One of the hardest things about switching from the
discipline of history to the study of law is learning how to slow down.
Undergraduate and graduate history students read hundreds of pages a week, learning to
analyze a monograph or article by figuring out its main arguments and reviewing
its evidence to see if those claims hold up. They also become adept at
synthesizing large bodies of historical literature to better situate the
primary and secondary sources they read into those frameworks.
These skills should translate well into law school and to
the categorical reasoning it purports to teach. But law school is not a BarBri
cram course. Yes, students obsess over their outlines before final exams,
trying to fit everything they’ve learned into a logical framework so they can
be ready for the absurd fact patterns their professors throw at them. Yet an
effective legal outline describes the relational quality of law, rather than a
set of black letter certainties. Law students learn that every transaction
presents a moment of legal possibility, in which the doctrine accepted as law
in the past intersects with the understandings of the parties in the present
and their beliefs about what a judge, jury, or the wider community might say in
the future.
Contingency makes for compelling history, too, challenging
the impulse of many writers and lecturers to produce deterministic narratives
about the past. But it also fractures the story, producing histories that can deny the
realities of structural power, or give too much authority to specific events or
actors. Think about the history books that actually sell at Barnes & Noble:
One (month or secretary of state or hockey goal) That
Changed the World.
Undergraduate classes teaching law and environmental history
can draw on this creative tension to give students new ways of seeing the
nature and the built landscape. I’ve always related to the experience that
William Cronon describes in his prologue to Nature’s Metropolis of growing up looking out the car window as the
landscape shifted from the crowded, polluted, and artificial city to the
bucolic countryside. “One of the pleasures of childhood and adolescence,” he
writes, “is that one can experience emotions of this sort without worrying too
much about their possible contradictions.” By giving students a grounding in
the laws and practices underlying these landscapes, we not only dispel the
illusory walls between urban and rural, nature and artifice, but help them
understand the legal devices that define them.
It’s teaching the art of what real estate practitioners call
“dirt lawyering,” helping students see
the principles underlying the landscape
and the events that put those rules to the test. Nearly every class I teach
seems to begin with drawing that square that property professors call
Blackacre. It’s our platform for understanding what novel impositions people
brought to the landscape in each era and how they contested them through formal
and informal means. For the curious, it’s a skill that helps solve the
mysteries of everyday life and its inequalities. “Why are there so many
chemical companies and refineries in North Jersey?” my students asked. “Why are
there no Whole Foods in Newark?” “Why don’t brownfields get cleaned up?” Even
for those who never plan to be activists, teachers, or lawyers, “dirt
lawyering” will be there whenever they sign a lease, build a fence, or look out
their front windshield.
Air and ground rights Marcel Breuer's proposed Grand Central tower (1968) Breuer Papers (Smithsonian) |