Dream a little, I'll dream on!

February 3, 2025 

Today was the long-awaited Illinois Dreams event — a celebration of bankruptcy so passionate, it almost felt like we were worshipping insolvency itself. America's finest bankruptcy professionals descended upon the university in a noble effort to educate the youth, answer questions, and maybe, if you were truly blessed by the gods of financial ruin, offer you a job. Personally, I came armed with hope, a moderately ironed suit, and a keen sense of existential dread.

Being one of the moderators — thank you, Professor Pigou, for this honor and/or trap — I had the enviable task of organizing, facilitating, and standing in close physical proximity to people with actual power. We had prepared extensively via a thrilling email thread, and by “prepared,” I mean we didn’t rehearse anything but talked a lot about how well-prepared we were. Improvisation, after all, is the jazz of academia. I remember in the email chain — our little digital salon of curated curiosity — every question I proposed received what I’ll generously call “favourable edits.” Two of them were promptly axed for being too political, which is apparently a sin in the sacred space of private-sector worship. You see, this was not the time nor place to ask provocative things like how the judiciary might be improved. Heavens no. This was a celebration of the system exactly as it is — flawless, timeless, profit-friendly. The rest of my neutered questions were politely redistributed among the other moderators, in the name of “collaboration” and “shared meaning.” Very democratic. I, too, wanted a meaningful role — ideally one that didn’t involve playing the ghostwriter for everyone else’s stage time. You’ll understand my enthusiasm was tinged with nostalgia, coming as I do from the post-Soviet zone, where censorship at least had the decency to wear a uniform. I put on my grey suit, which screamed, “Hire me, but don’t expect me to smile too much,” and was ready for greatness.

Woke up at 8 a.m., which felt like punishment until my brain remembered I was supposed to be impressive today. That snapped me awake faster than any caffeine. The sky was blue, the wind was aggressive, and my giant red coat turned me into a fashionable radiator on the walk to campus. Sweat: nature’s way of saying, “You overdressed again.” 

The university was still in its peaceful pre-event state, which is to say: mostly empty, eerily quiet, and vaguely judging. I had a class that morning, because nothing says "big career opportunity day" like a prelude of obligation. When I exited, I caught a glimpse of Professor Pigou himself — our fearless leader — who, in a twist no one saw coming, vanished into a different room entirely and was never seen again. A symbolic gesture, I assumed. 

Then came the real action. The lobby had boxes of snacks, which — being a rational person — I treated as both sustenance and emotional support. I grabbed my emotional support chicken box and floated into the auditorium, where Richard was already standing at the podium, radiating competence. Next to him was the woman who had organized this bit of the dream. People trickled in: students, professors, and the mysterious panelists, all of whom looked like they’d seen the inside of more courtrooms than I’d seen daylight this winter. 

The panelists were a cinematic ensemble: two judges (a man and a woman), a law firm partner who definitely owns three cufflinks for every day of the week, and a young associate whose years of experience appeared to span multiple dimensions. I was torn between admiration and gentle confusion at how someone barely older than me could already have a war chest of stories. Maybe time moves faster in the private sector. Does she have over 400 litigations under her belt, like I do? Doubtful. Does she even have a belt? Hard to say. Maybe she transcended belts — floating through the legal profession held up entirely by confidence and judicial appointments. I caught her looking at me a couple of times. Maybe this was my moment — to say something bold, seize the spotlight, do whatever it is that powerful people do when they’re too famous to face consequences. But alas, I wasn’t that famous. Just a mildly sweaty moderator in a grey suit, armed with a microphone and a vague sense of professional longing.

Despite my best efforts to absorb the wisdom being dispensed, my real focus was elsewhere — on my own impending moment. I was, after all, The Moderator. As fate would have it, seated next to me was a Very Important Judge. You know the kind — did something brave, got reversed, prompted a Supreme Court ruling, no big deal. She kept glancing at me like she could smell the nervous energy and hubris radiating from my pores. This was the famous Fulton case — the one where Chicago tried to patch up the state treasury by shaking down taxi drivers and delivery workers, presumably because shaking down hedge funds felt too ambitious. The judge — a sort of fairy-like woman with a disarmingly pleasant demeanor — did something rare and unfashionable: she ruled bravely. Naturally, this was immediately labeled "activism," because apparently judges are meant to be sedentary creatures. But really, why shouldn’t they be active? Everyone else has a gym membership. 

Then, the moment came. Richard said my name. The world stopped. I stood up, buzzed with adrenaline and a peculiar feeling that I might forget how to speak English at any moment. I walked to the microphone like a man being asked to disarm a bomb using only charm. I handed the mic to a girl who wanted to ask the final question of the event. She spoke. People nodded. The event ended. And just like that, my grand moment was over — quietly, cleanly, anticlimactically. I believe I did a decent job, though at this point, decency feels like a wildly ambitious goal.