Please let me start by acknowledging that this country is enshrouded in darkness. We are facing crisis after crisis and unimaginable hate. I told one of my classes that it feels like an abusive relationship where we have lost perspective so that any glimmer of humanity is overblown into normalcy. This isn’t normal–and small shreds of past kindness are welcome, but not curative. This larger story must be told first.

Here is the smaller one. This past weekend I accompanied my daughter to an exercise class that was titled, “Gentle Heat Sculpt: Shake and Drake[1].”  This class took place in a room that comfortably fit about 12 “sculptors,” and I took my assigned mat along with the 31 others who came for an early morning workout. My mat was directly behind the instructor which I thought would be helpful to me since I am someone who needs to see what I am supposed to do in such a class-and also there was a mirror directly in front of me so I could see what I was actually doing (because what I think I am doing and what I am actually doing can differ). I was told to get ankle weights, a small towel, a ten pound ring, and a block (not concrete). Check, check, check, and check. I had brought a bigger than usual (for me) water bottle and had, despite it being 4 degrees outside[2], filled it with ice and water. I figured I could survive anything for 45 minutes and my daughter had kindly used her monthly guess pass on me[3], so I was ready.

I was not. The room was warm as we settled in and arranged our tools of torture around our assigned mats. It was a nice contrast to the weather outside. And then our instructor–with her hot pink stretchy clothes and Brittany Spears microphone–turned up the music and the temperature and lowered the lights….all the way. The hot pink that looked fluorescent moments before was not actually glow in the dark. The sound system was loud but also the microphone was so close to her now invisible face that if she had said, “stand clear of the closing doors,” I would have believed I was on the subway traversing the Bronx back in high school. Sometimes all I could make out of her commands were a countdown of repetitions of whatever we were doing.

With most of my useful senses muted-I couldn’t see her (or me) or hear the instructions-I felt lost. And if I was doing something that could have been dangerous, she couldn’t see or hear me either. I couldn’t touch or taste anyone else for help (frowned upon in public) and while I could smell everyone more and more as the temp climbed, it was not instructive. And then it hit me, is this what it felt like to be a 1L? Is this how we make our students feel when they start law school?

Think about it-we crowd them all into a room for orientation and while we don’t turn the lights off, it is August and a bit warm even with air-conditioning. And then we tell them what they need to do to succeed very quickly and as if they had already been to law school and know the rhythm of the work. We use a peppy voice to keep the energy going and praise them for coming. We even wear colorful outfits. And for all we know, at the end, they are just glad to have survived. Perhaps they all assumed that everyone else was doing it completely right because they couldn’t see the struggle next to them.

But survival and success are not the same thing[4]. This class reminded me that I need to slow down and check in with my students: lower the temperature and make sure they can see me and be seen.

At the end of Shake and Bake[5], I was a sweaty mess: my towel soaked, my ice water depleted. I cleaned and returned the torture devices and very, very quickly (and possibly aggressively) made my way to the door so I could take big gulps of cool air and light. Did I feel I accomplished something? Yes. Maybe. Maybe not. I have no idea if the other shake and bakers did this better than I did-I couldn’t see them. And I cannot even tell you what I did.

(Liz Stillman)

[1] Apologies to Kendrick. I was not aware of the subtitle and for what it is worth, the only music I heard during the class was my own heart beating and my companions sucking every non-hellish molecule of cool air out of the room.

[2] Yes, 4 degrees Fahrenheit-Boston does not mess around in winter.

[3] Yes, it was the last day of the month-and yes, her significant other had not wanted to do this with her.

[4] Unless, I suppose, you are on Survivor. Or The Traitors. If anyone wants to discuss the current season of The Traitors with me offline, please email me because I have thoughts. Many thoughts. We could even Zoom.

[5] A far more accurate name….