Nick Papageorge (1L)
We were greeted by a giant tent, for we needed some visual affirmation of the hermetic intellectual circus about to take place over the next three years at U of T Law. We met our table leaders, the affable and ebullient Sydney, and the aplomb and undersized Adam. They steered us in the direction of all sorts of legal clinics and some less-than-intensive courses we might consider taking next year, respectively.
Most of us newcomers brought a sort of relaxed apprehension to the scene, some of course being less circumspect than others. But here was found a general desire to suppress all anxiety, to learn a few names and have a few chats, though their place in our minds would be hopelessly ephemeral. Indeed, I met another member of my table who had the same name as myself, yet thirty minutes later I had forgotten his name, which in a way means I forgot my own name—a bedevilling experience while sober.
If one thing could pique the interest of this crowd it was surely talk of free booze, especially the potential to win five-hundred dollars worth—albeit in what some of us jokingly came to see as a haphazardly officiated, if not wholly illusory competition. But ‘twas no matter. At this announcement a sea of red materialized beneath the sky of blue as two-hundred fabric billboards seized upon their human figures as if by magnetism. If there is a better way than the promise of beer to command obedience, we were blissfully ignorant of it.
The Dean’s intro to Legal Methods was an early high-point, quoting as he did from the classic Simpson’s episode Homer Goes to College. I missed the opportunity at that moment, but managed a week later to say to him: “Hello Dean, you’re a stupidhead,” much to his delight. Of course his method of cold-calling names drawn from a silver bowl—no names drawn from cheap cotton scalp coverings for this bunch (our $33,000 hard at work)—was, in his words, not meant to be scary, for It’s Always Sunny at U of T Law! Still, this managed to put some good old fashioned light-hearted fear into more than one member of the class.
As the somewhat awkward state of affairs thawed from day to day, one gained an even greater appreciation for one’s classmates. For what a class it is, likely the first time each of us finds ourselves in a room wherein everybody and nobody is the smartest. Hearing someone’s desire to one day be something like Minister of Justice does not register as fanciful or far-flung, for there is a sense that it very well could happen, that this is the type of place such a journey might start. However, all illusions of sophistication were soon washed away at the Rogers Centre, where the anticipation of a batted ball can become drawn out and demands drunkenness—and here there was no disappointment.
The completion of Legal Methods then leads us to the Belgian beer bar. All to be seen here is a misguided mass of humanity. There is plenty of inhabitable space throughout the venue, but these savages have staked out the most congested space and sought the most overt assault on the eardrums, planted as they were between the bar and the stage. Conversation persists despite the impossibility of being heard. Whatever words do make it through stand little chance of gaining a foothold in heads clouded with drink. This has been referred to as “mingling” or, if you’re the mendacious sort, “making friends.”
The band slogs through another noise, the guitarist flailing at chords, the drummer pounding randomly on sheepskin, the crowd waving substandard glow sticks far too enthusiastically. The band lurches into a most unintelligible War Pigs. Nobody knows what’s going on. Nobody even reconsiders their career path in light of the song’s message, though the “singer” may well be blameworthy for this. If anybody claims coherence out of this melee—both this particular one and the fortnight leading up to it—they are at once a bald-faced liar and prospectively great attorney. As such, we surely all claim coherence.
I awoke the next day feeling it was time for an agonizing reappraisal of the whole scene. It was highly unlikely, and probably wrong, to go to the morning’s mandatory session in such a state. For those of you keeping score at home, I grounded out to the bartender and am 0-for-1 in mandatory sessions this year. Yet again I was faced with that most wrenching decision: cut out drinking in the hopes of becoming a more functional human, or double down on my propensity. I chose a sort of middle ground, resolving to cut out drinking some time in the next thirty years, while celebrating this momentous decision with another beer-fuelled evening. Still I have every intention of riding this strange torpedo all the way out to the end, and I wish my classmates an excellent year and even better beer.
