After high school, I thought I was finished with standardized testing. The idea of never again having to listen to a teacher read the same instructions I’d heard all my life for state-mandated exams, or nervously checking the clock every two minutes during an ACT reading section, made me feel incredibly relieved.
I was never the kind of student who thrived in standardized testing environments. Sure, I usually scored at or above the median, but I was never among the top performers. There could be many reasons for this, but the most convincing has always been my tendency to get caught up in the details.
Take the ACT reading section, for instance. I always found myself too immersed in the passage. While the test writers wanted students to focus on structure and big-picture comprehension, I would get sidetracked wondering about minor details, like why a character brought a PB&J to school instead of another sandwich, especially if they didn’t seem like a peanut butter fan.
Don’t even get me started on the math section. Word problems have always been both a friend and a foe of mine. Sometimes, my deep interest in the scenario made the solution come more easily. Other times, however, I was left pondering why Caleb had 12 sandwiches and Lucy only had 8.
Why did the writers decide the boy needed more sandwiches? Haven’t we progressed enough as a society for Caleb and Lucy to have the same number? Honestly, Lucy might even deserve more, who’s to say?
Clearly, I wasn’t destined to be an ACT top scorer. But with extensive preparation (and a few tears), I did well enough on the test to get into one of my dream schools—UCSB. I couldn’t wait to dive into classes that wouldn’t carry the burdens I associated with standardized testing!
But to my dismay, standardized testing wasn’t quite done with me. In just a few weeks, I’ll be taking the Law School Admission Test (LSAT) for the first time. I’ll admit… this is on me.
I chose to pursue a career in law, and getting into law school means taking the LSAT. And believe me, I thoroughly researched every possible way to avoid it, but my efforts were in vain.
So last year, I began the difficult journey of preparing for the exam. What struck me most about studying for this test, compared to those I’ve taken in the past, was how much more I appreciated my unique way of thinking.
I’m still not a great test-taker. And yes, I know the LSAT is a learnable test, so maybe I’m just an unmotivated test-taker, but I see it differently.
The LSAT asks you to rewire your brain to think in a new way. As someone who loves reading and writing, narrative forms and abstract art, and all the beautiful gray areas in life that can’t be reduced to five answer choices labeled A through E, I struggle with a test that demands black-and-white thinking.
Sure, the LSAT was designed to identify those with the potential to become great lawyers, not those who wonder why Caleb has more sandwiches than Lucy. But I’d still like to make a case for abstract thinkers. Maybe it’s to reassure myself, but also to remind others that being a good lawyer doesn’t require fitting into a narrow mold.
I agree with the LSAT creators that high scores likely correlate with success in law school. But as they would say, correlation doesn’t imply causation. A strong LSAT score might be a helpful predictor, but it’s neither necessary nor sufficient for success.
I’d argue that the very qualities that make standardized tests challenging for me are also my greatest strengths, and I believe those are the same strengths that will help me become a great lawyer.
I approach problems with empathy and a genuine curiosity about other people’s perspectives, qualities that will allow me to better understand and advocate for clients’ needs.
I also value clear communication, a skill I’ve honed through storytelling, which helps me present arguments in compelling and relatable ways, something that’s essential when trying to persuade a courtroom.
Tests like the LSAT often make people feel that if they can’t succeed in one rigid format, they’re not cut out for the profession. But I’d argue that the very traits that make these tests more difficult can also be someone’s most valuable assets.
I’d want a lawyer who is both intelligent and personable, and I have a hard time believing that a standardized test is the best way to distinguish the good from the great.
Like state-mandated tests and college entrance exams, the LSAT evaluates skills that are relevant to the field. I understand that tests like these exist because it would otherwise be difficult to identify which applicants are likely to succeed. But at the same time, I want to remind those applicants that their worth and potential aren’t defined by a score.
So as I prepare to take the LSAT, I’m holding onto the belief that while scores may matter, they don’t define me. My strengths may not boost a multiple-choice score, but they are exactly what I believe will make me an impactful lawyer. And I hope you’ll remember the same for yourself.