Grant Me the Wisdom

“Can I start studying for the bar exam now?” I asked my father.

“No,” he replied. It was a Saturday morning in 1995: I was fourteen years old. Dad and I were driving to Price Club (now Costco). We went most Saturdays. The things we bought seemed normal to me at the time: cases of champagne, cases of Mexican beer, sheet cakes (not for a special occasion–just as a breakfast option), 5 lb. buckets of Cherry Garcia ice cream, fresh crab legs, and maybe a new CD or two.

“Why not? Don’t you still have the cassettes and stuff you used to study for the bar?”

My father went back to get his law degree in the late 80s, graduating shortly after his 40th birthday. I remember him (trying) to study for the bar exam in our house, listening to lectures on cassette tapes, scribbling notes on big yellow legal pads. Our house was typically a constant parade of kids and dinner parties: looking back on it now, I have no idea how Dad concentrated for a second.

As I always wanted to spend time with my dad, I went with him to work whenever I could and asked him about work all the time. Although I would like to say that I knew immediately I would be interested in studying the law, at that point my interest was 85% attributable to being fascinated by my father’s interest in the law.

“Well, for one, the law changes constantly, so many of those materials are already outdated by now. Also, you need to graduate high school, go to college, take your LSATs, and go to law school first.”

“Can I study for the LSATs now?”

“Focus on your SATs for now,” Dad instructed.

“But those are boring. The law is interesting.”

He laughed, “The LSATs are boring too: they are not about the law either.”

“What?!”

He glanced to see the look of disappointment and surprise on my face, smiling himself.

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Dad and I were sitting outside on the porch of my parent’s house, the bottom of a horseshoe-shaped back yard that faced the pool and the chronically overgrown grass and rose bushes beyond. It was mid-August and I was back visiting from LA.  A light, dry desert breeze blew just enough to ruffle our hair, but not enough to blow away the stack of napkins sitting on the table between our twin cups of coffee.

I was wondering how long we could go before we would have to talk about my recent and disappointing LSAT scores. It was long enough ago where the results were mailed to you–I had the results sent to my parent’s house in Arizona, even though I had already moved to LA. This choice was one of the many indicators my parents were more interested in my test results than I was.

During my undergraduate years, my dream of becoming a lawyer had morphed into the dream of being an English professor. The year before, my senior year of college, I had taken my GREs and my English GREs and applied to graduate school. I had done okay on those exams, but not well enough to get into a PhD program on my first try.

My dream of being an English professor had driven my father crazy, as that was his profession prior to going back to law school. When I was too heartbroken to apply to PhD programs all over again, my parents told me I would be taking my LSATs and applying to law schools, period.

I did not do as well as I could have on the LSATs because my heart was not in it. But I was still young enough and close enough to childhood that I was more upset about disappointing my parents than I was about doing poorly on a test or what that might mean for my future career in law.

My dad spoke first. “I saw how much you studied for the GREs. And the LSATs. And how much you studied throughout college. I think you studied more for your undergraduate degree and those tests than I did for my first two degrees.”

“Yeah, well, all the good it did me,” I sniffled, taking a sip of my coffee. “How much did you study for the LSATs?”

“Well, I sat for them once in the 70s. I took a bunch of black beauties, crammed for about 24 hours, and then took the test. Did pretty well.”

“Wait, you have taken the LSATs twice?”

“Yep, took them again when I applied to ASU law. Studied for a few days before that one–no black beauties this time, though.”

I asked my dad his specific scores for both exams. I don’t remember the actual numbers now, but I remember they were very, very good scores.

I laid my head down on the table next to my coffee and sighed, feeling like shit that I cared about my LSAT scores and feeling like shit that I didn’t care as much as my father did. A sour taste rose up in the back of my throat as I began to realize for the first time the recurring theme for my twenties was going to be enduring repeat failures.

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“This is the University of Buffalo Campus,” my grandmother pointed out the car window.

“Hm,” was all I could manage to say. Although it had sounded like a good idea when my grandmother suggested it, I now felt silly that my grandparents were driving me around the outskirts of the UB campus. I was 29, not 19: I was too old to be doing this.

“I am not sure which building you would go to classes in,” my grandmother continued.

“What do you want to study again, Jim?” my grandfather asked.

“I think I want to get my masters in social work.”

“Doesn’t sound like that will pay very much,” he retorted.

“I know,” I sighed.

I should have voiced a more vigorous retort about my plans to get an MSW, but I wasn’t even sure I wanted it. I was lost. I had just moved to New Jersey, quit coffee after spending eight years in retail, and was in my first position at the bank. The trajectory of my life so far seemed to consist of a promising arc of potential which then transitioned into a free fall of failure.

I wished for my father. We had been in disagreement about the future of my career when he died. At the time I had been so focused on getting to do what I wanted. Now I missed having someone who was so invested in seeing me succeed.

I caught myself thinking my way into a hole of despair. I tried to break my negative train of thought by physically lifting my chin up as I spoke again.

“I’ll figure it out. I’ll go back to school. I’ll keep learning until I am as smart as Dad was.”

My grandfather and grandmother laughed together, “Oh honey–you’ll never be as smart as your father was.”

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Although I was awarded my MBA the year before, when I passed all four sections of the CPA exam in 2015, I felt like I was finally, finally getting my education and my career back on track.

I had actually laid out my plan to get a MBA in a career brainstorming session when I worked at the bank. It was just an exercise from professional development class the bank offered, the purpose of which was to teach you to lay out a plan to achieve long-term goals. As I reflected on passing the last section of my exam, I remembered writing down the basic steps to getting into graduate school on a worksheet for that class. When I wrote the list I thought how simultaneously possible and impossible it all seemed. Now, just three years later, I had done it and gotten my CPA certification to boot.

Basil made me a batch of heart-shaped chocolates and gave me a card when I passed the last section of the exam. On the inside of the card he wrote:

“I always knew you could pass! Congratulations! You were the only one who was surprised.”

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My father and I were sitting and drinking coffee again. This time we were out on the patio of one of Mesa’s first Starbucks. It was the late nineties, back when Starbucks still had a little bit of cool, before they became so ubiquitous that thinking of them fondly became far more difficult.

It was earlier in my college career, my sophomore year, when I was starting to get the hang of college. I was in the throes of my first great English class and was excited to talk about my future. I asked Dad about what he did his dissertation on (Moby Dick and Pynchon) and about being a professor.

“I was too young to be teaching,” my father said about his years as a professor. “You shouldn’t be allowed to be a teacher until you have something to teach.”

I huffed, “Well if you weren’t smart enough to be a professor when you were that age, I will never be smart enough to be a professor.”

“First of all,” my father said, “I never said I wasn’t smart enough to teach. I just didn’t have anything to teach twenty-somethings about when I was still a twenty-something. And secondly, you will become just as smart as me, if not smarter.”

I rolled my eyes, “Yeah, okay.”

“Plus, not only are you smart,” my father continued, “but you are wiser than I will ever be.”

“Wiser than you? What does that mean? Like I’m going to turn into a wizard?”

“Wisdom is different than knowledge. People can study their whole lives and never become wiser.”

“Dad–if you are just trying to make me feel better, it’s okay.” I waved my hand at him, turning my face away, looking out across the strip mall parking lot.

“It is hard to explain now. But one day, you will understand.”

I turned my gaze back to my father, nodding in order to show him that I had been listening.