I brought my rosary to this weekend’s LSAT exam. Instead of having it in my little plastic bag, out of fear that it might not be let in, I wore it on my neck, clear for anyone to see. I must confess that sometimes I am greatly ashamed of my occasional devoutness, for it often appears only in times of hardship when I need petitioning to God. Hate to say it, a part in me almost treated my rosary as an amulet, a divine lucky charm of sorts. I had a few very bad practice tests the day before my exam, so my expectations going in were low.
Last week, after a phone conversation on what I wanted to do after I graduate ended inconclusively in tabled arguments and passive-aggressive goodbyes, my dad texted me the median income of a political science Ph.D. “About the same payscale as an operator” at the company where he works, he wrote. “You will study hard for LSAT and then we can discuss.”
It hurts knowing it would be literally and metaphorically easier on his heart if I had just gone all-out for law school or had read Cracking the Coding Interview back when I had the chance. Anything would be better than my current trajectory of understably worrisome directionless half-assery. My father is painfully practical and intensely loving, with the kind of radical sensibility of so many other Asian immigrants in America. After all, Baba already took his risks: He started a revolution and fought for it through a horribly bloody war.