From the formal point of view, you can improve the draft by removing words that don't need to be there, of the "take two steps back" variety, replacing them with representations of ideas rather than the neo-realistic detail of experiences. (I too think the pizza customs of the law school are worthy of interpretive anthropological attention, but not on this occasion.)

Substantively, what I miss is anything material about the material image of the funnel. What is it made of? Surely the most interesting thing about your use of an object metaphor is the fact that this object is completely imaginary. Only the converging insecurities of the students—deprived of feedback, let alone of guidance or leadership—produces this funnel, because of course whatever was the condition of world-oysterness in September had in no way altered by December. (The issue of the exaltation of the literally meaningless first-term grades can be left for another time.)

A draft recognizing—and, one might hope, thereby disintegrating—the insubstantial nature of the funnel would be a very good thing for the author to have written.

The Funnel

-- By ElliottGrund - 10 Mar 2017

Commencement

It was Monday. After a long weekend of awkward social gatherings and not-really-optional panels of esteemed speakers, I sat in the underwhelming lecture hall fresh-faced and nervous, a new 1L, waiting for the professor to walk in.

Take two steps back. Why was I here? I know my story. At least the one that I tell people who care enough to ask. Some spiel about my background in political science and my goal to effectuate change in society that I had cooked up a year prior to impress admissions officers. The story worked, so here I sat, somewhat eager to learn, but really more so worried about fucking up. And not just fucking up that dreaded cold call, but fucking up the incredible opportunity I had been told by everyone that I had. Why was I here again? At the same time, I knew I wanted something more: some sort of meaning out of the choice I made.

Nervously pondering this, the professor walked in and class began. It was just as I expected. The professor did not even introduce himself, but instead went down his seating chart and called out a name. The student nervously acknowledged her presence, and began to recite the facts of the case as requested. Before I had realized what happened, the class was over. And then there was another one. Soon it was lunch: panels and pizza. And soon after that it was reading. I still hadn't learned the optimal approach to note taking - what I needed to pay attention to as I delved into the depths of different case law - but I would over the next few months. Before long, I would be the one giving the tips. When I finished my reading and finally went to sleep it was midnight.

Frenzy

Repeat. The first day of law school went on to become like every day of law school, and I barely noticed as time continued to pass me by. The nervousness dissipated. I settled in. Why was I here again? I kept thinking about it, but I still wasn't sure. Pretty soon, it began to seem like it didn't really matter. And this was the problem. I like to think of it as a funnel.

The first day of class, everything seemed so open and broad, a vast plain of opportunity. As 1L's, the world was our oyster, so to speak. At least we thought it was. Whether you came here with a specific purpose, or, like me, had meandered into the seat through the right chain of circumstance, the moment seemed to culminate into some unrevealed channel into the future. Here we were, seemingly on the brink of greatness. Or if not greatness, at least on the brink of novelty.

Yet, by halfway through the first semester we had become a bunch of mumbling, grumbling, sleep-deprived law drones. Someone would ask 'Hey, did you do this week's tort reading?" If I had read through the week, I would cheerily give my answer in the affirmative. Maybe add a sentence or two about my newly formed thoughts on products liability. If I hadn't, the distinct feeling that I was "fucking up my opportunity" would creep back. Yes, Dad, I know that law school is expensive and will put me in debt. Wait, why was I here again? I still didn't have an answer, but as work piled up and sleep continued to decrease, I began to forget to care. Even though I knew it mattered.

And that's how it happens. The funnel that is. Pretty soon it was finals. Somewhere in between a lunatic had been elected President of the United States. But the moment had passed me by, an instant in between contracts and civil procedure. I wanted to do something about it, but it was finals. This would determine my future they told me. Who told me? I'm not sure about that either. The easy scapegoat is career services, who had already begun to send me a barrage of emails about my destined summer employment. But I don't think it was them. It felt more like a murmuring rumor, a wind of fear rippling across us students, like a hushed zephyr undulating through blades of grass in a savannah. Everyone knew. We thought we did anyway.

Reflection

Three tests and a break later the bubble had popped. Our futures were now halfway determined. Why was I here again? I had almost completely forgotten. I hadn't forgotten that I had to get a job though. The herd moved again, and I followed: some combination of fear, pride, and competitiveness wouldn't let me out of its grasp. The funnel. Everyone I now knew in law school seemed the same. The diverse group that I had started with had been fully homogenized. We still looked different, but internally we had become clones of each other. All using our emotional capacity to motivate us towards the goal. What goal? Again, I'm not sure. People says it's a career, but it seems like masochism to me. All in pursuit of the opportunity to do something we might actually enjoy. "Suck it up now, and you'll be set later." So I do. Then again, I've always had a high tolerance for pain.

Lawyering is making things happen in society using words. The question then becomes for who? Of course the clients, but which clients? Plenty of people need legal help. This is the question I'm stuck with. I want someone to answer it for me. That would be easier. Right now, I could use easy. But I know I have to figure it out for myself.

The funnel is still there: an unwavering force continuing to push us together. Why am I here again? I still don't have an answer, but at least I'm no longer forgetting to ask.

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