I studied hard for the bar exam. It was a real grind, throughout the entire summer of 2007. But something in me really liked it. 

In fact, I liked studying for the bar exam better than I liked studying in law school. Studying in law school was like a slow drip. Three months of lectures on one subject followed by one final exam – with the professor trying to trick you on the exam. Much more theory than practicality.

The bar exam was different. It felt more like real-life. On the bar exam, I wasn’t studying for one subject at a time – I had to pull it all together at once. I think there were 26 subjects that were covered on the New York bar exam in 2007. A big ol’ maze of legal morass. I loved it. I needed the complexity. It suited me better.

2007 was one of the first years that the NY bar allowed for test-takers to write the essay portions of the exam on a laptop, which was a big deal at the time. 

I opted for the laptop approach, knowing I could type faster than writing by hand. Several months prior to the exam, I had to take an orientation course put on by the software vendor at my law school. The vendor said that if anything went wrong with the software on exam day, it was my problem not theirs. I probably signed a waiver to that effect.

I remember pulling up to a big hotel in Albany, New York the first day of the exam, anxious energy in the air. Picture hundreds of recent law school grads like me filing into a series of ballrooms. I was nervous, but the good kind of nervous. I was prepared, with a clear mindset. 

The first morning of the exam was a written essay portion. If memory serves me, we had three hours to write out the answers to six lengthy questions. 

The testing monitors started the clock and told us to begin. I took a deep breath and opened the booklet containing the essay questions. I quickly started making notes in the margin as I read through the booklet. After about 15 minutes, I had already outlined some really good stuff. I knew I was on the right track. After 15 more minutes of outlining, I opened up my laptop, fired up the testing software, and started typing. 

I skipped the subjects I didn’t know too well and focused on where I could score points. 

The exam prep materials had mentioned that the examiners would often include some extraneous subjects to throw you off and waste your time. I called these the “wormhole subjects”. Out of 26 subjects, some are clearly more fundamental than others. I studied those more. So when I came across a wormhole subject on the exam, I didn’t waste too much time on what I didn’t know. I did my best to answer the basics and then moved on to the core subjects that I knew more thoroughly. 

It took me a couple hours to write out the six answers in long-form. Overall, I felt good about how much legal knowledge I displayed in my answers. 

I was basically finished with 15 minutes left before the lunch break. Great, I thought, I’ll just read over my answers during the remaining time and do a few edits.

The testing software had tabs for each response. Imagine a web browser with six tabs open at once. That’s what the screen looked like. Six tabs, one for each answer. I flipped through the first few tabs and read the first few answers. They felt good. 

And then, it happened. As I finished editing on tab 5, I clicked on tab 6 but the screen didn’t change. Tab 6 was selected on the tab bar, but the answer from tab 5 was still showing. 

I toggled back and forth. Whenever I clicked on either 5 or 6, only the answer for tab 5 showed. 

I checked the other tabs: 1-4 worked fine. I clicked on 6 again – still showing the answer for 5. 

My answer on tab 6 was gone. 

I felt my heart rate jump up a notch. 

At the beginning of the session, we were given instructions about what to do if we had any problems during the exam: “If you have any general questions, raise your hand. If you have any software issues, raise your fist.” 

I shoved my fist up in the air so fast my shoulder almost popped out of socket.

The testing monitor lazily walked over. 

Her: “What’s up?”

Me: “My answer for tab 6 isn’t showing when I click on it. See? Look, when I click between 5 and 6, it still shows the answer for tab 5. 6 is gone. I don’t know what to do.”

Her: “OK, well the software does automatic back-ups, so your answer should be saved… But it’s your responsibility if they can’t find it… You can always use the blue notebook and write out your answer.”

She pointed at the blue notebook at the edge of the table in front of me, and then she walked off.

I snatched the blue notebook and looked at the clock. Ten minutes left before lunch.

For the next ten minutes, I wrote as fast as I’ve ever written in my life. I tried to remember everything I had written on tab 6 in the software. I stopped worrying about punctuation and grammar, just writing out key phrases and underlining words that felt important. I didn’t have time to think, just to write.

My hand didn’t stop moving the entire ten minutes. I was pissed, anxious and focused at the same time. Looking back, it was pretty nerve-wracking but I loved the rush of it. 

My life has been filled with these moments that seem perilous at the time only to find out later that they were life giving me the opportunity to prove myself. This was one of those.

The testing monitor called “time” and I put my pencil down, my hand completely cramped. I pressed submit on my laptop and closed it. I handed in my blue notebook with the worst chicken scratch answer for question 6 that you’ve ever seen in your life. 

I took a few minutes to collect myself. The room was pretty much empty by the time I got up to walk out. 

As I turned the corner out of the ballroom, I saw her leaning against the wall crying. I knew this young lady from my law school, recognizing her immediately. She was audibly sobbing, tears streaming down her face, her head buried in her hands. 

She looked up at me and we made eye contact. Shit.

I hesitated. I really didn’t want to talk to her. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. 

I tried to walk past her.

She said, “I… I…. I really messed up.” 

Me: “What do you mean?”

Her: “I spent almost 2 hours on the early question about secured transactions.”

Secured transactions was one of the wormhole subjects. 

I grimaced. “I’m really sorry… I’m sure you did fine.” I said. I walked off awkwardly, leaving her to resume her sobbing.

I headed off to the parking lot to eat a sandwich and get some air. 

—-

A few months after the exam, the exam results were released one morning on a website. There was a long list of names. If your name was on the list, you passed. If not, no bueno. 

With my last name starting with “W” I scrolled down towards the bottom of the list and saw it: Samuel Collier Wilson. 

I felt a rush of adrenaline and stood up. I thought to myself: Great job, dude. 

Then I quickly sat down and started looking through the rest of the names. I couldn’t help myself, I had to see if the young lady from the hallway was on the list. I scrolled the alphabet to her last name. 

Her name wasn’t there. She didn’t pass. 

I felt no joy from this but it taught me something valuable. It was confirmatory.

Here’s the thing: I had always felt confident that I had passed the exam. Even after my technical snafu, I gave myself a chance with my ten-minute chicken scratch sprint to answer question 6. 

Yet here was this gifted young woman, clearly more intelligent than me. She was one of the top students in my class. She was the cream of the crop.

Or was she? When it counted the most, she flinched. She panicked. She overthought and went down the wormhole. 

She lost focus. 

I never found out whether the examiners used my answer from tab 6 or my chicken scratch handwriting. And I’ll never know. It doesn’t matter. 

I kept my focus.