Chances are that if you’re serious enough about law school to have purchased this book and to have read this far, there’s a law school seat for you out there. That seat may not be in the school, or even in the city you’d hoped for; it may not be available not this fall, if you’re reading this for the first time in June. On the other hand it may be the school of your dreams. Either way, there’s probably a place for you.
The last paragraph could not be said if all 150,000 people who take the LSAT this year bought this book; as much as the author wishes they would and thinks they should, that’s unlikely to happen. But that’s the number of people who at least have a casual interest in attending law school. Two-thirds of them will go beyond the casual to actually applying to a law school or two, or twelve. Ultimately there’s room for about 40,000 warm bodies to start law school this year. So among those who apply, your chances are a little less than half of getting into some law school, all things being equal.
But as will be discussed, virtually no things are equal. There’s much you can do to improve your odds way beyond equal, taking advantages of the pluses you have to offer. Doing those things--including the LSAT--is the topic of this chapter.
In chapter 7 you were urged to major in what you love, and that if you can’t find love at least what you like. As warm and fuzzy as that sounds, it’s actually a little cold and calculating. You will do better at what you like; you will get better grades when you do better; you will have more choices about where to attend law school if you have better grades. So you see, love conquers all.
There is a point where applications are read by human eyes, and when they are, the grownups are separated from the kiddies. Besides the fact that law-school admissions officers attended college themselves, they are especially keen students of what majors, and courses, are what. If both candidates make the first cut (or perhaps the first two cuts) based on their numbers, and--to posit a highly artificial situation--the last seat in the law school of their mutual dreams were down to the two of them, you’d want to have your money on the person with the more demanding curriculum.
So no; ultimately they’re not the same.
But, again, initially they are the same. And, sad but true, if the macaroni man (the pasta major, that is) had an A average (4.0 GPA), he’d have a leg up on the biologist. More importantly, if that same pasta major had himself majored in biology and only pulled a 3.7, he’d be worse off than in the course he did follow.
Now who ever heard of a pasta major? Certainly not anyone who went to a very good college, or even a good one. The next point to consider in terms of what you bring to the table in academic credentials and now we’re getting past the numbers, where we’ll remain until our discussion of the LSAT--is where that GPA was earned.