Studying for the OAB as a Foreigner: The Hardest Test of My Life

The Fear That Came Before

I finished my law degree with relief. That test I’d been afraid of failing—law school without speaking Portuguese—I’d actually made it. I’d passed every class. I had a diploma.

But there was a next step that was even more terrifying: the OAB.

The Ordem dos Advogados do Brasil is the professional bar that regulates who can and cannot practice law in Brazil. To become a lawyer, you have to pass an exam—the OAB exam. It’s not like in the States where you take a multiple-choice test and that’s it. In Brazil, it’s far more complex.

And I was terrified.

My Portuguese had improved enormously. Five years of teaching myself, conversing, reading, writing. But I still had a strong accent. I still struggled with masculine and feminine. My written grammar still had occasional problems.

And that exam… that exam was reality. If I failed, all my work—five years of law school, five years teaching English, five years of study—would all be questioned.

It wasn’t just about law. It was about whether I deserved to be here. Whether I could really be a Brazilian lawyer.

The Structure of the OAB

The OAB had two phases.

The first phase was multiple choice—eighty questions about law. You need at least half correct to pass. It didn’t seem impossible. Multiple choice I could do. I’d learned to understand legal Portuguese. I’d read hundreds of cases.

I passed the first phase.

It wasn’t brilliant, but it was enough. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The second phase was completely different. It was a written essay—you received a legal situation, a practical case, and had to defend a position. It was actual legal writing. And you had to choose an area—Criminal Law, Civil Law, Labor Law, Administrative Law, Constitutional Law.

Most of my classmates chose Criminal Law. It’s the most dramatic, the most popular. It seemed natural—crime, investigation, defense.

But I’d never liked Criminal Law. I’d always been drawn to Constitutional Law—questions about fundamental rights, about what makes a law legal, about the principles that guide a democracy.

And there was my problem: of 5,000 people taking the OAB, only 3 or 4 chose Constitutional Law.

I was one of those 3 or 4.

Intense Preparation

I spent months studying. It wasn’t even studying—it was obsession. Woke early. Studied late. Read decisions from the Brazilian Supreme Court. Compared how Constitutional Law worked in Brazil versus the United States.

This was useful because I could understand the underlying logic—I had comparative basis. But it was also complicated because the Brazilian system is different. It has concepts that don’t exist exactly in the American world.

My legal Portuguese had to be perfect. I studied terminology. Memorized argumentation structures. Practiced essays over and over.

My thesis advisor, who had helped me during law school, offered to review my essay practice. We’d sit in his office after class, and I’d write. He’d read. And then he’d dismantle my argument.

“Why do you think this?” he’d ask.

“Because… because the law says…”

“Yes, but WHY? What’s the principle behind it? What’s the logic?”

That was Constitutional Law. It wasn’t memorization. It was understanding the why behind each law.

I spent months in that process. Each essay was a mental battle. Each revision was a lesson.

The Night Before

The night before the exam, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing. I thought of every case that could appear. I thought about how to write fast while maintaining quality. I thought about my accent, about my Portuguese, about how if the examiner read my essay with prejudice.

My wife (then my girlfriend) tried to calm me.

“You passed five years of law school,” she said. “You passed the first phase. You’re going to make it.”

But the fear wouldn’t leave.

The Exam

I arrived at the testing center early. There were hundreds of candidates. All of my law school classmates were there. Some chose Criminal. Some Civil. Some Labor.

I received my case. I read it.

It was a question about fundamental rights—right to privacy, right to access information, questions of freedom. Exactly in my field.

I began writing.

Three hours. I had three hours to write a legal essay that would be read by an OAB examiner. That would have to convince a professional that I—an American, with an accent, who still occasionally struggled with Portuguese—was competent enough to be a lawyer.

I wrote as if it were the last thing I’d do in my life. Each word was careful. Each argument was structured. My Portuguese wasn’t perfect—it had small grammatical imprecisions. But my logic was solid.

When time ended, I was exhausted.

The Wait

That week between the exam and the results was one of the longest of my life. I didn’t eat right. I didn’t sleep well. I just waited.

My classmates waited too. Some with confidence. Some with dread. Most with uncertainty.

Finally, the results came out.

I looked for my number. I read my name.

Approved. OAB—Ordem dos Advogados do Brasil. Number 351.356.

I was officially a lawyer.

The Meaning

When I celebrated with my law school, it became clear why this mattered so deeply. It wasn’t just for me. It was because I was the first foreigner to pass the OAB from that university.

Universidade Toledo had taken an American kid who didn’t speak Portuguese, put him in a law school classroom, and five years later, had a lawyer. A lawyer who passed the OAB on the first try.

There was pride in every face.

And there was also a message: that Brazil was inclusive. That you could arrive without speaking the language, study law in Portuguese, and become a legal professional. That the system worked.

Deep Reflection

Today, having practiced law for years, I understand that the OAB exam wasn’t just a test of legal knowledge. It was a test of determination. Of identity. Of belonging.

I had chosen Brazil. I had chosen to learn its language. I had chosen to study its law. I had chosen to practice in its courts.

And Brazil, through the OAB, said: “Yes. You’re ours now.”

That number—351.356—isn’t just a registration. It’s a declaration. It’s a passport to a life I chose.

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The Journey Continues

Passing the OAB was a milestone, but it was also just the beginning. Now I had to practice. I had to gain experience. I had to prove that I really deserved to be there.

And that next part—what my first case was like, what it was like to go to court—that’s for another day.

But in that moment, when I received my certificate, when I heard “Congratulations, attorney,” I knew I’d done something that seemed impossible.

If you’re on a similar journey—immigrating, studying, wanting to practice law in Brazil—I understand the challenge. ZS Advogados is here not just to guide you on the legal process, but to understand the personal journey. I’ve lived it. I know every step.

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Related Reading

• The Definitive Guide to Immigration to Brazil
• Law School Without Speaking Portuguese
• How I Speak Portuguese Today: Zero to Fluent
• My First Case as a Lawyer

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This article is for informational purposes only and does not constitute legal advice. Each case has specific circumstances that should be analyzed by a qualified attorney.