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Law in Contemporary Society
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Profile In Cowardice-- By ZachBlumy - 10 Mar 2017 At heart, every lawyer is defined, at least in part, by risk aversion. This is particularly true if we think of lawyering as getting things done with words. Words can be risky, of course. In certain dictatorships, words can get you killed. In democratic societies, too, words can get you killed, though you’re more likely merely to be ostracized. But words are far less likely to incite force against you than is force. And even when lawyers do deliver words, even when these words are unpopular, they’re often protected by the sanctity of the courthouse. For delivering words in Selma, Alabama, John Lewis had his skull broken. Thurgood Marshall’s words, delivered before and then beside Earl Warren, were never met with such direct violence (though Bull Connor might have liked to oblige). Perhaps this is because even oppressive states must keep the courthouse free of bloodshed to maintain the semblance of legitimacy and righteous order. And perhaps this is also why lawyers have an affinity for the courthouse—or for the comfort of an office, or the power of a deposition room. Whether they love justice, hate injustice, or have some other motive for practicing law, lawyers embrace order of some kind. Carl Wylie may have been a self-deceiving prick, but he was right about one thing: chaos, no matter how fascinating, is anathema to the lawyer’s life. Death is the ultimate chaos, unknown as it is what happens to our consciousness once our bodies die, and thus it makes sense for lawyers to avoid death, even for the causes toward which they work, for as long as possible. The tricky part, though, is defining the line between an aversion to risk and cowardice. It’s hard, when I’m reading the story of John Brown or watching grainy footage of Freedom Riders enduring abuse from “genteel” Southerners, not to feel a bit ashamed that I’m not out there with them, putting my body on the line for the fundamental rights of others. A part of me envies that burning passion, such a powerful sense of purpose that I can accept the risk of death because I will have died fulfilled. But I either don’t have the capacity for that passionate purpose, or if I do, it has yet to awaken in me. So here I am at law school, learning to make change in society with words, without necessarily accepting the willing risk of death. Quite simply, I’m risk averse, and I’m more or less fine with this for now. My risk-averse decision to use words rather than force will become troublesome only when words can no longer make a difference. I worry that I will deceive myself and slip into cowardice when this moment passes, but I think I’m correct in saying that words have not yet lost all possible efficacy. But am I already a coward? This is a much more serious accusation to level upon myself, and it arises out of my lack of desire to pursue the most contentious, vital issues of our time: climate change, freedom of thought, state violence against people of color. My interest lies in the entertainment industry, which is, among other things, a means of distraction and escape from the aforementioned nastiness. Can I possibly reconcile my interest in distraction, and my awareness of and subsequent inaction upon more pressing matters, with any semblance of bravery? Particularly when at least some of the appeal of the entertainment industry is knowing that I will make enough money to live comfortably and, should I have children, provide them as comparatively easy an upbringing as I had? The potential of losing that sense of security, for me, constitutes a fear that I find far more embarrassing than my unwillingness to risk death. And even though I’m not always focused upon it, I know it perpetually floats in the back of my mind like a venomous jellyfish, always capable of ensnaring and paralyzing me. This is the psychological kabuki that every lawyer has to play—not even the public interest devotees ever possess a singular, unfractured mind—but it strikes especially hard at lawyers who take active part in industries that hurt society to some degree. And although entertainment might not be as deleterious as hedge fund management or big oil, it still represents a siren song drawing my abilities away from legal practices where I might work to protect people’s lives and most fundamental rights every day. But try as I might, I can’t force myself, either by manufactured passion or a sense of duty, to abandon my hopes for a comfortable, fulfilling Hollywood life in favor of a more crucial arena. Perhaps this is because a major reason I came to law school was that grinding out an existence below the poverty line as a writer or musician seemed too risky. I decided that a J.D. would provide a more ideal pathway into the industry, and even as I’m confronted with seemingly better ways to use my legal knowledge, the original vision and half-baked passion behind it persist. And as cowardly as I feel for allowing financial security to have dictated many of my past and future life choices, I’m either too convinced that I’ll be personally fulfilled in entertainment or too afraid to disrupt my current state of order to change my mind. So I tell myself that I’ll use my law degree to help bring subversive art into the world, to break what Marcuse called one-dimensional thought. A lofty, noble goal, I hope. But does it matter if I’m driven to it, even partially, out of self-interested fear of material poverty? Even if I answered that question affirmatively—yes, Zachary, you shouldn’t feel bad about following your passion, and you’re doing helpful work!—I’d question my own sincerity. So here I am, telling my story, just as Wylie told his, hoping for confirmation that I’m less cowardly and self-duplicitous than he. I’m averse to the risk of leaving that judgment to my own flawed mind.
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