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.

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

Success is never permanent, and failure is never final.

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

But now, I hear it differently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still, we climb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But maybe that was never the point.

Maybe it’s not about the destination.

Maybe it’s about the crossing.

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

Law school taught me the law, but my firsts taught me about me

Law school changes you in ways you expect, through intense coursework, long readings, and the pressure to perform. But perhaps more importantly, it also surprises you in quiet, unexpected ways. 

For me, the most meaningful parts of my law school journey came from deeply personal firsts. As I prepare to graduate, I want to take a moment to reflect on these experiences. 

My “First” Haircut

My parents are Sikhs from Punjab, India. 

Sikhi emerged in a region shaped by spiritual diversity and conflict, grounded in values like equality and resistance to oppression. From Mughal and British colonial regimes to the Indian government’s involvement in Operation Blue Star and the 1984 anti-Sikh Riots, those in power have repeatedly attempted to erase Sikhi because its very commitment to sovereignty, social justice, and egalitarianism threatens their authoritarian control.

My parents lived through the 1984 anti-Sikh Riots in India and carried that trauma with them when they immigrated to America. They were determined to protect the faith our family and ancestors fought so hard to preserve. That commitment shaped how they raised my siblings and me.

My siblings and I were born Sikh and raised with its core values. When I was in elementary school, my parents took amrit, a sacred initiation that requires stricter adherence to Sikh practices. That included keeping their hair uncut and following a disciplined spiritual path.

From that point on, my siblings and I began observing those practices, too. We did it out of love and respect for our parents, and because we lived in the same household. But as we grew older and started forming our own identities, some of those practices began to conflict with how we wanted to live.

For me, that internal conflict became harder to ignore during law school. I often felt out of control in class, in life, and within myself. My hair became a daily reminder that I could not even choose how I looked, because I was afraid of upsetting my parents.

The last time I had my hair cut was as a child, before my parents took amrit. After a lot of reflection, I finally gathered the courage to get a haircut as an adult. As a first-generation law student, I had spent years learning how to advocate for others while slowly learning how to advocate for myself, but this was the first time I was bold enough to act on what I needed.

It was not an act of rebellion, nor was it a rejection of my faith. It was an act of self-determination. I was not rejecting my faith but trying to live it in a way that honored both my values and my individuality.

It was the first time I truly felt like an adult making a decision for myself. 

My First Swim Lessons and Camping Trip

Growing up low-income, swimming and camping were luxuries we could not afford. Even when there were affordable options to participate in these activities, my immigrant parents often hesitated. These experiences were unfamiliar to them, and they believed money could be better spent elsewhere.

After my haircut, I felt emboldened to start living life more fully and on my own terms. I had more financial stability and more freedom, and I wanted to take advantage of the opportunities I never had access to growing up. For the first time, I felt ready to explore parts of life that had always felt just out of reach. 

During 2L, I signed up for the swimming lessons offered through the undergraduate recreation program. I am no Olympic swimmer, but I can now float and move through the water with confidence. That alone felt like a victory.

Then, during 3L, I enrolled in the California Environmental Cases and Places course. All summer, I debated whether to drop it. I was nervous that I would not be cut out for camping, especially since I was not in the best shape.

But something in me did not want to back out. Fear was no longer a good enough reason to turn away from something new.

I decided to stay in the course. I spent four days camping and learning about California’s environmental issues directly from the people and places most impacted. It was exhausting, humbling, and grounding in a way I had never experienced before.

I came back with sore legs and a full heart.

My First Estate Planning Job Offer

Even after my haircut, even after learning to swim and sleeping under the stars for the first time, life did not follow a perfect upward arc. Growth came in waves, not straight lines. Some of my most meaningful firsts revealed themselves only after disappointment settled in. 

In my first blog post, I wrote about wanting to break into estate planning and how that path did not come easily. I met with a career services advisor, hoping for guidance, but walked away feeling discouraged and disheartened. 

I wish I could say that moment lit a fire in me to prove everyone wrong. Instead, the truth is that I went home and cried. 

I felt stuck and hopeless. I was convinced I would have to return to my 2L summer job and move back home. I was not looking forward to going back to that environment. For a while, I did nothing except try to cope with my reality.

Then, without any sign or warning, the stars aligned once more. 

In class, my Trusts, Wills, and Estates professor shared that a firm had reached out looking for students with an interest in estate planning.

I took a chance and reached out in January. I was not even sure it would lead to a real interview. But that email turned into a first-round interview in February, followed by a second-round interview in April, and finally, a job offer the very next day. 

Rejection can hurt. But hope has a quiet way of returning when you least expect it.

Carrying These Firsts Forward

These firsts reminded me that growth is rarely loud or immediate. Sometimes it begins quietly, in the background of doubt or fear. Sometimes it looks like trying something unfamiliar, or making a decision that feels like your own for the first time.

To anyone still in law school, or considering the journey, I hope you create space to explore your own firsts. Whether your dream is to become a lawyer or to take a different path entirely, go for it and have fun along the way. Try everything and anything life offers.

Allow yourself to have your firsts. In fact, go have a first every day. Better yet, be the first.

Writing to past me and future me

Partially inspired by Michaela, I decided to write a letter to 1L me, but also include some advice for 3L me.


Dear 1L me,

Welcome to your new journey. You have worked so hard to be where you are today. The road ahead may be scary, but it's yours.
I know when you received your acceptance letter from UC Davis, you didn’t think it would be where you ended up. But after putting down your seat deposit and seeing that your student ID number was the same 9-digit confirmation code you had received when you applied to undergrad at UC Davis, it felt like fate.
You were scared when you packed up your childhood bedroom to move to Davis for law school. Scared doesn’t even cover it – you were downright panicked, but you made it. From day one, you convinced yourself that you didn’t belong. You watched your professors and classmates use words and talk about things you didn’t even know existed.
But you adapted.

Adaptation has always been your strong suit. In law school, you took your first proctored exam (besides the LSAT), took part in your first law school competition, you interviewed for your first legal job, and you networked! Networking. Even today, the thought of having to go to a networking event keeps you up at night, but you did it. You went to your first networking event, the Capital Reception, and came home with at least two business cards. You accomplished so much, even when you were scared. 

Lastly, because I know you didn’t say it enough to yourself throughout 1L, I want to tell you I am so proud of you. You wanted to run away so many times, especially when they handed you were handed a schedule that left little room for non-school work during the week, but you didn’t. For that, I’m proud of you. 

 

Image Description: Photo of Sample Weekly Calendar given to incoming 1Ls during orientation. 


Dear 3L me,

Right now, I am feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. I am so ready to be done with law school. I love my friends and my life, but I can’t wait to actually figure out if all this was worth it.
As I write this letter to you and think about graduating, I can’t help but remember what one of the panelists said during First Gen Advocates Student Board culture week. He said “I loved law school; I actually miss it.” Those words seem unreal to me right now, but putting myself in your shoes, I can understand why he might miss law school. It was difficult, but you got to learn so much and make lifelong friends. I hope you look back and feel pride in your journey. 

Also, I hope you will come back to this post when you’re about to graduate from law school. I hope reading this and your other blog posts makes you feel ready to tackle the journey of being a lawyer. As Alejandra Campoverdi said in First Gen: A Memoir, you’ll be joining an “elite group” once you’re done with law school. You’ll be stepping into a whole new world, one that is even shinier than the one you entered when graduated from college.
Are you ready? I know that’s a loaded question and you probably don’t want to answer it, but I want to tell you that I know you can do it. You conquered college and then law school; you can conquer being a lawyer. Look to the people who helped you through law school; these are the same ones who will stand by your side as your navigate your journey to becoming a lawyer. 
I know it’s daunting to close this chapter of your life, but I wish you nothing but the best on your new adventure!

I'm so lucky, everything works out for me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who shapes you?

Author's note: When I first began writing this story, I had no idea that my paternal grandmother's recollection of her childhood and life were available online. I incidentally discovered a small piece of her own memoir upon asking my aunts for any writings from her masters degree that may be available online. My grandmother passed of lymphatic cancer when my father was thirteen, so any memory I have of her is built off fragments of my family's memories and old black-and-white photographs. 

Now, as someone writing her own memoir (of sorts) in this blog, amongst others, I realize how poignant telling a story in one's own voice is. Her initials, the same as mine ("A.M.," separated only by my middle initial) recounting moments in time that led to her journey to America, my father's birth, and so many things that shaped the people who shaped me. It gave me a glimpse into why my father often says we "are so alike." 

This blog post is dedicated to my grandmothers; for all the ways they have taught me, all the ways they have shaped my life, knowingly or not. I encourage everyone to write their stories; not necessarily to recount the same story from a different perspective, but to make permanent your voice. Thank you for reading my story, for listening to my voice. I hope from it you can find some solace in our similarities, or learn something as I did reading the same story I'd heard from a different perspective. 

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"Out with the old and in with the new"

“Its out with the old and in with the new,
Goodbye clouds of gray, hello skies of blue”

These lyrics might sound similar to you. They are from Sharpay Evans song “Fabulous” in High School Musical 2. Arguably one of the most impactful movie series for a little girl growing up in California in the 2000s.

As a little girl who had just moved to the US with her family in 2004 I had no idea what “American culture” entailed. Being raised by parents who spoke no English, my sisters and I used movies we rented from the local library to understand what we thought our lives “should” look like. 

12 years later I went off to college at a big beach town school, where I thought I would finally experience what Sharpay was talking about in her song. However, this is where I first faced the reality of class and elitism and the "step ahead" it can provide you. Of course growing up I was aware of class distinctions, but I grew up in a predominantly brown community with most of my peers belonging to the lower middle class like me. That was not the case at my undergrad. I was constantly thrown off by what I believed to be “normal” versus what my peers found “normal” in terms of lifestyles.

The difference between my peers who were upper class and I didn’t just stop at the lifestyles. There would be times in the classroom it felt as if my professors and classmates were speaking a secret language that I hadn’t learned yet. Not just my peers but my professors came from elite backgrounds. This secret language between my professors and peers was indicative of the “hidden curriculum” that many first gen students are unaware of.

While I was feeling constant imposter syndrome in an elite environment I wasn’t sure I belonged in, I was reminded of one of the main reasons I wanted to pursue higher education. A better financial life for my family and I. Going to college is the best thing to do if you want to move up the financial ladder. This is what I had been told by teachers since middle school. I believed that I only had to work a little harder, struggle a little more, and I would be able to join my peers in this elite world.

However, as Alejandra Campoverdi discusses in First Gen: A Memoir, climbing the social and financial ladder alone can be isolating. Campoverdi describes someone who is first generation or the only person in their family, community, or social demographic to cross a threshold as a “First and Only.” First and Onlys can end up facing dual rejection as they cross these unfamiliar thresholds. Rejection from our friends and family with a “You’ve changed” quip and rejection from our new environment because we feel like outsiders.

Reading Campoverdi’s experience as a First and Only felt far too much like my own. While I was climbing this economic ladder and going from undergrad to law school, I became aware of the feeling of being First and Only in both my old life and new. As a First and Only I'm not just uncommon in law school where I'm not being passed down this career like many of my peers, but am also uncommon in my community and family as the only person who is crossing this elite higher education threshold. As I move further along in my educational and professional journey, I notice how “far away” I am feeling from my family and old friends. This is a common experience for first gen students as they accumulate degrees.

As I was debating what to write for this blog post, I was listening to “Fabulous” in the car. The lyrics “Out with the old and in with the new” made me think how much I am losing in order to obtain the new. I want to have new experiences, live different lifestyles, and climb the economic ladder, but I don’t want all of that to come at the expense of my old life. I don’t want social and economic mobility to take an emotional toll on me like it can for many First and Onlys. I think as First and Onlys the only way to avoid this toll is to take stock of what’s important to us and take care of our mental health as we navigate foreign environments and make our marks.

Stick to the status quo

When pursuing your career, should you chase after the far-fetched dream, or simply stick to the status quo? The students at East High in Disney’s High School Musical would wholeheartedly agree to sticking with the status quo. But what does that mean for an Asian American studying law?

In 2021, the number of Asian American lawyers comprised 4.7% of all lawyers nationwide. While this may seem small, Asian Americans were still the largest minority group at major law firms making up approximately 8%. However, Asian Americans have the highest attrition rate, comprising 10.4% of all attorneys who left their firms in 2019. Is this reflective of my own future where I join a firm only to eventually leave?

In 2022, Asian Americans made up 36.4% of all software developers, 34.1% of all computer hardware engineers, and 41.1% of all medical scientists in the nation. I have a mechanical engineering degree and could have been a part of the 14.9% of Asian Americans in that occupational field. Instead, I decided to pursue higher education, not in graduate degree engineering but in law. What prompted this choice was simply that I did not enjoy the work I would have to do if I had to build a career in engineering. But I was not sure what else to do. It only took one person to convince me to try and go to law school.

A majority of Asian American law students were motivated to attend law school in order to develop a satisfying career. In recent years, more and more students started to attend in order to change or improve society. I can see this amongst my peers, the determination to help change underprivileged lives and become a louder voice for those people. However, I'm here because of my parents.

My career path has been molded not by my own goals and ambitions, but those of others, namely my parents. All my parents want for me is to be successful, but their definition of success is not by a measurement of happiness but of economic class. The idea is to make enough money now in order to retire and have fun later, whenever that "later" may be. To them, being a lawyer means that I will be able to make enough money to not have any financial worries, but it feels as though I am a hollow shell, being filled by their own aspirations.

My parents tell me stories of when they first immigrated to the United States. They saved money from working office jobs in South Korea, then made the move once they decided they had enough. My parents first came to Los Angeles, California, and proceeded to use all their savings within 6 months. Only then did their struggle begin.

I know my parents want the best for me. To not have to go through what they did, scrambling to make money so they can pay rent and feed themselves. However, my own dreams were sacrificed in the process. I was unable to attend art school, I was unable to focus on baking, I was unable to pursue what made me happy. 

My dream is to open my own bakery, and I am determined to achieve this dream. But for now, I'll be sticking to the status quo.

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.

Generational wealth

I spent my senior year of high school annoyed with my abuelita’s inability to throw out rotting food. Similarly, she had a hard time throwing out clothes and shoes even when they were well beyond repair. I also noticed she kept bags in her room of items that could only be considered trash.

However, my greatest annoyance, was that after every meal, she would take the leftover tortillas and stuff them in the left side cabinet of the fridge. I’d often open the fridge only to be met by an avalanche of hard and inedible tortillas flying at me. When I tried to throw them out, my abuelita would insist that they were still good. To dissuade her hoarding, I’d point to the bags of fresh tortillas in the fridge. She remained adamant that we needed to save the leftovers.

My abuelita is a formidable woman. She moved permanently to the United States from Mexico after my grandfather, her partner of forty-three years, passed away. She survived being the child bride of her first husband who kidnapped her and forced her into marriage, much in the tradition of rural Mexican villages. She endured the untimely death of two of her children. She has weathered the storms of her remaining children with an unflinching conviction that all turbulence eventually passes. She is the matriarch of our family, a steading presence who at 80 years old, has known more pain than any one lifetime should allow.

As the only grandparent I have ever known intimately, I love her deeply.

But at seventeen, I certainly did not understand her. She seemed far away, a representative of a different time and nation with allegiances to notions of womanhood that I did not care to replicate.

I eventually voiced my frustrations about her hoarding to my mom. My mom told me that my grandmother was still saving for a rainy day. She explained that in Mexico, when there had been no food for her to feed her children with, my abuelita would add salt to tortillas and they would eat them with hot water.

I realized that day that I have never, and will likely never, know hunger like my abuelita has.

Even my mom cannot recall a time when there weren’t at least tortillas with salt to eat.

I find that much in the words of Lucy Barton from "Oh William!" by Elizabeth Stout when you come “from the very bottom of it [poverty]…it never really leaves you.”

I’ve seen similar behavior in my mom, although not related to food.

Last week I arrived home for Thanksgiving wearing my favorite pair of boots. The boots had recently given out from overuse with the sole detaching from the base. I did not care to stop wearing them.

However, my mom immediately took notice of the boot and told me I could not walk around like that. I assured her it was fine and that I’d get new ones when I had some time.

But she doubled down and insisted I go to the store immediately. I did not.

The next day, I had a zelle deposit from my parents to buy new boots. I was stunned. Why was this so important?

Eventually, at my mom’s continuing insistence, I allowed her to drag me to five different stores looking for boots. When I found a pair I liked, she told me to grab two, one for now and one for when those wear out. While I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful, I laughed. She was not amused.

It was in her desperation that I finally realized I was shopping from leisure while my mom was shopping from survival.

I grew up hearing the stories of how she often did not have shoes and would walk the muddy terrain around her house barefoot. My mom insisted my whole life that I wear sandals in the house. She also has an extensive shoe collection, with each pair kept neatly in their original boxes.

In my family, I actively see the ways the past manifests itself in the present. There is no running from the dark places even after the cease being quite so prevalent.

While I grew up poor by United States' standards, it certainly does not compare to the poverty of my family. And yet, I am prone to excessive spending. When I had an income, I would squander it quickly, uncomfortable with having money in the bank. I did not save. I did not invest. I resist financial literacy because it feels so foreign and selfish to keep anything just for myself.

More pertinently though, I haven’t completely outrun the scarcity of my lineage. Despite having much more than my ancestors, I worry it won’t be enough. My abuelita and my mom’s worries were legitimate. I have never not had enough.

And perhaps that is the curse of upward mobility and what JD Vance meant in "Hillbilly Elegy" when he said, "I want people to understand something I learned only recently: that for those of us lucky enough to live the American Dream, the demons of the life we left behind continue to chase us."

However, I am not running from the difficult truths of generational trauma. I am embracing the dark crevices in hopes of healing. I resist the American Dream rooted entirely on meritocracy. I’m hopeful for an abundant life in the ways that matter: spiritually, communally, and familial. I will remind myself of this wealth, which my generations have always had.

Do I have no chill?

As most people begin to wind their day down at 10 pm, my mind is still racing and I am still wide awake. The uneasiness of anxiety was starting to settle in. I ask myself, "is there something I forgot to do?" I began to go over a checklist in my head to see if there was an assignment or something that I forgot to do. When I cleared that checklist, I went onto the Calendar app on my phone to see what I have scheduled for the next day, it was an effort to see if there was something I missed that could explain why I was in bed so early.

This wasn't the first night I had this kind of anxiety. It reminded me a bit of Elizabeth Spiers' article, A Defense of Jeremy Strong (and All the Strivers with No Chill). There has always been this familial pressure to succeed and make the most out of the opportunity of my parent's sacrifice to immigrate to the United States. So, I grew up with pressure from my parents to succeed. When I was old enough to realize the opportunity I had, I put that pressure on myself. This pressure has continued in my goal of going to law school and even now while I'm in law school. Although I did not know of the name at the time, I was really pushed to partake in "hustle culture." It was constantly drilled into me that hard work pays off and a strong work ethic leads to achievement. 

The article discusses a critique on corporate culture, focusing on the "unsustainably long work hours, cutthroat competitiveness...", which reminded me of my own path to law school. I come from a community where we are taught to strive for at least UCs. So, at a young age, my schedule was packed with extracurriculars. On weekdays, I would head to school around 7 am, and I probably won't be home until about twelve hours later.  I was in summer school every summer until the summer before college. I was in at least one sport at all times. Sometimes I would be in Chinese school or tutoring sessions for some other subject. Part of it was that my parents didn't want me to just be at home and not doing anything. Another part is that I needed to pack my resume with extracurriculars and that my grades needed to be top-tier. Even as I started college and law school, in places where I did not have someone pushing me nor was there a need to be this much of a workhorse, I continued this "striving with no chill". I used to joke with my friends that I was uncomfortable with having free time. One of my friends pointed out that every time we talked, I seemed to have a new thing that I was doing. 

When we started law school during the pandemic, it didn't sit well with me that I didn't have any extracurricular activities. I felt like I needed to keep busy and have a full resume. Although there was a  heavy emphasis on my academics, I still felt the need to pack my schedule with other things. So, I joined student government, a clinic, and a journal. It was a lot. Honestly, it was a bit too much. I really could have done without one of these extracurriculars. 

As I got more involved through the year, I met a lot of other "strivers with no chill." I remember distinctly that there was this 3L, who had a significant paragraph of a list of all the positions he was holding at the time as an email signature. That pushed me to have heavy schedules for my 2L and 3L years. 3L has been a constant juggle between taking time to de-stress and the guilt of taking time away from my studies, work, and responsibilities. 

I'm realizing now that I am about to achieve what I strove for. I am about to leave education for the final time and enter the "real world." I wonder if I can finally stop striving not chill and enjoy what I have worked so hard to build. Because the one thing I learned about the pandemic is that this level of work is not sustainable and that a healthy work-life balance is very important to get through work. Another question that emerged from this blog post is "this all worth striving for?" I've been feeling so drained. I barely have the energy to do my readings, and I haven't really been outlining my classes. Has keeping myself so busy these past years, really been worth it?

"Should I just get a real lawyer?" and the un-prestigious life of a public defender

In You've Heard of Berkeley. Is Merced the Future of the University of California, Jennifer Medina discusses UC Merced's emergence as a home for Latino students, which is a contrast from the other University of California campuses. The article depicts a welcoming campus where brown students look around and see people who look like them, hear the music they listen to with their families, and even enjoy school-provided snacks that are special to their cultures. Even with all of these upsides, is the underlying message that stuck out to me was that UC Merced is not a prestigious institution. Medina states that UC Merced does not hold a similar nationwide reputation of academic excellence like other UC schools, it has a much higher acceptance rate, and it does not have a "star faculty" like other UC campuses.  

This article hit home for me in a lot of ways--one of which literal because I am a Merced native. Beyond this, it made me confront my own ideas about prestige and how they have changed overtime. The dictionary definition of prestige is, "widespread respect and admiration felt for someone or something on the basis of a perception of their achievements or quality." Growing up, I don't think I was obsessed with prestige but my decision to attend UCLA was undoubtedly influenced by its prestige.

Fast forward to today: I have thankfully moved on from chasing prestige. Ironically, I am faced with the reality that I have chosen what is probably the least prestigious job in the legal profession: public defense. As I write this I can't help but laugh at the hilarious experience of a public defender. As a disclaimer, I hope no one who reads this feels bad for us because every PD I know laughs at it all, too.

A public defender is respected by virtually no one. As a law student, when you tell your classmates you are doing public defense work, their responses range from backhanded compliments about not having to worry about grades to weird projections about unlivable salaries and massive student loans (They say this even though we live in California and public defender salaries start at over six figures; plus, we are eligible for public service loan forgiveness after ten years).

In media, public defenders are absolutely brutalized. The image of the coffee-stained, disheveled public defender rushing into court with an ill-fitting suit and seventy-three files belonging to people whose names he can't even keep straight is common. Rapper Plies has a song titled 100 Years, where he very passionately critiques the racist criminal justice system. Within his critiques he states, "A public defender don't get you shit but a long trip," and "You ain't got a paid lawyer, then don't go to trial." The Night Of is an incredible show about a Pakistani college student from New York, Naz Khan, who is on trial for a brutal sexual assault and murder. When his lawyer, John Stone, is negotiating a fee agreement with Naz's parents, he warns them of the dangers of trusting a public defender by describing:

A legal-aid lawyer. And here's what you get for your money. It's a guy who starts his day in court, fishing a half a dozen random case files out of a wire basket, meets with his clients for a half hour before going in front of the judge, takes the first deal offered, goes around the corner to Starbucks, comes back with his latte, opens up the next file, and does the exact same things six times a day, every day.

These are just two of the hundreds of digs at public defenders in music and tv shows. I nevertheless truly love both this song and this show. They are masterpieces in their own ways and incredibly brave and honest looks at very serious issues that I care about deeply. But embedded within all of that pop culture goodness is the direct insult to my beloved career and life aspirations.

Media and classmates are not the worst of it. Most of the disrespect happens in the courtroom, coming from prosecutors, private attorneys, and even judges. All of these situations are incomparable to the highest offenders of disrespect. The worst, the absolute worst, of all of the ridicule comes from the very people for whom we do this job for: our clients. Before I move on, I want to make clear that I know I am not the victim in this dynamic! Our clients are in unbelievably stressful and horrific situations and it is my job to help them in any way, no matter how they respond to my efforts. Moreover, win, lose, or draw in every case, I get to go home and sleep in my bed and cash the biggest paychecks I have ever seen. The clients are the ones whose freedom, future, and lives are on the line--not mine. That being said, after all we do for them, and all we endure from everyone else on their behalf, the ever-repeating question of almost every client is always, without fail: "Should I just get a real lawyer?" It. Is. Maddening. The betrayal! We are supposed to be a family! It is you and me versus everybody! But many clients don't seem to know this. 

Until I worked as a public defender I didn't understand how hard the work was. When I worked in a public defender office in Monterey County this past summer, my days started at 5:00 AM. On days I had calendar calls, I went to the jail to talk to my clients before our calendar began at 8:15 AM. This gave us some privacy and more time to discuss the details of their cases. Then I was in court from 8:15-12 PM. During this time I argued motions, negotiated deals, communicated everything happening with clients and their families, prepped for trials, and most importantly tried to keep as many people out of jail as possible. 

I was then typically released until 1:30 PM. I usually spent that time going back to the jail to meet with more clients in custody, eating something on the way. I was back in court at 1:30 where the longer motions were set to be argued and any remaining calendar calls were run through. Then, I would go back to the office and start calling everyone on the calendar the next day to prepare them for whatever I expected was to come. In between all of this, and especially the one day a week I wasn't scheduled for court, I was investigating cases, interviewing and finding witnesses, finding experts, prepping testimonies, reading police reports, watching whatever footage we could find of incidents, calling families, going back to the jail, and the list goes on and on. It was the hardest I have ever worked in my life. And I really, really do love it. But even with all of this effort, I was still met with, "What do you think, should I just get a real lawyer?" 

Ultimately, the Jennifer Medina article made me reflect on how my life has done a 180 since my undergrad days and how I was never supposed to be prestigious or do prestigious work in the traditional sense. Just like the university I was born ten minutes away from, I was built to serve what I feel is a much more important purpose than upholding prestige. I can't imagine a UC deserving a higher form of widespread respect and admiration than the one that is welcoming and serving a demographic group that has been neglected by the rest of the UC system since its inception. I also can't imagine a more respectable legal career than one serving the most vulnerable and most voiceless members of society, even if they treat me like I'm a fake lawyer.

In Reflecting on the Institutional Process for College Success: The Experiences of Four Chicanos in the Context of Inequality, Gilberto Conchas tells a beautiful story about his navigation through his sociology studies and how his dad would remind him to make sure he is doing work "para la raza" aka for their people. This really touched me because my family and friends are the exact same way. I don't think there is a more prestigious job to those around me than one where I am using my intelligence, talents, and charisma to tackle the criminal justice system that has caused so much hurt to so many people, especially those in the community that raised me.

When I think of prestige I think of my mom reposting every article she sees on Facebook that mentions a public defender with a caption along the lines of, "A public defender just like my baby!" I think of the conversation my boyfriend had with his friend a couple weeks ago when I explained my future plans and his friend tried convincing me to go work for a certain corporation because of how much they pay. My boyfriend responded, "Riki would never do no shit like that. She has too much heart. That's why I respect her." I also think of the one client who called me a "public pretender" in the middle of court this past summer. He eventually apologized to me, saying, "You're not a public pretender. I can tell you will be a great attorney because you really care."

I hope all the students of the great UC Merced find their own version of prestige in a place where they are surrounded by their own people. I hope the university focuses on expanding and nurturing its current diverse student demographic and doesn't ruin itself by chasing after whatever prestige is.

Who I owe it to

The first time I went into a courtroom I was fourteen years old. I wandered my way through the courthouse and found my family already sitting in the first two rows of the hard, wooden benches, behind the defense table. My cousin, Greg (who was fifteen at the time), was in the beginning stages of a criminal case. His lawyer told my family that we could speak with him if we got there before the judge started calling cases, but the window was brief. 

I spent the entire day prior curating an outfit that represented my family as respectable and dignified. I hoped that the judge could look at me and see someone who was in Pre AP English and Geometry, who participated in academic decathlon, and numerous other accolades. I thought that if I represented us well, it would have some bearing on Greg’s case. If someone like me loved him, then he obviously was a good person.

Greg’s lawyer was there explaining to us the dangers of a trial. He asked us to “talk some sense” into my cousin “before things got worse.” These are the only conversations my family ever had with this lawyer though we had turned our lives upside down to pay him. They were always rushed, immediately before court calls, and filled with his insistence that we “do our part” in convincing Greg to forfeit his freedom. He, of course, reached out to remind us when payments were due for his retainer.

I remember feeling that day, nervous, to the point that it nauseated me to see Greg again. I didn’t know what to expect. This was the first time I could remember going longer than a week without speaking to him. He and I had grown up together. Greg was a year older than me and we were so close we called each other brother and sister. I loved him for his humor, his unique intelligence, his rambunctious outlook on life, and his protective aura. Whenever I had problems, with whomever, he was the person I depended on.

Now, he was no longer in a position to protect and instead needed protection. When he walked into the room, I held my breath until he let out his signature crooked smile and winked in our direction. He sat down and immediately took on his usual role within my family dynamic.

“Damn, your mama let you miss class for this shit?” he asked me, causing us all to laugh.

“The hall (a shortened name for juvenile hall) is easy. I just been in there smashing books and working out. I’ma probably run it by the time I’m out,” he bragged, a play on his intelligence and rambunctious spirit.

“Y’all don’t even need to worry about any of this, I’ma be home soon.” He promised us, more than himself, trying to preserve the protective aura he was known for.

I spent the next few months with a never-ending pit in my stomach, waiting for Greg’s next court date so we could share these brief moments. In the end, neither my nor my family's efforts no efforts mattered. Greg was sentenced as an adult to twenty-nine years, and he has spent every day of his life in prison ever since. He never stopped telling jokes and assuring us that he would be out soon, up until the moment he accepted his plea.

I remember walking into court that last day and even though his attorney had told us what to expect, there was not a single piece of my heart that could imagine a judge actually imposing a prison sentence of more years than my Gregory had even lived. And there was no way anyone would see him as an adult, let alone an adult criminal. At the time, he still had red braces brackets across his teeth. He hadn’t even begun to grow facial hair. Regardless of all of this, he accepted the deal, and our lives have never been the same since.

During the first two weeks of our classes, two questions came up that reminded me of this experience.

First, when reflecting on the Hidden Brain podcast with Shankar Vedantam, Professor Pruitt asked something along the lines of what we all have had to give up in order to get to where we are. When I really reflect on this question, I think my answer is a lot different than many other first-generation students. To get here, I feel like I gave up nothing, but everyone around me gave up everything.

As we have discussed throughout the semester, there are systemtic barriers that run deep throughout the professional and academic world. As put by Tanvi Sakhamuru, this world wasn’t made for people like me. In a weird, and probably cynical way, I feel like there was only room for one person from my background to succeed like I have, and I was just lucky enough that it was me.

Growing up, none of my friends or family had any different dream careers than the mainstream ideas of becoming doctors, teachers, scientists, psychologists, lawyers, etc. Unfortunately, almost none of these goals came to fruition.

It is a sobering thought to feel like everyone around me was held back so that I could strive. This feeling leads me to the second question, which was asked by Alina Ali during week two: why should we, as first-generation students, be the ones who have to spend our lives trying to fix the systemic issues that we didn’t create? (This is paraphrasing and not a direct quote at all). This is a very understandable question. For me though, when I think about the people I know who have spent the majority of their lives struggling, in jail cells, poor, overworked, and with little to no hope for change, there is no other option but for me to use all of the sacrifices they have given me to give back to them and people like them.

When people ask me how I will handle public defense work, I just tell them I was born to do it. In my mind, I remember the moments I spent on those cold, wooden courtroom benches where my family suggested, compromised, begged, and pleaded with a lawyer who deemed us as inferior from the second after we signed his retainer contract. I remember those feelings any time I meet a new client and I know I owe it to Greg, and everyone else who lifted me up, to do everything I can to defend them like they deserve to be defended.

Gregory and I at my eight grade graduation. This was a few months before he was arrested.