Let me state right from the beginning:
I never had a life long dream to become a lawyer
The lifelong dream was to become a concert pianist.
Alas, i finally had to face reality.
My voice trembled when I asked my beloved piano teacher for a reality check.
“Mme. Hubert, do i have what it takes to become a concert pianist?”
She took a long time thinking about how she could answer me without drawing blood.
After a very long pause, she said in her heavily accented Parisian English,
“Ah Claire, you are an artist!”
Pause..... Pause...... And suddenly she shot from the hip.
"BUT YOU ARE NOT A PIANIST!!!!!!!!!!"
Weakened at the knees i wasn't ready for the knockout blow.
I played my Master’s exam before the examiners at Vincent d’Indy, my music school, run by the Sisters Nom de Jesus Marie,
And ran out elated! I had passed!
Only to find my “repititrice,” – my piano coach - Sister Rita - leaning against the wall, completely exhausted.
“Oh Claire, I prayed so hard that the examiners should stop each of your three pieces just before the places where you get stuck.
And God answered my prayers!”
I sank to my knees. Not in prayer. But in complete surrender to reality.
If the only way i could pass my piano exams is with the help of Sister Rita and her prayers to God, it was time to submit to my fate..........
To become a lawyer!
I applied to the French law school of Universite de Montreal. And got in!
One hitch. The entrance exams were in English. No problem.
But no surprise. The lectures were to be in French.
I had a little problem. Like a little BIIIIIIIIIIG problem: I wrote and spoke elementary French.
I now had a pressing need - to know just how elementary.
So I climbed to the top of the landmark Universite de Montreal building in Outremont,
and sat in in one of the law classes, pen in hand, ready to take notes to establish just how deep was the language hole i was in
It was summer, the windows were open, and the deafening sound of construction outside was blocking out the sound of the lecturer.
Which didn’t make too much of a difference, because I could barely understand one word.
So I looked sideways at the guy madly scribbling away and asked whether I could borrow his notes.
He gave me a glowering look and kept on scribbling away.
But his curiosity got the better of him.
He glanced over at my notes.
A look of horror swept over his face. He had never seen such garbage in his life.
He quickly shoved his notes over to me, the equivalent of reaching out to a drowning swimmer.
I had my answer.
I was in a mess!
So that summer i set out a self help program. Everyday i took an article from the French newspaper, Le Devoir.
And translated it and studied it and memorized it.
September I was ready to step into my first class at law school at the U of M!
I was ready.
But the Dean and the professors weren't ready for me.
I later found out.
They had been asking around.
“Who is the English student who is writing her exams in French. We can’t understand a word!!!!!!!!!”
