I met with the head of admissions for the U of A law school. She said my personal statement should be more emotive. They're interested in more humanity, emotional content, and reflection. She said they want to see the passion behind my choice to pursue a law degree. I thought I was sparing them, but if they really want to hear about the humanity, emotion, and reflection that has brought me back to Tucson after living, working and loving in Australia for 7 years, how's this:

The most reflective moment was the one in 2002, when Jim and I were both illegal, on the run, and living in a horrible white box in a Melbourne suburb because my boss wouldn't pay me and was threatening to have me and my life partner deported if I tried to get the $1,700 he owed me in wages and commissions. All perfectly legal under a temporary work permit. We were running out of money, and Jim told me he refused to help earn any. There was a moment when finally, after 8 1/2 years, we looked at each other and knew that it was over. Not just my relationship with Jim, but with a large portion of his lifestyle, including the dream of being a theatre producer. He calls this 'betraying my middle class nature', but I call it not flogging a dead horse. If he wants to blame a failure to communicate between two people on an entire class, he can, but I feel there are much worthier targets if one is aiming to destroy the bourgeoisie.

By far one of the most purely, animalistically thrilling moments in my time in Australia was when I broke into the Big Day Out with a bunch of crazy freaks by crawling through a stormwater drain for 2 hours. The moment came after we arrived at the proverbial end of the tunnel. We brushed tell-tale cobwebs off each other's hair and backs. The leader peered up through the grating with sunlight streaming down in stripes on his face. Having unsucessfully tried to open it from the inside, he yelled to the revellers above. They were stunned in disbelief. "No way. There's people down there!" A couple of buffed Aussie blokes dispatched the grating in no time and enthusiastically pulled us up one by one. When we all got up, the crowd released a spontaneous cheer in our honour. We had flouted authority and got away with it. (Somehow I think I'll leave this one out of the final draft, as it involves admitting to several illegal activities, but you have to admit, for pure drama it can't be beat.)

But the most human moment, and one that has the most to do with my desire to enter the legal profession, was when I joined my lover for the last week and a half of his life in St. George's Hospital, Kogarah, and watched him let go of life one finger at a time. That moment changed the way I understand time; it was no longer voluminous, soft and amorphous. Suddenly it was small and hard, with sharp edges; a tool to be used wisely.

Suddenly the world in all its grittiness was before my eyes in excruciating detail. Now when I hear about people who've lost a loved one, grief echoes in my guts. I recognize the unrestrained wailing only in empathy; our culture is much too conservative to tolerate it. How could I possibly live in world that allows such rampant horrors and deprivations? I found it impossible to voluntary withdraw from the world, so I reflected long and hard, pondering the most effective thing I could do with the time I've been given. I arrived at the verdict: become a lawyer.

When lawyers succeed, they can produce significant changes in those structures of societies that cause unnecessary suffering. I have often acted as an agent on behalf of friends and colleagues, filling the role that a lawyer would, if one had been affordable or available. There is also a proud history of lawyers making lasting changes in my family, so perhaps it is not a surprise that I chose that path as the answer to my search for purpose.