The silent struggles that shape a first-gen story

When you're a law student, there’s this unspoken pressure: You’ve made it this far, so you clearly are capable of handling things on your own. You must have it figured out. You must know everything. After all, you’re in law school and isn’t that proof you’re doing fine for yourself?

This post by Jenna highlights how first-gen students are often given more responsibility because they seem strong, even when they’re carrying silent struggles.

Recently I got into an argument with my parents about something I didn't realize had been weighing on me for a long time. I do a lot of things in silence. I do a lot of things alone.

I feel like everyone in my family assumes I am capable of handling a lot. No one really checks in on me. No one really asks how I’m doing. Meanwhile, I’m often the one who checks in on them.

When I brought it up, my mom said: "You always tell us what’s going on, so we figured you’d say something if you needed us. We didn’t think we had to ask."

But sometimes, I wish someone would reach out and ask.

When you’re used to doing everything alone, reaching out doesn’t come naturally. And when you’re worried about being a burden, you end up carrying everything quietly until you simply can’t anymore.

This post by Ryan Chen highlights how first-gen students often carry the weight of familial expectations, leading to silent struggles with mental health that are frequently misunderstood or dismissed by those closest to them. 

My mom often says she doesn’t want to bother me, but I don’t want to bother anyone either. So I just share the results: the awards, the acceptances, the wins and I try to hide the struggle.

A lot of it goes back to something deeper. Not feeling like people believed in me from the start. Not wanting them to see my failures.

When I was younger, I was the kid who disrupted class. I couldn’t sit still. I always wanted to talk. It wasn’t a shock when I was diagnosed with ADHD. And because of that, very little was expected of me.

I’m the middle child and often overlooked already. Anything I accomplished was treated like a miracle. So I went from being a loud kid to doing a lot of things in silence.

I did well in high school. I joined organizations. I applied to college alone. I got a scholarship alone.

I did well in college. I navigated opportunities I didn’t even know existed as a first-gen student. And when it came time for law school, I did my applications in silence. I didn’t tell anyone where I was applying. I just waited to receive my acceptance and told them afterward. 

The other day, my grandma told me that she never knew I wanted to be a lawyer like I just woke up one day and decided to go to law school. It stung.

I dreamed of being a lawyer since I was sixteen, after doing the Hardin County Teen Court Program, a community service initiative that helped troubled youth reintegrate into society through court cases that resulted in community service sentencing.

I had told everyone in my family. They just didn’t hear me, or maybe they didn’t believe it.

This moment reminded me of what Dan Croteau described in A Marriage of Unequals.

But if I said I wanted to go college, it would have been like saying he wanted to grow gills and breathe underwater.

Dreams can feel invisible, even unbelievable, to the people around you when they've never seen them happen before.

Now my grandma brags to everyone, “My granddaughter, the future lawyer.”

Sometimes it feels like no one in my family truly knows the battles I’ve fought to get here. They see the end result not the work, the self doubt, and the fight it took every step of the way.

First-Gen success often looks effortless to outsiders. But inside, it’s years of unseen labor, hope, and strength. Silent struggles. Quiet victories. Moments we carried ourselves when no one thought to ask if we needed carrying. Moments when the only voice telling us we were capable was our own.

This idea of moving forward quietly and keeping struggles private is highlighted in Becoming by Michelle Obama.

When Michelle confessed to her mom about wanting to leave her high-paying job to find something more fulfilling, her mom said:

I say make the money first and worry about your happiness later.

Like Michelle, I’ve felt that disconnect. The gap between what we feel inside and what our families expect of us based on survival.

And so, sometimes, silence feels easier.

Not because we don’t want to share, but because explaining dreams that sound risky or unfamiliar can feel like too much.

And yet, through all of it, my family has been there in the ways they knew how to be. Maybe not always asking the right questions. Maybe not always hearing my dreams or maybe being skeptical because no one in our family had ever been a lawyer before. But, they still loved me in their own way even if it was with caution. Both things can be true.

I am proud of all I have accomplished along the way. And I see the girl who built it. The one whose ideas seemed too big, too loud to everyone else, but that girl turned them into reality. I don’t see what I have done as a miracle. I see the late nights, the tears, the self pep talks, the grit it took to give myself permission to dream. And I am starting to learn that sharing the full story, not just the victories, is part of it too.

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.

If you give a first gen a responsibility...

One of my favorite books as a child was "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie." This popular picture book details the situation presented in the title: what would happen if you gave a mouse a cookie. First, he would ask for some milk to wash it down. Then, he would ask for a napkin to wipe his face. Then, he would want to look at himself in the mirror to make sure he was clean. Then, he would notice he needed a haircut. And so on and so forth. 

I am not a kindergarten teacher, nor do I have an English degree, so I am unsure of the intended message of the book. My takeaway as an adult is that if you are generous to someone, they may perhaps keep asking things from you until you can no longer give. Maybe it was my malleable childhood brain or my ambivalent/avoidant attachment style, but I have internalized this to mean that asking too much of others makes you a burden. 

A recurring theme in this class has been the grit that first-gen students often possess. Most of us have described our "I'll figure it out on my own" attitude, and we saw that reflected in a study of first-gen law students. We also heard from a guest speaker how the first-gen students she had interviewed demonstrated not taking advantage of resources in schools, such as office hours, because of a rural mentality associated with extreme self-sufficiency.

This semester, I had the honor of being elected Managing Editor ("ME") of the UC Davis Law Review. Being ME is my first higher up executive position since, well... ever. Having this position has made me question my perspective on responsibility, especially as someone with a first-gen mentality. This is an actual case of when you give a first-gen law student a responsibility -- rather than a cookie. 

The commitments for this position began the day I was elected. Within the first couple of hours after receiving the email, I was meeting with the new Editor-in-Chief to talk about tasks that needed to be done. That weekend, he and I met with almost all of our new editors over some 10 meetings. Since then, I have put on an info session and a panel and created many Google forms and an Instagram account, not to mention the organization meetings and class appearances I've attended with my DEI Editors and Projects Editor. 

I have not been given much instruction by the previous ME, or maybe rather I have not sought out the instruction necessary to feel well-prepared. Despite this, I have adjusted quite a bit, I started out in the position often crying and having anxiety attacks because I had no idea what I was doing. It seemed that, even when I asked for help from the previous ME, I was making mistakes that undermined others' confidence in my ability. 

With my first-gen mentality, I needed to figure it out on my own. I had always done so before, and why would that change now? I mean how hard could it really be juggling all of these emails and tasks? I told myself that I would be a burden to others if I asked for help. I needed to be perfect the first time, without help, or else I would see myself as a failure. 

Over the past couple of months in this position, I can think of maybe 2 or 3 times where I have delegated a task to someone else. Given the number of emails, forms, and events I am technically responsible for, I am realizing I need to get comfortable saying "hey, can you make this form for me?," or something similar. The Editor-in-Chief has appointed a Projects Editor whose entire position is to help me and the DEI Editors with events and recruitment, yet I have given her little to do. 

People see I am stressed and offer to help, but I really don't know what to tell them. If I can't do all of the things within the scope of my position, then what good am I? I wish I could say this post will inspire me to delegate more efficiently, but I am pretty sure that it won't. The attitudes are simply too ingrained to shrug off easily.

This attitude of extreme self-sufficiency has permeated many aspects of my schooling. It is the same mentality that keeps me from attending office hours. If I can't figure out the answer on my own, I tend to think, what good am I? I rarely ask my parents for money because, I tend to think, if I can't take care of myself, what good am I? 

Ironically, this has not yet carried into my professional life. I think that my fear of doing a bad job and being reprimanded overrides my anxiety to ask for help. I do worry, however, that I will be less willing to ask questions or delegate as I get more comfortable in my career. The first-gen mentality will no doubt persist for some time to come. 

If you give a mouse a cookie, he may never stop asking more and more of you. He may ask so much that you can't stand it. If you give a first-gen student a responsibility, they will likely thank you and figure it out on their own. 

If you give a first gen a cookie though. Well, to that, I would have no idea, but I don't think there's any way a first gen would ever be as demanding as the mouse.

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.

A self-help guide for eldest daughters

After reading the Refinery29 article entitled "6 Women On The Pressure Of Being The Eldest Kid Of Immigrants," I couldn't help but see the parallels to my own experience. The women discussed serving as the guinea pig for their parents, taking over familial responsibilities that are typically reserved for adults, and becoming the designated third parent.

As the eldest daughter in my family, I've had similar experiences: I consistently provide significant emotional support to each of my family members when they navigate intrafamily turmoil, serve as a role model for my brother in every aspect, and ensure that peace is kept within my home.

The best way I can describe myself is that I am the designated Family Manager. 

Those who experience "eldest daughter syndrome" typically feel a strong sense of responsibility; they are considered type A, overachievers, or perfectionists; they struggle with people-pleasing behaviors; and they have a hard time setting boundaries. This list isn't all-encompassing, but these are some of the most common traits that eldest daughters share. 

After reading through this blog, it appears I am not the only one who navigates the dynamics that come with being the oldest child in their family. As such, I decided to compile a "self-help" guide for those of us suffering from eldest daughter syndrome. Implementing the recommendations below is easier said than done, but it is a first step in prioritizing our well-being.

Develop Boundaries

One of the most important ways to combat eldest daughter syndrome is to create boundaries with your family members. This can be especially difficult when our families consistently rely on us, but establishing your limits and learning to delegate responsibility is one of the most important ways to avoid emotional burnout. 

Learning to set boundaries involves recognizing that saying "no" is not only acceptable but necessary for maintaining our well-being. This can start with small steps, such as limiting our availability to others, avoiding phone calls after a certain time, or declining requests that drain our energy. 

Differentiating between independence and excessive self-reliance is also key. Becoming independent can be seen as a strength and is commonly associated with being the eldest daughter. However, when that independence morphs into an unhealthy inability to depend on others, it can become a serious impediment to our health. If you find yourself slipping into the habit of refusing to ask for help, it is best to pause and remember to reach out when a situation become overwhelming.

Find a Community and Share your Experience

Finding a community of like-minded individuals is a powerful tool for eldest daughters navigating the challenges of our role. Connecting with others who have experienced similar pressures and responsibilities can provide us with a sense of validation.

For example, after reading a satirical article detailing the LinkedIn profile of an eldest daughter, I forwarded the piece to one of my childhood friends who--like me--is also the oldest daughter in her family. We shared jokes about which portions of the fictitious profile page was most applicable to us and we found it amusing, relevant, and almost too accurate. Reminiscing over our shared experience as eldest daughters reminded me that my experiences are not singular and that other people share the same struggles that I do. 

Practice Self-Love and Self-Appreciation

Practicing self-love is essential for eldest daughters seeking to overcome the pressures of our role. Growing up as a caretaker often means putting others first, which can lead to neglecting one's own emotional and physical needs. Self-love involves prioritizing personal care and recognizing that take care of ourselves is not selfish but necessary. This can include activities like spending time alone, engaging in hobbies, or simply taking moments to reflect on our own needs. 

In an effort to practice more self-appreciation, I created a list of traits I developed which can be attributed to being the oldest child in my family. For example, I love that I prioritize family time and I am extremely proud of my ability to be a problem-solver while also being empathetic; I attribute each of these qualities to my experience as an eldest daughter.

By implementing these strategies, eldest daughters can begin to break free from the pressures of our role, prioritize well-being, and cultivate a healthier balance between family responsibilities and personal fulfillment. As eldest daughters, we have to remember that we cannot pour from an empty cup. 

"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.

A new tradition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quiet

I wasn’t always the silent kid. Growing up my parents struggled to keep me in check. I was the rambunctious toddler, the uncontrollable type who threw a fit whenever I couldn’t get what I wanted. I was intrigued by the world, yelling at my mom to ride the mall escalator over and over again. 

So, what changed?

From preschool to the 7th grade, I attended seven different schools. I grew tired of trying to make friends because I knew I was going to have to make new ones after a year. I started speaking less in school, and I stayed home on the weekends. My older sister, on the other hand, took this as an opportunity to make even more friends, and her social skills flourished.

My family had a close group of friends who also had children around our age. However, all their sons were my sister’s age, while their daughters were my age. It was hard for me to fit in with the other boys, so I usually ended up playing board/card games with the girls. I got bullied. I was being too feminine, I was told. My voice was too high pitched, I didn’t like being rowdy with the other boys. I came to hate our family hangouts.

I tried talking to my parents, but they saw it as a masculinity issue. I should be rough and rowdy back at them. They didn’t hear or consider the words I said. I started talking even less. My parents wondered why I was so quiet all the time. They thought something was wrong with me. My voice got so quiet that even when I was speaking, someone would start talking over me because I wasn’t heard. I began to bottle up my thoughts and my feelings.

People thought of me as this mysterious introvert. The shy guy who opened his mouth only when eating. Looking back, it definitely seems like some people only talked to me out of social pity. They wanted to put on their agenda "I became friends with the quiet guy." I grew into a good listener and acted as a sort of therapist/mediator for my friends. They would pour out their thoughts and emotions, which I simply took in, unable to share my own. 

To this day I carry around what seems like a clamp around my neck. I try to build up the courage to speak more in front of people, but then I falter and the courage dissipates. My parents still don’t know why I am so quiet. I’ve never had the courage to tell them because they see themselves as having brought my sister and me up right. I still love them dearly and don’t hold any resentment towards them. We simply live in different times and different cultures. They also would not want to acknowledge that their child has mental issues for if that were the case, it meant bad parenting. [https://firstgencourse.blogspot.com/2022/09/how-my-parents-gave-me-anxiety-disorder.html]

My parents always pointed out if someone's child they knew had problems or if my sister and I were outperformed by others. In other words, they were and are very critical people. Typically for me, I was compared to the rambunctiousness of other children. The burning question my parents constantly asked me, "Why can't you be more like them?" I shrugged off the question, avoiding the truth because it would only lead to arguments. 

There is no perfect family, and while I am not fond of my childhood experiences, they've created the person I am today. 

In spite of an upbringing that silenced me, there are certain values I hold dear. One of them is being able to say what you want to. Before I moved to California for law school, I got lunch with a friend who spoke so passionately about issues in U.S. politics until stopping mid-sentence to apologize for talking about such a boring topic. I’ve reflected on this moment many times, wishing I told her not to apologize and to continue speaking with the fervor she had been. No one should ever feel sorry for talking about their passions.

By taking baby steps I am trying to get better at talking. While terrifying, law school cold calls are definitely - ironically - helping me find my voice.

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.

"Muslim Hannah Montana"

My father asks me if I'm doing okay during our weekly phone call. I respond in English to his questions asked in Urdu. The phone call consists of many pauses and moments of silence. We both struggle to find commonalities and keep the conversation going.  Although few words are spoken, these calls do display how much we care for each other. The silence reflects how we both know that our different upbringings resulted in our lack of understanding for one another but that at the end of the day we are family. 

A picture of my father and me back in the day.

I often think about how easy it is for me to get along with almost every walk of life from different ages, ethnicities, races, and personality types. Yet, I find myself struggling to have a simple conversation with my parents. My entire family immigrated from Pakistan when I was one years old. Although we left the physical land, my parents never left behind the culture. The rigid standards expected from my siblings and I to uphold both Pakistani and Islamic values often clashes with our desire and sometime necessity to assimilate with American culture. It is hard to share the instances of my life with my parents because I fear upsetting them or getting criticized. 

If both my siblings and I as well as my parents took a little more time understanding each other, maybe these conversations would be easier. Comedic actor, John Cho, reflected on the lack of cultural understanding between himself and his parents after he received a lashing for referencing a sassy, yet harmless quote from a Judy Blume book to his South Korean parents. I have experienced similar culture clashing incidents with my parents. One of the more prominent culture clashes was trying to be a trendy high-schooler while also trying to remain modest from an Islamic standard. However, this found to be very difficult especially when my parents would find things like long athletic tights to be too revealing. Most of the trendy outfits at the time included cropped tops, ripped jeans, shorts, and other types of clothing my parents would never approve of. However, I really enjoyed these fashion trends and wanted to feel comfortable in my clothing. I would leave my house in an outfit my parents would approve of and change in my car into the outfit I actually wanted to wear. This behavior coined the term, "Muslim Hannah Montana" onto me from my friends. 

It never felt good to me that I essentially had to hide a part of myself to my parents but it was only to protect them. I believe that my family has come to a mutual agreement to keep some parts of our lives to ourselves while sharing other parts with each other. The types of things I'll share with my parents are anything involving, school, work, Islam, and some instances of my social interactions with others. I am okay with this limited kind of conversation, and they are as well. 

Some of my friends who didn't grow up with immigrant parents or aren't immigrants themselves, think that the relationship I have with my parents is a bit odd. However, in situations where people you love come from such different cultural backgrounds, you sometimes may need to adapt your habits and behavior around those individuals as a form of respect. This adjustment in behavior is geared towards respecting my parent's culture and to sustain peace in the household. I also resonate with certain aspects of the culture as well. As Sarah Smarsh described in her book, Heartland, she did not leave one world to enter another but rather held them both simultaneously. I believe I have had the same experience juggling the drastically different cultures from my immigrant household and growing up in America and I strive to maintain this balance.