Dear future lawyer (by that, I mean me)
I was doing flashcards outside the theater, waiting for the doors to open. The room around me buzzed with excitement. I closed my eyes, trying to memorize the country’s legislative process. I had an exam in three days, and I knew I needed to get ahead of my review if I wanted to feel truly at ease while watching Bar Boys: The Musical.
I remembered watching it the year before. It was midterms then, too. I had been so exhausted that sitting down in a darkened theater felt like a chore. Yet, come curtain call, I found myself teary-eyed. That night, I went home refueled, validated, and ready to face the mountain of materials waiting for me. Needless to say, I made it through. So now, here I am, in my second-to-last semester of law school. I wondered how the play, revisited during a different stage of my journey, would affect me this time around.
While waiting, I met a freshman law student. “So, the classic question,” he asked. “Why did you go to law school?” I chuckled, pretending to think for a minute, then proceeded to answer in one smooth, full breath a Miss Universe-worthy response. The keywords tumbled out: social good, women’s rights, impact, justice, systemic change. “At least,” I concluded. “That’s what I said for my entrance interview.” We both laughed, a sound that carried both honesty and understanding for the deeply shared cynicism law students share.
The law school grind, restaged
I watched ‘Bar Boys: The Musical’ instead of studying for my exams. Here’s what I think of the play's depiction of law school’s grandeur and grit.
Upon entering the theater, I could already tell this year’s Bar Boys staging was different. The Barefoot Theatre Collaborative production—with director Mikko Angeles, playwright Pat Valera, musical director Myke Salomon and Jomelle Era as movement director—had leveled up significantly. While last year’s staging at the Power Mac Center Spotlight Blackbox Theater felt intimate, this year’s venue, the Hyundai Hall in Areté, Ateneo de Manila, felt grander. The shift from 300 to 850 seats is a testament to the popularity and ambition of the show.
The moment it started, I was reeled in. The larger stage allowed for a more dynamic blocking, lighting, and movement, creating a more immersive experience. As the scenes unfolded, my mind interspersed them with episodes from my own ongoing law school journey.
I watched the characters—Chris (Alex Diaz), the privileged kid with an idealized view of the world; Erik (Benedix Ramos), the diligent but struggling student; Torran (Jerom Canlas), his mama’s pride and joy; and Josh (Omar Uddin), the conscience of the group facing a moral reckoning—and saw parts of them both in me and the people I interact with in law school.
When the clever Natasha Cabrera and Carlon Matobato, in their roles as law professors, repeatedly sang, “Read the law!” I was reminded of how far (and how much reading) I’ve done. But when Justice Hernandez, played by the powerful Sheila Francisco, sang Dear Future Lawyers, it almost felt like she was speaking directly to me, reminding me of the long road ahead of me still. When she sang, “And even if they made it that far, not everyone will pass the bar. In fact, the passing rate for the bar exam is 31 to a low of 17%” I gulped in my seat.
The weight of the “why”
Why did I want to go to law school? Honestly, most days I forget. Depending on who I’m talking to, my answer changes. But one thing remains true: no one asked me to do this to myself. To be a working student, to enter law school in my mid-20s. No one asked me to sacrifice my personal time and social life for this. I could have had a stable, comfortable career without this. I could have had a consistent eight hours of sleep. I could be traveling around every long weekend. Instead, I always have a digest to make or cases to read.
But the question that haunts me even more is, “What’s your plan after this?”
I don’t know. I genuinely cannot see what’s next for me beyond taking the bar. I can’t even see what next week entails. For now, it’s always about an exam I need to take, and another; a recitation I need to prepare for, and another. It’s figuring out the most efficient route from the office to my campus, without shortchanging any of my professional or academic commitments. I have lost foresight and future planning in the thick of the daily grind. In the process, I forget about the immense weight and responsibility of the profession I am trying to enter.
There’s that grand talk of life, liberty, property—the high-minded ideals of the legal profession. Law school is supposed to be grand, with my university even promising the “grand manner,” but often, the day-to-day is boring. It is tedious memorization, technicalities and reading. Furthermore, the reality of the justice system in the Philippines is depressing—protracted justice, power abuses, choking bureaucracy, and courtrooms that are far from the cinematic ideals. What is all this sacrifice for, then?
Law school has allowed me to challenge what it means to do good. Similar to the moral crisis of Bar Boys: The Musical’s Josh, I often wonder if this path is truly worth the cost. The naivete I held in my early 20s, which fostered in me the lawyer dream, is no longer as palpable. The hard lessons of the world have settled in. Yet, my desire to do good and remain hopeful remains, albeit in a more practical and grounded form.
I do not know if this is the best way to contribute to bettering a broken world. But I know that this is my way. And perhaps my goals aren’t as lofty at the moment. But for now, if I can advise my friends on how to deal with a mean landlord, an unreasonable employer, or an abusive partner in a way that drives them to take meaningful action and that protects their dignity—if I can achieve that small, tangible good, I’ll take it.
My version of ‘Bar Boys’
Apart from being an obvious intellectual battleground, law school, to me, is the ultimate test of emotional resilience. More so, it is also a place that can either dull or sharpen one’s moral compass. It is the most difficult, self-imposed endeavor I have ever undertaken, but it is also deeply, undeniably enriching.
It has been a privilege to get to know myself this way, to witness the extent of my own grit as I respond to difficulties. But more than that, it is also an honor to have other people get to know me this way too, as I break apart and rebuild day in and day out. The story of Bar Boys is, at its core, a story about a shared struggle; about friends journeying together. This, too—the friendship and community—is a privilege I get to live.
Where the Bar Boys bond over video games and juvenile sparring, my girl friends and I bond differently. We have our traditions: a start-and-end-of-semester brunch or dinner where we set our intentions; an annual Halloween party where we go all out; the occasional drinks-and-dancing session where we let loose; a quick guilt-ridden trip to the cinema; getting our nails done together while quizzing each other on the next day’s coverage. We join workout classes, pushing our bodies to balance out the hours we spend sedentary on our study desks.
My experience of law school is less grand than the musical’s high-stakes confrontations. We never had a Bar Boys moment where we stood outside the Supreme Court, prophesying with lofty speeches that we’ll cross that line soon. Instead, we have moments where we sit outside of our law school building, waiting for our respective rides to arrive.
Usually, it is past 9 p.m. We all came from work before a three-hour class. We are tired, often complaining about a migraine, yet aware that we’ll have to do it again the next day. And the next. And the next. We use those 15 short minutes to talk about our respective life updates. “Quick lang,” is the usual caveat. “We have a quiz pa,” before one of us starts narrating a career dilemma or a relationship problem, or includes us in the decision-making process for what bag she should get for the next school year. We rant about how poorly we recited, or bask in how well we did. We remind each other of the next day’s coverage, and exchange exhausted grunts and eye rolls.
We are never truly ready for what the next day will bring, but we show up anyway. As Chris, Erik, Torran and Josh would declare: “Never ready. Only prepared.”
I left the theater that night once again emboldened by the practical hope the play always delivers. “Dear future lawyer,” I told myself. “You’re almost there.”
But first things first: I had exams to study for.
