The barriers that keep us out

Since coming to law school, I've had a theory that the institutions in place do everything they can to keep low-income, first-generation (defined as students who do not have at least one parents with a bachelor's degree) or otherwise diverse students out of the legal profession. Here's how: 

Undergraduate education

As we have discussed in class, even getting a bachelor's degree is a battle for many students who represent racial, ethnic and economic diversity. High-income, white families have more resources, leading to higher SAT scores than those from black or brown and low-income families. Without holistic review, or the now unconstitutional affirmative action, the student body in four-year colleges would be made almost entirely of students from white families who are middle class or wealthy. 

Even when diverse students get into college, it is an uphill battle to stay enrolled. Many students don't even try because they fear they can't afford it. Even if students receive the maximum financial aid, it may not be enough. With maximum financial aid, students in California will still need to pay up to $9,000 out of pocket. 

Law school admissions 

Law school applications are expensive. That's no secret. In addition to application fees for every school a student applies to, there are additional fees associated with transcripts, and processing fees through the Law School Admissions Council. Registering for the law school application system, the Credential Assembly Service (CAS), is $207 and the report generated by CAS is $45 per school application. These are all required fees to apply to a law school. Even more significantly, many schools require students to take the Law School Admissions Test (LSAT) to get into law school. Many students take the test multiple times, paying the exam fee each time. These fees may deter students from applying at all.

In addition, first-generation students underperform on standardized tests such as the LSAT. This means they are less likely to get into top schools even if they are able to take the LSAT. 

Even though LSAC offers fee waivers for some of the fees, these waivers are often hard to get. Indeed, getting the waivers often requires a level of self-advocacy and an awareness of relevant processes. My own experience and those of others' suggest that many people are denied the LSAC fee waiver the first time they apply, despite meeting the eligibility requirements. It is possible that first-generation students do not have the time or the resources needed to ensure they get the waivers. 

The summer position job search

The barriers do not end once first-generation students get into law school. Diverse students may be behind the curve in law school hiring. For one, high-paying big law positions are greatly concerned about class ranking and grades. First-generation students, as we've discussed in class, have to worry about family obligations and finances that other students do not. Thee may keep first-generation students from focusing solely on school. This, of course, affects their GPAs. 

Without top ranks and good grades, first generation students may not even be able to get their foot in the door with big law. However, public interest positions require sacrificing a high salary, which low-income students may not have the luxury of doing. 

In addition, many employers want to see prior legal experience, but the positions that provide that experience are often unpaid. Many first-generation students often cannot take on the unpaid legal internships that are available, and instead opt to work in non-legal positions that actually pay, such as customer service or retail positions.  

Finally, first-generation students often do not have the robust networks that continuing-generation students enjoy. Even when their job applications fall short, some students have networks on which they can rely to support them as they seek legal employment. 

The financial barriers don't end here. Once students are admitted, the often face rising law school tuition, and first-generation and low-income students may not have the financial support that other students have. Despite ending up in lower-paying jobs, these students are likely to be buried in student loan debt.

The differences are tangible. First-generation students are more likely to work in government positions, have lower employment rates, and go into private practice at lower rates than non-first-generation students. 

So what do we do about it? 

Honestly, I don't know. But what I do know is that there is power in highlighting these inequalities and how our experiences impact our performance even beyond the walls of UC Davis School of Law. I do also know that it is worth celebrating that despite these barriers in place, each and every first generation student at King Hall - and in law schools across the country - has done what seems to be the impossible. People may not know it, or understand the full range of barriers that keep us out, but we first-gen students do. We have all accomplished incredible, difficult things, and that is certainly worth celebrating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My working-class roots

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

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

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

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

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

What I told them was a complete lie. 

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

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

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

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

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

I could not agree with Quarry more. 

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

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

My privilege

“Go to school, we didn’t, and now we regret it”

This is something I have heard from my father since I was a child in elementary school.

My family immigrated to the United States when I was three years old. We moved to Dos Palos, California, a small town with a population of less than 5,000 in 2004. We were fortunate that, despite the town's small size, there were a few other Punjabi families who lived there due to its location in the Central Valley.

I don’t remember much about living in Dos Palos, but I do remember my school. From what I recall, I loved it. I enjoyed learning new things and coming home and telling my family all about it. Even though English wasn’t my first language, I started learning it at an early age, so I didn’t struggle much with language barriers.

When I was six years old, my family moved to a new city. Due to how often my family moved within this city, I ended up going to five different elementary schools. Being the new kid almost every year wasn’t easy, but the one constant that kept me grounded was my love for learning. I knew even if I wasn’t making new best friends every time I moved, I would still be one of the most studious kids in class because I loved school so much. Being good at learning was my one constant.

My parents were proud to have a child who loved school. Both my parents attended school in India, but neither finished middle school. My mom dropped out in seventh grade due to family problems and my dad dropped out in eighth grade because the conditions at his school were so poor. To my parents, public education in the United States was the best opportunity they could offer their children. They instilled in me the ideal that I should never complain, but rather be thankful for the chance I had. “Go to school, we didn’t, and now we regret it.” Hearing this from my dad motivated me to push myself harder, and I would say it is one of the many reasons I have pushed myself all the way to law school.

In her book, First Gen: A Memoir Alejandra Campoverdi discusses the unique challenges that First and Onlys face, one of them being the “Lonely Hustle.” Campoverdi describes the First and Onlys experience as a “Lonely Hustle” because no one in our families can understand the struggles and journey we are going through. My love for school because of its familiarity in my life and my parent’s lack of familiarity with school made it a very lonely journey.

While my story may not mirror every First and Onlys experience, the “Lonely Hustle” is a common experience for my first gen peers. Whether it’s through finding community or developing boundaries, we all have learned to utilize different tools to cope with this loneliness.

One of the most important tools in my toolkit is my ability to realize what a privilege higher education is. Less than 5% of the U.S. population has a professional or doctorate degree, and that is the group we are striving to join. While obtaining this degree will come after many trials and tribulations for all of us, I can’t help but remember my parents and remind myself what a blessing it is to chase my dreams. I remind myself that, despite the hurdles I face in pursuing a legal career, at least I have the opportunity to do so. Even though sometimes I have to look far and wide to find the resources that will be beneficial to me, at least I know where to look. That is not the case for many people, especially individuals like my parents who do not speak English and always struggle with understanding the American legal system.

None of this is to say that the United States higher education system and the American legal system are without flaws. Of course, First and Onlys are entitled to express frustration with how complicated and elitist these fields can be. However, there are moments when we must recognize how fortunate we are to have the opportunity to chase our dreams. As I continue my journey, I hold onto the lessons my parents taught me, reminding myself that every challenge I face is part of a greater privilege.

Ending the cycle

It is undeniable to me that “First and Onlys” are pillars sustaining the broader existence of our communities. As children, we naturally evolve into problem solvers, driven by necessity and insecurity. We struggle every day to preserve the smiles of our families, as they cheer us on with their excitement. We learn to navigate uncharted territories intentionally in order to break generational curses that have plagued our ancestors. We litter the world with our culture and identities so that people know we exist. 

But most importantly, we are not selfish. We transform barriers into stepping stones for those who follow us, and we do it out of love. We work hard not just to end our personal struggles but to elevate our loved ones. 

In the final chapter of Alejandra Campoverdi’s First Gen: A Memoir, the chapter titled, La Trenza, she reiterates the importance of First and Onlys taking the time to address repressed emotions that have lingered in our psyches since our childhoods. She also calls on other First and Onlys to reflect on our successes and genuine feelings of fulfillment. Campoverdi emphasizes that being a First and Onlys often compels individuals to suppress their vulnerabilities in order to embody strength. I understand this. After all, who has time to address their feelings—or even to feel their feelings—when everything is burning around you and your loved ones need you to be strong? 

That said, as our readings and speakers have consistently highlighted throughout this semester, repression of our feelings can inadvertently undermine our ability to experience genuine fulfillment from our successes. I believe that when indirect repression arises, it sometimes takes others to remind us of our efforts. I have spent the past few days reflecting deeply on my own journey. This self-awareness campaign has allowed me to recognize that the efforts I have invested in for years have yielded outcomes surpassing anything my younger self could have ever imagined—I just had not taken the time to notice them.

Since the age of fourteen, I have had an active role in the upbringing of my younger brother, Angello. Although I was a child myself, it was my job to shield him and his childhood from the aftereffects of our parents’ divorce. Our leftover family worked every day to make sure he was ensconced in endless love and security. As he grew up, we wanted him to be well-equipped to enter the professional world. My family worked hard every day to make sure he had the right tools to chase his dreams. Turns out, we did something right!

A few days ago, Angello told me that he had decided to accept UC Davis’s offer to join the incoming Class of 2029. To me, this was an amazing milestone not only for him but for our whole family. Although I’m the first in our family to go to college, I did so by attending community college for two years and then transferring to earn my bachelor’s degree. 

Don’t get me wrong—I wanted to go straight to a four-year institution, but I chose the community college route for two reasons. First, there was the obvious issue of affordability. Like many First and Onlys, the reality of being from a lower social-economic background can make dreams like going to college feel impossible. Second, I felt that my family was too unstable for me to leave home; I provided emotional and financial support to my mother and brothers, and the guilt of leaving them behind to pursue my own dreams was heartbreaking. So, I stayed close to home, and I have no regrets!

In that same conversation, Angello told me that the university had provided him scholarships that will cover the entire cost of attendance. I slowly realized that this financial aid meant he would not need to be burdened by loans or to work tirelessly to cover his college expenses, as I had done. Unlike me, he will not have to juggle a demanding full-time job just to afford college. Any job he does take will be by choice, not necessity. Likewise, his kind-hearted soul can go to college knowing our family is emotionally fortified to handle his absence from home. 

In the last few years, our family has worked on improving ourselves by addressing trauma, and I think it has only made us stronger as a collective unit. For First and Onlys like me, the real successes that bring me genuine fulfillment are the “successes” that advance the life prospects of my loved ones. Viewing myself as a member of the collective unit that is my family is a reminder of how far we’ve come.

Hearing my brother’s excitement about going to college helped ease the uncertainty I had carried for thirteen years. I’m proud that he has earned his seat at the table of higher education. 

For many First and Onlys, our families––for good or bad––are powerful forces. Several of my fellow blogging colleagues have written heartfelt essays describing the complexity of their relationship with their families. For example, my colleague AKJ, in their post “Defining and appreciating my ‘village,’” defined family members as their “anchors.” In contrast, my colleagues Jenna and M highlight the emotional complexity of their parentified role in their family. All of these experiences with our families are valid. Being the emotional anchor of a family while trying to build a future for yourself is exhausting—but it’s also a powerful testament to love.

In witnessing my brother take his next big step in life, I have come to understand that the sacrifices we make as “First and Onlys” are investments in a future we help create. Our efforts echo loudly beyond ourselves. We clear paths alone and trailblaze spaces, hoping someone we love will eventually join us.

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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Lucky girl syndrome

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s okay to breathe

Before this class, I had not taken the time to reflect on my journey throughout higher education and my identity. Now, I have noticed I am a combination of multiple identities: a first-generation college student, a woman of color, and the eldest daughter of immigrant parents. Strangely enough, all of these identities are deeply intertwined with one another.

One identity I have yet to reflect on is being the eldest daughter of immigrant parents. Some writers, like Megan Wallace, have described this experience as the eldest daughter syndrome. The label is not a psychological condition but rather a phenomenon that describes how eldest daughters often “[pick] up the mental load for the family” and become a “third parent” for their younger siblings.

Parenting becomes difficult when the couple moves to a foreign nation. While trying to assimilate to a new culture, they are learning how to be parents and raise a child in a multicultural setting.

Jacqueline Delgadillo, the eldest daughter of immigrant parents, writes how her parents encouraged her to go after the American Dream, but she discovered the dream was not what it seemed at first glance. In pursuit of this dream, she constantly tried to be the perfect role model for her siblings, while her siblings were not afraid to break the rules.

Similar to Delgadillo, I have also felt the burden of being the perfect role model for my siblings. It was always a constant balance between an academically excelling student and a dutiful daughter. The main reason for maintaining this balance was for two reasons. First, I felt my good grades were proof that my parents’ sacrifice in moving to this country had a purpose. Second, I felt being the responsible daughter demonstrated I had not forgotten my cultural roots. As a result, this placed considerable pressure on me for years.

Although her parents were not immigrants, Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor is another notable eldest daughter of Puerto Rican-born parents. In her memoir My Beloved World, she described how she learned to cultivate “existential independence” from a young age because Sotomayor felt all the adults in her life were unreliable.

Like Sotomayor, I have realized I have created a heightened sense of independence. For example, I remember multiple group projects in high school where I had to take the lead or complete most of the project. So, I always grew up thinking that the only person I could rely on was myself.

Due to the constant pressure of perfectionism and hyper-independence, I felt overwhelmed by the smallest task because I was afraid of the negative consequences and the uncertainty. Whenever I would start an assignment, the first thing I would think about was how it could go wrong. However, I did not notice the extent of my “glass half empty” persona until one of my college friends asked me why I was in such a frenzy for sending a simple email to my professor.

It is not until you reflect that you can start to heal. So, what have I done to heal?

I learned the importance of balance and prioritizing myself. As the eldest daughter, I always felt it was necessary to overlook every aspect of my siblings’ lives. What are they doing? What classes are they taking? Will they reach their goal? It is something I have done my whole life, whether it was helping them with their homework or picking them up from school.

I realized I needed to let my siblings live life without my constant worry and I needed to take the time to focus solely on my goals.

Healing does not happen overnight. I am constantly learning where to draw the line between when am I being helpful and when am I doing everything myself. The pressure of being the eldest daughter and law school can feel like I am constantly swimming without enough oxygen. A swimmer can only swim so long before breaking to the surface.

So, I have understood it is okay to take a second and breathe. It is only when we reflect, we truly learn how to become better.

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.

You are necessary

 The only compliment I've received that I remember to this day is that I am a "necessary" friend. The friend who paid me this compliment was driving me home on a weekend night. We were speeding along a Texas freeway, chatting about this-and-that. I occasionally dropped directions throughout the drive, "move over to the right lane 'cause you'll be taking the next exit." Suddenly, he says to me, "you're such a necessary friend, a type of friend that most people should have at least one of." 

I'm not sure if he remembers saying this to me, but it's a moment I won't forget.

I think back to all the friendships I've had. There were the good ones, the okay ones, and the bad ones. I like to think I've impacted all my friends' lives in a meaningful way, but that's wishful thinking. All I can do is reminisce in hopes that my present self can change to make a better future for myself and those around me.

I attended high school in an affluent neighborhood, in the suburb of Allen, Texas. The 2015 median household income in my neighborhood was about $150,000. However, an adjacent neighborhood that fed into the same high school had a median household income about 40% that of Allen, at just $61,000. This discrepancy created a cultural and socioeconomic melting pot in my school, where students of all backgrounds mingled together. Due to this mixture, I became close friends with someone who I never thought I would even interact with if different circumstances occurred.

My friend was from the not-so-great, adjacent neighborhood. When he reached the age when it was legal to work in Texas, his parents expected him to pay for his own necessities: toothpaste, toothbrush, toiletries, etc.. He had to buy all of these with his own money. Any "fun" he wanted to experience had to come out of his own pocket. Since he needed to start working early, he focused on how he could make more money right then. 

Studying was less important because that was an investment in a future pay off. Since freshman year my friend was the "class clown" and always cracked jokes, not caring whether he earned a B or C in a class. Only because we were in some of the same required courses and through a couple mutual friends did I get to know him. And by the time he graduated from high school, my friend was a different person than that freshman class clown. In college he majored in accounting and later working for PwC and Deloitte.

His change wasn't solely from my own efforts, but rather from that of a community, a community of what Sheryll Cashin calls "achievement typical" students [Place, Not Race: A New Vision of Opportunity in America]. By junior year, he was friends with those within the top 10% of the class and aimed to achieve the same. My friend went from not caring about his grades to becoming academically competitive, taking nearly all AP courses in his junior and senior year schedules, and studying to perform the best he could on the SAT. If he had grown up in a different neighborhood and gone to a different high school, I wonder if he would have become the same person he is today. 

In Creating Moves to Opportunity, Raj Chetty and colleagues discuss how the children of low-income families in high-opportunity neighborhoods are more likely to rise up in the economic ladder. The mix of socioeconomic and cultural classes creates "a culture of success", "bringing together students from different backgrounds" with shared interests and aspirations. My friend and I share an interest in anime, through which we grew closer; I'm also fairly certain my focus on education motivated him to focus on his education as well. 

For our senior trip, my friends and I decided to rent a cabin in a state park. The trip cost each person roughly $250, something that my friend could not manage to budget. I didn't want him to miss out on a one-time experience of a senior trip, so I sold off currency I had in a mobile game. I managed to pay his portion of the trip with that money while my parents paid for mine. Are acts like this why he saw me as a "necessary" friend? 

I can't be sure. One thing that I can guarantee, however, is that YOU are that "necessary" friend to someone else.

Theorizing about the past

I have only recently begun to theorize about what has driven me to pursue higher education. In my view, many people from so-called “first gen” backgrounds are encouraged to pursue higher education perhaps by family, friends, or even an invested high schooler counselor. There is a plethora of personal stories. As for me, I had a different experience distinguished by the absence of any encouragement.

In addition to being the “first-generation” in my family to attend college, I am still the one to have been enrolled for a substantial amount of time.  Not only did no one set an example, college was not something my family really talked about with me nor was there anyone to set the example. This is not to say that my family was discouraging, but higher education was not in our orbit.

Yet, even when I was young, I always assumed I would go to college. In fact, I was indignant about it. Without citing statistics, my intuition tells me that few people in my high school graduating class ended up going to college. At the risk of sounding pretentious, I always felt “different” from them somehow.

Looking back, I wonder if my experience was as idiosyncratic as it might seem. In retrospect, I attribute much of this to my LGBTQ identity (more on this later). Perhaps obvious to us now, kids who are perceived to have LGBTQ identities are often ostracized by their peers. It can be a struggle to relate to people who constantly brand you as different. Despite having grown up with other working-class kids, I could not relate to the things that they (especially other boys) were interested in. I was fond of geography, history, art, literature, and other things associated with “intellectualism.”

There may have even been somewhat of an “anti-intellectual” culture in my “rural-ish” hometown. With no clearer explanations as to what drove me from this environment, I am left to assume that being “different” from everyone else in one way caused me to not only relate to, but also to pursue, markers of this difference. Ultimately, I would not trade my education, travel experience, knowledge of several languages, and future job opportunities for a different childhood. That said, I have been wondering if my experience has been shared by other gay men.

In preparing to write this post, I came across the article Gay Men Earn Degrees at Highest Rate, Study Finds. I was surprised to see that recent data corroborate my experience. I am even more surprised that I was not privy to this research until now. In the article, Maria Carrasco reports that 52% of gay men have undergraduate degrees where only 35% of straight men do. Moreover, the study she cites shows that 6% of gay men in the United States have an advanced degree, which is 50% higher than straight men (It is worth nothing that these numbers do not hold up with lesbian women; a very interesting observation but obviously this could be a dissertation.).

Apparently, this phenomenon has been labeled the “Best Little Boy in the World Hypothesis.” The hypothesis goes that gay men tend to be “overachievers” to deflect attention away from their stigmatized sexuality. What pondering my own experience has revealed to me is that a desire for class mobility may not be the only thing that pushes us into the sphere of higher education.

Under resourced and under pressure

The wealth gap between the richest and the poorest in the U.S. continues to grow year after year. According to The Week, the top 10% of earners own about 69% of the wealth in the U.S., while the lowest 50% own 2.4% of the wealth. One factor driving the gap is education, as explained by Fisher and Mattson.

It is no surprise that individuals from wealthier backgrounds are more likely to be more educated than children of low-income families. But, it does not mean one cannot move up the socioeconomic ladder. In fact, these ambitious and hardworking individuals will be known as strivers, as described in Elizabeth Spiers’ "A Defense of Jeremy Strong (and all the Strivers With No Chill)." So-called strivers are usually first-generation college and graduate students. Spiers explains how strivers feel uneasy at higher education institutions because they tend to stick out and feel like they do not belong. Thus, a first-generation student is likely to encounter many obstacles on their path to earning a degree.

One obstacle that first-generation students face is the lack of network and resources.

A study by Andrew Van Dam revealed that 78% of Ph.D. students had at least one parent with a graduate degree, while only 6% of the students were first-generation. This meant continuing generation students had built-in networks, resources, knowledge, and a head start unknown — perhaps even unimaginable — to first-generation students.

As a first-generation law student, I did not realize how under-resourced I was until the moment I stepped foot onto my law school campus. I remember how my classmates would talk casually about getting outlines from upperclassmen and how their parents had connections to certain law firms. During the search for my 1L job, my lack of resources became apparent. I did not know anyone working at law firms nor did I know the importance of networking in the legal profession. It was thus harder for me to get my foot in the door.

These passing moments would often lead me to question whether I had made the right choice by going to law school.

Lisa Pruitt shares similar sentiments about being a first-generation law student. On one occasion, she remembers how her classmates biblically recited text from the book One L. She stated that she was not familiar with the book until the end of her first semester at law school.

A second obstacle first-generation students face is increasing pressure to do well in school.

Pressure can form from many stressors, and one factor in particular is income. An article by Hardy documents that the difference in the median annual income between college and high school graduates is about $22,000, which is the highest difference on record since the 1990s. Although all first-generation students are not low-income, Kristen Renn, a professor at Michigan State University, states that about 50% of first-generation students come from low-income backgrounds. After seeing their parents struggle to make ends meet, these first-generation low-income students will take it upon themselves to build a better life by pursuing high-paying jobs or living in a better neighborhood.

As a child of immigrant parents, this feels especially true for me. Both of my parents immigrated to the US from Punjab, India, and their journey to building a life within this country was not easy. I remember seeing my parents working really hard to make enough money for food and rent.

So, as a first-generation Punjabi American and the eldest daughter, I face an immense amount of pressure to get a good job and make good money. Otherwise, my parents may feel like their sacrifice was for nothing.

Other times, the pressure comes from learning how to balance being a good student while also being a good daughter or son.

Jennifer Morton, who teaches at City College of New York, sees an array of first-generation students striving for a middle-class lifestyle. On the podcast Hidden Brain, she explained that these students “end up feeling torn between doing the things that would seem to be required by being...a good grandson and doing the things that are required to be a successful student.”

During my first year of law school, I was constantly trying to learn how to balance school and family together. Oftentimes, I would spend countless hours on schoolwork throughout the week, just to allow myself some time to spend with my family on the weekends. I still remember feeling immense guilt when my grandmother told me, “I do not see you much anymore.”

Despite being under resourced and under pressure, I have always kept pushing. I have constantly reminded myself that it will all be worth it.

A personal reflection on structural racism (Part 1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My younger siblings and I at my undergraduate graduation

"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.

Liberal Arts to Liberate the Mind: Why Every First-Generation Student Ought to Consider a Traditional Liberal Arts Degree

When I reflect on my experience applying to colleges as a high school student, I marvel at my family’s dearth of “insider information” in comparison to others. I now realize how some parents helped their children publish op-ed articles in the local newspaper, enroll in local college classes while still in high school, or guide them through countless science-related competitions. I am happy for these folks. Their kids ended up at MIT, Stanford, and the likes, and they earned it.
But I envy a different sort of insider information. That of families who realized the importance of a liberal arts education.

I didn’t know what a liberal arts college was when I submitted my applications to universities. I thought that real colleges were called “universities,” and that they were predominately research institutions that were featured in the US News rankings for “National Universities”. I paid no attention to the other list of top colleges produced by the same publisher: “National Liberal Arts Colleges”.

Maybe I missed this because of my immigrant background—I only imagined college as a means for acquiring a good career, which at that time probably meant becoming a doctor, lawyer, engineer, or someone who works in “finance”. The notion of education as a means to a job–a high paying job–is a relatively modern phenomenon, and one that has enraptured much of the South Asian immigrant community. Perhaps the roots of this, in my community at least, stems from strategic measures by British colonists to erase institutions of traditional learning (including madrasas steeped in what is now called the Islamic liberal arts) in India, replacing them with English-standard schools meant to train individuals to acquire “good jobs” in the colonial administration. (See John Walbridge, God and Logic in Islam: The Caliphate of Reason, 157-169, Cambridge University Press (2013)).

So, what is a liberal arts education, and why is it important? The American philosopher Mortimer Adler says:

The liberal arts are traditionally intended to develop the faculties of the human mind, those powers of intelligence and imagination without which no intellectual work can be accomplished. Liberal education is not tied to certain academic subjects, such as philosophy, history, literature, music, art, and other so-called "humanities." In the liberal-arts tradition, scientific disciplines, such as mathematics and physics, are considered equally liberal, that is, equally able to develop the powers of the mind.

The liberal-arts tradition goes back to the medieval curriculum. It consisted of two parts. The first part, trivium, comprised grammar, rhetoric, and logic. It taught the arts of reading and writing, of listening and speaking, and of sound thinking. The other part, the quadivium, consisted of arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music (not audible music, but music conceived as a mathematical science). It taught the arts of observation, calculation, and measurement, how to apprehend the quantitative aspect of things. Nowadays, of course, we would add many more sciences, natural and social. This is just what has been done in the various modern attempts to renew liberal education.

More importantly, Adler explains that the aim of a liberal arts education is to “develop free human beings who know how to use their minds and are able to think for themselves.” And in doing so, “[A liberal arts education] produces citizens who can exercise their political liberty responsibly. It develops cultivated persons who can use their leisure fruitfully. It is an education for all free men, whether they intend to be scientists or not.”

Finally, Adler concludes: “Our educational problem is how to produce free men, not hordes of uncultivated, trained technicians.” 

Interestingly, there is an argument for the liberal arts as a "social justice" tool to uplift those who face unparalleled, and even structural, challenges. Dr. Anika Prather and Dr. Angel Adams Parham argue in their recently published book, The Black Intellectual Tradition: Reading Freedom in Classical Literature, that the power of a classical liberal arts education is such that it is a tool to even “liberate the black mind.” 

This should be of no surprise to folks who have studied the great black intellectuals of the civil rights movement. 

The classical liberal arts undoubtedly influenced Dr. King. He was a master of the Western intellectual tradition. The syllabus for a seminar course he taught at Morehouse College would be controversial in the eyes of the contemporary “woke” culture at progressive institutions. It commences with writings from Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, and Aquinas, and continues chronologically with Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau, Kant, Hegel, Bentham, and John Stuart Mill—all dead white men, though with flaws in their lives and thoughts, nonetheless vital in their roles in the quest for justice and the good life.

Dr. King didn’t just teach these works, he internalized them. His Letter from a Birmingham Jail is replete with references to Socrates and verbatim quotations (from memory) from Aquinas, Augustine, and other great thinkers from the Western canon.

Roosevelt Montás, a senior lecturer at Columbia University, eloquently concludes of Dr. King’s relationship with the classical liberal arts and its relationship to our time:

King had internalised the liberatory history of ideas and debates he taught. For him, the Morehouse syllabus traced “the moral arc of the universe”, which he believed “bends towards justice”. Faced with ideological polarisation that threatens the foundations of liberal democracy, it behoves us to recover the political tradition embodied in King’s syllabus. It represents the connective tissue of our politics, the discursive bridges by which we may work out solutions to our thorniest problems. We must challenge the simplistic mentality that casts this tradition as irredeemably patriarchal, white, and elitist, and which, by doing so, makes students more provincial and less effective actors for social change. It is precisely because the tradition reflects an unfolding struggle for justice that it provides us with potent sources of argument, strategy and vision for addressing the inequalities and abuses that persist in our society. 

Unfortunately, for me, I realized this late. But I believed so strongly in the importance of a liberal arts education that I returned to college in my mid 20s to complete a second four-year bachelor's degree at a small liberal arts college. Despite the pressures to go to college to earn a degree that simply results in a good-paying job, I urge young students to explore the liberal arts, and to enter into the fascinating and immensely important realm of the life of the mind. 
 

American limbo

I am crying in the parking lot.

It is a couple weeks into my first year of law school. My mom is on the phone with me as I recount my first disaster of a cold call.

A year later, I do not remember many specifics about that cold call. I do not remember the case or the question or the professor or even the class. I only remember that it was shameful. I do not mean that my performance was shameful, although it certainly wasn’t great. I mean more that my moment of profound alienation, as discussed in Blue-Collar Roots, White-Collar Dreams by Alfred Lubrano, occurred shortly after the professor called my name.

I did what I considered to be a terrible job. I stuttered my way through the questions and could hear the pounding of my heart in my ears. My voice shook and I remember feeling embarrassed for addressing the professor in an informal manner. The truth is, I don’t remember how I fumbled the question, but I walked out of class convinced that everyone thought I was an idiot.

My mom assured me that nobody cared and nobody would remember. She was right, of course.

Then she whispered, “Un día, cuando estaba en la escuela, la maestra me pidió que leyera en voz alta en clase. Estaba avergonzado porque tuve que admitir frente a todos mis compañeros que no sabía leer.”

Translation: “One day when I was in school, the teacher called on me to read aloud in class. I was extremely embarrassed because I had to admit in front of all my classmates that I did not know how to read.”

Her admission stopped my tears. My face and chest felt hot with shame. The bridge between us felt wide.

Lubrano asserts that education creates distance. He writes, “Rise that far in a single generation and you’re liable to feel hopelessly alienated from those who raised you.” While my mom’s confession had made me feel worlds away from her lived experiences, there was no hopelessness.

Lubrano may be right about the distance, but not about the problem.

To “rise” through education does not need to mean becoming unrecognizable. For me, the crux of the problem is shame. Shame for realizing I got caught up in a moment that did not matter in the grand scheme of things and shame for living in a world my family does not inhabit. If I allow it, the shame can further widen the gap between us.

So, I resist.

Once the shame subsided, the distance dissipated as well.

The brutality of education is associated with the proverbial distance intellectual awareness brings to our relationships. I think the real brutality of education is the false sense of absolute certainty and unwillingness to admit that, perhaps, the forest and the trees are indistinguishable to everyone. And that it is okay.

I have parents who crossed a whole country to get me to where I am now. I have no intention of leaning into the distance my education has created between us. I want nothing to do with the high horse elitism my JD will get me if it further removes me from the people I call home.

My mom can read now, and she went on to do two years of college in Mexico. Her life’s regret is that she had to drop out to work and help her family. I know she looks at me, on my way to becoming an attorney, and my sister, in her final year of her master’s program, and sees her dreams realized. I will not take this dream from her by becoming someone she cannot reach. I will stay soft in mind and heart, even if it creates some intellectual dissonance.

Perhaps this is how I choose to straddle my worlds. Only, there are no competing loyalties.

How the best can be better

Point of view: you are a senior in high school drowning in a plethora of Advanced Placement courses, serve on leadership for varying extracurriculars, and train for your varsity sports team with whatever little time and energy you have left. Yet, you know somehow that all of this dedication and hard work is the bare minimum to get into one of the highly acclaimed University of California institutions.

This viewpoint is my own high school experience. I worked very hard during that time and it drained me. Yet, I did not feel like I did enough. At the time, I knew that my grades and my accomplishments were good, but they weren't unique enough to stand out amongst thousands of other applicants. Additionally, my standardized test scores were average and barely enough to get into most UCs.

A picture of me (bottom left) at the California Speech and Debate State Qualifiers. This was one of the activities I was heavily involved in during high school.

Due to my circumstances and the competitive public university system in California, I felt that I needed to highlight my adversities and trauma to prove that I was deserving of a spot in the incoming freshman class at one of the campuses. The only issue was that I don't really linger on traumatic experiences in my life or let them define me. I felt frustrated that I had to share these personal experiences with unknown university officials who would judge if my experience was "traumatic" enough to justify my admission. I did not feel like the application process for these campuses accurately reflected the type of student I was and had the potential to be. However, I do feel that I got lucky and ended up at the perfect school for my situation, which was the University of California, Davis.

Regardless, thousands of students apply to California universities under the same rigid standards. Many applicants like first generation students and ones with fewer educational and financial resources don't know the tips and tricks into submitting a good application. Additionally, not all of these students end up at a school that is accommodating to their situations. The college journeys of three close friends from a rural town in Texas, displayed how even the brightest of students who overcame many hurdles in their path to a higher education, struggled to graduate once they made it to college.

It is important to submit application to not only the right schools, but to make them competitive as well. These admission results have a significant effect on defining an individual's self-worth. It is no wonder that schools like Downtown Magnets in Los Angeles have to hold "rejection parties" to try to shift the negative tone and high stress associated with college rejection letters.

The college admission process at varying institutions may be able to better the education of students by implementing more holistic admission processes. These processes should consider more than just grades and test scores. For the University of California, applicants submit the same application for each UC even though every institution is vastly different from the others in location, campus cultures, and specialties. Additionally, the stigma and obsession associated with college rankings by varying news reports does not help in placing students at campuses that are best suited for their circumstances. It may be beneficial for universities to care less about their ranking and shift their focus towards creating admission processes that recruit suitable students for their institution.

Many individuals feel compelled to go to certain institutions because they're ranked higher than others. Judgement for not choosing to attend a higher ranked institution can come from strangers, friends, and even family members. My younger brother experienced this judgement firsthand while choosing to attend between UC Irvine and higher ranked UC Berkeley. Additionally, some Hispanic students feel more of a sense of belonging at UC Merced versus other UCs because the student body consists of students who share similar backgrounds and this reduces the stress of a shocking academic chapter for many first generation students.

UC Davis highlighting the school's ranking on it's official Instagram page.

It may be beneficial for colleges to incorporate more "fun" questions in their admission applications. Since actual interviews with every applicant would be unfeasible for many colleges, questions on applications could serve an interview or survey-type energy. These types of questions may be able to better gage what student would fit best at an institution. These questions could even be presented in a Buzzfeed quiz type of format that would help the applicants see what school is best for their situation as well. Processes like this incorporated with other procedural aspects of the application process may help students find the school best-suited for them.

Screenshot of quiz question from Brainfall's "Which University of California Campus Do You Belong At?"