
Ate Ardis was vehemently disagreeing with
Kuya Joe Dean, slapping his beefy forearm for emphasis, and, at the height of her annoyance, pulling at his ear as if he were a incorrigible (read:
pasaway) toddler. I have the highest regard for their relationship as a Christian married couple, and I’ve come to realize over all this time of observation that the best marriages take a LOT of working at. After all, Christian or not, both husband and wife are still human, with flaws and failings and psychotic moments (thank goodness that Christians consciously aspire to act more divine than human, or, God forbid, to submit to baser animal instincts). More about what I learned from them soon.
Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. I just finished reading that book, and man, was it an eye-opener. Who knew that men had all these weird irritating dispositions designed to drive a woman crazy (without their intending it!). I used to make a pretty good living being the female point-of-view of a “He Said-She Said” newspaper lifestyle column, especially since I played the mega-bitch to my former writing partner’s chauvinist pig, but very few people know that the hostility that brewed in our differing opinions was more real than apparent. Because my ex-writing partner really, truly was a chauvinist pig. And I really, truly wanted to push him off our 20th floor office balcony whenever I’d mention it. Oh all right, I admit that I was a mega-bitch as well, especially in those hedonistic pre-renewal the-world-revolves-around-me feminist days. But that’s changed quite a bit since then.
Case in point. A little while back, my BFF (Best Female Friend, for the uninitiated) was venting on her vehement refusal to leave these sunny shores to join her partner-in-life’s intended repatriation to Europe for better employment opportunities. She’d decided to let him leave while she and the kids carried on life as usual in the friendlier climes of Manila. But my fellow überbitch must be mellowing out, because she, in an apparent attack of conscience, subsequently declared: “Am I so bad??!? What would
you do?”
My old, jaded, bitingly trenchant self would have said, “Live and let him leave! My happiness comes first, let him take me, as I am,
where I am if he really loves me.” But I shocked even myself by my sage response: “I would be more miserable separated from the person I love even if I were in paradise.” And thus, feminism lost one of its greatest allies on that day. Who would have thunk that I had that kind of romantic selflessness in me? Eww! But yeah, apparently I do.
Men will be men. Unfortunately. Many of my closest friends are men; I’ve preferred to hang out in the company of men even before those
When Harry Met Sally arguments, simply because they have no pretenses (most of the time I was the only girl left at the table, talking life and shop with my guy friends while my girl friends all retired
en masse to the powder room for two hours. I only go to the ladies’ room to pee, for heaven’s sake, and I certainly don’t need a support group to do that!). Don’t get me wrong; I have fantastic female friends, but they’re strong, independent, authentic, no-nonsense females (oh ok, I have girly female friends too, but at least they’re genuine, strong internally, and have embraced their girliness without feeling the need to use it to manipulate). Men are just simpler to deal with. But apparently, at bottom, I am truly a woman – because I still find men way too complicated to understand!
Men are from Mars… is a big help, especially when it talks about men’s allergy against confrontation (huh? And I used to think that guys would break into a fistfight at the drop of a hat). Apparently they don’t like to talk about problems. Not sure about that, because my BMF likes to talk about his problems (I think that’s the reason he has two females as his best friends over almost 20 years, because we listen instead of trying to fix his life…most of the time anyway). Although I’ve never known him to willingly confront the person he has problems with, so I guess he’s par for the course. And men’s tendency to “withdraw into their cave”…what the heck? The diametrical opposite of women’s instincts to come out into the open and thresh issues out. Hmmmm. That explains a whole lot. But it’s still enough to drive you to drink.
And I’m so sure that men find women weird to deal with as well (mainly because men keep running into their freaking caves instead of sticking around to figure us out!). I should probably start writing again about how a woman’s mind and heart works (minus my aggravating ex-writing partner’s annoying side comments) – and I think I will, in the next succeeding entries. While I normally wouldn’t be caught dead recommending any Hollywood movies,
What Women Want (starring Mel Gibson) and
Hitch (Will Smith) should be good introductions into the female psyche. Or, in many a case, the female psycho. Oh yeah, I know exactly what stir-crazy looks like. Been there, done that. Trying desperately never to go there again!
Spoiled Rotten
I'm told that I "spoil" people - and that's quite the truth, especially when it comes to friends and loved ones near and dear. This long weekend, I finally identified the culprit behind this tendency of mine: my extended family in the provincial setting.
Living in Manila requires constantly looking out for one's self - we only have ourselves and our immediate family to depend upon on a day-to-day basis. But in the province, where life is a lot more laid back and the hours seem to lazily saunter by (as opposed to rushing past at breakneck speed in the metropolis), genuine genteel Filipino-style hospitality is more the norm than the exception. You're spoiled rotten from the moment you wake up - and you awake very slowly, with the happy realization that you don't need to be anywhere particularly important - except perhaps for the heavily-laden breakfast table. More pampering as the day sleepily rolls on: because the family, from all parts of the country and the five continents, is all here, you've got
lechon for lunch, dinner, and leftover
lechon for tomorrow's breakfast (with matching off-the-chart cholesterol levels; good thing there's always melt-in-the-mouth genuine Ilocano tomato-ey
pinakbet to "counter" the toxicity). In a few minutes I will be getting a manicure-pedicure from a lady who does
home service (sheer bliss) - for a fraction of the price I'm used to in Manila. I wonder if my uncle's masseur is available today... And then at 5:00 p.m., another party to commemorate my Lolo's
waksi (in Tagalog,
babang-luksa: the end of the year-long period of mourning). The two most-exclaimed words over this long holiday:
mangan manen?! (literally, we're eating again?). Makes me wonder why the heck I'm in so much of a rush to get home later tonight (actually, I've been - very easily - convinced to leave before dawn to make the most of tonight's party time).
I realized today that I spoil people because I've been spoiled, for as long as I remember, by my family, in this manner. For lack of a better way to phrase it, spoiling begets spoiling, just as love - and there's a lot of that going around in this family from Abra - begets love. You just can't help but pass it on. Speaking of which, pass the
lechon sauce (if you are geenyoowinely Ilokano,
bagoong and
kamatis)...and the Norvasc, while you're at it. Again, may I just say:
daytoy iti biag!
