A few years ago, during the penultimate semester in my university career, a tragedy struck my classmates and me. While much time has passed, my thoughts often drift back to this time, and I wonder why it had affected me so much. In my fourth year of university, I was still under the foolish impression that I would graduate to be a top-of-the-line lawyer, a legal advocate for women's rights, a leader in the profession. It was a career path that I quickly learned was not right for me at all, but at the time, I thought it was my destiny. Hence, I took a non-mandatory tort and contract law class on Tuesdays from 6 to 8:45 pm. My professor, let's just call him Mr. F, was a loud, energetic presence in the room. He would pace around the front of the room, scribbling things on the board here and there, and using a handkerchief to mop the sweat off his brow every fifteen minutes or so. He was clearly very passionate about his career in law. The one case he taught us that struck out