Bunny Tales (5 page)

Just when I thought things could not get worse, the ice storm of 1998 arrived with a vengeance. Freezing rain, snow, and ice pellets pounded the region for five days. There was no power in the city of Montreal and all over Quebec and Ontario as power lines and trees were falling, brought down by the weight of the ice that covered them. Huge icicles were falling off buildings and would surely kill a person had they hit him on the head; I missed such a fate by a couple of feet. There were at least twenty-five deaths, many from hypothermia and carbon monoxide poisoning because people used whatever they could to stay warm. Because there was no power, many students used candles for light, and when the frat boys next door to my building forgot to blow them out, my apartment almost burned down. I stood in the freezing cold, watching the brave firefighters battle the fire, as I cried and prayed to God to save the few belongings I had, particularly my books and my assignments. The next day, I asked Sean to drive me home to my parents’ house in Ontario. I had had enough of winter forever.

A few weeks later, the day before my first exam, I found out that my grandmother had died in Poland. I loved my grandmother very much, but I knew that my grief did not compare to what my mom was going through. My mom was devastated that she was not there with her own mother in her last moments. She felt guilty about leaving Poland and leaving her mother behind. When we left, her plan was to bring my grandma over to Canada. But my grandmother had a life in Poland, and at her age, she did not want to leave behind everything she knew. Plus her high blood pressure and heart condition presented a serious danger for flying overseas. At the time of my grandmother’s death, my mom was very sick with a severe back injury. Any type of movement was painful for her, and she was taking strong pain medication. Immediately I wanted to blow off my exams and travel to the funeral with her. When I found out that if I went, I would have to retake some of my courses and that it would delay my graduation, my mom told me I had to stay at school and finish my semester. It was heartbreaking for me not to go to my grandmother’s funeral and be there for my mom through her emotional and physical pain. I should have gone; I was unable to study anyway and barely made it through my exams.

The trauma of Keith’s death and my grandmother’s death made me contemplate my life more closely. I became acutely aware of the unpredictability of life and decided that although I loved studying and burying myself in books, there was more for me to see, experience, and enjoy. My soul needed uplifting, and my body longed for sunshine. My focus changed; I was determined to combine my educational goals with a more relaxed quality of life. I needed a change of scenery, to re-energize my body and my soul. When I was looking at law schools, the lifestyle they provided became just as important as their academic credentials.

Having been in Montreal during the 1995 Quebec Referendum (a public vote to decide whether Quebec would separate from the rest of Canada and pursue a path toward independence and sovereignty; the motion was narrowly defeated by a 50.58-to-49.42 percent margin), I became disillusioned with Canadian politics. Despite the fact that I loved Montreal, the severity of winter had worn me out. The ice storm of 1998 solidified my belief that my future lay south—way south—of the border. I was dreaming of a nice warm place to attend law school. I was California dreamin’. Despite my longtime desire to attend Georgetown University, I applied to two schools in California based solely on their location and the quality of life they provided. Pepperdine University in Malibu was the first to send me a letter of acceptance. Having never been to Los Angeles, I thought it would be a good idea to see the school and check out the city. As I drove by the ocean, down the Pacific Coast Highway, I fell in love before we even reached the “Malibu: 27 miles of scenic beauty” sign. I got this feeling inside, like I was home. The only thing left to do was apply for a school loan. My parents had paid for the majority of my education at McGill, but that was impossible with a private American school; it was just too expensive. There was only one lender in the United States or Canada that was willing to lend money to Canadian students to attend a professional school in the States. And though the interest rate was high and the conditions strict, I signed on the dotted line, with my parents as co-signors, happy to have the chance to fulfill my dream.

The only reservation I had about moving to California was the fact that I would be so far from my parents, particularly my mom. She was very sad that I was leaving her again, but at the same time, she was proud of me and thought I was so brave. It was really hard for me to leave her again and go further than before. But I saw this as an opportunity to change my life and eventually change the lives of my parents. I thought that if I moved to California and established my life there, I would help my parents move there so that they might enjoy the nice weather in their older years. I have always looked forward to the day when I will be able to take care of them and repay them for all that they have done for me. Everyone has something that drives them forward. Gratitude and love for my parents has always been my driving force.

My parents were incredible about the move; a month before school started, they surprised me by buying me a brand-new car. We packed it up and drove across the continent again, but this time it was to the United States: past the Great Lakes states, through the rolling green hills of Iowa, the plains of Nebraska, the splendid mountains of Colorado, the hellish heat of Utah, to the much awaited Pacific Ocean. It was quite a trip, a passage to a new life. When we got to Malibu, my parents continued to amaze me. They bought me the furniture I needed and bought me food and all the necessities. All too soon, they had to fly back home. After I dropped them off at the airport, I stopped at a nearby beach, sat down on the sand, and watched the planes fly up into the sky, wondering if one of the planes was theirs. I couldn’t hold back my tears. I was choked up with feelings of gratitude, love, and guilt. I missed them already. I felt alone. But I did not dare allow myself any pity—after all, this was
my
choice. I had to be strong like my mom. I got up, took a deep breath, and entered my new life.

3: Legally Blonde .

“Law school is for people who are boring, and ugly, and serious. And you, Button, are none of those things.”

—Elle Woods’ father in Legally Blonde

W
hen I started law school, I was full of enthusiasm, energy, and hope. Everyone warned me ahead of time that the first year of law school is tough. It ’s a time when the school tries to weed out the weak—survival of the fittest. And indeed, a few people did not return for the second year. For me, the first year was a mix of satisfaction and disappointment. I had a couple of professors who inspired me with their passion for the subjects they taught, and those became my favorite subjects and the ones I did the best in. But the majority of the classes were uneventful; I learned what I had to but without any inspiration. And of course there were a few classes I absolutely hated. It wasn’t because of the subject; it was because of the professors who taught them. In law school, subjects are taught using the Socratic method, which is a technique of teaching in which the professor asks leading questions to stimulate rational thinking and elicit answers. However, some professors used it as a weapon to break students down and intimidate and humiliate them. Perhaps what they were hoping for was that we would be so afraid of not knowing the answer that we would try harder and be prepared. All it did for me was make me dislike the teacher, not care about the subject, and resent the fact that I was paying thousands of dollars to get verbally “abused.” But I loved the law and all that it stood for, and I remained hopeful that things would get better the following year, when I would be able to take some courses in international law.

When I moved to California, I had not had a boyfriend in a long time; it was self-imposed singledom after the Ryan-Sean heartbreak. I was looking forward to meeting some hot Malibu surfers. The movie
Point Break
flashed in my mind, and I imagined tan, muscular boys with long blond hair. I was curious to see what the boys in law school would look like, but I certainly did not have high expectations: lawyers aren’t known to be lookers. On our first day of school, the dean asked us to look around, announcing that it was very possible that our future husbands or wives were in this school. I couldn’t help but laugh. Pepperdine actually did have more than the average number of good-looking people; maybe it’s the oceanfront location of the school and proximity to Hollywood that attracts many beautiful types. Despite the fact that there were a few cute boys around, I was uninterested.

Then one day as I was leaving school, I noticed a leg. The leg had a huge tattoo on its side, almost from the knee to the ankle. I was surprised to see anyone in law school with a tattoo, let alone one so visible. I tried to see the guy, but he was reading the
Wall Street Journal
. I couldn’t see his face but I could tell he was tall, well built, and had funky hair (for a law student). I found it amusing. Only in L.A. can you find a hot tattooed guy who is presumably intelligent. A couple of days later, I saw a guy in the atrium looking at me, and I realized it was the tattooed-leg guy. I thought he was cute but didn’t think too much of it. There was already a guy in my class who was pursuing me, and I was trying to figure out how to handle that situation. A few days later we had a school bar night at a place called Rix in Santa Monica. As I sat there with my friends, I noticed a tall guy walking into the place; his spiky hair stuck above the crowd. I realized it was “tattoo boy,” but I still couldn’t tell what he looked like because he was wearing those yellow-lens glasses people wore at the time. After a few minutes, a new friend of mine, the wild red-haired Johnny from New York City, came up to me and wanted to introduce me to his friend. “I’m Justin,” said Tattoo Boy. “Hi Justin, I’m Izabella. Do you have some sort of a medical problem that requires you to wear yellow-lens sunglasses indoors?” I couldn’t help myself because I already knew he was interested since he clearly asked his friend to introduce us. He didn’t say a word, just stood there and stared. Later I gave Johnny my phone number. The next day, the phone rang and it was Justin. I was surprised; he didn’t even wait the customary two days. From then on, he called me every day. “So are there a lot of moose in Canada?” he would ask. “Yes, in fact I used to ride moose to school everyday from the igloo where I lived, eh,” I replied. This was usually followed by an extended discussion on whether Canadians say “aboot” versus “about”—and for the record, no one says “aboot.” He teased me, but I knew it was only because he liked me, the way boys in kindergarten pulled girls’ pigtails as a show of affection. And although I did not realize it at the time, he was growing on me. A couple of days later, he called me from outside of my apartment, saying he had some time before his evening class started and he was coming over. His call woke me from a nap, so I answered the door wearing a pair of old oversized floral pajama pants and a tank top. After we hung out watching TV for a bit, he realized he was too late for class and was just going to have to spend the rest of the evening with me. I realized he had planned the whole thing! He never wanted to go to class, class was just an excuse to come over and “kill some time.” That night we drank cheap wine and played
Trivial Pursuit
until my roommate and Justin started cheating. I threw a dignified fit and locked myself in my room refusing to come out, but he wouldn’t leave. I finally came out of my room, and he apologized and asked for a rematch. I agreed, we kissed, and he left. And that is how we fell in love.

Although I initially didn’t think he was my type, mainly because of his tattoos, as I learned more about Justin, I began to see serious potential for a boyfriend. I was happy to find a guy I was attracted to, had great chemistry with, and was also kind, funny, and my intellectual equal. There was also a sensitivity and vulnerability in him that drew me in. Justin learned early on that life is short and we must live each day to the fullest, not worrying about what others say. He almost died when he was 16 years old, when he was struck by a drunk driver while riding a motorcycle with his friend. His friend walked away with minor scratches, but Justin’s leg had been shattered. He was airlifted to a hospital, and doctors did not think he would make it. But he did and had multiple surgeries on his knee and hip and spent months in the hospital. He was one of the youngest people in the United States to ever have a hip replacement. The driver who hit him had no insurance; Justin did not get a cent from him. But he never feels sorry for himself, never cries about life being unfair, and never complains about the physical pain that I know he struggles with all the time. Although proudly and fiercely American, Justin is open to other cultures and traditions, even though he has not traveled that extensively, and that was important to me. Although he likes to teasingly say “eh” and “aboot,” he loves going to Canada, finds the people warm and friendly, the country beautiful, and Tim Horton’s tim-bits delicious. He also eagerly learned many Polish traditions and even a few words in Polish. Most importantly, Justin had tremendous respect for my parents and always treated them with kindness and affection and understood how much they mean to me. I fell in love with his strength, dignity, realism, and kindness.

It wasn’t easy having a relationship with him, though. As I found out, he was a hot commodity on the law school meat market. Girls shamelessly pursued him despite knowing we were together. One girl asked a professor to pass Justin an invitation to her party that weekend. Curiously, I wasn’t invited nor were many girls at all. He ended up going to the party with some friends. He didn’t stay long, and we all met up at a local bar afterward. She came there as well and saw us together. That night when I got home, I noticed the smell of burnt rubber. I circled my car to discover that it had been vandalized. Someone had ripped off my windshield wipers and stuck them in my exhaust pipe. My gut told me it was that girl. She had left the bar a few minutes before I did. She wanted my boyfriend and went to great lengths to invite him to her party. I am sure she wasn’t happy when he came to meet me and spent the rest of the night by my side. Years later when I became friends with a girl who had been her best friend at the time, she told me that it was something that this girl was capable of doing.