Mood: Elevated.

This was the first wake up call I’ve welcomed with open arms. I got the case during the first week of my fellowship and it was in an area of the law that was completely foreign to me. The client came to our office because his public benefits had been denied months earlier. His case was more complicated than simply appealing an agency decision; by the time he arrived, a number of complicated procedural issues had also developed. After getting his intake file, I found a translator in the office who helped me communicate by phone. It turned out that the client received a number of notices from the agency responsible for his benefits, but in not speaking a squib of English, he never understood them. And he didn’t know who to turn to.

I remember my heart sinking when I read his responses to my questions, as rudimentary as they were. “No, I didn’t know what the notice said.” “No, I didn’t know that I could appeal.” “No, I don’t know why they did that to me.” It was only my first week, and I quickly learned that I my heart would sink again and again every week after. But that first moment of heartache would be memorable. My family’s first years in the United States were difficult in a similar way, even though I didn’t personally recognize the extent of our problems at the time. Being so naive and ignorant, I thought the world was full of possibilities for my family in this new country. I also believed my dad was the “most smartest” man in the world. It didn’t matter that my father had to stop attending school at third grade when the Revolution broke out; all that mattered was that he knew so much more than me, which led me to the obvious and logical conclusion that he knew everything—or at least could learn it all if he just wanted.

I remember approaching my father lap one night when I was 6-1/2 years old. He was sitting at this circular, red plastic table my grandmother had sent me and my then-toddler brother months earlier. My father was oversized in comparison, and the nondescript, puffy, yellow-tan jacket he was wearing (and always wore) made his lurch all that much more evident. As I walked toward him, he extended his arms and hoisted me up onto his lap to give me a glimpse at what he had been staring for quite awhile: a bunch of papers. I had started reading by that time, so I was able to sound out the words and syllables I saw in tiny, fine print: “af-fa-day-vit.” I couldn’t understand any of the it, of course, so I turned to my father for an explanation. That’s when I noticed that his eyes, which were generally bright and sparkly, were then deep and dark, and had narrowed in concentration till they were barely visible. I can picture myself admiring my father’s face, thinking how astute he was for being able to read so much of a foreign language.

Looking back, I realize my father didn’t understand the words on those documents. I now see details in his expression that manifested more than mere concentration. His furrowed eyebrows reflected his frustration in and regret of having left his home country without nothing more than dreams; the threads that flowed from the corners of his eyes told the story of an anxious man who feared that he wouldn’t be able to support the little boy sitting on his lap, to whom he wanted to give the world. Knowing what I know now, I would’ve done anything to pull the creases away from my father’s face and tell him that, in time, he would learn enough English to get by, and that he would eventually succeed as a parent too.

You can imagine my surprise when the client, whose limited education had also made his life so hard, appeared at my office in my father’s likeness. The two of us finally met face-to-face when I had to prepare him for his hearing, many months after our initial correspondence. He was already standing by the time I stepped out into the lobby to greet him. On first impression, my client bore no resemblance to my father; he was much taller and his face was much fuller. But still, he had a familiar quality. Then we shook hands. As my client smiled in amusement at the little boy in front of him, I immediately saw it. His smile. It’s the kind that appears when you see the first signs of relief. The kind that you give when you escape a war-torn country to a new land filled with promise and hope—it was the same optimistic smile that came into sight on my father’s face when we arrived in America. It’s also the same smile that drowns under unbearable hardship and fades away when asked about how those hardships have hurt its keeper. My client and my father shared that smile. And coincidentally, wrapped around my client was the same nondescript, puffy, yellow-tan jacket that my father once wore. It stood the test of time.

I know my client is a father with children of his own. He told me so when we met. But a small part of me would like to believe that he’s also the father I knew from those early years. Perhaps in his struggle to make ends meet, my father willed his energies in all ways to reach out for help—across land, space, and time—maybe even as far out as to his son at a point when his son would have enough power to make a difference. And in case that was what happened, I’m relieved my client won his appeal.

I’ve also noticed something different about this experience with the dating service as well. My compatibility with the other OKC members is markedly lower than last time. While my previous compatibility scores ranged from 80% to 95% for a large group of people, the highest score I’ve seen this time around has been 86%; most scores range between 48% and 72%. I guess I’ve grown to be a bigger asshole with the passage of time too. Just wonderful.

Thank you Jim (my enabler) for directing my attention to a special deal that made this luxury purchase so much less guilty.

My heart sank when I found out. It sank several times, actually. I had entrusted Pati, a friend of mine, to check for my bar results knowing that the anticipation of waiting for the webpage to load would have given me a heart attack. I went to knock on Pati’s door after I started seeing celebratory facebook updates flood the glow of my laptop’s screen. When the door slid open and I saw the look on Pati’s typically-jubilant face, I knew something had gone awry. Pati thought—or probably just hoped, for my sake—that she had done something wrong while typing my identification numbers, but I knew that only a miracle would have made someone so astute commit such a careless error. To be prudent, the two of us checked together, twice even. The same result appeared both times, and I felt my heart’s rhythm brake at each instance, perhaps only to reflect hope escaping from its inner chambers. My face must have looked ashen, judging from Pati’s expression. After she and I notified and congratulated my lifelong friend and roommate, Katrina, that she passed (as I knew she would have), I retreated to my own room to grieve.

I tried to prepare myself for the potential fallout. I thought about how failure would affect my legal career and considered how I would tell my family were I to fail the licensing exam, but how well-prepared could I have possibly been when I was also trying to follow the “think positive” mantra? I certainly wasn’t emotionally ready to admit that I failed to meet the expectations of the people so dear to me. I began receiving instant messages within minutes of learning that I had not passed; each warm greeting was followed by a sad response, which was then followed by consolation with sympathy’s specter looming in the background.

These difficult conversations are inevitable when you share the company of overwhelmingly brilliant friends. They’re made awkward by the fact that neither person knows precisely what to say. When people recognize your pain and care deeply enough about you to ask how you’re doing, it’s sometimes hard to tell them you’re okay because you don’t even know how you really feel. It’s even more difficult when your sadness seems to overshadow your friends’ present happiness and success—Wait, did I remember to say congratulations? Should I just tell them that I’ll be fine so they can go ahead and celebrate? Should I try to preempt any forthcoming words of encouragement by posting a status update?

The most crushing aspect of not passing came when I had to break the news to my parents. I’ve been secretly hoping to come out to my parents sometime this year, and passing the Bar and securing a job were crucial junctures: not simply because they would provide me with independent security, but because those two achievements might have given me enough merit badges to successfully lessen the blow of my revelation. It’s no secret that immigrant families find pride in their children, a type of glory that’s often mitigated only by the shame of their children’s failures. My parents would abandon me if they knew that I preferred the companionship of men, unless I were to do well enough in other aspects of my life as to retain some semblance of dignity, or some idea that their investment was not all for naught.

I cried while speaking with my father. I somehow formed this habit when my anxiety peaked the weekend before the Bar. My poor father tried his best to comfort his inconsolable son whom he believed was overcome with the prospect of losing face. That was a small part of the matter; I also cried knowing that with this recent development, an open relationship with my parents, which seemed almost palpable only a few weeks ago, once again becomes a mere fantasy.

I obviously need to view this as a minor setback, if simply to preserve my sanity in the coming months. I’ve been fortunate to receive what I can only describe as an outpour of love and support from friends and family. Some of them have pointed out that I have a variety of skills that aren’t tested by the Bar—skills that have benefited my clients so far. Yet while they make a valid point, I can’t help but feel like Tai when Elton overlooked her for the radiantly-blonde and blue-blooded Cher: Indeed, “[i]f I’m too good for [the Bar], then how come I’m not with [the Bar]?” Maybe I just need one last cry.

Easily the worst: Someone, in the heat of an argument and with a Jersey accent, reminding me that I’m a sexless gay man who can’t practice. Ugh. Way harsh.

In other breaking news, I passed the moral fitness test. Let’s get crazy.

No one seemed to notice. Or at least everyone avoided making a face.

Mom: “Why do you keep making that face?”
Me: “It’s my face. You can only blame yourself.”

[ten minutes elapse]

K: I located food like a hunter-gatherer.
T: [N]ice[,] so [. . . .] you got fruit from the outside?
K: Actually, I looked around the pantry and found whole wheat fruit bars.