Success is never permanent, and failure is never final: learn to love the climb

Success is never permanent, and failure is never final.

It’s my dad’s favorite quote and when I was younger, I rolled my eyes every time he said it. It felt like something he pulled out whenever I lost a game or didn’t get the award to cheer me up. At the time, it sounded like consolation for falling short.

But now, I hear it differently.

Now, I hear it as a truth about persistence. About what it means to grow up learning as you go. About the moments when you’re climbing with no guarantee there’s a peak ahead, only the belief that you keep going anyway.

That’s what being a first-generation law student has felt like. Showing up and trying knowing you could win or lose, but understanding that the real journey is getting up and trying again. Recognizing that the first time you fail won’t be the last time, but neither will the first time you succeed.

It reminds me of one afternoon, I was driving with my mom when Miley Cyrus’s “The Climb” came on the radio. She turned it up immediately and smiled.

“I used to listen to this every morning on my way to nursing school,” she said. “That’s how I got through it.”

I hadn’t realized how much that song meant to her or how much it would come to mean to me. Hearing it now, with her voice in my ear and the lyrics washing over us: 

There’s always gonna be another mountain / I’m always gonna wanna make it move.  

I understood. That’s what it means to come from a first-generation background. There’s always another mountain. And still, we climb. 

For her, it was nursing school. For me, it’s law school. Different mountains, carrying the same hopes and the same weight.

That weight was something Justin Quarry captured in his essay Coming Out as Working Class. The most emotional moment for me came when he imagined someone being there for his mother — someone to tell her she was good enough, that she belonged in college, that she had options. That image stayed with me, because it made me think of my own mom.

She’s told me before that her parents never came to her events. No games, no ceremonies. So when she became a mom, she made a promise to herself: she would always show up for her kids. And she did, every single time.

Plays, practices, honor rolls. I never once had to scan the crowd hoping to find her. My parents were always there, smiling, cheering. Just showing up.

That small decision, to be present, reminds me of Quarry’s hope: to be the person his students might need. To say, without needing to say it, I see you. You belong here.

My dad’s journey reminds me of that too. He was a first-generation college student and first-generation in a different way too: the first in his family to leave the reservation and navigate the outside world as a Native American.

He carried a different history and a different weight up his mountain. He didn’t have a map for his journey. He had to build it step-by-step walking alongside my mom.

Alejandra Campoverdi, in her memoir First Gen: A Memoir, writes:

When it comes to borders, whether they’re family patterns, social classes, or actual walls, the destination is secondary. The honor lies in the crossing.

That line gave language to something I’ve felt but never quite named. So often, our stories, especially as first-gen students, are told like tales of triumph, as if the value lies in having “made it.”

But Campoverdi flips that narrative. Our power isn’t in arrival. It's endurance.

Because the truth is, we live in the in-between. We cross from one world to another — from our families to our classrooms, from inherited silence to self-advocacy — carrying expectations, gratitude, and guilt, often all at once.

And still, we climb.

For my parents, they had to learn a lot together — crossing from traditions of staying close to family and walking familiar paths, to carving a new one of their own. My parents made their own path and I am not sure I would be walking mine today without that decision.

Campoverdi doesn’t frame that as something to hide. She calls it honorable. And that word has stuck with me.

Because when I think of my dad’s quote, or Miley’s lyrics, or Quarry’s story, or my mom’s promise to show up that’s what I see: not just resilience, but honor.

It reminds me of one of my favorite songs that has stayed with me: Andy Grammer’s “Wish You Pain.”

Grammer describes the kind of love that understands growth only comes through hardship. Through doubts that feel like monsters. Through lonely moments when no one else believes. Through putting everything you have on the line and still falling short.

This post by Isaac562 shows how the shows we grow up with, just like the songs we hold onto, can become powerful reminders of where we come from and how we keep climbing.

And maybe that’s what my parents have given me through their mistakes, their persistence, and their example. Not the guarantee of success, but the strength to rise after failure. Not a life without pain, but the heart to grow stronger because of it.

This post by ACM also highlights the powerful role that family and mentors play in the growth of first-generation students.

They didn’t shield me from the mountains. They taught me how to climb them.

We may never feel like we’ve fully “arrived.”

But maybe that was never the point.

Maybe it’s not about the destination.

Maybe it’s about the crossing.

Maybe it’s about learning to love the climb and all the lessons, strength, and honor that comes with it.

My working-class roots

Admitted Student's Weekend at Scripps College for the class of 2020 took place in late April of 2016. To say I was excited to participate would have been an understatement.

I saw my chance to attend Scripps as a ticket to a whole new world. Born to working class parents, I knew the opportunity to pursue higher education at an elite academic institution would open doors for me I never thought possible. As an educator herself, my mom also preached the importance of higher education. She taught me and my brother to shoot for the stars, always try our best, and take advantage of every opportunity that presented itself. 

With all of that in mind, I was itching to attend Admitted Students Weekend. I could not wait to meet my future friends and professors, as well as get a chance to explore the campus. 

After listening to the school's president give her opening remarks and touring the campus, our first break in the day came during lunch time. Numerous white tables and lawn chairs were set up all over the main lawn so students and their families could each lunch while getting to know each other. After going through the buffet line and loading up my plate, I selected a seat at a table with 3 other girls and their accompanying parents. 

I sat down and introduced myself to everyone at the table. After some brief small talk, the conversation quickly turned to where each of the girls vacationed for spring break. I was shocked to hear some of the destinations: Mexico, London, and Thailand. When the girls turned to me, I told them I went to San Diego to visit some of my extended family, but my parents promised me I could go somewhere international next spring. 

What I told them was a complete lie. 

I was not prepared to share that I had only been out of the country once, and it was only because I vigorously fundraised so I can attend the trip with a cohort from my high school. My background as a working class kid felt so small and menial compared these girls who (come to find out) were had parents that were doctors and investment bankers. 

While I thoroughly enjoyed my time at Scripps and received an amazing education, I never quite found people I connected deeply with. Sure, I had a group of friends and enjoyed socializing as much as any other college student. However, I came to learn my concerns were somewhat different than those of my friends. 

While my friends were always on the hunt for the next best place to party in downtown Los Angeles, I was hunting for extra hours at my work-study job. When they were worried about paying for a new outfit for an upcoming formal event, I was worried about saving money for gas.

Now five years removed from college, I wish I would have been more honest with my peers about my working class background.

In the article entitled "Coming Out as Working Class," Justin Quarry argues that those who have risen from poverty to assume positions of power and influence should "make ourselves be heard and known." This, Quarry stipulates, will show students it is possible to achieve upward mobility and that they are not alone. 

I could not agree with Quarry more. 

Authentic representation helps dismantle the stigma associated with the working-class identity. Too often, media and educational institutions perpetuate biases that portray the working class negatively or as "other," creating barriers to inclusion and opportunity. By openly sharing our stories, those of us from working class backgrounds can counter these narratives and offer students a relatable example of resilience and achievement. This visibility normalizes diversity in positions of power and expands the concept of who belongs in spaces traditionally dominated by middle- and upper-class individuals. 

In the years since, I have been doing my best to change my habits. When Scripps students reach out and ask to meet for a coffee chat, I always make sure to weave in my background; I want to make sure they know anyone can do it and their struggles are not solely their own to bear. By sharing my story, I hope it encourages other to share their own experiences. 

My story

My mother has been unhoused for over two years. She blames me for it. 

I haven't spoken these words out loud to anyone at King Hall despite it weighing on me and greatly impacting my own educational experience. I think it's time I tell my story. 

One of the main legal issues I would work on during my AmeriCorps fellowship was helping tenants with their Unlawful Detainer cases. There were very clear rules that I had to follow, with the first and most important being to never render legal advice. They were not my clients, I was not an attorney. My role was clear: I would help pro se litigants fill out the paperwork to keep them in their homes, educate them about their legal rights and the eviction process, and then I would send them on their way. 

For years my mother had been barely scraping by, only narrowly avoiding evictions in the past. The only reason why she still had an apartment was because of the eviction moratoriums put into place during the COVID-19 pandemic. 

My mother and I have always had a tumultuous relationship. My parents had their first child when they were teens. By the time they had me, my dad's youngest, they were only 23. Between being young parents, battling cancer, financial instability, and unhealed childhood traumas, our family has always felt dysfunctional.

I felt like my mother had mentally checked out of our family years before she physically left me and my siblings with my dad. But I had always done everything I could to fix what I could. I raised my newborn sister while juggling high school and college applications so my mom could work. Once I got a job, I sent her money to pay for daycare or her rent. As always, when the last eviction notice wound up on her door, I set her up with all the legal resources that I could. This time it wasn't enough. 

Resources were steadily decreasing as we got further away from the pandemic, and there were no more protections that could keep my mom in her home. Despite doing what I could to prepare her for court, and help her during her mediation and hearings, she had to vacate her apartment by January 17, 2023. Worst of all, she blamed me for it. 

From the point on, nothing that happened to me mattered to my mom and my older sister. I couldn't be frustrated when my personal statement was deleted because at least I wasn't unhoused. I couldn't be happy when I got into school because it was still my fault for losing my biggest legal battle yet. Slowly, I stopped telling people anything about myself both at school and at home. I was ashamed that I get to live this life while my mother is unhoused and my dad doesn't think he'll make enough to pay the bills each month because he's taking care of my grandparents. 

There's a lot of hurt between the two of us that can't be captured in a short blog post, but looking back what hurts most is knowing that so much responsibility was put onto a child from both of my parents. Campoverdi's First Gen and some of our other readings have discussed that first-gen students' experiences such as mine cause these students to grow up too fast. I find myself now more than ever grieving my childhood, and the fact that I've felt like an adult for so long. 

I often hear stories about the relationships that people have with their families in our class, and I feel like there is something wrong with me for not having the same relationship. My partner's family knows more about me than my own family because I've stopped telling my own family anything about me. When my partner's family asks about me, or I hear about the relationships everyone seems to have with their families, I physically hurt because I realize that I'm now a stranger to my own family. But how do you repair years of strained relationships? 

Since getting to law school, I've kept not just my family but all of my peers at arms length. Much of this hesitance to share these experiences goes back to my shame. I don't talk to people at school, but I also don't talk to my family back at home. So who's left? 

I sat down today to write a letter to my past self, but I quickly realized that I don't feel ready for that yet. Law school has challenged me in every way imaginable. But most recently, the challenged I've faced is figuring out who is in my village. 

I'm so lucky, everything works out for me

"Every man and woman should have the opportunity to go as far as their hard work, individual initiative and competence can take them." These are the words the White House recently used to explain Trump's recent efforts to terminate DEI efforts in our country. 

As we have seen in this course, however, sometimes hard work is not enough. Disadvantaged groups face barriers that keep them from getting to where their hard work could take them. These barriers, and the knowledge of such barriers, have led to first-gen students and other students from disadvantaged backgrounds feeling like it was pure luck that enabled them to achieved the impossible. 

I think often about the mantra/manifestation that was going around social media for a while: "I'm so lucky, everything works out for me." Looking back, I can see this led me to fall into the "Lucky Girl Syndrome"  phenomenon (thank you, S, for inspiring my blog post). 

I had gotten to a point during my law school application journey where I would say "I'm so lucky, everything works out for me" to myself at least once a day in hopes that it would make up for where my application fell short. Once the acceptances started rolling in though, I got scared that it was an accident and that I didn't actually deserve what I had gotten. Looking back now, I can see how "Lucky Girl Syndrome" was ingrained into me for as long as I can remember.  I can even see it going back through generations of my family. 

Like others, I did not know what being "first gen" meant when I was applying to college. I didn't even know when I got there. I remember learning about first generation college students during my first day of orientation and it never occurred to me that I was part of this group. Still, I went to school grateful every day that any school would have just so happened to pick my name out of a stack of applications, let me attend the school, give me money to do so, and award me a diploma at the end of it. 

Looking back, I realize that I was taught to feel lucky to be able to take up space, or to be given any opportunity. Implicit in this, though, is that I didn't earn it, or deserve it, and that I am only ever in any place because of luck and because someone else had let me. I think that at least a little part of this is because of how I was raised. 

Similar to Campoverdi's telling of her family's novenas in Chapter 3, my family turns to God to guide them through hardships. I grew up in an extremely religious family. My family shares the same feelings that every time something good happens to them, it is because they got luck or because God made it happen. When my grandma gave up her own schooling to send her siblings to school and make sure they were taken care of, she said that God blessed her siblings with the education. When my mom went into remission from cancer, it was God who saved her. Every time we didn't lose our house, it was God blessing us. When I began traveling around the country to perform violin with my chamber orchestra, it was God giving me talent to spread his word. When I got into college, it was God giving me a way to use my gifts for good.

I think often about how my family tends to attribute our success to luck or to a higher power when it seems that we shouldn't have worked out in the way that it did. But looking back, what it really comes down to is a willingness to work in spite of and against adversity. It's grit. It's hard work and advocating from me and my family. It's never giving up, even when we've been told no. 

Ultimately, I think a consequence of these mantras - that everything works out for me because I'm lucky, or that my family gets through hardships because God makes it happen - is that in every space I am in, I feel imposter syndrome. I am not there because I worked hard to be here, but because I am lucky or because some higher power made it happen. I am in constant fear of failure because I feel like these spaces are not meant for people like me. These spaces certainly are not built for people like me, so what makes me think I can succeed? 

In fact, the current conversations around increasing DEI in school and employment settings only affirm my imposter syndrome. It is hard to ignore the suggestions that I took a more meritorious student's place (although I do understand that these suggestions entirely misunderstand the place and purpose of DEI) simply because the school was obligated to, or it made them look better. Both constructions suggest I did not earn what I got. 

Luck, religion, and spirituality certainly have their place in big milestones or in overcoming hardship. My family's faith undoubtedly gives us the strength and courage to keep going amidst seemingly never-ending adversity. It gives me the motivation to take up more space and challenge the barriers I face. 

That said, I work everyday on re-shaping this mindset, and I give myself and my family our flowers, so that instead of someone or something else being the reason I am here today, I recognize that it was me and my family working hard, pushing barriers, and never taking that we "can't do it" as an answer. 

Do you even know how smart I am in another language?

"Do you even know how smart I am in Spanish?" 

Gloria is my favorite character in Modern Family, not just because she's funny but because she embodies what many of us, whose first language is not English, feel. I grew up speaking Cantonese and Mandarin with my immigrant parents and never felt embarrassed until I was told at school that my "English was weird."

Just like how Campoverdi, in her memoir, would duck down to "tie her shoelaces" when passing by her school to prevent others from seeing her in her abuelito's old car, I would have my popo (grandma in Chinese) drop me off at the school's back entrance to prevent others from talking to her. I was ashamed that my grandma couldn't speak English to communicate with my teachers and that my parents were always busy working seven days a week. On the other hand, other people's parents were in attendance, helping out at every school function.

Seeing how my family members who couldn't speak fluent English were less respected and struggled to get opportunities, I bought into the idea that achieving the "American Dream" required complete assimilation into American culture, that meant English fluency. From then on, I spoke English whenever possible, even though it isolated me from the rest of my family.

The better my English got, the worse my Cantonese and Mandarin got. The way words are pronounced and the tonal changes in Chinese are drastically different than in English. This drastic difference is true of the written languages too. So, by becoming more fluent in English, I became more and more detached from the Chinese language, my culture, my family, and my identity. For many first and onlys, this is a common struggle because it appears to us that the fastest way to progress in our society is to "play the game right". The end-goal is to be amongst the people who are successful socially and career-wise, so you imitate their way of being to make it easier to get there.

It wasn't until I got to college, an environment much more diverse than the community in which I was raised, that I realized the error in my thinking. Meeting people from different states, countries, and socioeconomic backgrounds helped me learn the value of what makes me different than others. Being multilingual is a blessing in many ways. 

Living in the dorms with two roommates and a packed floor during my first year of college, I had little privacy. However, I could speak privately to my family in Chinese without having to leave the room. In job interviews, I can leverage my ability to connect with certain communities in our primary language. At restaurants, I can connect to servers and show them my appreciation for their food. 

Through these experiences, I got in touch with my identity as a Chinese-American again. However, something that still stumps me to this day is how certain languages and accents are more respected and valued. Despite a couple of my high school friends struggling with speaking broken English, they didn't face these same struggles. 

A recent conversation with a law school friend made me more curious about this accent and language preference phenomenon. We talked about how certain languages and accents have more positive connotations, like sounding more educated. For example, we have noticed that when someone speaks with a British accent, they are often perceived to be smarter or more attractive. When our friends spoke French, Italian, or other romance languages, their bilingualism was considered very admirable. 

Yet, I've been told in college to steer clear of certain professors with Indian accents, not because it's hard to understand the concepts they're teaching but because it's hard to understand what they're saying in general. This seems to be a common trend, not just in the United States. The stark differences in our experiences with those who speak in highly regarded accents or languages in American society are fascinating. I often hear about and see privilege in the context of being white, conventionally attractive, and wealthy, but I think this accent and language preference phenomenon is also notable.

I'm sure there are many underlying explanations, but what stands out most to me is that people like accents, languages, and people who are more similar to them, but just different enough. Certain accents and languages are associated with disadvantaged and low-prestige minority groups and are less "standard", and therefore viewed less positively. This makes them vulnerable to negative bias. For many first and onlys, this poses an additional challenge, along with all the other ones, to navigate.

Yet, we must not be discouraged because we need to remember that, despite our unique and different identities being a source of struggles, they're also what make us strong and resilient. They are what motivates our hard work. So even if others don't know how "smart we are in Spanish," it doesn't matter because we, ourselves, know our capabilities. 

First-gen guilt: the emotional toll I carry

The Guilt of Missing Out 

Breaking barriers often requires leaving a self behind and reinventing yourself in an attempt to fit into where you're going. Not only does this create a divided self -- who you are at home versus who you are at school -- it may require that you no longer fill the role of your old self at home. This might leave a gap in the family, creating tension in your own relationships back home. This takes a toll on the student. 

I am often made to feel guilty for experiences that I never could have imagined: traveling out of the country, skiing, learning to golf. However, what I wish my family could understand is the guilt that I feel over being away from them and not being able to care of them in the way that I used to do as an adult. I feel like a bad daughter, and a bad sister -- like I'm missing the biggest parts of my little sister growing up. Like I have left them behind because I do not know how to bring them with me. 

While I am still low income, I often wonder how I could live like this -- going to fancy parties and golfing -- when my family is struggling at home. In addition to imposter syndrome, this guilt often manifests in working hard and not taking enough breaks, in not taking care of myself. I work as hard as I do and neglect my own wellbeing to make sure that leaving them behind was not for nothing. I know that even if I did go to law school back in Los Angeles, near them, I would still struggle to be a good sister, daughter, or granddaughter to them anyways. 

 The Need to Prove Yourself

"If I don't do it, no one else will." 

I have lived by this mantra for as long as I can remember. If I didn't ask about the SAT, no one was going to come help me. My parents wouldn't have reminded me. If I didn't ask about college application fee waivers, no one else would ask for me. I have been on my own since before I was even a legal adult, and I lived by the idea that if something needed to get done, it was on me to do it. It was on me to make sure that bills were paid, that I had food to eat, and that the house was clean. 

It came as no surprise to me that it was on me and only me to get myself to college, and then through college, and then a job and then to law school. This independence was financial, emotional and literal. My family has not always been the most supportive, and they told me that if I wanted to go to college, I was on my own -- even if it was what they wanted from me too.

From that day on, I was determined to do everything on my own. This included being headstrong in my independence, turning down help from others, and never using my extenuating circumstances as an excuse to fall short. I carried this independence and responsibility with me to law school, and I found myself over-preparing for class because if I couldn't answer the questions or raise my hand, no one else would. I did not want to let down my professors. 

I began to feel pressure that if I didn't raise my hand when no one else would, I would have let the class down. I explained this to my mentor that I had to prepare for class in case no one else wanted to participate, and she identified that this is my first-gen guilt, which includes a need and desire to prove myself to everyone around me, including my family, and take on the responsibility when I am uncomfortable or afraid of others falling short. 

I recognized this same guilt in Campoverdi's First Gen: A Memoir in Chapter 1. Campoverdi's resolve on her first day of work at the White house that, from that day forward, she must be the first and best reminded me of this feeling of responsibility and guilt that comes with the possibility of letting others down. 

The Shame and Isolation 

There's a guilt that comes with taking up space. The need to apologize for asking questions and for making appointments when we need a little more help than the others. There's also a shame in admitting that you need that help. This guilt and shame often isolates me from my peers. At the same time, I also feel isolated from my family and ashamed for getting on with a life so separate and distinct from theirs. 

It's an uncomfortable position to be in, to feel guilt for being away from my family, but to feel guilt for taking up space in our new world. First-gen students are not well-equipped to handle this guilt. How can students grapple with the guilt associated with each of the lives they are living, each of the worlds they are straddling?  

Cold calling and confidence: learning what battles to fight in law school

 "Speak softly and carry a big stick"

I was recently watching a home movie recorded by my mom of my first grade class's show-and tell. It was my turn to get up in front of the class to share what I brought (a plush figure of Hello Kitty's friend "Pandapple" for anyone wondering) and why. As I began to share, the audio of me speaking wasn't picked up. Instead, my mother's video camera captured the voice of another parent remarking "I can't hear her" and my mother quipping back assertively saying that she could.

I'm probably not the typical person most people think would go to law school. I've been called "quiet" for as long as I can remember, constantly being told to "speak up" throughout my formative years. The culture accompanying  higher education and law school rewards those who confidently raise their hands with questions and follow-up hypotheticals. The boisterous are well-represented in this profession that rewards those who have no problem commanding the attention of a room.

Although this correlation of personality and profession might seem intuitive to some, this was not a connection I had made prior to my arrival at King Hall. As a first generation law student, my conception of lawyers was limited to the media I consumed. Truthfully, I had no inkling that the idea of "cold calling" would be something I would actually have to live through.

I got lucky my first semester. My professors were abnormally kind and gentle with us baby 1Ls. We were able to "pass" on a cold call without negative repercussions and incorrect answers were brushed over, delicately corrected so that peers could not decipher just how far off you really were. I distinctly remember one of my professors told the class that although he was planning on cold calling, we could email him and remove ourselves from the list completely. I resisted the urge (which was blaring almost to the level of a survival instinct) to do so. When my time came, I was terrified but prepared.

Second semester, professors began to expect more from us. The combined weight of professors' academic expectations and the need to prove myself to my peers was crushing. I attempted to placate my anxiety by preparing for any question that could come my way, spending hours preparing for any class session in which I could potentially be called on.

When finals came around, I realized just how much this cold call preparation had been an inefficient use of time. I had nothing to show for the countless hours I spent preparing for questions that never came. Rather than spending the semester to understand legal reasoning or improve my legal writing, I had spent it learning unimportant dicta as a means to combat my anxiety.

This was a mistake I had to make on my own because I had nobody to warn me. The term "First and Only," coined by Alejandra Campoverdi's memoir, highlights how isolating the journey to higher education can be for first generation students. As the First and Only in my family, I expect to make keep making mistakes that non First and Onlys don't have to. Instead of having a lit cobblestone path to follow, it feels like I'm trudging through the woods, fighting beasts of my own along the way. 

As other students have touched on in their blog posts, being the First and Only is often accompanied by many battles, including feelings of inadequacy and imposter syndrome. How we deal with these feelings can be make-it-or-break-it. This is all the more ironic when you consider the unique challenges first generation students face in addition to the actual material they must learn. Despite displaying higher levels of resilience, this study found that first generation students have demonstrated lower levels of emotional intelligence than their non-first generation counterparts. 

Going into 2L I knew changes had to be made. Rather than neurotically worrying about knowing all of the answers to a potential cold call ahead of time, I needed to focus on my understanding of the material. With that understanding, the answers would either come or they wouldn't, but I'd be fine either way. I had to learn how to trust myself and let go of the fear of being judged- after all I wasn't internalizing anyone else's performance. 

I am still the same person I was doing show-and-tell in the first grade. I tend to speak softly and I prefer not to speak in front of a crowd (I plan on staying far, far from a courtroom). In addition to the substantive material I've learned from law school, I have also learned a lot about myself and the ways I can become a better "me" than I was yesterday. I know there are more beasts in the woods for me to fight as I pave this path forward, but I'm no longer afraid of them.

Navigating religious affiliation at a secular law school

To help illustrate the concepts behind vicarious liability, my Business Associations professor had written on his PowerPoint two verses from the Bible: one each from Exodus and Deuteronomy. As students filtered into the room, some gazed at the verses with a puzzled curiosity. Class soon began, and the professor explained that, while he was an atheist, the Bible contained some interesting and at times conflicting views on the imposition of vicarious liability. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the class seemed almost relieved to learn their professor was not a Christian--and, grateful he was not evangelizing to them. While I can understand the latter sentiment, I couldn't help but feel disappointed by the former.

A week or so before today's class, I attended an annual Judge's Night Gala in Oakland. Two judges gave speeches upon receiving their awards for excellence within their occupation. One of those speakers was Alameda County Superior Court Judge Julia Spain. A single mother at a young age, Judge Spain recounted the struggles she faced as she worked her way through undergrad, took on law school, and helped to revolutionize a pervasively sexist legal culture. She eventually made it to the bench, through unexpected avenues. She credits Jesus Christ, and a single Bible passage in particular, as the inspiration for her unlikely success. As a first-generation college and law school student, I found the tale of her tenacity very inspiring. And as a child raised in a Baptist household, I couldn't help but linger on her words. 

After the awards were distributed and the main event concluded, I made my way to Judge Spain and introduced myself. We talked and she asked me an unavoidable question: 

"Are you a Christian?"

"Yes." I replied.

"Which church do you attend in Davis?"

I'd all but sworn off organized religion during undergrad in favor of theoretically finding my beliefs on my own, untainted by the beliefs and biases of a congregation. But I couldn't say that.

"I don't have a church I go to in Davis."

Despite a possible flash of disappointment across her face, she gave me her contact information and well wishes. However, a seed of guilt had taken root within me. Could I still consider myself a Christian while "hiding my light under a bushel?"

Although I take great pride in the friendly and open-minded environment cultivated by students at UC Davis, I don't feel that open religiosity would be very well received on our secular, liberal-leaning campus. I am not alone in holding the sentiment that religiosity is not encouraged within the context of legal academia. With stresses mounting every day and our paths so obscured by unforeseen and unavoidable circumstances, I hope that I and my classmates someday learn to balance our legal careers with faith in something greater than ourselves, and even greater than the law.

Who do you want to be?

I remember the day that I decided that I wanted to be a lawyer. I selected the law and society “major” in high school and sat in our mock courtroom hearing about the various types of law one could practice.

What I do not remember, however, was thinking about what kind of lawyer I want to be. What I mean by this is not the type of law I want to practice, but how I want to conduct myself during practice, and whether and how my life experiences will influence me. As I will soon approach the half-way mark in law school, I figured that now would be an appropriate time to give this topic some attention.

Growing up, I watched countless television shows and movies featuring lawyers depicted as intelligent, well-groomed white males in suits. I knew that I would never be able to become a white male, and it seems silly as I think about it now, but I believed that it was necessary to act like one to “fit-in” with the legal profession.

Immediately upon graduating college, I took a position as a paralegal at a large, well-known law firm in New York. I don’t have an exact number, but if I had to estimate, I would say that over 70% of the attorneys I directly worked with were white males. I quickly adopted their practices and style at the office. I began wearing a suit every day, even on casual Fridays. I paid to have my shoes shined every week by the contracted cobblers that did rounds on Thursday. And perhaps most importantly, I found myself switching to an entire new set of vocabulary when I went to grab dinner with friends or family, a process I now know to be code switching. If the previous article is too lengthy, I have attached a shorter one here.

In retrospect, I do not believe that it was necessary for me to do all these things to retain my job at the firm. Nor would it have affected the relationships I made during this time had I not done so. However, like many of the first-generation students surveyed in the identity work study, I believed that these behaviors were necessary for me to survive in the moment.

Thinking now about my own identity, the concept of professional identity formation, a study of the processes by which a physician’s stereotypical professional identity became integrated one’s personal identity intrigued me. Although we are not physicians, the legal profession also embraces “theoretical” standards of what a lawyer should look like. Like many of the medical students surveyed, I have found my personal identities challenged by professionalism norms I have seen in the legal industry.

I do not default to the “proper” English phrases in daily conversation. I do not dress like most of the corporate legal profession. And I am not white. While I have not entered the work force full time yet, I have come to terms with this being who I am. I am proud of the experiences that I have had over the course of my life, and I believe we all should bring to—and keep—a piece of ourselves in whatever profession we chose to pursue. I am not the same person I was three years ago when I worked at that big NYC law firm. I am no longer content to keep my identity and culture hidden from others when I become a practicing attorney, no matter what consequences follow.

I understand that not everyone reading this post intends to practice law or medicine. However, no matter what profession you, the reader, ultimately pursue, I encourage you to take some time to think about what kind of professional in that field you want to be. I encourage you not to be discouraged if you find that you don’t look like the “standard” of that industry or profession.

A new tradition

This past week corporal punishment was a topic of class that has been on my mind throughout the week. Like many children of Indian immigrant parents, I grew up being disciplined with corporal punishment. Despite this, I considered myself lucky. Compared to the children of our family friends, it seems as though my parents went easy on me. Nonetheless, I still have many memories of the trauma induced by the physical repercussions I used to face as a child.

Growing up I was an extremely fussy eater. My dad likes to joke that I made up for all the food I missed out on eating when I was a child by eating everything in sight after I turned 13 (an age that also coincided with a growth spurt).

My eating habits as a child did not serve me well in the eyes of my father. He grew up in Bilimora, a small and relatively unknown village in Gujarat. Throughout his childhood my dad and his siblings had one chance a day to eat so he knew to stuff himself until he could not stand any more food. I'm not sure if this chance to eat once a day was due to his family's lack of money of a shortage of his mother's time to cook for her four children and the extended family. It was because of this childhood ritual of his that my dad failed to understand my fussiness with eating. This misunderstanding led to punishment in the form of slaps to my head and being locked in the garage or bathroom for anywhere for a few minutes to an hour. I was often sent to bed without dinner and with a throbbing head. I remember that my mom would sneak me Rick Krispy treats under my pillow as she tucked me in and lectured me on the importance of being thankful for the food I was given.

Many of my white peers at school could never understand why the punishment for something as simple as not eating was so severe. In the suburb where I grew up, white children came from upper-middle class families. I would go to their houses and be amazed when their mom told them to throw out their leftover food. I was left in shock when they talked back to their parents and treated them more like a friends than a parent. I grew envious of them and their ability to make it through dinner time without the dramatics of corporal punishment.

As I grew older and was able to reflect on my upbringing with corporal punishment, I came to realize it was a largely cultural phenomenon. Asian Immigrant Families saw corporal punishment as an effective way of instilling some sense of fear in their children to scare them into submission.

As dark and twisted as it is, it's also the only parenting tool many Immigrant Families have. After all, it was the parenting tool their own parents employed. My  dad still to this day, tells us how lucky we are that he and my mom show so much kindness to my sister and I, especially considering how he was treated by my grandfather. I whole heartedly agree. I know my grandfather and he can be quite the cruel character. I know that my dad endured endless amounts of punishment he simply did not deserve. I do feel lucky that my parents raised my sister and I with leniency and an abundance of love. The corporal punishment I endured as a younger child never discounted that.

A growing body of literature on the effects of corporal punishment on children. Studies on corporal punishment have shown that it is associated with a large range of mental illnesses including depression, anxiety, and substance abuse. Notably, no studies have shown that there are positive effects of corporal punishment. 

The research on this topic has led countries like India to reform their laws on corporal punishment towards children. The Juvenile Justice Act of 2015 was enacted to prohibit corporal punishment in all settings including the home. The Right to Education Act of 2010 prohibited it specifically in schools.

As an adult that grew up with this form of punishment, I feel hopeful that so much awareness is being brought to this topic. I myself cannot wait to break the generational tradition of corporal punishment.

Yes, you do belong

An article by Linda Sugin, a professor at Fordham Law School, describes a mental health crisis affecting law students. She explains how a recent survey revealed that 75% of law students reported increased anxiety because of law school and more than 50% reported feeling depressed. The numbers were worse for women, nonbinary, and students of color.

As a woman of color and a first-generation law student, I felt anxiety creeping more and more into my everyday life during my first year of law school. It is hard to pinpoint one source of it all, but one common question I remember asking myself throughout my first year of law school was, “Do I even belong here?”

I did not realize it then, but this was just the beginning of my journey with imposter syndrome.

The phrase “imposter phenomenon” (commonly known as imposter syndrome) was coined by psychologists Dr. Pauline Clance and Dr. Suzanne Imes in 1978 when they published their article, “The Imposter Phenomenon in High Achieving Women: Dynamics and Therapeutic Intervention.” The article explains how the two psychologists spent five years talking to high-achieving women from various fields, including nursing and law. In the end, the article detailed how high-achieving women were more likely to experience self-doubt and fear that someone would discover they were “intellectual imposters.”

I did not know what imposter syndrome was – had experienced no hint of it – until I was a law student and began experiencing overwhelming feelings of doubt.

I was the first person in my family to graduate from an American high school and the first person to graduate from college. I remember feeling truly accomplished when I showed off my bachelor’s degree to my parents and grandparents at my college graduation party. There was no doubt in my mind that I belonged in college, given the fact that I received academic awards and graduated in three years.

After college, when I showed up at law school, I also had no sense of not belonging there. However, after my first week of law school, feelings of uncertainty washed over me. All of the other students were much older than me and more established. Some had different careers and even held PhDs, while others had built-in connections with law firms.

As one of the youngest law students and one with no connection to the legal profession, I felt I somehow slipped through the system since there was no way my achievements could mirror even a fraction of my peers’ successes. As I tried to blend in, I felt somehow my peers could “see through me,” and they could tell that I did not belong.

About a month after law school, I remember blurting out to my parents over dinner, “I don’t think I belong at law school.” My parents looked so confused as I tried to explain other students’ successes and how I compared to them.

As my parents hugged me tightly, they reminded me how I accomplished so much and that law schools did not make mistakes in their admissions process. “You belong there,” my mom said. Even though it did not feel like it, I tried to find some comfort in those words.

Imposter syndrome does not go away overnight. The feelings may simmer, but they are still there. When an individual faces a new situation, the destructive cycle of self-doubt may likely resurface.

Haley Kick, an associate attorney at Brennan, Manna, and Diamond, writes about the imposter syndrome and the first-generation experience in her article, “The Imposter in the Room: A First-Generation Lawyer’s Tips To Remember You Are Enough.” Kick explains how the frenzy of self-doubt started when she began college as a first-generation college student. Now, as a third-year attorney, she shared how she still experienced self-doubt, such as questioning whether she deserved to lead an arbitration hearing.

As I enter into my second year of law school, I still have a hard time adjusting to my self-doubt in law school. However, I have learned a few techniques to cope with my imposter syndrome.

First, I have learned to channel my imposter syndrome. Usually, if you are experiencing imposter syndrome, it means you care. So, I channel my feelings of uncertainty to learn and grow from my environment. This pushes me to focus on what I can control and let go of what I cannot.

Second, I make efforts to celebrate any positive outcomes. In her article, Kick shares that she keeps a “win folder” that documents positive outcomes. It serves as a reminder of how much she has achieved.

Although imposter syndrome will not disappear overnight, it is important to find ways to cope and grow from it. So, the next time I look in the mirror and question whether I belong. I simply say, “Yes, I do belong.”

The Worst Morning Routine

 

    One of my most vivid memories of 1L year happened on the very first day of the introduction week. I woke up at 7am and started getting ready for the day when a debilitating wave of nausea hit me. The intensity made me resort to laying on the bathroom floor and I spent the majority of that morning trying to keep from throwing up. That was my first bout of anxiety that was followed by over a year of severe anxiety symptoms that affected every corner of my life.

    In that year I had come to feel terrified of going to sleep because I knew that in the morning my routine would not go without gut wrenching nausea that made me fall to my bathroom floor. It was a daily ritual for me. At this time, not only was I dealing with internal physical manifestations of anxiety but it also affected my day to day interactions with people. I was awkward, I didn't know how much of myself I could share with other people. It was like a consistent dark cloud hovering above me. 

    What contributed to this was also the nature of law school classrooms. I remember sitting there in contracts class getting my very first cold call and having my ind go completely blank. The only thing I could focus on was the pounding of my heart in my ears. I embarrassingly stuttered out "I'm sorry I have anxiety" to my professor who so graciously moved on from me. I wish I could say the anxiety was only bad in class and I was able to find some solace among the student body, but I didn't. Consistent talk of whose outline looks like what, who was doing which hypo, and who stayed the longest at the library, made me feel constantly unworthy. My anxiety exhausted me. I had no energy after hours of doctrinal classes. I couldn't do a reading let alone spend hours scrutinizing legal text. I wasn't like my peers. I wasn't committed because I was just trying to make it though the day, and it showed. My 1L fall grades devastated me. I came into law school after an undergraduate career of recognized academic success and here I was drowning in a sea of overachievers like myself, only smarter.

    That spring my anxiety took a turn for the worse. I had essentially isolated myself from all friends I had made at law school and I was emotionally burdening those around me/ It caused a huge strain on my relationships with my roommates and family. That summer I sought out a psychiatrist and started Zoloft. I know anxiety medication is not for everyone but I swear it made me myself again. To this day I struggle with bouts of anxiety but thankfully medication was able to help me. What I want to point out is that the environment in law school gave me the type of anxiety that made it hard to wake up everyday, and I am not alone in that. The big question is, what do we do about it?

    This past year, Bloomberg law found that over 75 percent of law students reported increased anxiety and 50 percent reported increased depression. When looking at the demographics of respondents, it was clear the marginalized students were more prone to mental health struggles. When broken down by gender, 26 percent of female and 38 percent of non binary reported their well being worsened compared to 22 percent of men. In terms of race, 33 percent of Black students reported worsened well being compared to 24 percent of white students. Among the symptoms of worsened well being were disrupted sleep, increased alcohol usage, thoughts of self harm, and issues in personal relationships. 

    Specifically in the context of first generation college students, there is a higher risk for anxiety symptoms. When parents of first generation students were asked if their child worries about school, parents with fewer years of schooling reported their child worried more about school. This could mean that parents are modeling anxiety about school. 

    I know a large part of the solution to issues like anxiety are classes like this one. Environments where marginalized students can freely talk about their obstacles in elite academic institutions. I wish I had all the answers but even I am still trying to find my footing despite almost being through with law school.

Ideologues, intellectual laziness, and the perils of a compassionless society

About a decade and a half ago I moved to Southern California to attend college. I was late to submit my enrollment paperwork so I did not receive a spot in the dorms. Instead, my mom and I travelled to the area a couple weeks before classes started in order to search for rooms to rent in shared homes and apartments. I sourced rooms on Craigslist while my mom used a low-key website tailored to the South Asian community.

I vividly remember visiting one of the homes that she found. She was excited. It ostensibly met all the requirements—it was close to campus, clean, furnished, private (I would have my own room and bathroom), affordable, and located in the home of a nice family (It was as if my mom was a long lost best friend of the mother of the household). My mom was confident that our search was over. This was the place she wanted me to stay, at least for the first semester.

Once we left the house, however, I immediately rejected the idea of living there. Why? Well, as I entered the front door of the home, I noticed a small piece of Arabic calligraphy hanging on the wall. It said “Allah”. I didn’t know how to read Arabic, but I knew what that sign said and meant. They were Muslim.

What was it about me that permitted such a detestable reason for not living in that home to emanate from my heart? Was I really prejudiced against an entire group of people based upon their faith? To this day, I am not sure why I felt the way that I did—or whether I didn’t want to stay in that home for a different reason and simply used their religion as an excuse. I had never been negatively affected by any Muslim (not that such a history would have justified such contempt). Quite the contrary, despite growing up in a Hindu family, I spent much time with a Muslim auntie and her children who cared for me at home after school while my mom worked. I only have positive memories about that noble family.

If I had to pinpoint my animosity towards Muslims to something, I would suggest that it may have stemmed in part from visiting my family in India as a young child. There I once heard (I don’t know when or from whom) that it is not acceptable to use any piece of cutlery if a Muslim had used it before. I also remember learning to wash myself in a way that was distinctly different than the way Muslims did (Muslims have a specific way and order of washing their limbs as part of their ritual ablution). But I also attended middle school in a relatively politically conservative county during and in the aftermath of 9/11 so who knows what clips and chattering I was exposed to about “uncivilized” Saudis and Iraqis. Or, maybe I was influenced by being called a “sand (n-word)” in high school, not having ever heard the term before. Perhaps, out of shame, I tried to distance myself from anything “Middle Eastern,” leaning into the Indian American role as a “model minority.”

Nonetheless my anti-Muslim sentiment continued in college where I was wary of the Muslim Student Association on campus. It is remarkable to me know that I once sent an email to a student group requesting that I be removed from the list serve because that group was holding a joint event with the Muslim Student Association.

Fast forward a few years, and I found myself in a town outside of Cairo ready to recognize Islam as my own faith. What happened? God knows best.

My path to recognizing Islam as my faith is a story too long for this post. But I share this background to highlight the pernicious evil of a troubling trend that I have perceived in the classrooms of King Hall: the justification of gross generalizations when the ends are justified by one's ideological commitments.

One fundamental problem that I suffered is what Adam Kirk Edgerton calls “intellectual laziness,” which entails the practices of “gross generalizations, oversimplification, and evidence-free claims.”

Interestingly, Edgerton calls out the progressive academic community for engaging in such intellectual laziness:

The default stance in today’s academy is to conflate a whole host of issues — white resentment, gun worship, religious fundamentalism, racism — and apply that uniformly to millions of people. It is far easier to blame our current situation on faceless, ignorant masses elsewhere than to consider how often we in academe practice what we claim to abhor — gross generalizations, oversimplification, and evidence-free claims — against broad swaths of the country.

In my experience, he is spot on.

In particular, progressive folks in the academic setting are able to get away with such shoddy analysis when it is directed against groups that are ostensibly outside the categorization of “oppressed,” (based upon the Marxist oppressed-oppressor dichotomy) such as white people, Christians, and Catholics. Hence, gross generalizations of these groups are simply justified. One may even ponder if this is a natural consequence of Ibram Kendi’s proclamation that the solution to racist discrimination is anti-racist discrimination.

In any case, we must call out intellectual laziness regardless of whom it is levied against since its results are catastrophic.

Take for example, Edgerton’s anecdote about his experience discussing the tragic Las Vegas shooting with a student who was disturbingly numb to the suffering of those who were murdered. The student “reasoned” about the victims who died: “If they were attending a country-music concert, they must have voted for Trump, which meant they loved guns and thus deserved death.” Surprisingly, Edgerton points out that this student’s perspective is not unique and extends to faculty members as well: 

It’s an extreme example of our discourse of dehumanization — a vivid one in my memory. But it isn’t rare for me to hear similar assumptions expressed by students or faculty members, often without the critical self-reflection. 

As a student at one of the most progressive law schools in the country that also touts itself as being one of the most "diverse" law schools, Edgerton’s anecdote doesn’t strike me as the least bit surprising.

I used to believe the reason for such awful takes is the erosion of American education, perhaps due to the the effective disappearance of the trivium (grammar, logic, and rhetoric) in K-12 curriculums. This is especially so since it is increasingly common to believe that grammar is inherently a tool of oppression (especially within the same Marxist circles that operate under the oppressed-oppressor dichotomy). However, I believe there is something else that is contributing to the extreme polarization that begets the deluded justification of intellectual laziness. It pertains to the hardening of hearts, to take a phrase from the Quran. A hardened heart is one that is devoid of mercy and compassion. I truly wonder whether we have become so spiritually void that we simply cannot recognize and appreciate the common humanity in people? I mean, individual, real human beings with names—not collective groups based upon physiognomy and the likes.

El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz (Malcolm X) spent over a decade believing and proclaiming that “the white man is the devil!” Yet, though he recognized that there was a brutal reality to the racism of his time that led to such a belief, he ultimately denounced it. Anyone who has studied Malcom X recognizes that his life was one of transformations. He was a transformative human being who, as he admits, always kept an open mind even when proclaiming bold statements with utmost confidence. Malcolm’s ultimate, and arguably most important, transformation was a spiritual one. And it was through this he began to view the world through the lens of mercy and compassion.

In Mecca, upon performing the Muslim pilgrimage of Hajj, Malcolm X wrote a letter home reflecting upon his otherworldly experience with people from all sorts of backgrounds. He says in his autobiography:

I knew that when my letter became public knowledge back in America, many would be astounded—loved ones, friends, and enemies alike. And no less astounded would be millions whom I did not know—who had gained during my twelve years with Elijah Muhammad a ‘hate’ image of Malcolm X.

Even I was myself astounded. But there was precedent in my life for this letter. My whole life had been a chronology of—changes.

Here is what I wrote . . . from my heart:

"Never have I witnessed such sincere hospitality and the overwhelming spirit of true brotherhood as is practiced by people of all colors and races here in this Ancient Holy Land, the home of Abraham, Muhammad, and all the other prophets of the Holy Scriptures. For the past week, I have been utterly speechless and spellbound by the graciousness I see displayed all around me by people of all colors.

There were tens of thousands of pilgrims, from all over the world. They were of all colors, from blue-eyed blonds to black-skinned Africans. But we were all participating in the same ritual, displaying a spirit of unity and brotherhood that my experiences in America had led me to believe never could exist between the white and the non-white.

America needs to understand Islam, because this is the one religion that erases from its society the race problem. Throughout my travels in the Muslim world, I have met, talked to, and even eaten with people who in America would have been considered ‘white’—but the ‘white’ attitude was removed from their minds by the religion of Islam. I have never before seen sincere and true brotherhood practiced by all colors together, irrespective of their color.

You may be shocked by these words coming from me. But on this pilgrimage, what I have seen, and experienced, has forced me to re-arrange much of my thought-patterns previously held, and to toss aside some of my previous conclusions. This was not too difficult for me. Despite my firm convictions, I have always kept an open mind, which is necessary to the flexibility that must go hand in hand with every form of intelligent search for truth.

During the past eleven days here in the Muslim world, I have eaten from the same plate, drunk from the same glass, and slept in the same bed (or on the same rug)—while praying to the same God—with fellow Muslims, whose eyes were the bluest of blue, whose hair was the blondest of blond, and whose skin was the whitest of white. And in the words and in the actions and in the deeds of the "white" Muslims, I felt the same sincerity that I felt among the black African Muslims of Nigeria, Sudan, and Ghana.'

Later in the book, Malcolm X describes how his newfound understanding and recognition of God practically changed his own approach and experiences as a human being interacting with other human beings:

True Islam taught me that it takes all of the religious, political, economic, psychological, and racial ingredients, or characteristics, to make the Human Family and the Human Society complete.

Since I learned the truth in Mecca, my dearest friends have come to include all kinds—some Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, agnostics, and even atheists! I have friends who are called capitalists, Socialists, and Communists! Some of my friends are moderates, conservatives, extremists—some are even Uncle Toms! My friends today are black, brown, red, yellow, and white!

Unfortunately, we have forgotten Malcolm. Instead, we fall peril to justifying gross generalizations when they conform to our ideologies. Yet when we see the same base reasoning deployed against our ideologies, we cry foul.

A personal reflection on structural racism (Part 1)

On my first day of law school I woke up early to perfect my hair, makeup, and outfit (that no one would even see because we were on zoom). I was so excited to see the faces of my section mates. I knew that I would stick with these people for the entirety of the school year. Since I did not already know anyone who was a law student, I realized these were the people who I would lean on for all of the upcoming struggles of 1L year. I logged onto my first class's zoom meeting and eagerly began scrolling through the faces of Martin Luther King Hall's Class of 2023 Section D. To my surprise, I was the only Black person in my entire section at King Hall.

Since then, I have been the only Black student in more courses than those in which I have not been. I have literally never been in a more non-black space in my life than here at King Hall. This reality has greatly shifted my view on the world.

This isn't my first time at a predominately white institution (PWI). However, in undergrad I was surrounded by Black people in both of my majors in African-American Studies and sociology. By choosing these two majors, I isolated myself from the statistical reality that only 5% of the student body was the same race as me. 

I remember feeling slightly uneasy during my first weeks of general education classes. Going from my high school that is 84% minority to a sea of white faces will do that to anyone. As Michelle Obama states in Becoming, when she recounted her time at Princeton, "It takes energy to be the only black person in a lecture hall...". After I found my people, however, I honestly tuned out the white sea. If anything, I started seeing them as the minority because I didn't know more than a couple dozen of their names whereas I knew almost every Black person on campus. I would never have guessed these names made up only 5% of the school's population because they were the entire institution to me.

At law school, however, there is no escaping the white sea. It's everywhere. Especially during the confines of zoom school during my 1L year. This has made me think long and hard about the world around me, specifically about this country's commitment to white supremacy. In No, I Won't Stop Saying "White Supremacy," Robin Diangelo gives the sociologist's definition of white supremacy as "...a highly descriptive term for the culture we live in; a culture which positions white people and all that is associated with them (whiteness) as ideal." 

I first learned about structural racism as an Af-Am major. We discussed redlining and I thought back to my hometown, Merced, California. In Merced, the south side of the city is majority black and brown. Ironically, Martin Luther King, Jr. Way splits Merced into the nice side of town and the hood. One of my UCLA professor's gave us the link to a website that allowed us to enter the name of a city to see how it was once redlined. It showed an almost exact replica of the racial makeup of Merced till this day. 

While discussing redlining, we learned about the different ways it impacted minority communities. The obvious way is the crippling effect it had on these communities' ability to generate generational wealth through buying, owning, and passing down real estate. I thought back to my family moving almost every year while I was growing up; we had to do that after our lease was up. This never stuck me as odd because a lot of people around me also moved a lot. I had no clue of the privilege it is to grow up in the same home and neighborhood throughout your childhood, and have that home passed down through generations. 

We then learned of environmental racism. I thought of mornings, when my brothers, who grew up with debilitating asthma, always showered first so they had enough time to take their thirty-minute-long breathing treatments before we left for school. 

We learned about food desserts and zoning laws. I thought about how I did not know what an organic food was until I moved to Westwood, Los Angeles because there were no healthy grocery stores in or near my neighborhood where I grew up. I also thought about the plethora of liquor stores in walking distance from wherever I lived. While attending a Merced City Council meeting I learned that our city council did not allow liquor stores to be zoned on the north side of town because they "interfered with the quality of life." This same quality of life was not maintained for those of us who lived on the other side of the railroad tracks. 

We learned about how property taxes fund public schools at the local level. Because property values in different areas are vastly different, the tax revenues that come from different neighborhoods are also vastly different. This creates thousands and thousands of dollars in funding gaps per student. I thought back to high school sporting events when we traveled to the nearby suburb of Turlock. We came to refer to the schools there as Beverly Hills academies because of the glaring differences in resources. They had nicely architected, two-story, brick buildings with fountains in front. Our campus was riddled with portable classrooms and chipped paint. They had huge, freshly painted gymnasiums and football stadiums on campus. Our home games were played at Merced Junior College because we did not have our own facilities.

This is a small portion of a long list of different ways structural racism has influenced the world around me. My undergraduate education opened my eyes to most of this while fueling my long-standing desire to become a lawyer. Growing up, I already felt like the world around me was racist. I actually used to believe that there was just a lot of racist individuals who made individual decisions over and over again that eventually made the world the way it is. I had no clue that what I was really experiencing were racist laws, racist structures, and racist policies. 

My younger siblings and I at my undergraduate graduation

Coming home

I have spent the majority of my adult life in Davis, California. I moved here when I was eighteen, and with the exception of two pandemic years that feel more fever dream than reality, this has been my home. In less than two years from now, I will say goodbye. And I wonder what it will mean to leave the town that has housed some of my deepest joy and greatest heartbreak.

In recent readings, particularly Hillbilly Elegy by JD Vance, Becoming by Michelle Obama, and Exile and Pride: Disability, Queerness, and Liberation by Eli Clare, I have been thinking about “home”. What is it and how do we lose it? Can you have multiple? Why did I come back?

Truthfully, when I graduated in 2019, I did not anticipate I would come back to Davis. My senior year tested my seemingly endless tenacity. While I have never been one to feel defeated or down on my luck for too long, I was weary from a bone deep exhaustion that persisted despite my best efforts. I now recognize that I was mourning the end of several relationships to people who had felt like “home.” Specifically, my Christian community.

For a lot of reason, some my fault and some not, it hadn’t worked out. The truth is somewhere in the middle and all that.

As a result, when I finally left, half bewildered I’d even made it to graduation, I did so definitively.

And yet, when it came time to apply to law schools, I was compelled to apply to Davis. Maybe I was just curious or perhaps I sensed that I had unfinished business with this town but I needed to apply. I maintained I wouldn’t really come back. I also didn’t think I would actually be admitted.

But I was surprised that once I was admitted, Davis rose to the top of the list. Fast. And in the end, no other school held a candle to the prospect that I could be returning.

So, I packed my car up and came “home.”

Once I arrived, I was struck with how simultaneously familiar and wholly different Davis was. In a practical sense, COVID had clearly taken a toll and many of my favorite restaurants and shops were gone.

More pertinent though, I was different. While no longer suffering from the raw disappointment preceding my previous departure, I found that this would not be an easy homecoming.

The first few weeks back were haunting and painful. Every street corner held a memory I wanted to forget and every introduction made me flinch. I had awkward encounters with people who remembered me from before I left. I regretted my return even as I recognized the necessity of being back.

I needed to heal.

For me, the crux of the question of “home” is community. Specifically, how we commune with the people we are meant to share our lives with. JD Vance writes on the importance of community when he says, “[w]hatever talents I have, I almost squandered until a handful of loving people rescued me.”

In law school, I’ve found those handful of loving people again. And I did need rescuing from the neverendingly demand of outward validation.

I’ve written previously of how I’ve spent years trying to prove my worthiness through academic performance. Michelle Obama captures this perfectly when she writes on the hustle of meritocracy, “You live, as you always have, by the code of effort/result, and with it you keep achieving until you think you know the answers to all the questions – including the most important one. Am I good enough?”

Being “enough” was not a monster I could have conquered outside of community. There was safety in my relationships to stop running as fast as I was towards nothing that would bring me lasting joy. So, I did stop, and I am much happier.

Accordingly, when Eli Clare questions the mirage of the American Dream by asking if the upward scramble is really worth it if you have to lose community/endlessly leave home, my answer is no.

My home is people in imperfect community trying, however flawed, to love each other, rescue when we can, but mostly, be present in the battles we cannot face alone. I lost this belief in the struggle of my senior year. But I am coming back, home, if you will. 

Finding a way home

I firmly believe that we all belong somewhere. We belong to those who are part of our history. It is impossible to think of oneself without thinking of our family, friends and places that saw us grow up. Even when trying to define ourselves we instinctively think of our origins. That's what lets us know who we are.

Being alone in a country far away from your own leaves you a lot of time to think. It seems strange to me, however, that it has taken me just over 22 years to understand the meaning of the words my mom used to tell me when I was little (paraphrasing "The Little Prince" which used to be her favorite story and she read it all the time to me and my brother)...:

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eyes."

Only now I can realize how right she was (I guess it's kind of true that moms are never wrong).

How ironic life is, maybe even a little cruel, because I understand it now. Now that I am almost 5000 miles away. Now that what I miss most about my country is not my house, where I had a room to myself, nor my car, much less going out to eat at expensive restaurants or having my mother to do the cleaning and cooking for me. I always thought those would be the most difficult when I came here to study, but honestly I haven't even thought much about any of those memories since I arrived in California.

Now, if you ask me what I really miss about Chile, I don't have to think extensively about it, the answers are clear. I miss with all my heart hugging my mom and having her make me feel like everything is okay, just like when I used to run into her arms after kindergarten. I miss going to my aunt's house on Sundays and cooking a mariscal together as a family and staying there until we have once together. I miss sitting with my cousins at the bonfire they have in their backyard and talking about everything and nothing at the same time. I miss watching my soccer team's games and even the euphoric screams of my dad and brother. I miss arriving home and having my dog, Tomás, waiting for me so we can go for a walk together. I miss going out with my friends to do nothing and laugh about life. I miss feeling part of a community. I miss the people of Chile and lo muy de piel that we are. And yes, it took me a while, but I finally understood that what is really important is not seen, but felt, right in the chest.

The first picture is Tomi wearing our soccer team shirt and the second picture is me walking with Tomi.

Erica Violet Lee points out that we must redesign the word wealth from our experiences. When I read it I thought nothing had ever made so much sense to me. I always thought that to be rich was to have a car, a big house and a great job, but now that I think about it, I had all that in Chile, and I never felt happy or different because of it. Maybe, if no one told us what it meant to be rich. Maybe, we would live in a utopian world there was no capitalism and its prevailing ideas of what success or wealth is. Only then could we each give it our own definition, we would finally realize how lucky we are and that money has nothing to do with it most of the time.

I delusionally thought that I would be "happier" in the United States and at the same time I was afraid of feeling very different from my peers. This can be attribuited to the standard of living in a developed country being very different from many Latin American countries. However, on the contrary, my experience here has made me realize how truly rich I am and my people are.

Crucially, Lee points out that she no longer wants to spend time and energy on making her intellect more readable for the university. This is something I emphatize with, I've spent years striving to get here to achieve "success", which will eventually lead to wealth. I have spent so much time and effort searching for something that didn't really belong to me, because that's not my definition of abundance, at least not the one that fulfills me.

Now I contemplate my experiences growing up, and think that if I had understood what my mom meant when she read "The Little Prince" to me as a child, I would have done so many things differently before I left Chile. I would have taken care to give my mom tighter hugs, to stay a little longer at the table on Sunday with my family, to extend the conversation at the bonfire with my cousins, to enjoy the games and even the euphoric shouts of my dad and brother, to take longer walks with my Tomi, to enjoy laughing and even doing nothing with my friends.

Maybe I would have understood that, for me, being rich and feeling rich has to do with belonging to a place and its people, as I belong to them, and they belong to me. Undoubtedly, the right way to see is with the heart.

*Once: once refers in Chile to a light dinner or evening snack that consists of coffee or tea, and bread with butter, cheese, marmalade, or other accompaniments.

*Ser de piel: literally means being made of skin, but in Chile means when a person is affectionate, likes to hug and have physical contact with others. Someone who likes to cuddle others a lot to show their affection.