Disorganized, but not in the way you're thinking

When you hear the word "disorgazined," you might think of someone who cannot keep track of things -- a person who has papers all over their room or who cannot manage their time. There is a different meaning for the word, however, that stems from attachment theory. Attachment is a term in psychology for an individual's emotional connection to others, and it can manifest in adults' behaviors in relationships. 

Under attachment theory, there are four unique "attachment styles": secure, avoidant, anxious, and disorganized. A person forms their attachment style starting in infancy and in response to his or her caregiver. "Secure" is, in my opinion, the ideal attachment style. This style is formed when the caregiver has served as a safe base for the child. Adults with a secure attachment style are usually more confident, independent, and emotionally stable. 

Following the secure attachment style are "anxious" and "avoidant." These are considered "insecure" attachment styles. Anxious attachment style is characterized by a lower self-esteem, but higher reliance on others. On the other end of the spectrum, the avoidant attachment style is characterized by a more normal self-esteem but high avoidance of others. 

Rounding out the attachment style friend group is the least favorable who no one wants around – "disorganized." This attachment style is the rarest of the four, and someone with this style usually exhibits behaviors that are a mix of both anxious and avoidant. Above, I said that anxious and avoidant are on two ends of a spectrum, so how can behaviors of both be present? Well, the disorganized attachment style can be described as contradictory, paradoxical, unpredictable, and unstable. 

Experiencing abuse at a young age, not being able to depend on your caregiver, and growing up in an adverse environment are all ways that cause a child to develop a disorganized attachment style. 

I was a psychology and human development double-major in undergrad, so I knew plenty about attachment theory when I came to law school. In undergraduate classes, we had watched videos of children with all different types of attachment styles, but disorganized was the most concerning. These babies would see their caregivers and not really know how to react. Anxious attachment babies would be inconsolable, while avoidant babies would be unfazed. Disorganized babies would show conflicted behavior. 

Why I never took an attachment style quiz in undergrad, I do not know. Maybe I was worried the results would show what I was already concerned about – that I am just bad at relationships. It was not until this First Gen Experience course where one of the readings talked about attachment styles that I decided I wanted to know. 

I clicked on the first link that appeared when I Googled "Attachment Style Quiz," and I answered the questions to the best of my ability. It asked about my relationships with each parent, my self-image, and my behaviors in relationships now. Even just filling out the questions, I was thinking that my answers were definitely not going to lead to a result of secure, but I was hoping it would be anxious or avoidant. I can't be THAT messed up, right? 

I was wrong. The results popped up: "Fearful Avoidant/Disorganized." 

Honestly, I shouldn't have been so surprised. Despite my inability to maintain relationships, I did not want to see myself as those conflicted babies in the human development videos. I know myself, and I know that I would like to be in a healthy relationship. However, I also know that there is usually a .001% chance I'll agree to meet up with someone I match with on Hinge. I am both somehow so anxious to get into a relationship yet so avoidant of actually being in one. 

There has been a lot of negative self-talk and the occasional snarky comment from my family or friends about my behavior in romantic relationships. I joke about dying alone or surrounded by cats, but I also do worry that I may actually be incapable of being in a relationship simply because I am too much of a barrier to myself. 

I suppose it does provide a little bit of comfort that these internal forces can possibly be attributed to how I was raised. At least I can relieve some self blame by blaming my mom and dad. 

On the other hand, I somehow feel that I only have myself to blame. Maybe I'm not putting enough effort into "getting out there." I am conflicted about whether to blame myself or my upbringing. That sounds like classic clonflicted disorganized behavior. 

After I took the test, I wanted to tell my mom because it does feel like an explanation of sorts. I opted to not go into detail because I worried that she would spiral and blame herself. How can you explain that you're likely bad at relationships in part because of the person you're talking to? What exactly was it in my childhood that made me this way?

Ultimately, I am unsure how to fix this issue. The internet says to practice self-compassion, establish boundaries, work on regulating your emotions, etc. I fear those are easier said than done. Hopefully I can work through my issues someday... but dying surrounded by cats could be nice, too.

A prudent concern to cultivate

 Civilization VI (“Civ6”) is a mobile game that I began to play early on this semester out of piqued curiosity and a desire to justify my renewed Netflix subscription. It’s a very long and intricate game, played in an almost tabletop style, that positions each player as the immortal head of their randomly assigned nation. At every turn, each player is faced with seemingly minor decisions about the management of their fledgling nation. Each decision takes several turns into the future to become fully realized. Some examples are should I build a library or a military encampment? Should I destroy a forest to build a university? With whom should I establish a trade route or begin a war with? Each turn that passes represents 1-2 years of a history unrealized and of the player’s intentional--or at times in my case--negligent design.

Civ6 can often feel like a digital power trip, but it’s so much more because of how it reminds the player about the real-life consequences of the decisions made by those in power. In Civ6, the boundary of a player’s power is defined by the agency of other players (real or not), the agency of one's citizens, and often geography of the world itself. Cities can starve, be conquered, choose to rebel, seek independence, or even join another nation. Each game is limited to 500 turns per player, but masochists and victims of the sunk cost fallacy may play on. At the time of writing this, I am on my 642^nd turn of my first game.

I can’t be the only one who enjoys the occasional power fantasy. As a first gen, I know it feels good to take control over the trajectory of your life. Like the British Special Air Service (SAS), we know "who dares, wins." It takes guts to apply, more to show up, and even more to keep showing up. 

Yet, there is a dark side of ambition that any student of history should know to be wary of. Watching and reading Hillbilly Elegy, it's hard to think that a young J.D. Vance—a first generation law student—would grow up and contribute such reprehensible actions such as firing the commander of 821^st Space Base Group in Greenland simply because she criticized the Trump Administration’s policy in the country. J.D. Vance also voiced support for a national abortion ban to prevent people from accessing care by crossing state lines in response to a shifting political climate. Because of actions like these, I believe it is wise to fear the corrupting nature of power.

In August 1971, psychologist Philip Zimbardo sought to investigate the effects of situational variables on the behavior of participants within a simulated prison environment. The participants, all college students, were each randomly assigned the role of either prisoner or security guard. Although the study was designed to go on for two weeks, the experiment had to be terminated after only six days due to severe abuses perpetrated by the guards. For many, this study is just one demonstration of the corrupting nature of authority. This conclusion may be unsurprising for those who are familiar with the old adage that "absolute power corrupts absolutely."

In my experience, "First and Onlys" are an ambitious lot. We have things to prove and people to prove wrong. However, as we’ve discussed in class, social mobility requires compromise and adaptation. As attorneys, we are very likely to be placed in positions of trust and authority and therefore are likely to become the targets forces with even greater power that seeking to accumulate more power or avoid negative consequences. Whether that takes the relatively mild form of pressure from a client to utilize certain unsavory tactics or something more severe like accepting campaign donations from a morally bankrupt corporation, we should be aware of the places our ambitions could take us.

 Saint Bernard of Clairvaux says the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I can't think of a single classmate who doesn't want to leave the world a better place. In other words, good intentions are abundant. Still, it would be naive to think we will always get things right, that we will always avoid standing on the wrong side of history. 

For example, I was recently frustrated to see many of my colleagues on the Law Student Association (LSA) refuse to acknowledge important democratic principles, even though they did so in pursuit of a cause as important and noble as the liberation of Palestine in the face of genocide. It is important to defend these principles (most notably here, the First Amendment prohibition against viewpoint discrimination), even when doing so is detrimental to causes we are passionate about. Failing to do so weakens these principles to be attacked by those with ill intent.

Playing Civ6 can feel a bit heavy if you keep in mind what each icon represents. Investments into infrastructure constitute multigenerational levels of effort and sacrifice. Every war I start or react to results in the loss of loyal soldiers. And yet the desire to conquer and to grow my territory remains. I have also found myself adopting policies whose utilization I would detest in the real world. For example, I have used espionage and razed disloyal cities for the sake of pursuing a utilitarian strategy because it is easier to win when my hands aren't tied by morality. Considering myself a good person and being unable to resist the corrupting desire to win and grow in power in Civ6 is a humbling contradiction that I have yet to resolve. After all, if--when no one is looking--we can't bind ourselves to our morals when the stakes are low, what chance do we have at making a moral and costly decision when the stakes are high?

I therefore encourage my fellow First and Onlys to hold themselves to a higher standard whenever possible and to inoculate themselves against the corrupting influence of power. The more difficult and costly the decision, the more prepared you will find yourself when the time comes. 

If you seek further inspiration, here is an example of a man who was able to hold onto his morality when faced with what he perceived to be certain nuclear apocalypse and justified retribution. May we all find such strength when we need it most, when tough decisions test our resolve to do good.

Meanwhile, as I grow into the lawyer and person I want to be, I'm going to enjoy my silly nation building game. But I will also hold it with me as a reminder of much more serious decisions that are sure to come.

“Big Law” Series: What does the "end" of DEI mean for students and "big law" job prospects? (Part III)

See Part I and Part II.

DEI and Big Law: Benefits of DEI initiatives 

In some ways, the elimination of law firm DEI programs will not significantly impact first-gen students' abilities to get "big law" jobs. Sure, these programs offer students a high-paying job and scholarship. But grades, achievements, and fit have and will continue to take precedence in hiring decisions. As a 2009 LCLD scholar states in his LinkedIn post, “[m]ost employers aren’t really in the business of hiring people who can’t do the work.” However, the elimination of law firm-DEI programs will influence accessibility and retention. 

For example, fewer first-generation students may be encouraged to apply for these spots because they do not hear about potential positions as firms cut their marketing budgets. Even for students who are not selected to participate in these prestigious programs, they get a competitive advantage by talking to law firm recruiters early in the process. Eliminating incentives to apply––like a hefty scholarship––may mean fewer first-gen applicants. Demand for "big law" jobs is also increasing as the Trump administration has eliminated the DOJ Honors program and other government work opportunities. 

Retention measures may also be at risk. Affinity organizations––groups which underrepresented minority individuals can join within firms––often help associates transition into big-law life. Advantages like meeting coworkers your first year versus second, learning the culture of the workplace, or understanding the structure of a law firm are exponentially beneficial to students who are the “first and onlys” in their families; they are, perhaps, lost on illegible students who come from a long line of attorneys or working professionals who can give them the same mentorship they would gain from an extra summer of work. 

First-gen law students will have to overcome many barriers, obstacles, and unknowns to get to law school, let alone to succeed in “big law:” taking the LSAT, completing several law school applications, purchasing suits, participating in "OCI," getting good grades, attending networking events, and more. Accessibility, in my opinion, is not defined as whether the application "door" is open. Accessibility connotes whether interested students are given equal opportunities to set goals; participate meaningfully in school- and workplace-culture; or control their careers.

Law schools should continue to use holistic measures to create a more diverse student population. This diversity is not limited to ethnic or socioeconomic diversity, though. It should be, as Justice O’Connor noted in the majority opinion of Grutter, “focus[ed] on academic ability coupled with a flexible assessment of applicants’ talents, experiences, and potential ‘to contribute to the learning of those around them.’” Id. at 315. The legal field––which, according to the ABA, has long been dominated by white (78% of the profession, 2024), straight (approx. 93% of the profession, 2023), able-bodied (approx. 98% of the profession, 2023) lawyers––is thus served by instituting these diversity measures. As long as financial and informational disparities exist, these DEI programs are justified.

“Big Law” Series: What does the "end" of DEI mean for students and "big law" job prospects? (Part II)

Context: DEI initiatives and Equal Protection

Several of my law school courses have explored whether DEI initiatives are legal under the 14th Amendment––the Constitutional requirement to treat all individuals equal. Even if they are legal, do DEI initiatives propel marginalized individuals forward? Or is “‘[d]iversity,’ for all of its devotees, is more a fashionable catchphrase than it is a useful term, especially when something as serious as racial discrimination is at issue,'" as Justice Thomas posed in his concurrence in the 2003 Supreme Court case, Grutter v. Bollinger?

The job market in an evolving “Equal Protection” landscape

President Trump’s cabinet asserts that DEI initiatives are not legal. Several “big law” firms have been the subjects of Executive Orders commanding them to halt their DEI practices, forgo certain pro bono projects, and end relationships with partisan clients. What do the orders mean for first-generation students applying for post-bar jobs? Although many “big law” firms recognize value in these DEI initiatives and are fighting to keep them in place, a growing contingent of big law firms have acquiesced. To avoid an Executive Order, the capitulating firms have promised the Trump administration hundreds of "pro bono" hours worth millions of dollars. Other large law firms have (thus far) remained silent.

Big Law "Spine Index"

As a law student, my news feed is filled with reactions against those firms bowing down to the Trump administration: open letters by associates threatening resignation; "big law" partners initiating focus groups for other partners to act; or data suggesting 1L students applying to jobs are avoiding those firms. The American Bar Association, law school deans, and various law school faculty have also issued statements against the Trump administration's actions. These entities, or members of the entities, also recognize value in recruiting diverse, first-generation students to their firms. They also observe a sizable risk to that goal in eliminating these programs.

So, how does this affect first-generation law students seeking admissions at law schools?

This year is the most competitive year in history for getting into law school. Law school admissions offices often consider a variety of factors––such as GPA, LSAT (law school admissions test) score, undergraduate institution and area of study, and reasons for attending law school––when determining which students to admit and how much financial aid to award them. With DEI programs coming to an end, will law school admissions be impacted? 

In my opinion, they will not be impacted significantly, if at all. Law schools have been afforded wide leeway to institute holistic review of applicants in the admissions process. See Grutter, 539 U.S. at 346. Programs which DEI initiatives may have been useful to “counteract”––like college admission legacy programs––have been largely dismantled. 

In Grutter, then-Chief Justice Rehnquist (joined by Justices Scalia, Kennedy, and Thomas) asserted that the University of Michigan Law School’s DEI admissions statistics do not support its stated DEI goals. Id. at 380-84 (Rehnquist, J., dissenting). They argued that “the Law School’s disparate admissions practices with respect to these minority groups demonstrate that its alleged goal . . . is simply a sham.” Id. at 383.  Maybe, as Rehnquist asserted,  DEI programs are "dishonest and dangerous activity . . . [that has] undermin[ed] democratic . . . process[es]." 

Perhaps Rehnquist is right––that the end of these programs means less gaming by prospective law students or “big law” associates who feel invalidated by DEI application questions. There may be less stigma associated with vulnerable students; who are racial or ethnic minorities or low-income, and who may be cloaked with a feeling of unreservedness, a lingering question of: “Was it what I achieved despite my adversity or my diverse perspective that gained me admissions? Or am I merely an ‘aesthetic [that shapes] the Law School[‘s] certain appearance, from the shape of the desks and tables in its classrooms to the color of the students sitting at them[?]’” Grutter, 539 U.S. at n. 3 (Thomas, J., concurring in part); see also an Op-Ed in The Atlantic about this sensation (reflecting on the autobiography Reflections of an Affirmative Action Baby).  

I will delve further into this debate in Part III, which will address whether this may affect first-generation students breaking into “big law” as a first-generation law student at a “big law” firm. 

“Big Law” Series: Why do students want "Big Law" jobs? (Part I)

Firms are increasingly pushing the on-campus interview process ("OCI") earlier and earlier. Many DEI-eligible students have had a competitive advantage by applying to the 1L Leadership Council on Legal Diversity ("LCLD") or diversity programs offered by “big law” firms. But the existence of these programs raises the question:  why would students participate in stressful, opaque processes just to work in “big law”? What are the benefits of these programs? Why should firms solicit diverse, first-generation students to apply to their early-access programs? This post will explore what “Big Law” is and why first-generation, and particularly low-income, students might be interested in jobs at a big law firm. Subsequent blog entries will discuss President Trump’s executive orders against law firms and why these orders may be relevant to first-generation or diverse students interested in entering the legal field. 

What is “big law”?

Jobs in "big law"––the colloquial name for the top 100-200 law firms as ranked by American Lawyer––are highly coveted due to the type of work lawyers get to do (often representing titans in a field) and the enormous salary they earn (most "big law" firms have starting salaries of >$200,000). The financial stability, work, and prestige make competition for these jobs intense. I’ll unpack some of the details of what these firms offer in the sections that follow.

A. Financial Stability

For many first-generation students, these jobs are not just prestigious, they promise financial stability, which many first-gen students have not previously enjoyed. 

Law school tuition can be extremely expensive, averaging about $151,000 over three years at ABA accredited schools. Many students go into debt to pay for law school, on top of the debt they have accumulated for  college. A big law salary is typically the most efficient means to pay this debt off.

In addition, as a soon-to-be graduate, I have unveiled many "hidden fees" to becoming a licensed attorney: registration with the California State Bar ($150), registration to take the MPRE (ethics exam) ($160), registration to take the California State Bar Exam ($1,082), California Bar Exam prep course (>$2,800), moral character investigation (>$700), and more. These are all expenses for which my "big law” firm is reimbursing me and, in some cases, fronting. 

B. Work Opportunity & Resources 

Another reason why these jobs are so coveted is that they often provide a strong training ground for students to explore many different types of corporate/transactional law or civil litigation projects. As big law firms often have high billing requirements (e.g., minimum of 1900-2100 billable hours/year, often ~60-80 hours of work a week), they require that associates have strong work ethics. The "high-stakes" training ground signals that lawyers at these firms are detail-oriented, quick witted, and less inclined to make mistakes. This sets the lawyers up for opportunities to lateral into other careers in the future. 

C. Prestige

When I started law school, I was unaware that the legal field wielded prestige to impose and maintain hierarchy. There seem to be myriad ways for law students to be "ranked": judicial clerkships, T-14 law schools, Law Review, Order of the Coif, and Order of the Barristers. Yet, data shows that fewer first-gen students are involved in these activities than are their continuing-generation counterparts.

A lawyer’s career can be shaped by how they excelled or the times they did not excel. The legal field can be extremely unforgiving. This puts heightened pressure on students––especially first-generation students––who are unaware of what criteria will be used to evaluate them. As discussed, if first-generation student can break into a “big law” firm, such an opportunity can yield fruitful career opportunities. However, President Trump’s Executive Orders may reduce such opportunities for first-generation students, as will be discussed in Parts II and III. 

We need to stop catastrophizing when we're cliff jumping

Catastrophizing is imagining the worst possible outcome of an action or event and treating it as a likely outcome even when it is not. 

This phenomenon may be associated with reduced behavioral measures of risk-taking. What is interesting about the relationship between catastrophizing and risk-taking is how these somewhat conflicting experiences play a role in the decision-making of many "first and onlys." In First Gen A Memoir, Campoverdi discusses her decision to take out massive loans to attend Harvard as a form of risk-taking comparable to "Blindfolded Cliff Jumping." First and onlys face difficult choices with extremely high stakes since they are less likely to have family financial support, built-in professional networks through families, or savings (165). 

While most first and onlys understand taking risks is inherent to their identities as being the first or only ones in their family to break into certain spaces, this challenge is often coupled with catastrophization. On the one hand, risk-taking is necessary for our growth, but on the other, we are raised to be attuned to the consequences of our actions and to work hard to avoid failure. We are used to having to prove we are worthy of being in such spaces since we cannot point to our family members as proof of our credibility. As such, this is why so many first and onlys are very susceptible to imposter phenomena.

This is where catastrophizing comes in. When analyzing choices we can make in life, the stakes are so high that before "diving straight off these cliffs," we tend to overanalyze and imagine every possible outcome of our actions. In my experience, when I have been at a crossroads in my life, I catastrophize the different options I have in order to mentally prepare myself for the consequences of my own actions. As Campoverdi states, “Those who smash through glass ceilings are then left to clean up the shards on their own.” In this way, catastrophizing prepares me to clean up the shards after myself because even when we achieve milestones, they come at a cost, like the loneliness we feel in no longer relating to those in places we came from.

Catastrophizing, where we often assume the worst in people and situations, buffers possible disappointment. It can also help protect us by preparing for anything that could go wrong. For example, because I catastrophized the possibility of not getting a single job offer for my 2L summer, I was motivated to apply to every job opening available, regardless of my interests. I had prepared for the worst, so when I did get an offer, nothing made me happier. If I had not gotten an offer, I would have expected it and would have been prepared to act accordingly because I had "planned ahead" for the disappointment.

When I found myself being the only person of color waitressing at a country club, I catastrophized dealing with racism among my coworkers and even customers. If I did not face any racism, I was pleasantly surprised. However, because I did, I was more emotionally prepared for these encounters because I had "planned ahead" for them. Talking to fellow first and onlys, I know I am not alone in these thoughts and experiences. 

Despite the comfort catastrophizing can bring us, assuming and preparing for the worst in every situation distorts our sense of reality and can increase our risk of mental illnesses by contributing to various anxiety disorders. It is very difficult to break this unhealthy way of thinking, though, especially as first and onlys, because it is a coping mechanism. Luckily, many tips and resources are available to help us break these cycles.

Some methods I have found helpful in my journey to stop catastrophizing include various forms of self-care. I enjoy gratitude journaling, as cheesy as it sounds, since it helps ground me in the present moment instead of worrying so much about the future. Learning that the brain cannot respond to anxiety and gratitude simultaneously makes this technique extra helpful in diminishing catastrophization. Thinking about all the things in my life I am grateful for minimizes negative thoughts I have about the future. Additionally, when I allow myself to do the things I enjoy — like exercising, getting out in nature, and spending time with loved ones — my problems feel less significant, and I become more self-compassionate. 

As first and onlys, we often work so hard to prove wrong the limiting beliefs society places on us that we adopt behaviors that are unkind to ourselves. We forget to break negative habits because they may have helped us in the past. This is a reminder to myself and my fellow first and onlys that to truly love ourselves and improve our well-being, we must stop the catastrophizing that so often accompanies cliff jumping.

My little friend to remind us to love ourselves and to stop catastrophizing because everything will work itself out.

Lessons from a little golden wiener dog

A Long-Awaited Yes

Nearly 14 years ago, my parents finally agreed to let us get a dog.

I was only 10 years old when they gave in to our constant begging. We visited several shelters before one little golden puppy, shaped like a tiny hot dog, caught our eye. He was a blur of energy, racing up to us as we stood outside his kennel, wide-eyed and hopeful.

Several families were already interested in adopting him. It was easy to see why. He was the most beautiful, curious, and loving creature we had ever seen.

Yet somehow the stars aligned, and despite the odds, he became ours.

Learning Through the Unfamiliar

At the time, we were one of the first Punjabi families in our area to adopt a dog. Pets were often seen as an extra responsibility or financial burden, something unnecessary when life already came with enough challenges. Adopting him was a choice that felt unfamiliar, something that set us apart from those around us.

When we brought him home, that lack of familiarity became acutely obvious. None of us had grown up with dogs. For the first week, we felt unsure, maybe even a little afraid. We questioned whether we were ready, whether we knew what we were doing, whether we had made a mistake.

Over time, though, that little golden puppy taught us not to be afraid. His love was patient and steady. Slowly, he turned uncertainty into trust, fear into comfort, and transformed our house into a home filled with laughter, care, and growth.

The Lessons He Left Behind

This past Saturday, we lost our sweet boy.

The grief is heavy. Yet what remains is everything he gave us—his spirit, his loyalty, and the quiet lessons he taught us over the years. Most importantly, he showed us how to face the unknown without letting fear take over.

That lesson became even more important years later when I entered law school as a first-generation student. 

Walking into law school felt much like bringing him home for the first time. No one in my family had walked this path before. I didn’t have a roadmap or someone who could tell me exactly what to expect. 

Instead, I had to figure it out on my own, balancing the pressure of my own doubts with the weight of my family’s hopes.

First-generation students often live in two worlds. We carry the experiences and sacrifices of our families on our backs while trying to navigate spaces that were never built with us in mind. 

It is isolating at times—constantly feeling like you’re translating, adjusting, catching up. There is a quiet pressure that comes with knowing you are the first; your success feels like it carries more weight than just your own future.

I felt that pressure every time I stepped into a classroom filled with people whose parents were doctors, lawyers, professionals who could guide them through the process. I didn’t have that. 

What I did have, though, was the knowledge that unfamiliar things become familiar over time. My dog had shown me that firsthand. He taught me how to be patient with myself, how to lean into the discomfort of not knowing, and how to trust that I could figure things out along the way.

It is a lesson that grounded me when I questioned whether I belonged. When imposter syndrome crept in, when the workload felt endless, when the stakes felt impossibly high—I reminded myself that I had once been afraid of something as simple as bringing home a dog. Over time, I learned to love and care for him without hesitation. 

Law school, in many ways, was no different. The fear never completely disappears, but it no longer controls you.

Paving the Way Forward

Our little golden wiener dog's impact extended far beyond our family. 

After we adopted him, other families in our community began to feel more comfortable welcoming dogs into their homes. What once seemed unusual slowly became something others felt they could do, too. That shift, small as it may seem, reminded me how much one decision, one act of bravery, can ripple outward.

Being a first-generation law student feels the same. 

It is not just about my own journey. It is about making the path clearer for others who will come after me. It is about showing my younger siblings and my community that we can belong in spaces where we have not traditionally been represented. 

Every time I take a step forward, I hope it becomes easier for the next person to take that step too.

The stars aligned for us once, all those years ago, when that little golden puppy became part of our family. I like to think they are still aligning now, in ways I may not fully see yet, guiding me forward.

He was the first of many.

So am I.

Conquering Spaces

As I enter the second half of the spring semester, I have come to the conclusion that the unofficial stereotype for most “First and Onlys” is that we love to overcommit ourselves, no matter how unhealthy it might be for us. Moreover, we fear that our work products will be scrutinized under a microscope for total perfection, and therefore, in utter exhaustion, we try our best to make everything perfect. It’s an endless game of progression and regression. In her memoir, First Gen: A Memoir, author Alejandra Campoverdi provides an insightful analogy for this First and Onlys phenomenon in Chapter Five, Crash into Me. Campoverdi compares this experience to the children’s board game Chutes and Ladders, capturing the unpredictable rises and setbacks encountered by those navigating uncharted paths.

Although I am not a social scientist, it seems possible that our obsession with overcommitting could be based on the complexity of our backgrounds. That is, overcommitting may be an unwitting response to the constant reminder that we, as First and Onlys, are often outsiders in the spaces where we find ourselves. We are so used to being naturally excluded from certain social circles that when we have earned an opportunity to enter a new space, whether that is our first office job or attending college, we feel the need to integrate ourselves by proving to others that without any doubt we are worth the space we conquer. 

These feelings are very powerful. They can shape our perception of our overall worth. The most empowering tools I have utilized to combat these feelings are working on my individual acceptance and seeking a broader community of people who can relate to me.

Individual acceptance requires First and Onlys to reflect deeply on their personal sense of belonging and worth. As someone about to enter their last year of law school, I expected this time to be an opportunity to reflect on my achievements–but it has proven otherwise. Admittedly, these last few weeks have been an overwhelming period filled with constant stress and depression. I have been trying my best to balance my personal life with my obligations in law school, and it has been challenging.

Like many of my fellow First and Only 2L classmates, we, as law students, are asked to balance class participation with completing assignments and projects, while also attending meetings for the various clubs and organizations we are involved in. We do all of those things while also trying our best to maintain the little bit of social life we have left. Despite our meticulous time management, the volume of responsibilities leaves us feeling stretched too thin. Dealing with personal relationships and family losses only complicates the experience. And as the semester goes on, we start to burn out from the constant stress and pressure, like a candle reaching its limit, trying its best to keep its flame burning.

One aftereffect of burn out makes an individual question whether or not they deserve to be in a particular space. In moments of vulnerability, it makes me wonder if I’m in the right place, asking myself, “Am I actually deserving, or am I just really good at lying to myself?”

However, the recognition of other First and Onlys pushes me forward. Ironically, as I have learned this semester, First and Onlys can find solidarity in knowing that these feelings of self-doubt are collectively shared, no matter what stage of our professional development we are in. Whether you’re an incoming first-year student preparing for college, an admitted student excited to start law school, or even a seasoned law student just trying to make it through the semester, we doubt ourselves. At the same time, we long for integration and the acknowledgment of others that we are deserving of our place at the table. For me, the community of Latinx attorneys, judges, professors, and students who I have met these last few years has supported my process of self-awareness, allowing me to be more comfortable with my own resilience, even in spaces that were not traditionally designed with First and Onlys in mind.

Last Friday, I attended the Cruz Reynoso Bar Association’s Annual meeting as one of only three law students. The association aims to create a community among licensed attorneys and students committed to the values of the late Justice Cruz Reynoso, California’s Supreme Court’s first Chicano Justice. I saw firsthand the pride in the eyes of total strangers when I described the background that made my achievements possible. These individuals, some of whom had shared similar life experiences, collectively acknowledged me as worthy of my title of a law student. 

Having local lawyers, judges, and King Hall professors offer to be a resource if I ever needed it, truly recentered me, canceling my insecurities. Their willingness to mentor and share their insights, or even just listen, was reassuring. It reminded me that I belong in this profession by affirming my capabilities. Knowing that experienced members of the legal community were invested in my success has motivated me to approach challenges with renewed confidence and determination.

Through sharing my experience, I assert the necessity of growing and strengthening our First and Onlys community. Expanding representation for underrepresented groups of First and Onlys, can only actively reinforce our collective strength. I call on all First and Onlys who occupy spaces in the professional and the academic world not to forget that as new generations enter our spaces, we are responsible for welcoming them with open arms and teaching them to do the same.

The restrictions of language

My partner’s middle name is “JM”—but there is far more meaning in those two letters than anticipated.

“JM” stands for “jung-ming.” A Chinese name. My partner’s family uses generational names, meaning the names of children born in the same generation share a Chinese character. In my partner’s case, he and his brother share “jung.”

My partner was born close to the new millennium, on December 29, 1999. His parents wanted to signify the coming of the 2000s, and so, the meaning of his middle name was intended to be “bell ringing in the new millennium.” Due to influences that can only be guessed at, the true meaning of his middle name is—“dinner bell.” Meanwhile, his brother’s middle name means “unicorn.”

One theory for the middle name mix-up is that my partner’s mom, a second generation Chinese American, lost command of Mandarin as she became more assimilated. If this were true it would echo nay’s experience voiced in the blog post “Do you even know how smart I am in another language.”

Behind the letters “JM” that appear on my partner’s passport, there is a story, a misconception, and a connection to Chinese culture and his brother. There is a similar story behind the passed down initials of ACM.

I believe these stories demonstrate some of the gaps in experience language cannot cover. Labels alone are not reliable conduits in conveying an entire story.

I feel this tension in my own life, because my life experiences do not cleanly fit within many typically labeled traits. I grew up low income, but I am comfortable now. I fall within the LGBTQ community, but I realized quite late and have been dating a man for years. I am a first-generation law student, but I do not claim “first-generation” because my parents made it through my hometown CSU. In my mom’s case, after three tries—and in my dad’s, after breaking away from intermittent homelessness and parents with drug addiction.

I believe this feeling of tension deriving from the simplicity of labels and the complexity of lived experience is common.

One instance of this tension can be seen in an anecdote from the New Yorker article by Leslie Jamison. The article speaks mostly about whether the term “imposter syndrome” is flawed and whether it draws attention away from pressing societal issues regarding equity in academic and work spaces. However, it includes a story about Stephanie Land, the author of the “Maid:” a memoir recounting Land’s experiences as a maid, a job undertaken to support her unexpected pregnancy. The anecdote described a moment in which a stranger thanked Land for her writing. At the time of the conversation, Land was flying first class with her teenage daughter to see a Lizzo concert. Land described that she felt “she’d been caught somewhere she didn’t belong—as if flying first class made her current self a fraud, or else her past self a fraud…” because of the tension between the struggles she faced and voiced in Maid and the circumstances of the conversation.

My partner and other multiracial friends have similarly voiced that on any given day they may feel that they do not belong to any part of their identity.

What is to be done about the inadequacy of language in capturing someone’s essence within one or two words?

Personally, I try not to identify myself using the labels you might find on an employment form. Instead, I speak to who I am by being open about my experiences and the events and people who have shaped me.

AKJ wrote about the village it takes to raise and send a child to law school. I believe every person seeks and wants community, but sometimes it may not be clear where you will find the people critical to your “village.” Due to insecurity related to claiming parts of my identity that may lend itself more to built-in community, I never know where I may find kinship or support. So, I open myself to the world and leave it in the hands of individuals to decide whether the cloth from which we are cut bears any resemblance.

I know for others labels can be empowering, and I almost envy those who confidently wield them. From these individuals, though, I would ask for open-mindedness. It may surprise you who you end up having a lot in common with.

Life is too short not to do scary things

 "Do something that scares you every day." This advice has stuck with me since the day I heard it from City Council Member, Quirina Orozco, when she spoke at a Filipinx Law Student Association event. Orozco's story touched my heart and the hearts of everyone in the room. She narrated her time growing up in Sacramento with her single, teenage mother. Orozco explained how she had a tumultuous high school experience and did not have any plans of attending college until her high school counselor encouraged her to try applying to Berkeley. 

Despite being a first gen student and not knowing how to apply to college, Orozco went on to attend UC Berkeley as an undergrad AND get a master's degree in public policy from Harvard University. She mentioned starting her career in Washington DC before returning to California where she obtained her JD from UC Berkeley. She has since worked as a prosecutor in Sacramento County. Within this time frame, Orozco stepped up to serve as a West Sacramento city council member where she enjoys giving back to her community. 

During her conversation with us, she mentioned how her life took a turn while serving as Councilwoman. She recalled going to the doctor for a routine check-up which resulted in unexpectedly being diagnosed with stage 4 renal cell carcinoma... kidney cancer. With stage 4 kidney cancer, treatment is not as focused on stopping the disease as it is on making the most of the time the person has left. Instead of letting the diagnosis consume her, she decided to "roll up her sleeves" and get to work ensuring that not only she was happy with the rest of her life, but that her family was set up for success once she was gone. 

Orozco's recounting of her views on life post-diagnosis inspired me in ways I had not expected. She told us that, had she not done things that scared her, she never would have received any of her degrees, worked for the White House, or created the life she now lives. 

As first-gen college graduates or law students, we've all done something that scared us -- probably multiple "somethings" that scared us. We took the time to study and take the LSAT. Some of us applied to law schools in states we may previously not have visited, and some of us ultimately moved to one of those law schools. At that time, we had no idea what to expect from this experience. We knew we would be stressed; we knew it would be hard; and we knew that it would open the door to about a million more scary things. Despite the fear, our grit got us through those scary feelings.  

Looking back, I have no idea how I had the confidence in myself to do these wildly scary things knowing they would be unlike anything anyone in my family had done before. But much like Orozco, I would not be on this crazy law school journey had I not done scary things. 

I've taken the advice to heart to do something scary every day because Orozco made me realize that, when I look back on my life, I don't want to think of what could have been and have regrets. This mantra has led to me confess crushes for my classmates (rejected both times), apply to nearly 100 Biglaw summer associate positions (rejected by every one), and being elected Managing Editor of the UC Davis Law Review (yay for successes!). I never would have done any of these things had I not been willing to embrace and try things that scare me.

Even though doing the scary things has led to rejection many times, I am confident that in the future I will be proud of myself for at least trying. After all, you never know where the scary things can take you. I hope that everyone who reads this is also proud of his/her/themself for having done the scary things that led you where you are today. 

I hope that you, too, start to do something every day that scares you.

"And thank goodness he isn't Mexican"

"You'll own nothing. And you'll be happy," is a prediction of the near future made by the World Economic Forum in 2018. This is a phrase that has come to mind more frequently as the world becomes increasingly dominated by subscription services, disposable plastics, and rentals. 

Desperate not to be lifetime renters, my fiancé and I recently purchased a condominium in the Greater Sacramento Area and have since been investing all our free time to the renovation and move-in process. Last weekend, this process involved the construction of a bookshelf and its installation into our living room accent wall (see photos below). To make our home improvement dream a reality, we enlisted the aid of my contractor "friend" (who I'll refer to herein under the pseudonym "Mateo" due to his documentation status).

Mateo is a paradox and an enigma, a middle-aged Mexican man with a hardboiled past and an impish sense of humor. Mateo was born in or around the city of Jalisco, Mexico, but with the way he describes it, you'd think he was born into the wild western frontier of the 1890s. In his early years, Mateo courted death numerous times working on neighborhood ranches. He's been kicked by a horse, hung on chicken wire, and has received more than his fair share of cuts and lacerations. I'm convinced his coarse hands are made up of scar tissue more than anything else. Regardless of the threats to his health, Mateo has always been happy to work and earn his living.

Mateo's time in Mexico was eventually cut short when he was forced to leave his pueblo around the age of 17. Alone, and with little money or supplies, Mateo crossed the Mexican-American frontier and survived by taking on odd jobs until he was finally taken in by a contracting company willing to exploit him for him full-time. A few years later, a now 19-year-old Mateo met his now wife while obtaining his GED. They became parents at a young age, an unseen inheritance. One fatherly punch to the jaw, a wedding, and a few years later, Mateo would find himself a respected member of his new family and a successful entrepreneur.

Mateo is an industrious man who values family, hard-work, and durability above all else. He has a very odd form of intelligence that allows him to organize labor, sell his skillset, solve problems and carry out complex renovations while believing with all sincerity and among other things that the world could be flat and that the act of flossing produces cavities. However, there is one odd trait about him I've yet to understand. While he carries great pride in his ancestry, being "hecho en Mexico," he also seems to carry an odd animus against Mexicans.

Recently, his daughter had an intimate courthouse wedding prompted by her now husband's obligation to the military (below, please enjoy a photo of the historic San Francisco courthouse for reference). Later that day, they held a beautiful reception restricted to 50 of their closest loved ones. One by one, her family and friends offered their blessings and shared memories about the bride and groom. When Mateo's turn came, he shared some of the joys and regrets he had accumulated along his life which ultimately played a small part in their union. Notably, he stated that while he was overjoyed by his daughter and her husband, he regretted bringing down his wife's potential in life. He concluded along these lines:

'I am so grateful that [my daughter] did things the right way. They are getting married today not out of responsibility but out of love. And to a great guy. Not like me. And thank goodness he isn't Mexican."

As he delivered that last line, his eyes (along with many others) fell in the direction of his niece's table, at which she sat beside her boyfriend, a relatively tall Mexican man with tanned skin and a wiry frame. After an awkward pause, the microphone and the attention eventually moved on.

Coming back to last weekend, as we drove back to my condo from El Pollo Loco to continue renovating, the topic of immigration and the Trump Administration came up in conversation. Being undocumented himself and a gracious employer to those in positions of need, I assumed he would feel a significant degree of empathy for those targeted by President Trump's authoritarian immigration policies (see, e.g., compulsory immigrant registry, removing sensitive area restrictions on ICE arrests, and contemplating the adoption of a pay-to-win back door for the wealthy into America). Instead, he told me that deportation is simply another consequence of choice.

"If you break the law, you go to jail. If you come in illegally, you get kicked out. You get what you deserve. Why I feel bad because you get what you deserve?"

I was shocked and disappointed, but I had no retort. How can one argue against such a simple, if not heartless, proposition? Even being at risk himself and knowing the collateral harms at stake with each removal, he was able to take the humanity out of the law. 

Mateo's confusing combination of Mexican pride and animosity is unfortunately not an isolated phenomenon. Hispanics and Latinx peoples across the country are shifting towards MAGA ideologies, as evidenced by our most recent national election; and for the life of me, I can't understand why. Mateo's case is especially troubling because, unlike those who voted for Trump this last November and wish to "close the door behind them" as they pursue their American dreams, Mateo "came in through the window."

If this self-destructive trend continues, those like Mateo may just receive the consequences they were willing to have others suffer. If that should come to pass, although he owns nothing, I doubt he'd be happy.

The value of the American Dream

It's date night, and of course, we get into one of the most heated topics a couple in the 21st century can endure. 

"What do you want to watch?" 

"I don't know, you pick."

Our back-and-forth between streaming services took longer than the actual movie. My wife decided to show me movies she grew up watching. She would ask me, "Have you seen this one?" Every time I answered in the negative, she would write it down on a list. Today, that list comprises her childhood movies like Step Up, Mean Girls, and Legally Blonde. 

Yes readers, a law student who has never seen Legally Blond color me shocked. 

In turn, I suggested some of my childhood movies, such as the Indiana Jones trilogy or The Beatles, Yellow Submarine. 

"Huh? Those old movies?" 

"Ahem, excuse you, ma'am, those old movies are classics. "

My wife grew up in a home with a huge DVD collection. I grew up with the VHS copies we found at yard sales, the Salvation Army, or the county library. 

This isn't to say her family didn't encounter their own struggles. Instead, they were at a different rung of the American Dream than my family. When I visited her childhood home, I felt small. Two stories, a garage not filled with junk, and most shocking, internal A/C! This is coming from a guy whose A/C system consisted of negotiating with my siblings to set a schedule to not trip our circuit breaker. 

At first, I was intimidated. I felt every time she came over she was in the poor house. But after beginning to take care of my mental health, I realized that her lifestyle wasn't a divider but a goal. 

The Washington Post article by Tara Parker-Pope discusses the comparisons of a "fixed vs. growth mindset." I was definitely in a fixed mindset going into undergrad. The dream of becoming a lawyer felt like a dim, flickering light at the end of a dark tunnel. When I overheard conversations about students using resources I had no idea about, it felt like that flickering light started to fade out. 

I hated how lost I felt. I was angry running the race miles behind the starting line. My fixed mindset had set my destination toward going nowhere. 

On top of my struggle to succeed in school, there was also the struggle to succeed in life. A study by the College Student Affairs Journal highlights the discrepancy first-generation students have with financial literacy. Speaking from personal experience, yeah that sounds about right. I was working while going to school at Target of all places. It's a cycle, you get your paycheck working in the electronics department and you think, "why not, I couldn't afford this as a kid." 

Next thing you know you're scrounging for hours to make ends meet but hey at least you have some AirPods to block out your guilt. 

Joshua Tree, CA

Feeling all the pressure to do good in school and learn how to budget weighed heavily on me. I found myself irritable and irresponsible. Until I started dating my wife. This New York Times article best explains the phenomenon that is "cross-class friendships." In essence, having kids from lower-income backgrounds mingle with kids from higher-income backgrounds benefits the financial prospects of low-income kids.

Being with my wife, I learned how to appreciate the value of things. How not to buy things on impulse and most importantly how to budget. She taught me how to budget and take care of the nicer things I could afford.

Throughout this post, I've included some pictures of my pair of Adidas Samba shoes I bought in 2018. These shoes were the first nice thing I bought for myself, since upgrading from Converse. Each picture is from the little road trips we went on because I learned how to save and budget. I still wear these shoes to this day and I would've never gone to these amazing places had it not been for my wife. 

Rosarito, Mexico

I am proof that "cross-class friendships" can improve the lives of others. I want others to learn that first-gen students can let down our ever-present guard to admit we need help and learn. I would have never learned the value of money had it not been for the lessons I learned from others. These pictures define who I am and what is possible "With a Little Help From My Friends." Sorry, but I had to make an obligatory Beatles reference, they were my childhood. 

I've come to learn financial literacy is the knowledge gained from family members who climbed the ladder of the American Dream. From those who painted their white picket fence for their kids. To other first-gen students out there who feel shame in not being financially literate, don't be hard on yourself. The deck has always been stacked against us since we got into the game. But remember, as first gens we have always been resourceful, and willing to learn! 

Monterey Bay, CA

While writing this blog, I found this YouTube video from TIME about how some notable people spent their first paycheck.

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.

What is normal?

Two years ago, Pulitzer Prize-winning artist Kendrick Lamar released the album Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers.

Two years ago, the lyrics "I hope you find some peace of mind in this lifetime," echoed into my soul. 

Two years ago, I realized the bass blasting from the stereo was actually my heart pounding through my chest,  recognizing the lyrics hit close to home. 

The album was Lamar's letter to himself, filled with themes of seeking help and addressing his generational trauma. But that Friday morning, it felt like Lamar sat in the passenger seat and spoke to me about my life, telling me to look inside and reflect on who I was. 

Because I was the first in my family to attend college, I always felt the pressure on my shoulders to be the best. In her book First Gen: A Memoir,  Alejandra Campoverdi uses the term "First and Onlys" to describe first-generation students breaking the mold and pursuing higher education. Similarly, I considered myself a trailblazer and believed only my academic success would inspire my younger siblings to seek higher education. 

Every class, every exam, felt like balancing on a tightrope supported by a tower of loose books. Teetering constantly, I would look over and see the fall would be a long one. As the oldest sibling and first-generation American from Mexican parents, I felt myself the product of my family's hardships every time I walked onto the UC Irvine campus. "You're the first in your family to be here, you need to do better," was a belief I constantly considered normal. 

What I didn't realize was my life was filled with Adverse Childhood Experiences. 

The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) explains that Adverse Childhood Experiences, or "ACEs," are traumatic events encountered during childhood. The CDC provides a non-exhaustive list of factors and experiences considered ACEs. More shockingly, ACEs not only affect how kids think or see the world but also impact their physical health. An article from Global Pediatric Health explains that the more ACEs a kid experiences, the more likely they are to experience risks to their physical health as adults.

Many ACEs are attributed to living in low-income neighborhoods ,and as we've learned, first-generation students are most often from these neighborhoods. 

So, after listening to Kendrick Lamar's life and realizing we shared similar traumas, I began to realize what I considered "normal" was far from it. For one, my mom worked two jobs and had to balance dealing with a troublemaker, yours truly. She told me stories of how I was moved to three different preschools because I was always getting into trouble. Well come to find out years later, I had ADHD that went undiagnosed until I was 23. I never confronted her about it. Instead, I hinted at her stories. 

Then, the bombshell:

"Oh yeah, I had taken you to see a doctor, but they were going to give you pills and you would have been different. I didn't want to lose you." I didn't react, I just nodded and told myself it was a selfish move.

Grinding my teeth until I felt a headache, I was angry. She had taken away my chance to live a "normal life," where I could sit still, follow along in class, and not blame myself for being "stupid." Every exam I  struggled with was not from a lack of knowledge about the concepts, but instead stemmed from my inability to sit down and just take a test. The fuse had been lit the moment I  attended preschool, ticking every time I failed a subject or struggled to understand topics in class. What I didn't know was that the fuse would have to burn out.

You see, believing these ideas of having to be "good enough" and "you've come so far, you need to be better" left its mark. Every time I made the tiniest mistake, I would apologize to the fullest. I could never make a mistake because it meant I wasn't perfect and anything less than that meant I'd never become successful. Years of living this way left me with anxiety. My mental well-being was burned out.

Therapy was never an option because it meant, "I was crazy" and I never wanted to believe that something was in fact wrong with me. But, inspired by Kendrick Lamar, I did it anyway because I knew it was time to change. It was there I learned about ACEs, about how my mom had lived through her own traumas, and that I was her first opportunity to live a "normal life". I learned about my family history, and how we dealt with alcoholism, anxiety, and other trauma but no one did anything about it. Not because they didn't want to but, because they didn't know how. We just lived that way and assumed everything was normal.

To quote Campoverdi, "We heal generational trauma when we choose to evolve versus repeat . . . changing the future for our own bloodlines." I don't resent my mom for her decisions, knowing that normal isn't always in the cards for first-gen students or their parents. 

I hope that my post can allow others to look into themselves too and realize that maybe the loose tower we struggle to balance on as first-gen students can be replaced by a sturdier foundation by taking care of your mental health and yourself. 

Defeating imposter syndrome with female empowerment

No matter what your identity is, every person has at some point felt the overwhelming sense that they don't belong. Whether that be at a social event, the classroom, a professional setting, or even in their own home, imposter syndrome affects us all. 

But what is imposter syndrome? Imposter syndrome is the psychological experience of feeling like a phony, like you do not deserve to be where you are because you are not qualified. Despite this, those that struggle with imposter syndrome...

do not look ill at ease or uncomfortable. They appear very self confident but really it's just a mask they wear. And they are absolutely sincere in being unable to accept praise. It has nothing to do with false modesty. They are perfectionists who need to perform flawlessly and equate making a mistake with shame and humiliation. They often feel very guilty about the credit they receive for their achievements. 

This quote is from In Her Own Words (October 1985). 

Specifically in graduate students, imposter syndrome has shown to be extremely debilitating. 

In 2020, the Division of Cancer Epidemiology & Genetics conducted a systematic review of 62 studies which evaluated the prevalence of imposter syndrome. Showing prevalence rates as high as 56% to 82% in graduate students, college students, nurses, medical students, and other professions. Symptoms can include distress, anxiety, depression, burnout, exhaustion, avoidance of high-level tasks, rigid thinking, and dismissal of positive feedback.

National Cancer Institute, Division of Cancer Epidemiology & Genetics (2023).

I know for myself imposter syndrome is something I struggle with daily. It is one of the main reasons I am so eager to graduate law school––to get out of this setting that triggers feelings of inadequacy.

Constant exposure to environments where I am made to feel like I am not good enough has become exhausting for me. The mental gymnastics I go through to prove to myself that I am good enough is a routine that I am hoping comes to an end when I finally have a law degree. 

However pervasive imposter syndrome may be in the law school setting, I am even more concerned about it in the work force. This past semester I have been fortunate enough to have the opportunity to extern at a public defender's office in the felony intake department. Unfortunately, I have found this experience to be one that has had a detrimental effect on my self-confidence. The reason? Working exclusively with male attorneys.

 

After this semester, I feel as though I have a gaping hole in my self-worth that I will have to fill before I begin my post bar position. What troubles me more is that other female interns (who are also women of color) have had the same experience in this office, which is a stark contrast to the male interns that seem to be content with their intern experience. 

Everyday after work I would have to remind myself that I have spent well over half of my law school career in public defender offices. I know the ins and outs of how a PD office works and I know I have the capability to learn how to do my job right and go above and beyond if given the opportunity.

The main takeaway from this intern experience for me has been that as an attorney, I will make it my mission to pay it forward and empower female interns around me. Without the mentorship of female attorneys, I would not be zealously pursuing public defense work like I am today. Female mentors have taught me how to write, research, and speak in court. I owe them everything. 

I suppose it was unlucky that I got to know what NOT to do as an attorney working with interns, on such a personal level.

My opinion is not an unpopular one. Mentorship has been shown to be a valuable development resource for women. Dr. Candace Steele Flippin, a scholar and researcher who focuses on women in the workforce, conducted a study in 2017 titled Gen X Women and Career Advancement. This study found that women who lack mentorship experiences have careers associated with unfavorable outcomes such as restricted careers and diminished job performance. 

Comparatively women who did have mentorship experiences reported to have skills in career planning, leadership, and self efficacy. Fifty-three percent of females in the study reported that their most helpful mentor was female.

As evidenced by the study, women need women to look up to and support each other. In a male dominated career field, I know for a fact that without the female attorneys that guided me, I would not have faith in my own ability to be a successful public defender. I am able to have some sense of self assurance because of those who came before me––those who have shown me that I can do it, too.