'Mom, I Want to be a Lawyer. Please Say That's OK'
By Christina Smith
If my mother were to say, "Jump, Christina," it wouldn't be about whether I would jump, but how high. I'm not intimidated by her demeanor, just afraid I will disappoint her in the end. You see, my mother is my hero. I respect everything about her. She has this ability to comprehend the unknown. She is kind and courageous. But most of all, I love my mother's strength and audacity.
Usually, I am not afraid to talk to my mother about anything. If I ever have a problem, it is my mother whom I run to first for advice. However, there is one thing in this world that I can't talk to her about. I'm afraid that it would disappoint her and it would crush her to know how I really feel about this particular thing. Actually, I have spoken to her about it before, twice to be exact. Once when I was in seventh grade and the second time during my final year of college.
It was in a paper titled "What I Want to be When I Grow Up," that I first told my mother that I wanted to be a lawyer. The only thing she said to me was, "Christina, you wouldn't make a good attorney. You just don't have the personality." I was in seventh grade then—about 12 years old. I was crushed. Here she was a woman before her times, telling me I couldn't be a certain something. My mother went to the University of Nebraska journalism school. She set out to be a journalist. She worked a few years in the field but eventually gave up her career to start a family. After raising a few children she became a stockbroker in the late '60s, early '70s.
When my mother first told me I wouldn't make a good lawyer, I couldn't figure out why. But through the years, it has become obvious why she said what she did. She wanted to be a journalist but gave it up. And here I was, a young girl who could combine words to make a story. In her eyes, I was either born to be a writer or one who could be molded. Through my years of becoming a journalist, my mother would say to me, "I'm so envious of you;" "I get to live the life of a journalist through you."
So back to my seventh-grade paper. After I wrote that I wanted to be a lawyer and handed it in for a grade, my mother told me, "It's not your best work. You should have put just a little more thought into it." I knew she was disappointed in me. I never forgot her words, and it would be years before I would again bring up the topic of wanting to be an attorney. But since that seventh-grade moment, every paper I have written has been about me wanting to be a journalist, because I couldn't stand to hear her crushing words again.
I can't say I made words or feelings up, because in some type of way, I do want to be a journalist. "It would make my mother proud," is what I keep repeating to myself. After awhile, I began to believe what I was telling other people and myself. When I was a sophomore in high school, I got my first internship at a daily newspaper. It was then that I fell in love with the fact I was able to make a difference in everyday people's lives. I could write stories and tell other people about their neighbors—things that had never been told before.
Throughout my high school career, friends and teachers reminded me what my mother had always said to me. Everyone told me I would make a great journalist—that I had the right tools to be one of the best. I never cringed at the words, but deep down inside those words would squeeze my stomach tighter. I don't think I ever told anyone, including best friends, teachers or mentors, that I had this desire to be something different. No one ever knew. I honestly think, looking back, that if I had said something, things might have been different. I might have been able to build up courage and just tell my mother, "I don't want to live the life that you gave up. It's not my fault that you decided to go down a different path." But I didn't. Again, I was afraid of the look of disappointment that would appear on her soft, flawless face.
So, I graduated from high school early to get a head start on my career. I went to a private, liberal arts school, another decision my mother quietly made for me—but after graduating and looking back, mother did know best for me. I think I jump when my mother tells me to, because she has done so much for me. She bought me my first car and she purchased just about anything I ever wanted. Growing up, my family traveled all the time. We would spend the winters in California and the summers in Maine. We went to Europe several times. I had been to every corner of the United States before I turned 18. I was spoiled. When I graduated college six months ago, I was lucky, because I didn't have one dollar in student loans to pay off. Again, my mother paid for everything—I didn't qualify for any financial assistance, and I started at the wrong time to get an academic scholarship.
My mother has never asked me to repay her for anything. At least, she has never said to me, "When are you going to pay me for that new dress I bought you last spring?" But I think in a way, she has asked—only it has been in statement form.
A little over a year ago, I was talking with Brian, my college adviser, and we were just having a conversation about what I was going to do after graduation. I didn't have a clue, and I was scared to death. Here I was on the verge of entering out into the world at 22 years old and, for the first time, I was going to have to be independent, pay my rent and buy my own groceries. I had never had to assume any kind of responsibility before. I thought about going to graduate school—of course, it would have to be either in journalism or English if my mother was going to pay for it. I couldn't afford it on my own. So, my adviser and I were talking and then right out of the blue, he said "Have you ever considered law school, Christina?" I was shocked. My reply was, "Well, um, yes, well, sort of."
For months, Brian kept giving me law school information and telling me to apply. I thought it was interesting, because he was the journalism dean at school. I respected Brian and his opinion about everything, almost as much as I respect my mother's. But Brian was different; he was an outside opinion and he didn't have anything to lose by telling me that I should consider law school. When I went home one weekend, right before Thanksgiving, I told my mother I was thinking about taking the GRE, she asked, "Why?" So I told her. I repeated what Brian had said to me and that I needed to take the test to get into law school. That look. I saw it again. This time the disappointment was more apparent. My mother didn't say much, she didn't have to. She said, "Christina, I have just spent almost $100,000 on a journalism education. If you want to go to law school, make some money and then pay for it yourself." That was it. That was all that needed to be said.
Earlier this year, I got a job—a reporting position. My mother has never been so proud. She tells everyone she knows. She brags about me. She has continued to help me out financially, which is funny because if I had gone to law school she wouldn't have. You know what's really funny though, when I told my father I was thinking about going to law school, he loved the idea. He told me being a lawyer was a respectable profession, but then he also said, "Christina, it would break your mother's heart if you didn't become a journalist."
When I think about the pros and cons of both professions, there are a couple of things that scream out at me. One, with journalism I can tell stories. Two, I can take people to places they have never been before, and I'm able to help people make decisions for themselves.
I really do have a passion for journalism. I love being someone who can make a difference in people's lives, but I've learned that lawyers can make a difference, too. Like journalists, lawyers can make or break people. I love that idea. However, I have a fear, which is probably the biggest reason why I want to be an attorney. I am scared about not being able to provide my children with the same opportunities that my parents gave me—trips to Europe, a paid education, a new car and a sense of security. I've been working as a full-time reporter for six months now. And in that period of time, I have reached the conclusion I will never get rich in this profession. I can barely afford myself right now. But if I became a lawyer, I know I could at least be comfortable. I know not all lawyers are rich, but the majority of them are at least financially secure. I think that because of my passion for journalism and telling the truth, if I were to become an attorney, I would be a First Amendment lawyer—at least then the journalism education my mother paid for wouldn't have been a complete waste.
So you ask "Why? Why don't you just go to law school?" And again, I say, "I can't. I couldn't stand to look at my mother's disappointment." And maybe in five years, 10 years, I will go. Maybe somewhere down the road I will become independent enough to make the decision without having to have my mother's approval. But right now, I just feel I have an obligation to do the only thing my mother has ever asked me to do—be a journalist. And until I feel I no longer have to repay my mother back for all she has given me, law school will have to wait, and rather than telling people's stories with subjectivity, I will continue to tell them with objectivity.
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