Week One, Part 2 - All Signed Up

Monday dawns with a blue sky and not a cloud in sight, rare for South Bend. I’m wearing cuffed shorts, a button-down shirt, and loafers. The sun feels warm on my legs.

My mood matches the weather. After all, I’m about to enroll at one of the oldest and most selective law schools in America. The University of Notre Dame was founded in 1842 by the Congregation of the Holy Cross. In 1869, the Law School began accepting students.

The drive up to Notre Dame takes about twenty minutes. Today, amazingly enough, every one of the 15 or so stop lights I come to is green. It’s never happened before, or in more than a thousand trips since.

As I park my car, I wonder if it’s some kind of divine affirmation. I remember as an undergraduate studying the Old Testament book of I Samuel. Maybe the traffic signals are a modern-day Urim and Thummin, the colored stones God used to communicate with His chosen people.

I walk north along Notre Dame Avenue. Straight ahead through an archway of trees I can see the Golden Dome, the most famous building in American higher education. It shines like a sun in the center of its own universe.

I come to the law school, guardian of the main quadrangle. It’s magnificent: part castle, part church. The southwest corner is a massive tower topped by an ornate steeple and cross. Green ivy covers the lower half of the brick walls. The windows are large and pointed at the top. Claw-like swirls section the glass into smaller panes, and give the building a Gothic feel.

Thirty feet up on a niche stands a narrow statue of Sir Thomas More, patron saint of lawyers. His hands are clasped in front of him. He looks peaceful and serene, something I’m feeling less of with each step.

Under a lancet arch is the front double-door, at least ten feet high and made of wood. The left side of the door creaks open on foot-long hinges. A guy and girl walk out, both in their mid-twenties. She has on khaki shorts, hiking boots, and a polo shirt. He’s wearing jeans and a blue t-shirt. It reads: “Notre Dame law.”

“New York?” she says. Her hair is pulled straight back in a ponytail and she looks fit enough to run a marathon.

“Pays 90,” he says, “but it’s a sweatshop.”

I find the Office of Admissions and meet Anne Hamilton, its director. From the hallway I see that her desk and every other flat surface is piled high with hundreds of colored applicant files.

In her late 30's, Hamilton strikes me as rather nun-like. Her voice is quiet and soft. She wears little or no make-up. Straight hair combed to the side. Blouse to her neck. Skirt past the knees.

It takes me about an hour to fill out the registration form and other paperwork. Hamilton hands me my class schedule, insurance information, and a loan application. She also gives me a window decal: “NOTRE DAME” in tall letters and “Law” on a scroll beneath it.

Wow! I want to sprint back to my car and stick it on. Hey world, I got into Notre Dame!

“You better get to class,” Hamilton says, after I’m all signed up.

I look down at my schedule. Civil Procedure with “Bauer, Joseph” starts at 10:00 a.m. I glance at my watch. Already five minutes late!

I jump up. “Okay. Thanks for everything.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “I’m sure that you’ll have a great career.”

I hustle down the hallway. Her comment is cryptic, I think. A great career of academic success? Great employment after I graduate? Let’s hope for both.

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