Throwing away a deceased laptop is a bit like moving; it forces you to sort through piles of crap from your past and confront the person you were years ago. The other night I sat in my living room shuffling through old files on a hardrive that will soon occupy space in some landfill. There it was, sitting in a folder called “Old Papers” that I hadn’t opened in five years: my law school admissions essay. I read it and cried. Not due to the subject matter, but because over the next few years I would diverge so far from the eager college senior springing forth from the page. Youthful ideals and aspirations would soon bow to societal and parental expectations, the thrill of competition, and the everpresent six-figure corporate greed. Now that I’ve stepped away, I can look back and wonder what my uncle would have thought of all this. Known for his mercurial temper, he may not have been all that pleased with my recent decisions. But I’m pretty sure that, at some point, he would have had a damn good laugh.

Here it is:

The night after my uncle died, I decided to pursue a career in law. I was sitting in his study, reminiscing in the scent of antique furniture mixed with cologne and rifling through the mountains of documents littering the room when I realized how much his work had diffused my own consciousness. A powerful influence and role model throughout my childhood, John Lloyd XXXX practiced criminal and civil liberties law for fifteen years with an unwavering approbation for the principles of the legal process. His knowledge, dignity, compassion, and strength in battling the AIDS virus have impacted my personal growth and deeply influenced my career goals.

Lloyd possessed a style and suavity that captivated courtroom members, matched in strength by his unwavering principles. Throughout my adolescence, I was in awe of his devotion to justice and equality in a city polarized by political opulence and extreme poverty. A bilingual public defender in Washington D.C., he treated every client with respect and individual care regardless of socioeconomic or citizenship status. In addition, he was renowned for his commitment to cases involving HIV-positive defendants, often devoting weekends to pro bono legal aid for AIDS patients, many of whom were too ill to leave the hospital.

After thirteen years of living with my mother and sister in the D.C. area, I relied heavily on my uncle as a role model and source of guidance when I entered a competitive school in Northeast D.C. He offered unconditional support of my scholastic achievements and exposed me to a world detached from my sheltered school environment. Upon obtaining a driver’s license, I would brave downtown traffic and join other spectators to hear his cases, and for the fist time realized the extent of crime and poverty in a city so saturated with power and fortune. Through his practice, I came in contact with first and second generation families from Central and South America who wanted desperately to adapt in American society but could barely live beyond the poverty line, even in the nation’s capital. Lloyd’s effort to improve others’ lives was contagious, and I became a contributor in his endeavors.

Throughout high school, I realized that Lloyd’s physical condition and ability to maintain his practice were rapidly declining. My sophomore year, he reluctantly retired from the bar. A few months later, when I opened his bedroom door to announce my arrival for dinner, I turned and shut my eyes to block out the skeletal frame and scaly complexion of a man who once commanded any room’s attention simply by entering it. His medications and treatment had gradually ceased their effectiveness, and reality was emerging. He was no longer merely infected with HIV, but dying from full-blown AIDS.

The night I sat alone in his study, I came across an unmarked binder in the dust-filled file cabinet. Inside I discovered a collection of cards and letters from friends, colleagues, and clients following Lloyd’s retirement announcement. Many of the notes were scribbled on wrinkled paper, some were in Spanish, and one was even written in sonnet form. Yet all of them shared a profound sense of gratitude for the man who had dedicated his career and last years of his life to others, even at the expense of his own health. Upon completing law school, I fully intend to resume his efforts in my own legal career, practicing law with the same devoted integrity that he displayed for so many years.