By Craig Forcese

Full Professor
Faculty of Law

Email: cforcese[at]

Twitter: @cforcese


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Bleaching Law

Welcome to my blog on teaching law.  I have entitled it "bleaching law". This is an obvious contraction of "blog" and "teaching".  It is also a play  on words capturing the endless struggle of a law professor to convey as neat, tidy, proper and well-starched things that are emphatically not, like the standard of review in administrative law.  All opinions are my own and do not reflect on anyone else who I work with, for or around. 


Cognitive Bias and the Constitution

I have been continuing a slow-motion effort to learn more about cognitive biases, and trying to imagine how to integrate cognitive bias awareness training into how I teach law. (For a fascinating recent primer cognitive bias, see Ben Yagoda's recent article.) On a separate track, I have been watching the contestation of political differences spun-up in various jurisdictions as legal claims, especially of a constitutional sort. In truth, some governments do embark on constitutionally doubtful paths.

But there is another issue as well: non-mainstream views about the constitution attracting the support of partisans that, if deployed in the hands of the other partisans they oppose, would be characterized as a coup d'etat. The various proposals for "court packing" in the United States fall into this camp, as well as puzzling arguments circulating online suggesting that the Lieutenant Governor of Ontario may choose to refuse royal assent to a Ford government bill duly enacted in the legislature. (There was also a bit of this at the federal level in 2015's debate on bill C-51.)

A lot of this is the sort of debate you often see in Twitter Law School, and so it is hard to guage how seriously anyone takes this. But it might be useful, nevertheless, to spell out why it is wrong.

The argument about a Governor General or Lt Governor denying royal assent requires a reading of the Constitution Act, 1867, shorn of any consideration of "constitutional conventions". These conventions often get short shrift in the public mind, because they are not written down and, at least in theory, are not justiciable in court. For some, that seems to make them less real, the equivalent of discretionary normative principles rather than binding, positive norms. In fact, they are binding on the political branches of government, and in further fact, they are the norms that have many of the good things we value about our democracy in them. The Constitution Act, 1867, reads like an instrument creating an absolutist monarchy. It does not actually work that way, entirely because of conventions.

The way it really works takes a lot of explaining, and our constitutional law is guilty of length and ambiguity, even on things that require neither length nor ambiguity. Some things we teach in law schools must be complicated, because they deal with complicated problems. Constitutional law is often complicated because it is more like DNA than a car engine: it is a product of evolution (not rational design), with the haphazard genetic material of historical-deadends still embedded in its substance.

On the particular question of royal assent, the bottom line is this: no regal figure (be they the Queen, or her representatives, the Governor General or the Lieutenant Governors) can now deny royal assent as the final stage of converting a bill into a statute. Royal assent is a nominal process, and has been for a very long time.

The last time someone tried to litigate this issue, they were correctly tossed from court. And the Federal Court, properly, observed:

The provenance of the power to grant or withhold assent lies in the royal prerogative, but that power is now embedded in section 55 of the Constitution Act, 1867, and how that prerogative is exercised is constrained by constitutional convention.  As Professor Hogg observes, in granting assent, the Governor General “plays no discretionary role whatever”; rather, the Governor General is bound by the conventions of responsible government and “...must always give the royal assent to a bill which has passed both Houses of Parliament” (Hogg at 9-22).  There is “no circumstance” which would justify refusal of assent, as the obligation is that of a constitutional convention (Hogg at 9-22).

Even the Lieutenant Governor of Ontario denies having this power to deny royal assent, on her own website:

Can Royal Assent be withheld?

There is now undoubtedly a constitutional convention that the Lieutenant Governor will grant Royal Assent to bills that have been passed by the Legislative Assembly.

What is reservation?

According to the Constitution Act, 1867, the Lieutenant Governor may reserve bills instead of granting Royal Assent. Reserved bills may be assented to by the Governor General in Council (the Governor General acting on the advice of the federal Cabinet) within one year, or else they do not become law.

With the full establishment of responsible government and the development of the court system, there is now a constitutional convention that reservation will not be exercised.

Only two bills have ever been reserved in Ontario. The Hon. Sir William Howland, second Lieutenant Governor of Ontario (1868-1873), reserved two bills in 1873 on advice of the Premier. Ultimately, these bills were not given Royal Assent by the Governor General in Council and did not become law.

There are those who wish to resuscitate the "disallowance" powers in the Constitution Act, 1867, in response to a bill they dislike. We are seeing this now in the debate over the Ford government's bill reducing Toronto's city council. But be wary of the "Make Disallowance Great Again" movement, not just because money spent in support of a court challenge will show a very poor return on investment. Be worried about it also because what is good for your disallowance goose will be good for other folks' disallowance gander.

As Adam Dodek alluded to on Twitter over the weekend, the last time a Lt Governor tried (unsuccessfully) to usurp the legislature through disallowance was in relation to a CCF bill in Saskatchewan. The Lt Gov in 1961 was a prominent conservative lawyer (and Diefenbaker appointee to the office) who had worked for the oil industry. The CCF (predecessor to the NDP) passed a bill allowing one-sided contracts between farmers and oil companies to be adjusted. The fall-out from the Lt Gov decision to deny royal assent was considerable, especially since the Diefenbaker government had no idea the Lt Gov was planning to reserve on the bill. Concerned it would be perceived as meddling in provincial jurisdiction, the Defienbaker government introduced its own order-in-council, effectively giving royal assent to the bill, and ending the crisis. (A good summary of this case is here.)

The assumption and practice ever since (as the Lt Governor of Ontario's website makes clear) is that disallowance is obsolescent, even though it still exists on paper.

But let me suggest: Assuming it was even possible to "Make the Disallowance Power Great Again" and everyone who has concluded that the power is now obsolete is wrong, the Saskatchewan story, alone, should signal "be careful what you wish for". In the final analysis, the legislature (even when commanded by a majority with whom you disagree) is the only truly democratic aspect of our provincial and federal governments (and even at the federal level, an exception must be made for the senate). Everyone else (and that includes the Prime Minister in their role as Prime Minister) owes their office to something other than direct election to their post.

Governors General and Lieutenant Governors are appointed. The GG is appointed nominally by the Queen on the advice (which must be followed because of those pesky conventions) of (ultimately) the PM. The Lt Governors are appointed by the GG, again on the (mandatory) advice of (ultimately) the PM. If the PM chose their former gym teacher, that would decide the matter.

Now you want to empower that vice-regal appointee to choose not to give to assent to a bill? Maybe the Lt Governor does not believe in climate change, because appointed by a prior federal government opposed to carbon taxes. Maybe the Lt Governor does not like the idea of proportional representation. Maybe the Lt Governor does not like whatever [enter something you care about]. He or she is not accountable to you. You didn't vote for him or her. At best, you voted for a candidate of a federal party that won enough seats to command the confidence of the House of Commons and therefore (again by those pesky conventions) its leader was appointed prime minister by the GG. And that leader (maybe now long since departed the scene) decided the identity of the Lt Gov. That's a lot of attenuation in the accountability system.

Ah, but the Lt Gov serves at pleasure and therefore her security of tenure might be truncated. So the PM could advise (order) their removal by the GG. So that is a check, surely. And so we can have a disallowance power after all! But let's be clear here: you would then prefer a system in which the PM (through the Lt Gov appointment and dismissal process) can decide what provincial bills become laws, and which do not.

If that's your choice, you've abandoned federalism. You have a unitary system dressed up as federalism, with all power now concentrated in one person, the PM. That sort of constitutional arrangement would be a very bad thing, and nothing but mischief would result.

Some people may wonder, therefore, what is the point of the GG or the Lt Gov, and that is a fair question to ask. Personally, I think these offices perform several important state and legal functions -- although royal assent is not one of them. If we didn't have them, we'd have to invent them. I will not belabour that point here, and can only refer you to my podcast lectures on constitutional and public law and my various writings, including The Laws of Government: The Legal Foundations of Canadian Democracy.

My key takeaways from this post, however, are more straightforward. I shall amplify Andrew Potter's interesting synthesis of partisan blinders and warn (in relation to his first marker): Beware of the cognitive bias of "partisan constitutional nearsightedness". Always ask yourself: Would I be happy if the people I disagree with had the same powers to stymie the, um, "will of the people" the next time they are out of office?

And always be conscious of these facts:

  • Yes, some do, but not every stupid thing a government does violates the constitution.
  • If you want the constitution (and probably be extension, judges and lawyers) to do all the heavy-lifting in your society, you are asking for a technocracy, not a democracy.
  • If you oppose stupid things the government does, your tools are very often the ballot box, a free press, free speech and association and an engaged citizenry, not the Lt Gov.
In sum, the constitution and constitutional litigation has its place. But it is a very small place. For everything else, there is democracy. And if you don't like that very much because it produces peverse outcomes at times, I recommend a quick tour of the peversities spun-up by other systems, historical and current.



A Tale of Two Siloes: International Law and International Relations Perspectives

This week’s US missile strike on Syria has provoked much commentary, including on my national security blog. I won’t repeat here my own substantive observations, which have focused on the "use of force" legal issues. (Known to any Romans out there as jus ad bellum.) Here I want to reflect on a more insular academic issue: the pattern of commentary across the international law and relations disciplines.

On slippery slopes

In relation to Syria, most of what I’ve seen from international lawyers has expressed varying (and usually considerable) degrees of unease with the legality of the US missile strike.  If you believe (as I do) that there is no existing legal basis for that strike, you are preoccupied with keeping your shoulder on the door of “use of force” law.  That is so tomorrow we don’t have states chucking missiles at each other, while pointing to the customary international law status of the Donald Trump Doctrine.

In other words, the concern is about lawyerly slippery slopes. (And in this area, they really do exist.  Customary international law is doctrinally inclined to such poor traction.  And in the way arguments about it are advanced, it is a giant water slide).

Most of what I’ve seen from international relations scholars has not mentioned illegality at all, and has focused on, well, the politics (domestic and international) and the tactical repercussions in Syria (and the strategic implications for US power or for alliance relationships). Here, the worries are about a different sort of slippery slope.

There are, of course, exceptions and people who are talking about both categories of issue – but there always are.

On a division of perspective

This divide is not a new topic, nor is it confined to international issues.

Wearing my public law hat, it is remarkable how much Public Law 101 is discussed as if it were all political contingency.  And political scientists sometimes (possibly often, and with some reason) scoff at constitutional lawyers as supplicants to the false god of preordained constitutional scripture.

So too in international matters. In the worst instances, international relations scholars regard international lawyers as painfully naïve about international politics and doctrinally fixated.  And international lawyers, at their worst, regard international relations scholars as unmoored to principle and, in their own different way, naïve about the workings of the international system. 

On balance, international lawyers are the most defensive. They can’t ignore international politics. Some try – and a lot of international law scholarship is sterilized of icky politics.  Still, most international lawyers need to be attentive to international relations if they are to do their jobs – certainly it is difficult to teach the subject without some contemplation of the proverbial political bull in the classroom.  (In one of my international law lectures, I summarize some of Joseph Nye’s excellent summations of international politics and weave in thoughts about how international law matters. When I teach other topics in the law school, I don’t start with a long meditation about “why what we are about to learn matters”.)

What about on the international relations side? I do read a lot of international relations writing.  Just as some international law discussions are platonically preoccupied with doctrine (and nothing but), many international relations scholars are utterly inattentive to international law.  It is at best an afterthought: the small print in the online registration form that you click through on the way to getting to the good stuff on iTunes.  Or it is deployed as a form of motivated reasoning, shoring up conclusions drawn on other bases.

I don’t mean either of these critiques as a haughty dismissal or some sort of typical surly hand-wringing. Part of the problem is that international law sometimes is pretty unimpressive as an explanatory variable in explaining international outcomes. (Although, on this point, I would suggest that if you look closely: international law may not dictate outcomes, but it always affects conduct in some manner. That is: it is not necessarily an explanatory variable, but it is an intervening variable).

Training for two solitudes

Some of this mutual inattention (even dismissal) is simply a function of silos between disciplines. It is possible to become an international lawyer and never be exposed to international relations scholarship or teaching.

And I imagine it is entirely possible in some places to take a degree in international relations without doing the same sort of international law you would get in many/most law schools.  To amplify this point, international law is sometimes said to be what swiss cheese is to cheese: law, but with lots of holes.  And so there are two ways to teach international law: you can focus on the cheese, or focus on the holes.  There is actually a lot of cheese (and it is delicious!).  But the holes, well once you go down them, you may never come out. 

I have no data, but let me hypothesize: international law taught in law schools is fixated on cheese.  International law, when taught in international relations programs, may be (comparatively) fixated with holes.  This isn’t necessarily even by design, but by circumstance.  In law schools, through the magic of transmogrification, our students are supposed to “think like lawyers”. In truth, no one really knows what that means.  But at the very least, it means a zealous preoccupation with the “rule of law”.  The rule of law does not translate well to international law.  And so like shipwrecked sailors, international lawyers cling to the debris of HMS Rule Of Law.  Rules!  Give me a rule!  Please, I’m sinking!

Taught as part of a political science or international relations program, international law is just one more thing in the ocean.  And not even the most interesting thing. (Oh, look a deep dark underwater policy cave to explore!)

On top of that, international lawyers learn a grammar, and evaluate what is said and done in international relations via the straightjacket of that grammar.  And assessed by the standards of that grammar, much of what is said and done sounds like: “Tarzan shoot missile”.

Meanwhile, for those not anointed to the Dark Arts, the international lawyer’s grammar produces things like: “The aforementioned herewith stipulates the jus cogens nature of conventional rule governing the above named matter, relating to jus ad bellum”.

On separate but equal cultures

In addition, international lawyers will be normative and prescriptive where international relations scholars will be empirical and theoretical. 

But both could learn from each other. In some respects, international lawyers are classic conservatives: law is the dead hand of the past, and like Edmund Burke we think it sometimes encapsulates useful guidance to past wisdom. And yet, lawyers are advocates, creating tension. Not least: the advocacy thrust can sometimes be a problem when advocacy bleeds into expedient norm-entrepreneurship. (You may be entitled to your opinion, but not to your super-excellent-customized international law).  But still at its best, this tension attunes lawyers as fixers and problem solvers. (Yes I know, no one believes that. But we’re not all about muddying clear waters in that cool underwater policy cave.) 

Still, we could learn a lot from social science empiricism.  (For instance: establishing the existence of a customary international law rule is, at core, an empirical exercise.  But it is rare to find a claim to a customary international law rule amounting to more than “people are saying”.)

For their part, international relations people might sometimes benefit from an injection of normative purpose. Or (because many do produce policy-oriented scholarship) those policy prescriptions shouldn’t be totally indifferent or totally disinterested in existing international law. Remember that dead hand of the past sometimes contains wisdom.

So what

So why does all this matter?  Well, I think siloed disciplinary discussions are just unacceptable, period.  It makes the same impression as one hand clapping.  But more generally, I often worry about international law-lite discussions of international relations. (Talk about self-interest. It’s not like I don’t teach in both a law school and international relations program. I am obviously a convert to my own creed.)

But I do have an honest policy reason for this concern: treating international relations (or, for that matter, domestic politics) as politically contingent amounts to a self-fulfilling prophecy: if enough people don’t think law matters, it won’t. Law is a cultural practice. International law is often about reining in our worst instincts and advancing those of our better angels. I fear law-lite discussions risk shucking off the dead hand of history with unpleasant consequences.

So what does that mean for the Syria thing: in truth, we could all use some help thinking through how best to keep the shoulder on the door of use of force law. But without also throwing up our hands and advancing positions that amount to de facto impunity for crimes against humanity.


Deploying Experts in a Flipped Classroom: Active Use of a Passive Learning Resource

My pitch for a collaborative effort from March 2015 to create "virtual expert" resources for use in an active learning, experiential-oriented classroom.  I am currently in the midst of interviews of international law practitioners for the purposes of bringing "virtual experts" into my Public International Law class.  I will be setting up a special website with the results, in the hope that other international law teachers may find them useful.


Deploying Experts in a Flipped Classroom: Active Use of a Passive Learning | Craig Forcese |Univ. of Ottawa| ILT 2015 from Michele Pistone on Vimeo.


Flipping a First Year Mandatory Law Class: Results

I am now in my fourth year since I started "flipping" my law classes.  For past discussions of my initial experiences, see here.  For a slightly more academic treatment of flipped law teaching co-authored with Professor Peter Sankoff (Alberta), see here

Because I am always asked this question: I did not move to flipped teaching because I was dragged there by unhappy students.  Students appeared very happy with my conventional teaching, as reflected in teaching evaluations.  Instead, I dragged students to the flipped approach because I was concerned that students were not performing on exams to the level I thought they should after sitting with their bums in a seat and listening to me and engaging in Socratic discussion for a total of 40 hours.  Put another way, I concluded I was not being very useful as a teacher.  In truth, flipped teaching is actually harder, but as I have said before, it is more fulfilling.


This past semester, I flipped a first year law class -- my first time doing so.  This is a class every law student must take.  While we offer multiple sections of the course, students coming into first year have limited ability to customize their schedule to take a particular section with a particular professor.  This means that students are unlikely to self-select to my section because I advertise a flipped teaching methodology.  As a consequence, this is my first flipped experience with a relatively "random" sample of students.  I had 78 students in this class.

This was also a difficult subject matter for a flip -- or certainly a more difficult subject matter than my first flip (Administrative Law).  Introduction to Public Law and Legislation is a buffet topic designed to bring students up to speed with the public law infrastructure in Canada.  (The table of contents of the course text gives some sense of scope). This course is roughly the equivalent of the Foundations of Canadian Law subject mandatory for National Committee on Accreditation students.  However, I go substantially beyond the basics and we spend a lot of time on things like election law, access to information law, conflict of interest law, and lobbying regulation.

Generally speaking, students start with little to no understanding of how our system of law and government works.  And on top of this, this is not a topic that lends itself to a case-based approach of instruction -- in many of the areas we cover there are basically no cases.  It is, in other words, a very different course from the other first year topics students are covering, and they report finding it confusing to be drilled with cases in their common law courses and then need to think more structurally in Public Law.

The Flip

For the short version of how I ran the flip: in this flipped course, I pre-recorded podcast and videocast lectures, posted to the internet before (usually long before) the classroom session.  In the classroom session, I coached the class through active learning exercises designed to "put in play" the themes and information contained in the podcasts.  I used a variety of techniques, but the most common were what I call "blink" or "five minute" hypotheticals.  These are problem-based exercises in which I temper conventional Socratic by adding a discussion element.  Specifically, I posed (usually on the projection screen) a short hypothetical and students then had between 2 and 5 minutes to discuss with their seatmates before I resort to my call sheet for discussion.  Again, the hypos were designed to reinforce the material covered in the podcast lectures. 

Outside of class, I had students complete readings (reduced in length relative to my conventional, pre-flipped reading load).  I also deployed "feedback" quizzes done out of class.  Basically, these are online true/false quizzes that are designed to compel students to reflect on materials covered in the "passive" learning podcasts.  I also had them complete three in-class "two minute essays".  That is, I asked every student to complete one sentence on something they learned in the just-completed learning unit, and one sentence on something that remained murky. I used the data collected in this manner to detect common misunderstandings and difficulties and then tailored both the feedback quizzes and subsequent in-class hypotheticals to "work-over" important weaknesses.

And because I am committed to experiential instruction -- defined broadly to be "things that might be useful to know when students graduate" -- I also had them complete several out-of-class "public law lawyering" exercises in which they applied some of the substantive legal tools they were learning about in class.  Students submitted these to me and I provided modest feedback on what were largely fairly mechanical exercises.

These assignments and the quizzes were pass/fail, with a pass set at 70% and students kept repeating the exercise until they scored that B.

A full version of my syllabus is here.


As discussed here, there is considerable debate about the merits of flipped versus conventional teaching.  This being law school, much of this debate is entirely fact-free, lacking any empirical foundation for resolving the dispute one way or another.  At times, the arguments can resemble a Monty Python skit ("When I was my students' age, I walked to school in bare feet, through the snow, ate cold gravel for breakfast, and lived at the bottom of a lake.  And I learned lots of law, so how I learned law must be the best way to teach it.")

One of the reasons for the lack of data is the overall disinterest in pedagogical research in law schools.  The other is the question of design, and specifically how do you compare different teaching methodologies where there is no control group.

I have not solved that control group problem -- but I can compare results from a flipped teaching environment with results from my prior iterations of the same course, taught using a conventional approach (which in my case, was a lecture-based class with some Socratic). 

In my conventional approach, I used 100% exams.  I have since sworn off that destructive practice, and now students do "bank" marks prior to the exam through their participation in the feedback quizzes and experiential assignments.  But I continue to have an exam worth most of the grade (65% this year).  And I continue to evaluate in exactly the same way, with a detailed issue-spotting exam.  And I continue to share past exams and answer keys with each cohort of students in advance of the exam.  Put another way, while my teaching methodology has changed, my exam methodology has not, in the slightest.

That means I can compare raw exam scores across years in a loose proxy of teaching outcomes stemming from different teaching methodologies.  This is, of course, a ridiculously inadequate measure when it comes to scientific rigour.  But I believe it better than nothing.

When I last did this style of comparison (with Administrative Law), the student grades were five raw percentage points higher on the post-flipped class exam than on the post-conventional class exam.  This was a modest, but notable difference.  But most importantly, with the flipped class the mark distribution was markedly different.  Put simply, there were fewer grossly underperforming students.

I had an identical outcome with my flipped class in Public Law and Legislation this past Fall.  First, the average raw mark was again 5% higher than the last time I taught the course.  And again, the mark distribution was very different.  I reproduce the mark distribution for three different academic years.  Two of these years involved conventional teaching (2008 and 2010, which was the last time I taught this course before this year).  The third involved flipped teaching (2015).  The bars in the graph represent the percentage of students in each grade category.

Readers will note that there were still a number of raw grade failures in 2015, and also a sizeable number of marginal passes (D).  From D+ forward, the mark distribution then follows a "normal curve".  I could not say that at all about 2008 and 2010 -- the mark distributions for those years are either skewed to low grades (2008) or essentially flat (2010). 


This chart actually masks another reality: the failures in 2015 were "near failures" -- mostly in the 45% range.  This was not true in earlier years, where the failures were often dramatic.  (In the result, when the 2015 exam grade was tabulated with the assignment work, I have no failures overall in 2015.  In past years, even an aggressive shifting of the grading curve by as much as 10 percentage points to meet faculty marking guidelines -- setting the class mean at B -- still left a sizable number of failures).

Even more revealing is a chart showing the proportion of the class "below B" and "B or above" for these three years -- again looking strictly at raw exam grades. 



I acknowledge once more that this style of analysis is imperfect.  But overall, these results affirm the results from my earlier flips: students who complete my flipped class demonstrate greater competency on a law school problem-solving hypothetical exam than do students who complete my classic lecture/Socratic course.  One response to this (from the Monty Python-style skeptics) might reasonably be: you were just a crappy teacher and you got better, regardless of methodology.  This is entirely possible, but in my defence, my pro-flip results are also consistent with the empirical data from other disciplines reviewed in the article I wrote with Peter Sankoff, noted above.

But whatever the case: Having invested considerable effort in rebuilding my pedagogy, these are gratifying results.  A side-benefit of the flip is that the constant interaction and feedback orientation of the active learning component of the course means I gather intelligence on what works and what doesn't, in a way I did not with conventional teaching.  With time, it will be interesting to see whether I can figure out enough to intervene early and successfully with those students who continue to struggle at the bottom of the class.


Marrow and Moonshine: The Use and Misuse of Law School Summaries

As the leaves fall, and the days shorten, the law school begins to hum with end of term, pre-exam activity.  During this period, first year students facing the prospects of law school exams for the first time turn to that authoritative source of systemic, unbiased and carefully researched data: the upper year student.  The latter, having run the exam gauntlet, delight in sharing their war stories.  They also share their definitive course summaries.  "Psst, want a summary buddy. Works like a charm.  Guaranteed A."

There is some legal Latin that student need to know in first year, and if they didn't learn it then, need it now. (Actually, there isn't really any useful legal Latin, but we like to speak dead languages every once in a while to justify the monopoly on legal knowledge.) In that tradition, here's the most important Latin for any student considering a canned summary: caveat emptor. Technically, this translates roughly into "buyer beware".  In the world of summary sharing, I translate it as "what the heck did you expect would happen?"

I know, law profs always want you to do the work and not take shortcuts. Very high-minded of us really.  So here's why.

1. Garbage in, Garbage Out

Every year -- and I mean every year -- there are answers on exams that contain bizarrely incorrect answers that are improbably consistent.  Actually, back up.  There are answers that are improbably consistent. Improbably consistent answers are evidence of collaboration or plagiarism.  Off to a bad start in academic fraud world if the explanation for the improbably consistent answer is "I was copying from someone else's summary".

But return to the answers that are both improbably consistent and also bizarrely incorrect.  Usually these are answers that rely on cases and principles I haven't taught for years.  And I haven't taught them for years because they have been overturned.  That is, they are no longer correct.  In other instances, the improbably consistent answers are simply misconstruals of the law.

This is exactly the disease that flows from the sharing of canned summaries, passed down from student to student over the generations.  It's like there is some fundamental flaw in the DNA of that summary that expresses in the form of uncanny errors on the exam.  Maybe the DNA was irradiated.  I think a lot of canned summaries were written in Chernobyl.

Needless to say the students with the bizarrely incorrect answers that are improbably consistent received predictably consistent lousy grades.

It's a little bit like that credit card commercial: "What's in your wallet"? Well, "what's in your summary?". It could be lethal and contagious.

2. The Medium is Not the Message

Even good summaries are not security blankets.  They are just more readings.  Students read them.  They may even memorize them.  Presumably that creates comfort.  I doubt it produces better marks.  Or more correctly, I doubt it produces better marks than would the case if they were used properly.

And there is only one proper summary: the one you do yourself.  That's more work.  Exactly.  The only -- and I really mean only -- virtue of a summary is to force you to sit down and consolidate the course.  Organize the material in your mind, digest it, spot what you don't really understand, correct those gaps.  Once you do your own summary, that's your studying.  You understand in ways that passive consumption of a canned summary will never allow.

Let me put this caps, bold and italics: THE SUMMARY IS A PROCESS, NOT A PRODUCT.

If you skip the process part and look for the Holy Grail of all canned summaries, you presumably are also the sort of person who envisages time in the Lac-Leamay Casino as your chief income generation strategy.  Keep those dice rolling.

3. Team B Testing

That's not to say that every student's home-baked summary is good.  Many are probably pretty rudimentary or just plain wrong. And so there is a role for canned summaries (and group work where students subdivide prep of a summary):  once you have gone from A to Z in preparing your own summary, it is useful to juxtapose that work product against that of others.  This is Team B testing of your Team A.  If there are inconsistencies, you need to turn your mind to this question:  which is correct?  Research it.  Fix it.  Go into an exam with eyes wide open. But remember: the Team B is just a backstop.  Canned or group-produced summaries never replace first doing your own.

4. The Summary stays in the Bag

I have seen summaries that must be longer than the full transcripts of all the lectures I give in the class.  Student bring them into exam rooms on wheels.  They put them on the desk (with a thud).  And in the exam, they leaf madly through the thing looking for I don't know what. 


I always, always design exams for the student who knows their stuff, not for the one who decides to learn it during the exam.  The latter won't have time to finish because they spend writing time flipping through their telephone book. That's not a security blanket.  That's cement encased feet.

I suppose there may be summaries with comprehensive indexes and navigation tools, but I doubt that is common.  And without any shade of doubt, the time spent on doing that sort of editing could be better deployed on, oh, learning law, playing Xbox, staring blankly at the wall.  Whatever.

Yes, every once and while, even a student following the advice on self-prep of summaries above may be stumped and need a quick look in the summary.  But the student who did their own summary will usually find that they have assimilated knowledge, and don't need to treat the exam as a time-constrained research exercise.  The summaries stay mostly closed.

5. The Summary is Rice Pasta

I have started eating rice pasta.  I can never get the quantities right.  When it boils it always seems to reduce.  Weird.  

A summary should be rice pasta.  It needs to be boiled down.  What should be on the desk next to the exam writer is the two page Rosetta stone.  This Rosetta stone translates exams into grades.  What is it?  Once you figure out most subjects, you'll find that they can be reduced to a decision tree.  There are legal tests that produces outcomes that trigger other tests.  The secret is to plug the fact on the exam into the proper spot in the decision tree.  And if you've taken the time to boil the summary down to that decision tree, you can just follow and note on your exam each step that then arises on your decision tree.  And at the end, your paper computer almost automatically spits out a reasoned outcome trolling all sorts of marks with it.

More than all this: the student who has this decision tree has thought about his or her subject from the optic of problem-solving matrix, and not as the useless alternative of "memorized knowledge". And that means (I earnestly believe) he or she is much more likely actually to spot issues on an hypo exams.

All of this is to say that the decision tree is the most effective way known to humanity of converting student knowledge into grades on a hypo exam.  

Moreover, if you write the summary and then take the supplemental step of producing the decision tree,  you know the material so well that you may actually be authorized to give advice to the first years who come after you.  Oh, and how about that eventual job practicing law? All that time and info in law school may stick a little better. You have got to the marrow.

So there you go.  In November, students need to decide whether their exam strategy will be "strive to do well because I know the genetic code of my stuff and can convey it" or instead simply hope that the moonshine they get from other students among the lockers doesn't give them a whopper of a hangover.

Ask the best students -- the ones with consistently good grades -- what decision they made.  I do all the time.  It's inevitably variations on choice 1.  Maybe they lie to me to make me happy.  But I doubt it.