Arguments

My mother’s eyebrows raise and she looks panicked as she over hears our neighbors’ “conversation” through the thick estate’s brick walls in our “apartment.” “It’s okay mom, it’s just Italian,” meaning: their common speak sounds like a bloody argument. I’m not learning the Italian language so these thoughts are those of a completely arrogant and ignorant American. With this warning, I have concluded that the Italian language is not fluid like the French or lyrical like the Irish and the sentences and words all end with punctuation that sounds like a dare. It doesn’t help that the head is usually thrown back and the chin jutting forward as if to say, “and what do you say to that!” Even in the market where I like to watch little old women order their produce, both the buyer and the seller wear faces that look very picky, if not angry. I know they are not angry, because once the exchange takes place, they are both wearing a pleasant face and they wish each other a good day and “I’ll see you next week.” I am positive it is just their negotiation faces, but to an outside eye, they look like they’re at war over apples.

My parents and I went to see Tosca in Florence, a very bloody Shakespearean “Comedy of Errors,” where the Soprano thinks the tenor is cheating on her so they have a fight and he convinces her otherwise, she thinks she has saved his life from the death squad by pretending to love the Commodore whom she then murders, only to discover that her lover is already dead so she leaps off the wall. Even at the opera, even the loving, wooing moments, the passion is so intense that it almost feels dangerous. On another note, the sets were unbelievably ornate, like all of Renaissance Florence; the music was beautiful; and Spumanti in the gallery to celebrate passing the bar was deliciously sweet and the bubbles tickled my nose.

Yes, that’s correct, I was able to go to Florence with the knowledge that I could call myself a lawyer and that mom could stop saying, “My daughter just graduated from law school and is a lawyer, well, not quite yet, she still needs to pass the Bar.” And thinking back to the panic I felt days before the results came out I realize what a terribly beaten ego I must have. I want to blame my lack of self-esteem on the grief process; strange, I know, but that’s the only thing I can pinpoint.

I remember having such a bad sense of judgment and not being able to trust myself after Mike died, and that was just when I had to choose a toothbrush at the grocery store! I remember my second year of law school, sitting down with my internship supervisor to evaluate my 4 month performance; she looked at me like I had three heads when I handed her my self-evaluation full of 2’s and 3’s. “Rebecca, I’m confused, you are clearly a 9-10 in this area.” I remember receiving grants, accolades, and compliments and wondering who they were talking about. Even as I prepared for this trip, friends were amazed that I was nervous.

I’d like to say that passing the Bar is the final justification that now launches me into believing I am capable, and maybe that will come, but at the moment passing the Bar feels like a fluke. I don’t want to minimize the work it takes to pass the Bar, but it is not important work; it’s “how do you beat the game” work. It’s just one more hurdle to join the “club.” The real work is more about what one chooses to do within this “club.” And luckily, I don’t have to start doing that important work quite yet.