The Law Professor as Student, or National Velvet, I'm Not
by
Jan C. Costello

Ferri's ears prick forward as we near the jump. My Arabian mare is moving easily, her strides regular as a metronome, judging the take-off point -- eager, but not rushing. On her back I am poised correctly in the two-point position: My heels are down, my legs firmly around her sides, my seat just slightly out of the saddle, my chest up, shoulders back, eyes looking straight ahead between her ears. One stride away from the fence I feel Ferri gather herself for the leap; I close my legs to signal her to take off and move my hands forward in a crest release to give her more rein. She jumps smoothly, arcing over the fence in what feels like just a larger version of her normal canter stride. I move with her in perfect balance, enjoying her soaring strength. We land in harmony and Ferri canters happily on, sensitive to my directions as I turn her toward the next jump in the course.

Well, that's how it happens in my dreams. In real life, this is more like it:

Two strides away from the fence, I start to wonder if this is such a good idea, after all. The fence, an 18-inch-high cross rail that both Ferri and I could step over if necessary, suddenly looks about six feet high. I stiffen in anticipation, clutching at the reins and leaning too far forward. Confused by my mixed signals, Ferri takes off one stride too soon, bounding in a longer arc to clear the fence. The larger leap throws me off balance. My legs come off her sides, my heels fly upward, and I fall first forward onto her neck and then backward into the saddle, hitting her in the mouth with the reins. Annoyed, upon landing Ferri breaks into a rough, jolting trot. I respond by hauling harder on the reins, which she ignores, tossing her head.

At about this point my riding instructor, Karene Cohen, calls out, "BREATHE, Jan!" Breathe? I think indignantly. Here I am practically rigid with terror, trying to keep my heels, legs, chest, hands, and eyes where they're supposed to be -- and on top of that to remember where the next jump is on this course -- and Karene wants me to breathe?

Ferri has some advice for me, too. She rolls her eyes back at me, and snorts in disgust, "Relax, Mom. I'm just going to jump this pathetic little cross rail and canter around the ring to the next one. You know I'm not going to hurt you. Geez, your two-year-old toddler sits on my back while I eat my lunch. It's going to be fun, Mom. NOW LET GO OF MY MOUTH!"

I have learned to trust Karene and Ferri, so I follow their instructions. Although my heart is pounding and my mouth is dry, I loosen my death grip on the reins and take a deep breath. Once I do that, my chest opens up and I uncurl from my fetal crouch over Ferri's neck. As I sit up, my seat bones connect firmly with the saddle, and my legs drop down and around my horse. Feeling my legs close around her, Ferri rounds her back up under me and moves smoothly forward, coming willingly into contact with the reins again. All of a sudden, we're back in balance -- and I can think about the next fence. It's a miracle!

This would be a better story if it happened only once, but the embarrassing truth is, it happens in almost every riding lesson. I have to learn the same thing over and over again -- as Karene and Ferri (and my Appaloosa gelding, "Hobo," Ferri's predecessor) can attest. Although there are "natural" riders in the world -- people who have an innate talent for riding and who progress rapidly to a high level of skill -- I am not one of them. National Velvet, the heroine of my childhood reading, was one such rider; although she never had a lesson, she and her beloved Piebald won the Grand National steeplechase.

I am not National Velvet. I am 49 years old, asthmatic, uncoordinated, chronically exhausted, stiff and sore, and packing more than my share of cellulite. All the things that effective riding demands are terribly hard for me to do. After years of taking lessons, reading books on riding, Continued on page 2watching advanced competitors, and practicing hour after hour on my own, I'm still just a marginally competent rider (or, as Karene says when she's feeling generous, "not terrible.")

It's pretty embarrassing to have to admit that I'm only marginally competent at anything -- especially at something I want to do so badly. Like most law professors, I'm used to success in the role of student -- being the class star who sits in the front row and volunteers. It's been a shock to my ego to experience life from the bottom, rather than the top, of my horseback riding class. During my first year of lessons I fantasized about giving Karene -- as well as any horse show judges before whom I competed -- copies of my resume. "See?" I would say, "Advanced degrees! Responsible jobs! And I'm a law professor and TENURED and everything. So I really am a person worthy of respect -- even though I'm having a little trouble right now keeping my heels down, legs around, shoulders back, etc., and I've forgotten the order of jumps in this course."

But in my heart I knew that success in other areas of my life didn't entitle me to success at riding. Heaven knows the horse doesn't care about my resume! I had to accept that I was not a "natural" rider and that I would likely never be as good a rider as someone with that gift. But I could become a competent rider, step by step, identifying each skill that I needed to develop, making sure I understood it -- and then practicing it over and over until, one day I got it right. (And then, of course, losing it again when I tried to combine it with another, more difficult task...) Over the years I have built one skill upon another and slowly become -- not excellent, not very good, but better than I was! And to get where I am as a rider I have had to work harder than I ever did to achieve academically or as a practicing lawyer or a teacher. Perhaps for that reason I take almost more pride in my riding.

Coincidentally, about the time I started riding lessons, nine years ago, I began to co-teach with my colleague Jenny Kamita the Legal Process course. This course, part of Loyola's Academic Support Program, is open to second- and third-year students in academic difficulty. By definition, students in Legal Process are not "succeeding" in law school; they have had exceptional difficulty in their first or second year. And certainly many other students, while not on academic probation, also struggle to "get it," to understand what law school requires and to master those skills. For all of them, the reality of law school has fallen short of their dreams.

When they enroll in Legal Process, or come to talk in my office, these students often are embarrassed. They were successful students as undergraduates. Many of them have been successful in careers other than law. All of them have demonstrated strengths and talents in their lives outside law school. Sometimes they make a point of mentioning these achievements. They want me to know that they really are people worthy of respect, even though they're having a little trouble right now with outlining, or understanding procedural due process.

They are torn between rage and despair. They tell me about the student last year who sat next to them, didn't take any notes, never briefed cases, read the commercial outline the night before the exam, and got a 92 in the course. They briefed every case, never missed a class, lost the love of their life because they insisted on studying so much -- and still barely passed. It's unfair! they cry. It's so frustrating to watch these fellow students, for whom law school seems to come naturally, succeed with less effort.

I understand, I tell them. I may not have when I first became a law teacher, but I sure do now, after all these years in the saddle. It may not come "naturally" to you, just like riding doesn't come to me, but you can learn how to make it "second nature," -- step by step, identifying each skill that you need to develop, making sure you understand it -- and then practicing it over and over until, one day you get it right. Then you combine it with another skill, and build on it, and build on that -- and you will get better. And when you have mastered it in this way, you can take a pride in your achievement that the "natural" legal thinker cannot.

Sometimes, they believe me. And as the semester goes on, I watch them working to build their skills, and I see it get better. And then I think, "Well, heck, they're doing so well, maybe I should take it as an omen. I'll try cantering that course next week..." Other times, grading exams, or marking comments on draft papers, I'll get frustrated because I don't see the improvement I hoped for. I complain out loud, "They know better than this! I just told them in class last week! How could they make these mistakes?" And then I remember what happened last Sunday morning in my riding lesson, and think, "Oh, I can understand how." So I erase my tart comments from the margins and plan to review the material in the next class.

I think perhaps all law professors should try being students again, try learning something that they passionately want to do, but at which they are just not very good. It could be golf, or origami, or playing the violin. It doesn't have to involve a horse. But for those of my colleagues who are interested, I'd be happy to call your local riding stable for you, and set up a lesson!