“You’re gonna carry that weight/carry that weight a long time.”
Most professions demand an entry fee—some type of price paid for the privilege of academic and professional development. Usually positioned as an investment in one’s future, the increasing costs of education can impose significant financial, mental, and emotional strain on students. These stressors remain for the duration of the debt repayment period—which, in some instances, can be several decades. We can naturally draw the inference that high tuition rates act as a formidable barrier to entry for those lacking confidence in their ability to repay debts within a manageable timeframe. These are statements of general application, but are especially relevant to our law school, an institution both noted and satirized for its exorbitant costs and excessive stress levels.
So, what exactly is the cost of becoming a U of T-educated lawyer?
It can partly be measured in dollars, sure. The Faculty of Law’s tuition rate for domestic students in the 2021-2022 session towers over its Canadian contemporaries, approaching a cool $35,000. The other Canadian law schools really have no chance at beating us here—this is our domain. Osgoode limps to a shameful second place finish, at around $26,000. Western comes in third with about $22,000. The rest seem to fall somewhere in the range between $10,000 and $20,000. It’s like they’re not even trying. And that’s not to mention our international students who are shelling out nearly $60,000 per year. Osgoode, in contrast, charges international students just over $37,000. Maybe there’s a problem with their exchange rates.
Next is the cost of living. Financial aid guidance suggests allocating $11,000 per year for room and board in downtown Toronto. Okay. If you say so.
The calculations are admittedly for the eight-month school period, but landlords tend to prefer one-year rental terms. Even if you do manage to secure an eight-month rental agreement, is $1,375 a month sufficient to rent a place close to the Faculty? Perhaps, if you’re willing to share a cramped condo unit with an aspiring lawyer or three, or live in an area where you face a reasonable risk of being stabbed. Oh, don’t forget that your meals all fall under this estimation too. According to the City of Toronto’s Nutritious Food Basket Calculator, an average person between the ages of 19 and 30 spends just over $300 a month on groceries, UberEATS excluded. It’s not impossible to stay within this budget, however. If you’re still looking, there is a cozy unit currently available on Dundas East for the low-low price of $1,090 per month. It’s relatively spacious too. Of course, it appears to be missing both a shower and a stove, but that’s not the end of the world. You’ll be too stressed to shower, and you probably won’t have much to cook anyways.
Then comes everything else: textbooks, events, transportation, those fancy Manolo Blahnik shoes that you’re convinced will impress your recruiters, and all else you need, or feel like you need, to compete with the rest. But there are also the costs that can’t be quantified, which manifest in other ways. It’s the dark cloud of debt that seems to rest heavier on your shoulders each day. It’s the subtle panic as you see your student loan and line of credit accounts creep higher by the month. It’s the uneasy realization that a career passion is no longer financially viable. These costs may not drain your wallet, but they certainly chip away at something deeper. What happens once you graduate? There’s a chance that, in the words of the immortal Sir Paul McCartney, “you’re gonna carry that weight/carry that weight a long time.”
There will always be eye-rolling detractors, and I’ve heard that side of the debate too. Their argument is usually some variant of this: “if you were accepted into U of T Law, then you were probably also admitted to any other Canadian law school you applied to. You knew the costs of attending, and you made the choice to come here—you could have gone somewhere else.” This is a fair assessment. However, it suggests that the cost of attendance is a justifiable barrier to access—that financial concerns should limit promising students from engaging with and learning from U of T’s distinguished curriculum, faculty, and alumni network. In doing so, this argument runs afoul of the Faculty’s commitments to accessibility, equity, diversity, and inclusivity.
The concerns I share here are by no means revolutionary or idiosyncratic. Tuition fees at the Faculty have increased at a rapid and questionable rate over the past 25 years. Fees sat at $2,451 in 1995, at $16,000 in 2003, and sit near the aforementioned winning number of $35,000 today. These changes were not powerless to the whims of inflation, they were consciously driven by administrators, and with little rhyme or reason. Despite being at the forefront of student advocacy concerns for some time, tuition remains the perpetual elephant in the room. The issue demands honest treatment in open dialogue. After all, it’s unbecoming for an institution to pride itself on becoming more accessible, more open to the historically marginalized, more cognizant of the impact of stress on mental health, while also raising its drawbridge and closing its gates.
