The silence is almost absolute, broken only by the constant humming of centralized air-conditioning units. Every now and then, someone muffles a cough, or clears his throat. I have a slight cold, and my incessant sniffling has made me self-conscious. This is a place where noise is the most unwelcome of guests, and the slightest sound is greeted by disapproving glances.
Around me, many are praying. This, however, is not a church; and though it is a Sunday, I am not in the middle of mass. This is a classroom in De La Salle University, but today, its seats are not occupied by college coeds. In their place are forty-five graduates from various law schools who are taking the final step before becoming (they hope) members of the Philippine Bar.
I am not one of them, and though I envy the fact that they are nearing the end of a journey (the first step of which I am yet to take) that may make them members of the noblest of professions, I do not envy the looks of desperation I see on their faces as they search for answers to the questions that will determine whether their four (or more) years in law school and months of reviewing will be rewarded with the much-coveted prefix of “Attorney.”
My small role in this drama they call the Bar exams is to make sure that the examinees do not look for extralegal forms of inspiration––i.e., their seatmates’ notebooks––when answering the questions that will decide if they are fit to practice law. Helping me out are four other pairs of eyes––three other watchers, and our head-watcher. This may sound like overkill, but it is a hell of a deterrent. (Examinees who get caught cheating are forever barred from taking the tests again. Somehow this makes flunking the Bar more attractive than forever throwing away one’s chances of being a lawyer on the off-chance that your seatmate might have the answers to a question you can’t figure out.)
The Supreme Court’s preparations and procedures for the Bar may strike people as bordering on paranoid. (For example, in this age of computers, the examiners tasked to prepare the questions for the Bar are required to do so manually.) With so much at stake, however, you can’t be too cautious, as there can be no greater injustice than to allow the undeserving to pass and let loose inept lawyers upon unsuspecting individuals. After all, property, liberty, and life are on the line. The competence of representation can spell the difference between land ownership and the loss thereof; freedom and an undeserved prison sentence; life and death.
No surprise, then, that before, during, and after the Bar, everything is done to make sure that the only factor that determines an individual’s capacity to be a lawyer is his or her knowledge of the law. Barristers are told to make sure that test booklets do not have any markings aside from their answers; examinees and watchers are rotated every Sunday; after the morning exam, the examinees are rearranged in the afternoon; potential conflicts of interest are avoided at all costs. (e.g., an associate justice of the Supreme Court whose staff is taking the Bar is not allowed to take the position of Bar Chairman; SC personnel serving in the Bar are required to inform the Office of the Bar Confidant if they have relatives taking the Bar.)
Then there are the exams themselves. The Bar is considered so tough that passing is considered a feat in itself. The exams are composed of essay-type questions that leave very little room for guesswork. An examinee isn’t only asked to answer several legal questions, but to explain his answers and argue accordingly. One exam has twenty questions, but the volume of information necessary for law students to memorize and process means that it’s more than possible to study well, but fail to remember the specific provisions necessary to answer particular questions. Little wonder that only 20% to 30% of those who take the Bar are expected to pass. This means that of the forty-five examinees in my room, approximately fourteen––at the most––will be taking their oaths as lawyers next year. (This explains why even the most brilliant and accomplished of law grads remark that before the first exam, you entertain notions of topping the Bar; after the last, you just wish you passed the damn thing.)
Despite the odds, however, over four thousand law graduates try their luck every year. Their backgrounds vary. There are those who look like they went straight to law school out of college. There are those, like my co-workers at the Court, who worked themselves through law school to get to this point. There are those who look like they’re old enough to be my father. It is this group I admire most, for these people give a new meaning to the word persistence. Despite their graying hair, they have not given up their dreams of becoming a compañero. Better late, I suppose, than never.
I’ve met very few people who claim to have enjoyed law school, and have met no one who says he or she relished the experience of taking the Bar. Why, then, do they do it? Are they driven by some noble purpose––a desire to right the wrongs of society, fight for the rights of the downtrodden, and uphold the rule of law? Or are they in it for material gain––the lure of thousands of pesos in bonuses, billable hours, and higher salary grades?
Whatever it is, this does not take away the respect I have for those who have come from as far away as Mindanao to fulfill their dreams of becoming an officer of the court. Notwithstanding the trials they have had to face––hours in the library; balancing work, family, and law school; little sleep and a nonexistent social life––they have persevered, carrying with them their hopes and that of their families, making the necessary sacrifices so that they can become lawyers and improve their chances for better lives.
In a country where, as a general rule, one’s prosperity is determined by one’s ability to kiss ass, rather than hard work––and your success is influenced by who you know rather than what you know––it is comforting to know that there are still some things that you can get only through patience and hard work. While other factors play a role in one’s passing the Bar (e.g. education, luck, good handwriting), at least I am secure in the knowledge that the Bar is an exclusive club that does not accept individuals on the basis of their family names, good looks, or bank accounts.
Not all of those who suffered for the past four Sundays will be able to join the ranks of the legal profession next year. But something tells me that those who do not will be back again next September in the same silent, air-conditioned rooms in La Salle. Most will still have the same looks of desperation on their faces. Perhaps, having gone through the exercise this year, they will be more confident, better prepared. One thing is for sure: they will continue to recite the same silent prayers. I only hope that their prayers are answered then, and even if they’re not, that they continue to nurture the dreams that have gotten them that far.
(This is the unedited version of what appeared in the Youngblood section on page 13 of the Philippine Daily Inquirer on Tuesday, October 26, 2004)
Around me, many are praying. This, however, is not a church; and though it is a Sunday, I am not in the middle of mass. This is a classroom in De La Salle University, but today, its seats are not occupied by college coeds. In their place are forty-five graduates from various law schools who are taking the final step before becoming (they hope) members of the Philippine Bar.
I am not one of them, and though I envy the fact that they are nearing the end of a journey (the first step of which I am yet to take) that may make them members of the noblest of professions, I do not envy the looks of desperation I see on their faces as they search for answers to the questions that will determine whether their four (or more) years in law school and months of reviewing will be rewarded with the much-coveted prefix of “Attorney.”
My small role in this drama they call the Bar exams is to make sure that the examinees do not look for extralegal forms of inspiration––i.e., their seatmates’ notebooks––when answering the questions that will decide if they are fit to practice law. Helping me out are four other pairs of eyes––three other watchers, and our head-watcher. This may sound like overkill, but it is a hell of a deterrent. (Examinees who get caught cheating are forever barred from taking the tests again. Somehow this makes flunking the Bar more attractive than forever throwing away one’s chances of being a lawyer on the off-chance that your seatmate might have the answers to a question you can’t figure out.)
The Supreme Court’s preparations and procedures for the Bar may strike people as bordering on paranoid. (For example, in this age of computers, the examiners tasked to prepare the questions for the Bar are required to do so manually.) With so much at stake, however, you can’t be too cautious, as there can be no greater injustice than to allow the undeserving to pass and let loose inept lawyers upon unsuspecting individuals. After all, property, liberty, and life are on the line. The competence of representation can spell the difference between land ownership and the loss thereof; freedom and an undeserved prison sentence; life and death.
No surprise, then, that before, during, and after the Bar, everything is done to make sure that the only factor that determines an individual’s capacity to be a lawyer is his or her knowledge of the law. Barristers are told to make sure that test booklets do not have any markings aside from their answers; examinees and watchers are rotated every Sunday; after the morning exam, the examinees are rearranged in the afternoon; potential conflicts of interest are avoided at all costs. (e.g., an associate justice of the Supreme Court whose staff is taking the Bar is not allowed to take the position of Bar Chairman; SC personnel serving in the Bar are required to inform the Office of the Bar Confidant if they have relatives taking the Bar.)
Then there are the exams themselves. The Bar is considered so tough that passing is considered a feat in itself. The exams are composed of essay-type questions that leave very little room for guesswork. An examinee isn’t only asked to answer several legal questions, but to explain his answers and argue accordingly. One exam has twenty questions, but the volume of information necessary for law students to memorize and process means that it’s more than possible to study well, but fail to remember the specific provisions necessary to answer particular questions. Little wonder that only 20% to 30% of those who take the Bar are expected to pass. This means that of the forty-five examinees in my room, approximately fourteen––at the most––will be taking their oaths as lawyers next year. (This explains why even the most brilliant and accomplished of law grads remark that before the first exam, you entertain notions of topping the Bar; after the last, you just wish you passed the damn thing.)
Despite the odds, however, over four thousand law graduates try their luck every year. Their backgrounds vary. There are those who look like they went straight to law school out of college. There are those, like my co-workers at the Court, who worked themselves through law school to get to this point. There are those who look like they’re old enough to be my father. It is this group I admire most, for these people give a new meaning to the word persistence. Despite their graying hair, they have not given up their dreams of becoming a compañero. Better late, I suppose, than never.
I’ve met very few people who claim to have enjoyed law school, and have met no one who says he or she relished the experience of taking the Bar. Why, then, do they do it? Are they driven by some noble purpose––a desire to right the wrongs of society, fight for the rights of the downtrodden, and uphold the rule of law? Or are they in it for material gain––the lure of thousands of pesos in bonuses, billable hours, and higher salary grades?
Whatever it is, this does not take away the respect I have for those who have come from as far away as Mindanao to fulfill their dreams of becoming an officer of the court. Notwithstanding the trials they have had to face––hours in the library; balancing work, family, and law school; little sleep and a nonexistent social life––they have persevered, carrying with them their hopes and that of their families, making the necessary sacrifices so that they can become lawyers and improve their chances for better lives.
In a country where, as a general rule, one’s prosperity is determined by one’s ability to kiss ass, rather than hard work––and your success is influenced by who you know rather than what you know––it is comforting to know that there are still some things that you can get only through patience and hard work. While other factors play a role in one’s passing the Bar (e.g. education, luck, good handwriting), at least I am secure in the knowledge that the Bar is an exclusive club that does not accept individuals on the basis of their family names, good looks, or bank accounts.
Not all of those who suffered for the past four Sundays will be able to join the ranks of the legal profession next year. But something tells me that those who do not will be back again next September in the same silent, air-conditioned rooms in La Salle. Most will still have the same looks of desperation on their faces. Perhaps, having gone through the exercise this year, they will be more confident, better prepared. One thing is for sure: they will continue to recite the same silent prayers. I only hope that their prayers are answered then, and even if they’re not, that they continue to nurture the dreams that have gotten them that far.
(This is the unedited version of what appeared in the Youngblood section on page 13 of the Philippine Daily Inquirer on Tuesday, October 26, 2004)
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