A reflection on the hidden curriculum of strategic course registration and planning

As a "First and Only," I have found course registration in higher education to be a time of particular difficulty. It's easy enough to choose your classes on a shallow whim, simply picking those classes which align with either your interests or friends but, there's a hidden art to maximizing the impact of your course choices. Having recently completed another round of course registration, I can't help but think of opportunities my peers and I have to maximize our marketability which we miss out on due to having been the first in our family to go through this process.

My second eldest sister, Stephanie, entered our high school alma mater four years before me. She graduated and went off to college right before I entered high school. Before she went, she and a career advisor helped me understand electives and their prerequisites. I chose carefully and, in conjunction with extracurriculars, I was able to graduate with my diploma, as well as two "academy certificates." These allowed me to denote "with honors" on my diploma and resume.

Once again carefully planning my courses, I was also able to graduate from community college with three associate's degrees. Having gone to UC Davis rather than Santa Cruz, I wasn't as fortunate coming out of my undergraduate studies (especially considering the pandemic), and I was unable to complete my planned minor in Chinese Studies because I was not strategic in selecting and scheduling my elective classes. Taking the additional classes necessary to complete the minor would have required me to stay enrolled for just short of an additional year.

At UC Davis School of Law (King Hall), there are many similar opportunities for those who select their classes with consideration more comprehensive than merely meeting the minimum requirements needed to graduate. In particular, I would like to draw attention to the eight certificate programs available here at King Hall. This school provides certificates in a variety of concentrations, including Business Law; Criminal Law and Policy; Environmental Law; Immigration Law; Intellectual Property; Public Service; Tax; and Pro Bono.

The requirements for these certificates vary, but nearly all of them require completing a certain number of units along with foundational courses in the given concentration. Further, many of the courses overlap, making it a very feasible endeavor to earn one (or even two) of these certificates as a conscientious King Hall student. For example, a 2L who has already taken Federal Income Tax; Corporate Tax; and Trust, Wills and Estates; State and Local Tax has already gone a long way towards earning both the Business Law and Tax Certificates. There are also great commonalities between the requirements of the Immigration Law and Criminal Law Certificates. Also, those participating in the Public Service Law Program are nearly a shoeing for the Pro Bono Certificate.

Pursuing these certificates may require aspiring students to prioritize certain classes over others that may have drawn their interest. In my opinion, however, this sacrifice is well worth the cost. Legal certificate programs show employers and clients possession of specialized knowledge and/or passion in a particular area of law. This makes certificate holders more competitive in legal market. Possessing such accreditation may also ultimately allow an attorney to charge higher fees for their services. This is a pertinent consideration for paid and pro bono work, especially regarding claims and motions by which attorneys seek reasonable attorney's fees and costs (e.g. §1983 claims and motions to compel).

I hope my friends, as well as my fellow First and Onlys reading this, will consider whether these certificates can advance their careers--and that they will be strategic about taking the courses necessary to obtain one or more.

Lucky girl syndrome

Image Description: Photo taken at UC Merced. Rancho Campana High School took students on a "college road trip" across the state annually. 

"Lucky girl syndrome" is a recent pop culture phenomenon. The phrase refers to the belief, or rather manifestation, that things will work out for you. As a first-generation law student, I can't help but wonder whether my success is a result of my hard work or of chance. Am I a lucky girl?

It has become increasingly clear that the primary and secondary schools you attend can have a large impact on the colleges to which you are admitted. A school's course offerings, state test scores, and extracurricular opportunities all influence the way a university might view applicants, despite the fact that students have little to no control over those details.

Advantages of magnet schools include specialized curriculum, improved educational opportunities, and valuing of diversity. They have an interesting history and mission of diversity, initially emerging as a desegregation response in the United States, aiming to encourage integration by drawing in students from different neighborhoods and addressing their academic needs.

Magnet schools typically prepare students for college, offering smaller class sizes for individualized attention, utilizing a hands-on approach, and allowing students the ability to focus curriculum on their particular curricular interests.

My K-12 educational background is not that of a typical first-generation student, or even one of a non-first generation student. In third grade, my family moved across the state of California and I began attending school in Ventura County. The school I attended wasn't great, but fifth grade was particularly bad. That year, I learned nothing, and I truly mean nothing. One vivid memory I have is when my teacher spent three days (yes, three) talking on the phone to her friend on speakerphone in front of the class. I also remember coming home and telling my mom about this. She was livid. 

The next week, Mom put my name in the "lottery" for a spot in a local magnet school. By the end of the month, we heard back that my name was selected. I won the lottery, literally.

And just like that, the next school year I was a magnet school student commuting thirty minutes every day to the "rich" part of town. My classmates had star-studded affiliations, lived in mansions, and participated in after-school activities like fencing and equestrianism. Class sizes were small, each student was given a school-issued laptop to take home, and the principal knew each one of us by name. It was very different from what I was used to.

I got lucky again in high school. A new school opened five minutes from my parents' house. It wasn't a magnet school, but a "STEAM" public school with three different academies students could tailor their studies to: the Academy of Arts and Entertainment, the Academy of Engineering, and the Academy of Health and Medical Sciences. Because attendance was in high demand, this school also implemented a lottery system. Once again, my mom put my name in the running, and I was selected. I won the lottery, again.

At Rancho Campana High school, all my classes were geared towards medicine, the field I thought I was going to pursue. It was the most beautiful public high school campus I had ever seen. Better still, by the end of my four years I had a padded resume. In addition to my participation in typical athletics and clubs, this school afforded me the ability to be a certified EMT. I took the equivalent of 6 years of science classes, did a hospital internship, and had cultivated strong, individualized relationships with faculty who could write my letters of recommendation. Furthermore, the classes were academically rigorous, and students performed well on the state's standardized tests. 

Rancho Campana High School is currently ranked 179th in the state. Comparing this ranking to the school I would have attended had my mom not put my name in the lottery is jarring--that school is 1,078th.

(To be clear, not everything was perfect. Instead of US History I took a "US Medical History" class. As a law student, I can say regular U.S. History would have been very, very helpful for Con Law classes.)

The luxury of the education I got from sixth to twelfth grade got me into my dream college, UC Davis. Looking back, I can't help but wonder if the outcome would have changed had I not won those two student lotteries.

As one student wrote, it sometimes seems as if our futures are dictated by our circumstances. Although I like to believe that my own agency, grit, and determination got me to where I am today, I get the sneaking feeling that I had a lot of luck on my side. That makes me wonder if that luck means that I'm taking up space I didn't earn.

It's hard for me to reconcile these conflicting thoughts. I think the only thing I can do is acknowledge how lucky I have been and recognize that those advantages have led me to King Hall. The combination of who I am and the forces beyond my control got me to where I am today. A little bit of luck helped me get to where I am today, and in my opinion there's nothing wrong with that. Maybe I am a lucky girl, but I'm also a lot of other things. 

Who gets to choose and who doesn't?

 A recent conversation with a friend made me realize how much one's upbringing and identity influence one's perspective on career choices. While many different factors affect people's desire to pursue a certain career path, what stuck out to me from talking to people in my life is that the socioeconomic class of one's parents or guardians and their cultural identities seem to be the most prevalent factors, with first-generation students being at the intersection of these two factors.

People with elite backgrounds are increasingly dominating academia because this field and similar jobs where the rewards are generally non-monetary, typically attract a demographic of people who do not have cash concerns. Multiple studies confirmed this finding as children from high-income households find jobs with non-monetary benefits more attractive than those with less wealthy backgrounds do. This is why people with less privileged backgrounds will pass up opportunities, like in academia, for better-paid work in finance or law.

My friend and I are great examples of this phenomenon. My friend wants to pursue a PhD, and I have chosen to pursue a career in law. When our college professor encouraged us both to pursue PhDs, my friend was much more open to the idea than I was. While I entertained the prospect for a bit, after comparing the journey to obtain a PhD versus a JD and the average salaries in careers with the two different degrees, I decided to stick with my original plan of becoming a lawyer.

While I want to become a lawyer for many reasons, I'd be lying if I said that job prospects and salaries didn't play a major role in my career choice. After all, the legal profession is one of the most stress-inducing professions. Yet, my parents' socioeconomic status and cultural background greatly influenced my decision.

Hearing about my mother's financial hardships motivated me to find a financially lucrative career to ensure she and my family would never have to worry about money again and that they would be well taken care of. Additionally, witnessing people make fun of or take advantage of my grandparents' and parents' poor English drove me to a career that is well-respected and thus, socially powerful, so I can protect them. This is especially important to me because in Chinese culture, family is always supposed to look after one another regardless of age. I am one of many whose family circumstances greatly shape their children's lives and career choices. 

On the other end of the spectrum is my friend. She doesn't have to worry about her financial security because her parents are both well-off, and she can lean on them if she needs to, so she has the opportunity to study what her heart desires. She can, in her words, "take her time, enjoying life being lost to figure out what she wants." My friend could choose what she studied and the career path she desired based on intellectual fulfillment without focusing on the financial gain of her education and choices due to her socioeconomic background and her lack of familial obligations since the culture she was brought up in valued individualism and independence over everything else. Of course, this is in no way trying to understate other struggles my friend may have but is a mere acknowledgment of how one's circumstances greatly impact one's career pursuits. 

I was curious to see if this is also true in other countries and societies. A couple of studies done in Bangladesh also echoed the same findings, which state that many children's career choices are based on their parents' occupations. Even more, these studies also noted age, religion, location of residence, and parent's education (not just current occupation) have positive impacts on students' career choices too.

While socioeconomic status and cultural identities seemed to be the most prevalent factors that I've seen around me affecting people's professional pursuits, I wanted to note how these factors are rarely mutually exclusive. Oftentimes, at the intersection of lower socioeconomic status and certain cultural identities are first-gen students. This is true for a multitude of reasons.

Historically and presently, minorities and those of the lower socioeconomic classes have a harder time attaining higher education due to discrimination. As such, the first-generation population tends to be individuals from these communities who are disadvantaged due to their limited professional networks. Consequently, securing job opportunities and mentors is more challenging. The less exposure one has to various professions, the more limited one's understanding of available career options.

This limited exposure and view is instead filled by the perception of success (like becoming a doctor, lawyer, or engineer) of one's family. In my opinion, many people's perceptions of successful careers tend to be strongly correlated with their salaries.

So do we actually "choose" our careers? Or are our careers chosen for us?

Are we part of the problem?

One of the biggest issues the United States faces today is extreme political polarization. From presidential elections to recent Supreme Court nomination hearings, our nation has become increasingly divided—and sharply so. It has been well documented that education—particularly the possession of a college degree—is one of the major factors that have caused this divide. That is, people holding a bachelor’s degree or higher have increasingly trended towards the Democratic party, while those who do not have moved toward the Republican party. This so called “diploma-divide” has been well documented by scholars and in the news. This polarization can perhaps be best seen by looking at the 2016 presidential election. Donald Trump won two-thirds of all white voters without a college degree, while Clinton won decisively among those with a college degree or higher. How, then, do first-generation voters fit into the picture?

I believe that first-generation immigrants are uniquely positioned to understand both sides of this sharp political divide. Many of us have grown up households where our families did not complete higher education before moving on to college ourselves. As we do not come from generations of college graduates, it naturally would make sense that this would be the case. Despite our unique position, why then does it seem like we are bystanders to such an important issue?

If you asked immigrant families for their views regarding education, it would be rare to find one that does not want their children to attend college. My family was no different. For me, the journey to college began in the eighth grade with the Specialized Highschool Admissions Test, or SHSAT, to obtain admission into one of New York City’s “Specialized High Schools.” These schools have become as reputable as many prestigious undergraduate institutions, with Stuyvesant, Bronx Science and Brooklyn Technical High School boasting national reputations. Every year, about 26,000 students take the test, but only about 4,000 students are accepted into these elite public high schools. After high school, I headed to college. Soon after that, I was on to law school. In contrast, my friends who came from families with a long history of college education did not have such pressure. College was simply an option, and they were more willing to pursue alternative options after high school.

It is no secret that many institutions of higher education are left leaning. I would say that I also am a left-leaning individual, and I would be lying if I denied that countless college classes, never mind the law school curriculum, have affected my worldview. Many, if not all my first-generation friends who completed college, consider themselves left leaning, even if they –like me—profess little interest in politics. I would not be surprised if their education influenced their thought processes in ways similar to mine. Despite our generally lefty political posture, if asked to name a first-generation friend who actively participates in avenues of change, I would not be able to do so. The fact that my friends are not interested in politics may simply be a function of my lack of interest in politics.

Broadly speaking, I think this may stem from the fact that my friends and I have such low levels of representation at the highest level. Currently, only 28% of the house and 12% of the senate identifies as Black, Hispanic, Asian American, American Indian, or multiracial. If we do not see people that come from the same backgrounds as us in positions of power, it is only natural for us to be more reluctant to voice our political opinions to our representatives.

Another source contributing to this issue may be input from our families. Asian Americans have long been viewed as a “model minority” because our culture teaches us to work hard and stay in our own lane. Since first generation families like mine have long viewed education both in high regard and as a means of upward mobility, I can see how difficult it can be to relate to those who vilify those with college degrees.

I can’t definitively say what is causing this bystander effect within the first-generation population, and I can only speak to my personal experience and what I have witnessed throughout the course of my life. What I can say, however, is that this divide is undoubtedly growing and will continue to be a huge issue for the foreseeable future. I only hope that as more students from immigrant families obtain higher education, more of us will become willing to actively participate in politics.

A new conceptualization of whiteness

Since I came to some sort of consciousness about race and the prevalence of it, whiteness has been a topic that consumed much of my teenage years and young adulthood. Having grown up in Chandler, Arizona surrounded by white peers and subjected to copious amounts of bullying for my very non-white appearance, I grew resentful of white people and the privileges that were afforded to them for simply being white. 

The white girls at my school always had the most friends, the best clothes, and an abundance of attention. My social capital paled (no pun intended!) in comparison and I was deemed a loser for all intents and purposes. I took every step a child could take to assimilate into white culture and have my appearance reflect that. 

I shaved my arms behind my mother's back and tried to clumsily tweeze my eyebrows. I asked my mom for Victoria Secret leggings and Uggs because it was what all the white girls that mocked me wore. I was so angered by the fact that no matter what I did to make myself look "prettier" I never got the attention that the white girls did. As Dagmar Myslinska wrote in Contemporary First-Generation European Americans: The Unbearable "Whiteness" of Being:

I consciously tried to 'Americanize' myself. I avoided or, at least, felt ambivalent about  having ties to other polish immigrants, and I prided myself on being more American than most of them. In fact, I took it to be a sign of my acculturation when I was able to  spot less assimilated immigrants by their hairstyles, modes of dress, and body language that set them apart as being fresh-off-the-boat.  

(Mylinska, 2014). 

Now you might be wondering why I referenced a white woman's words when speaking about assimilating into whiteness. The point I am trying to make is that the particular brand of whiteness I was aspiring to was unachievable, even for some white people. It was a unique brand of white suburban American whiteness that one could only be born into.

After many years of struggling with my identity, I chose to take college classes focused on critical race theory. They helped me to conceptualize whiteness––what it meant and, why it mattered, and how it related to why I was the target for relentless bullying throughout my childhood. While whiteness is a social construct, the meaning we gave to it as individuals is what allowed it to have detrimental effects on people of color, and at times, white people (take for example Myslinska's piece).

I went out in to the world uncomfortably aware of my non-white self. This was exacerbated by the fact that in the upper middle class suburb of Chandler, Arizona, where I lived, white people were everywhere. And they were not exactly friendly. 

So much of that changed, however, when I moved to Davis and started law school.

Here in Davis I immediately took note of the diversity. Maybe diversity isn't even the right word for it due to the small population of Black and Hispanic students here. Nevertheless, what I saw was an absence of overpowering whiteness. 

Whites make up about 60 percent of the Davis population. While white people remain a majority, what made it seem like the white population was so much smaller was the population of Asian people, accounting for 23 percent of this university town's population. I saw many more people that looked like me and shared my culture. I felt immensely comforted by that.

However, whiteness has a way of working its way into spaces. I recognized that there was a distinct pattern in who spoke up the most in class and whose group of friends felt the most exclusive. In Davis, while there was no outright displays of micro/macro aggressions like there were back home, in Chandler, I still saw how white people navigated their whiteness, albeit in a different way. It just took me a little bit longer to recognize that. 

It seemed like because the white people here were "leftists," that absolved them of any harm they could inflict with their identity, with their skin color. Maybe they thought the space they took up was inconsequential because they were self aware and were doing work to undo the effects of whiteness.

Unfortunately, resisting the toxicity of whiteness is never that simple. As much as I genuinely find the environment here preferable to what I experience in Arizona, there is much work to be done to prevent the isolation of people of color. As Camille Gear Rich writes in Marginal Whiteness, 

whites are generally aware that being white provides them with certain 'statistical advantages,' and potentially with cultural capital; yet they do not perceive how these advantages assist them on a day-to-day basis.

(Rich, 2010).

I have no answer for how to go about solving the issues that whiteness presents. In all honesty, I don't think there is one. 

The power of first-generation

According to Forbes Advisor, about 56% of college students identify as first-generation, and these students are also more likely to come from low-income or minority backgrounds. Dr. Ciera Graham, who has over 11 years of experience in student affairs (such as college planning and career development), notes how first-generation college student graduates are more likely to earn less than their second-generation counterparts.

As a first-generation student, I have described how I encountered obstacles due to a lack of resources and learned to deal with feelings of imposter syndrome. However, the path of first-generation students is not all bleak. The label “first-generation” also signals ambition and resilience.

As a young girl, I knew college was an inevitable part of my future. At home, my parents reminded me how important good grades were for college and how college was essential for a financially secure future. In elementary school, the principal reminded us every day about the importance of college when she called us to chant the school pledge: “We learn lots so we can go to college!” I did not understand then what college was, but I knew I had to go to one.

However, the process of applying to college came with its own set of challenges. From the SAT to FAFSA, I was unfamiliar with these acronyms. I still remember, sprawled out on my living room floor, trying to figure out my parent’s tax information for the FAFSA. After hours of complaining, my mother took me to our neighbor’s house because their daughter was currently in college. Their daughter was more than willing to help. She explained how to make an account and find the number from my parent’s taxes.

First-generation students should not feel alone on their college journey, especially when they are in good company with notable figures like former First Lady Michelle Obama and Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor.

In Michelle Obama’s Becoming, she recalls how her high school counselor tried to dissuade her from applying to Princeton because she did not look like “Princeton material.” Despite the counselor’s bruising words, Obama demonstrated ambition and strength as she became even more determined to get into Princeton.

In Sonia Sotomayor’s My Beloved World, the Supreme Court Justice describes how she scraped together just enough loose change for the bus fare to visit the Princeton campus because Amtrak was out of her budget. Although Sotomayor did not come from a wealthy background, it did not stop her from pursuing a future at the campus.

The struggles of a first-generation student do not end after enrolling in a 4-year institution. They persist throughout college.

The day I received my acceptance letter to UC Davis, I screamed with joy as I ran to tell my parents. Until that point, I was the first person in my family to receive an acceptance to a 4-year university. Yet, the challenges did not end with that acceptance letter.

During my freshman orientation, I was completely lost on how to register for classes. After numerous failed attempts to register for a math class, I finally told my orientation leader I was having trouble. I felt ashamed asking for her help because it seemed like a simple task that I should be able to figure out.

However, this feeling soon dissipated when the orientation leader explained the problem. She said I was trying to register for a class that was already fully enrolled. Then, she taught me how to narrow my search for classes on specific days, determine which classes were fully enrolled, and create alternative course schedules.

In recent years, colleges have acknowledged the growing first-generation student population, and many are taking steps to address their needs. 

One notable example is UC Merced. A 2018 New York Times article explains how 75% of students at UC Merced identify as first-generation college students. Due to these unique demographics, the school has been trying to implement strategies to help first-generation students enroll at the university and earn their degrees. Recently, UC Merced has partnered with College Track to provide high school freshmen from underserved communities with the tools and mentorship to be the first in their families to graduate from college. It is described as a 10-year commitment to students by "accompanying them on their journey to, through, and beyond college."

Because first-gen students are pioneers who are braving new challenges, they should feel a sense of power and pride.

Why does law school feel so dire?

Law school is a culture shock. Having been to two other higher education institutions, law school was by far the biggest adjustment. Anecdotally, many of my peers have experienced similar feelings regardless of socioeconomic status, race, sexuality, etc. Many of us have echoed the phrase, “law school feels more like high school than high school.”

The high school-like quality of law school manifests in several ways. For example, everyone knows each other. Everyone is crammed into a space that is physically and mentally small. Cliques form the very first day of intro week. Rumors and gossip abound. I am curious about two aspects of this: one, what makes law school this way and two, what extra layers do students from first generation – or more generally any marginalized background ­– experience?

Are law school students inherently immature? I personally do not think so. However, a close friend and I have had several discussions in which we have expressed surprise at the high school-like quality of law school. In fact, we also agree that being in this space has negatively impacted our personal growth and maturity. While I doubt anyone can come up with an exhaustive list of reasons that law school tends to be cliquey and brimming with gossip, I wonder how much of it is a survival tactic. In my opinion, the legal field obfuscates itself. When aspiring law students tell attorneys that they are intending to go to law school they are often met with a common response: “why?” or “don’t do it.” Are lawyers just bitter? If so, why? Questions like these cast doubt on our decision to pursue law school at all. On top of this, the application process and LSAT are brutal. 0L’s obsess over the /lawschool Reddit thread.

 

It is important in any space to “find your people.” I believe this is especially true in law school. Perhaps all the mysticism surrounding law school instills in us the need to survive at any cost. Additionally, law school traditionally is a competitive environment. While I am thankful that UC-Davis does not have a reputation for students ripping pages out of books or giving classmates false information, this does not mean that the competitive spirit of law school does not exist here. This is wholly unlike any other educational experience I have had.

 

The competitive nature of law school makes it crucial that we “find our people.” Perhaps we are subconsciously less willing to branch out either due to fear, viewing others as competition, or maybe we project these feelings onto others.

 

Being from a working-class socioeconomic background added an extra layer of stress for me. Once I got a sense of what the legal job market was like and the pay gap between “BigLaw” and public interest, I felt like my financial health was very much at stake. In addition to worrying about the intra-law school politics, I became obsessive about grades and OCI. While many students feel the same pressures, I felt that the investment of law school would not be worth it unless I ended up at a big firm. Looking back, I feel that this was only partly pragmatic. It was also influenced by the overall negative environment. I truly thought that I would be doomed if I struck out at OCI. I would not have family connections to fall back on or afford to take a job with significantly less salary. Based on my own experience, I wonder whether other people feel the same way and, additionally, whether the pressures of law school bring about similar anxieties for other marginalized identities.

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. 

The veterinarian turned lawyer

This week’s discussion on access to higher education made me think about my journey navigating higher education institutions and the benefits, troubles, and success that my undergraduate education and law school have brought me thus far.

When I first decided to attend college, the last field I thought about pursuing was law. I was sure I was destined for something else—I wanted to be an equine veterinarian. For most of my early childhood, I grew up riding horses (western style, to be exact). My love for horses is what actually motivated me to go to college; I wanted to “save the animals.”

However, when I got to the University of Nevada, Las Vegas (UNLV), I quickly realized that being a biology major wasn’t going to cut it for long. (Spoiler alert, like most folks who pursue law, I wasn’t very great at math, let alone science). So, I stopped taking my biology major courses and started taking philosophy and political science classes. Ultimately, these courses sparked my interest, and I found myself fascinated by comparative politics, philosophy of law (which eventually became my minor), and the history of American politics. 

My professors at UNLV encouraged me to think critically about the issues often discussed in class. I soon began taking classes on immigration policy, women and the law, philosophy of the city, and the list goes on. See, although I grew up in an extremely progressive household, I never learned about things like intersectional feminism or systemic racism—I knew these phenomenons existed, but I certainly didn’t know that they had a place in academia. 

As time progressed, I started to find myself excelling in school—I loved engaging with the material and taking on tough conversations with those whose opinions differed from mine. I found myself becoming immersed in different grassroots initiatives and student organizations—I was involved in everything from our school's NAACP chapter to the Planned Parenthood student group “Students United For Reproductive Justice.”

I loved every minute of it. I never knew that I would find myself feeling so content about my place in higher education. This is because I wasn’t the perfect high school student by any means. I didn’t get the highest grades or participate in any extracurriculars, but I knew that in college, none of that mattered and that the only thing that would hold me back was myself (and the Financial Aid Office from time to time). From my sophomore year onward, I seized every opportunity that was presented to me—I traveled to Washington D.C. to speak with members of Congress about reproductive rights issues; I received awards for academic excellence, and for the first time, I felt as though I was actually doing something to create change in my community. 

My experiences eventually led me to pursue a career in law, and had it not been for all of those encounters in undergrad--the traveling, the academic rigor, the intellectually stimulating conversations—I would not be here sitting in this King Hall lecture room today (well maybe I would, but still the path would have differed).

I say all of this to say that whether or not we encourage first-generation students to pursue higher education can have long-standing implications for their futures. The truth is that, for many of us, college allows us to experience new things; to go beyond the bounds of our communities and everything that we thought we knew to bright new ideas and challenges. For many people, college is the first time they will come across people from different cultures, backgrounds, and socioeconomic statuses. 

And to be clear, while I think that it is important for us to be transparent with first-generation students about issues such as student loan debt and job security, we should not completely discourage them from pursuing higher education simply because it will be harder for them to access. It should also not be lost on us that, low-income students of color, can especially benefit from obtaining a college education. As Misty Starks states in Forward Times:

It’s no secret that students who graduate from college make more money over their lifetime – about 60 percent more – than students who do not earn a degree. And college graduates are more likely to find a job with a higher starting salary than their non-degreed counterparts.

With this in mind, we are doing students of color a disservice by taking higher education off the table for them. Rather than telling them not to go to college, we can simply make the process of getting into college more accessible. 

We do not put pressure on affluent kids to “pick a trade” right out of high school, so we should afford first-generation kids that very same opportunity—to go to college and to learn about the things that interest them in this world; to figure out their “why,” and to explore academia for the sake of doing so. And maybe then, we’ll have more equine veterinarians turned lawyers.

I can do it, but I don't want to

Ironically, the experience of becoming educated has regularly left me without words, without a language to explain to my family what I’ve lost along this journey. This is partially because I never envisioned there would be any losses. However, I underestimated the challenges of being a first-generation student, and in my delusion fueled grapple for meritocracy, I’ve sometimes lost myself.

Much as in the article, “The Unentitled Kids: California's New Generation of Star College Applicants" by Teresa Watanabe, I hung all my hopes on going to college. I enrolled in my first college prep program, GEAR UP, in sixth grade. I was taught to envision a life that only education could provide. As a result, I did everything in my power to earn it.

In high school, I took nine AP classes and a paralegal course at the local community college. I enrolled in student council, was school ambassador, worked my first job at 16 in a law firm, was a graduate of the inaugural class for the UCI Academy of Law, a participant of the Higher Education Mentoring Program, spent a summer in Washington DC studying Constitutional Law, logged more than 1000 hours of community service, and interned for two youth diversion programs.

Ultimately, I was one of only 4% of students in my high school to attend a four-year university.

When I finally left home for college, I was clear about what I wanted. I wanted to do well enough to get into a good law school. I wanted a career that mattered to me. My BA was just a stepping stone towards the life I would have later. As such, I erroneously thought the hard part, namely getting into college, was over.

I had no idea how difficult it would be to remain in college. That I would be haunted by the versions of me who stayed home and watched my siblings grow up. That a monster would awaken within me, and I would doubt my capacity incessantly. That I would brush up against racism to an extreme degree and learn the violent history that espoused white supremacy. They were all losses I cannot quantify, because despite leaving Santa Ana, I’d never felt more inadequate.

While there are countless anecdotes that made me question my capacity to succeed, one sticks out in particular.

At the tail end of my junior year, I had been accepted to write an honors thesis in both my majors, English and Religious Studies. I quickly realized I could only feasibly write one and went to consult both major advisors.

In my conversation with the Religious Studies advisor, she told me that even if I wrote a thesis, I would not graduate with the Highest Honors I was hoping for. When I inquired why, she said I was just shy of the GPA cut off and would need to get straight A’s my senior year to qualify. I did not see the issue. I should add that my GPA in the Religious Studies department was a 3.9. I assured her I could do it. She assured me it was too difficult. 

Her certainty that I would not make it reinforced my secretly harbored fears that whatever academic success I’d attained had been good luck. She knew, and I knew, like I had suspected all along, that I could not do it.

Minutes after leaving her office, I, an absolute mess, called my mom. We prayed and she challenged me to try anyways. My mom’s kind words and gentle reminders softened what would have been the end of my desire to pursue a thesis.

Ten months later, that same academic advisor bestowed the gold cord around my neck, upon completion of my thesis. I looked her in the eye the entire time. I did not register remorse or embarrassment. I am not sure she remembered her words.

When graduation came, I was allowed to walk the stage with a family member. My mom wore my gold cord as she walked alongside me.

Admittedly, law school has resurrected some of the same monsters from my undergrad days. However, it has also freed me. It brought into heightened perspective the rat race I'd been running. I feel more relieved of my desire to compete for a career. I want a life. I see now that education will only take me part of the way to the life I want. I have to cultivate the rest. 

I agree with Case and Deaton that "[p]erhaps meritocracies destroy themselves over time." I am a destroyed meritocracy. Whether by choice or necessity, I think we all get to point of questioning how the endless need for validation can sustain us. 

As a result, I care less about “earning” my way. There is some measure of freedom in knowing that the education gap is so wide, I can stop splitting myself apart to bridge it. I have no desire to spend my life proving I can measure up. I am here, against a lot of odds, and it is enough.