"That's my boy"

I watched a lot of Tom and Jerry with my dad growing up. I always enjoyed watching Jerry torment Tom because I always loved annoying my older sister. But my dad's favorite scenes always involved the bulldog, Spike. Spike was aggressive and tough to everyone but his adorable son. The puppy, who looks just like Spike, was praised, protected, and pampered. Spike's iconic line was "that's my boy." Whenever we watched a scene with Spike, my dad would always look and over and say in the same voice, "that's my boy."

My dad loves me, I've never doubted that for a moment. We have a posterboard for family photos where we have a photo of my dad at twelve years old and myself at 12 years old. We look so identical that visitors have a difficult time telling the two photos apart. My dad loves showing off these photos to his middle school students. He's always expressed how he wants me to have a son that looks just like me. 

Homogenous

I grew up in a Korean community, Korean church, and all my closest friends growing up were Korean. It was natural to be surrounded by other Koreans everywhere I went. I knew my parents expected me to have a Korean family but I always thought it was a desire, not an expectation. 

When I told my parents that I started dating a white girl recently, they were shocked. As the child of immigrants, I've always known my parents were going to cling to their community and they were always going to speak their native language at home. I always thought having "a son that looked just like me" was a joke; a small wish that my dad had. But when I told him the news expecting some sort of celebration, all I got back was silence and a solemn face.

My mom tried explaining it away as shock on his part, but I asked him how he felt and he started trying to explain it away and used the word "homogenous." My dad is a Korean immigrant who teaches middle school math. Homogenous isn't part of his vocabulary. I wasn't completely surprised but this really made me question what he wanted for me.

Second-Gen immigrant

A lot of first-gen students are children of immigrants who came to America without any savings or formal education. As aforementioned, my parents stuck with other Koreans to make a living. My mom's employers were usually always Korean, often connected through church. We joke that any place they would live has to have a Korean supermarket nearby. 

As a first-gen student, I couldn't be as insular as my parents when I went off to college and law school. I could converse with professors, make jokes with friends, and converse with strangers about sports or the class reading. This meant my closest group of friends were all ethnically mixed and my parents never had a problem with that. But my father took exception to the idea that I could potentially end up with a white girl. I'm not writing this to say my father is a racist; I'm saying he never had the opportunity to take a step outside of his Korean community. 

As first-gen students, we often grew up in cultures that were very insular simply because our parents didn't have the complete opportunity to interact and share with other cultures. When we went off to college, we stepped out of our communities and we brought new ideas back to our families. I thought my parents loved the fact that I was going to friends' homes and trying homemade tamales or pho. It turns out their line was the family unit.

It wasn't about having a Korean family, it was about their expectation that I would be like them. Many first-gen students' parents immigrated and worked incredibly hard so that their children could have an opportunity for class mobility. Likewise, my parents prioritized their family and their children and they expected that I would do the same. 

I've worked incredibly hard to succeed in undergrad and in law school and now, I have that opportunity that my parents worked so hard for. But when I consider taking that next step and solidifying my place in the "next class," I feel as though I'm betraying everything my parents worked for because I'm not prioritizing family and community. It feels like I'm watching Tom and Jerry with my dad again, but now he wants to say, "that's (not) my boy." 

Bringing your whole self to work when you are not standard issue?

When I was kindergarten age, I got a teacher fired.

Based on parental retellings, I pieced together that I was enrolled in a summer course intended to strengthen students’ reading ability. On the first day of class, the teacher laid out piles of books in the middle of each cluster of desks…and that was all.

I noticed several of the kids did not know how to read, but time was left to pass. So, one day I showed myself right to the principal’s office—and I tattled. I told the principal about how the kids who did not know how to read were not being helped and that it was wrong for them not to be assisted. The principal observed the class, and let the teacher go.

I picked up an intuition for right and wrong at a young age. Instances of unfairness bothered me. So, despite being low on society’s hierarchical ladder, I developed a stern voice to wield against inequity. This is similar to Campoverdi’s description of herself as the protector of her family in Chapter 3 of First Gen, except I tried to be protector of all. As “M” states, I, too, believed “if I don’t do it, no one else will.” 

Until recently, I felt pride at having such a voice. But interactions with legal institutions have caused me to question whether this feature—one I believe is central to my identity—can be used freely in the workplace.

At the end of Chapter 3, Campoverdi considers that she may need to take steps to protect herself moving forward. I find myself in a similar position, but do not like how protecting myself might equate to burying a piece of my identity.

Before law school I was a paralegal at a highly ranked law firm where I worked hard. I was on-call around the clock and worked past midnight on numerous occasions. In a review a senior attorney noted, “…R is always a pleasure to work with, even when faced with difficult tasks or tight deadlines. I can also rely on her to flag issues before they arise or that are missed by junior attorneys….”

This acknowledgment that my feedback was sometimes more useful than that of people with advanced degrees bolstered my sense of utility and value, and was reinforced by overwhelmingly positive reviews from other surveyed attorneys.

So, when I was denied a summer associate position at my old firm, I was surprised. Was my advocacy a factor?

At my old firm the paralegal program is two-years, but paralegals are hired every year. I was part of the class of 2021. There were four of us: three women and one man. When I was hired, I asked if the salary was negotiable due to studies showing women are less likely to negotiate their first salaries, leading to income disparity. I was told it was not negotiable, because of a lockstep pay scale. A female colleague in my class, “Gideon,” was told the same.

The following year, a man hired with the 2022 paralegal class was able to negotiate his salary. He was accelerated onto the step of the pay scale my class was earning after our first-year promotion. Adding insult to injury, he started in June (I had started in August), so he was brought into the company making more money than I was—even with my year of in-company experience. The male paralegal who had started with my class left the firm early for a master’s program. This left three ivy-league educated women getting paid the same or less than a new, male paralegal with less relevant experience.

Perhaps there was more nuance to the situation, but the circumstances closely approximated gender discrimination. So, I approached my manager about negotiating a class-wide raise. I maintained a professional tone while advocating for my colleagues and me. Despite a response along the lines of “I wish you guys wouldn’t discuss your salaries,” I convinced management to award my class an additional bonus that year.

This was not the only time I was forthcoming with management about my perspective on fairness.

When our department was hiring the 2023 paralegal class, three internal referrals were handed down to our manager. My manager reviewed their resumes, conducted screener interviews, and then had us conduct secondary interviews. Our, paralegal, interviews were followed by attorney interviews. There was no public job posting for the duration of those events.

The candidates were fine, but not stellar. Despite this, my manager thought the referral candidates should receive offers to keep hiring simple. This did not sit right with me, because it exemplified the privilege of pursuing law in the footsteps of one’s family, or with the advantage of having family friends positioned to provide access to opportunity. “Lawyers have parents who are lawyers at a rate 18 times the rest of the population”—a strong indicator of inherited advantage.

We did end up making a job posting and interviewing additional candidates. But only because Gideon and I maintained that we should widen the pool of opportunity. Gideon and I came from similar backgrounds—and we were hired from the resume pile. We did not have someone to discreetly hand our resume directly to the person making the hiring decisions. There were no lawyers in our family tree nor a legacy of wealth for us to fall back on. Our families had made the crawl to middle class within our lifetimes.

Gideon and I wanted to serve as the bridge allowing access to law for others with first generation and low-income backgrounds.

To the extent I stood up for fairness in my first job, I was entirely myself. I argued against gender pay disparity and in favor of widening applicant pools to include candidates beyond those cultivated by nepotism. But, despite glowing reviews, I was not welcomed back.

Within our class we have read about how law school prepares students for the hierarchy and seemingly arbitrary decision making that occurs in a law practice. Was I rejected because I did not fall into place at the bottom of the hierarchy? Because I could not accept the firm’s decisions when they were not just seemingly arbitrary, but also wrong? Does thriving in a private firm mean being complacent to procedures that effectuate “closing the door” behind me?

I hope to find that the answer to all the above questions is “no.” I want to be the kind of lawyer my younger self would be proud of—and she was never a fan of caving to intimidating forces out of fear.

Further, if the answers are “yes,” breaking into law will continue to be difficult for “First and Onlys.” I know that adopting behaviors such as “passing” and “dodging” are necessary for some to protect their peace. But I have tried to accept all aspects of myself growing up, including my proclivity for clashing with authority where I believe it necessary to stimulate positive change—and I do not want to give that up. 

Should I?