"Ines, I am about to start my last year of law school!"

As the "First and Onlys" in our families, we often self-impose on ourselves the need to balance our personal lives and goals with those of our family. The life of a First and Only is a perpetual balancing act. As former First Lady and lawyer Michelle Obama wrote in her book Becoming, in moments of hardship, we often try to “empower [ourselves] without making any sort of abrupt change,” hoping that our actions do not rock the boat of those around us. Yet, having to carry that burden alone is a terrifying experience. But what is fear to a first-generation child? Our lives are a constant recurring pattern of fear and having to conquer the “new” scenario. My colleague RK believes “[a]cknowledging this fear is part of the healing process.” I completely agree. 

This morning, I experienced a moment of introspection. When I first walked through the King Hall building, it was during Admitted Student Weekend. I was absolutely terrified. I had worked so hard for this moment, but here I was, scared of the unknown and feeling unprepared for the new hurdles law school would bring. I even considered not showing up. 

Despite these feelings, it was my moment to acknowledge my fear. All my life, I had asked others to be brave, but now it was my turn. I was here to keep a promise alive. I had made a powerful vow to someone I had never met but deeply admired. 

The individuals in my life are aware that I have wanted to go to law school and become an attorney since my first year of high school. When asked “why law school” by others, I always made a general comment like “I want to do justice!” or “I want to be a voice for those who are often silenced.” But very few actually know the complexity of that goal. Not even my closest friends or family know the true reason I decided to go to law school. As a child, I witnessed what can only be described as “injustices” involving my family. 

I was raised in a broken household. My mother was undocumented, while my father was a US citizen. In the years he lived with us, he constantly weaponized her undocumented status against her. Alongside this, his narcissistic personality continuously degraded my special-needs older brother and me as worthless scum who never amount to anything. What was most shattering was the illusion he wore so well: the perfect man, beloved by all who knew him––but, the pinnacle of evil to his own family. 

Still, those years of suffering could not compare to the day I lost my innocence, March 15, 2005. It was this day that I cultivated my hunger to shield those I love at all costs. It was the day that my mother lost her child, my baby sister, and the day I finally saw that this man had never truly been family.

On that spring day, my pregnant mother became extremely ill. Instead of going to seek professional care immediately, she was hesitant. Before she obtained a legal status, an overwhelming fear shadowed every move she made--so much so that she avoided doctors. She lived terrified that a single visit could lead to her being reported to ICE and torn away from her growing family. It was this fear that led her not to seek medical attention when she needed to. She gambled her health and hoped that the risk to my sister would be minimal. 

You may be asking yourself, “Why did she have such an overwhelming fear surrounding her legal status?” It was a horrific possibility, but one that my father constantly reminded her of. He did not just manipulate her. He poisoned her world with fear and paranoia, drilling into her mind that everyone was out to get her, all to keep her under his control. By the time she made it to the emergency room, it was too late for my baby sister. In that moment of seeing my mother’s pain, I became so angry. I felt completely powerless. Being trapped in my own helplessness only fueled my rage more.

For the next six years, my rage grew into something darker. I became hateful and resented the world for my mother’s misery. Any belief I had in a higher power withered away. After all, what kind of God would let something so cruel happen to a woman as strong, kind, and deserving as her? It was the constant reminder of the memory of her pain that motivated my anger to do something about our situation. 

At thirteen years old, something changed in me. I wanted to end my mother’s misery. One day, I confronted her, took her hand, and told her I would help her. She cried. I can only think that moment was very hard for her, but like many parentified children, one of our roles is to be the emotional support our parents need.

My mother didn’t have the support of her family and dealt with her misery alone. But in that moment, I decided to shoulder some of her pain. I took the day off from school and went to the family courthouse to request a restraining order and start the formal divorce process. My mother feared the unknown, but not only did I reassure her throughout the process, I also became her advocate. 

I was committed to obtaining “justice” for my family. The next few years were a battle for survival. My father would end up hiring a prestigious firm to represent him in family court, whereas my mother had only me. Regardless of our disadvantage, I ensured her voice echoed in that damn courtroom. I completed all her documents, assisted in gathering evidence, and even created notes of topics I wanted her to discuss during the hearings. 

Although the situation became very ugly, and there were days when I would come home from school not knowing whether I would see my family, I fought to keep my family together. Despite the nastiness of his lawyers, our work paid off: my mother was awarded full custody of my brothers and me, and we were issued restraining orders. Although this was a minor win that could not fix all our issues, seeing my mother’s reaction to me reading the judge’s final order made me realize I was placed in this world to be our family’s protector.

Today, I reflect on my childhood and my sister’s passing. I see these two things as intertwined by faith. Like other First and Onlys, being “diverse” was not a choice. My colleague nay asserts that our futures are not even under our own control. We didn’t choose to be born into the families we are dealt. 

As author Alejandra Campoverdi has emphasized throughout her book First Gen: A Memoir, the First and Onlys experience is constantly having to deal with issues outside of our control. It’s about refusing to back down in the face of injustice. It’s about standing tall, even when the world tries to break you. 

With that being said, I want to apologize to you, Ines. I’m sorry it took me 15 years to visit you. I’m sorry I could not do more for you. Please know I have never forgotten about your sacrifice, and although law school is still very scary, I will be brave for you. Our mother and brothers are thriving because of you. I thank you for the person I have become, and I hope you are proud of me.