"Ines, I am about to start my last year of law school!"

As the "First and Onlys" in our families, we often self-impose on ourselves the need to balance our personal lives and goals with those of our family. The life of a First and Only is a perpetual balancing act. As former First Lady and lawyer Michelle Obama wrote in her book Becoming, in moments of hardship, we often try to “empower [ourselves] without making any sort of abrupt change,” hoping that our actions do not rock the boat of those around us. Yet, having to carry that burden alone is a terrifying experience. But what is fear to a first-generation child? Our lives are a constant recurring pattern of fear and having to conquer the “new” scenario. My colleague RK believes “[a]cknowledging this fear is part of the healing process.” I completely agree. 

This morning, I experienced a moment of introspection. When I first walked through the King Hall building, it was during Admitted Student Weekend. I was absolutely terrified. I had worked so hard for this moment, but here I was, scared of the unknown and feeling unprepared for the new hurdles law school would bring. I even considered not showing up. 

Despite these feelings, it was my moment to acknowledge my fear. All my life, I had asked others to be brave, but now it was my turn. I was here to keep a promise alive. I had made a powerful vow to someone I had never met but deeply admired. 

The individuals in my life are aware that I have wanted to go to law school and become an attorney since my first year of high school. When asked “why law school” by others, I always made a general comment like “I want to do justice!” or “I want to be a voice for those who are often silenced.” But very few actually know the complexity of that goal. Not even my closest friends or family know the true reason I decided to go to law school. As a child, I witnessed what can only be described as “injustices” involving my family. 

I was raised in a broken household. My mother was undocumented, while my father was a US citizen. In the years he lived with us, he constantly weaponized her undocumented status against her. Alongside this, his narcissistic personality continuously degraded my special-needs older brother and me as worthless scum who never amount to anything. What was most shattering was the illusion he wore so well: the perfect man, beloved by all who knew him––but, the pinnacle of evil to his own family. 

Still, those years of suffering could not compare to the day I lost my innocence, March 15, 2005. It was this day that I cultivated my hunger to shield those I love at all costs. It was the day that my mother lost her child, my baby sister, and the day I finally saw that this man had never truly been family.

On that spring day, my pregnant mother became extremely ill. Instead of going to seek professional care immediately, she was hesitant. Before she obtained a legal status, an overwhelming fear shadowed every move she made--so much so that she avoided doctors. She lived terrified that a single visit could lead to her being reported to ICE and torn away from her growing family. It was this fear that led her not to seek medical attention when she needed to. She gambled her health and hoped that the risk to my sister would be minimal. 

You may be asking yourself, “Why did she have such an overwhelming fear surrounding her legal status?” It was a horrific possibility, but one that my father constantly reminded her of. He did not just manipulate her. He poisoned her world with fear and paranoia, drilling into her mind that everyone was out to get her, all to keep her under his control. By the time she made it to the emergency room, it was too late for my baby sister. In that moment of seeing my mother’s pain, I became so angry. I felt completely powerless. Being trapped in my own helplessness only fueled my rage more.

For the next six years, my rage grew into something darker. I became hateful and resented the world for my mother’s misery. Any belief I had in a higher power withered away. After all, what kind of God would let something so cruel happen to a woman as strong, kind, and deserving as her? It was the constant reminder of the memory of her pain that motivated my anger to do something about our situation. 

At thirteen years old, something changed in me. I wanted to end my mother’s misery. One day, I confronted her, took her hand, and told her I would help her. She cried. I can only think that moment was very hard for her, but like many parentified children, one of our roles is to be the emotional support our parents need.

My mother didn’t have the support of her family and dealt with her misery alone. But in that moment, I decided to shoulder some of her pain. I took the day off from school and went to the family courthouse to request a restraining order and start the formal divorce process. My mother feared the unknown, but not only did I reassure her throughout the process, I also became her advocate. 

I was committed to obtaining “justice” for my family. The next few years were a battle for survival. My father would end up hiring a prestigious firm to represent him in family court, whereas my mother had only me. Regardless of our disadvantage, I ensured her voice echoed in that damn courtroom. I completed all her documents, assisted in gathering evidence, and even created notes of topics I wanted her to discuss during the hearings. 

Although the situation became very ugly, and there were days when I would come home from school not knowing whether I would see my family, I fought to keep my family together. Despite the nastiness of his lawyers, our work paid off: my mother was awarded full custody of my brothers and me, and we were issued restraining orders. Although this was a minor win that could not fix all our issues, seeing my mother’s reaction to me reading the judge’s final order made me realize I was placed in this world to be our family’s protector.

Today, I reflect on my childhood and my sister’s passing. I see these two things as intertwined by faith. Like other First and Onlys, being “diverse” was not a choice. My colleague nay asserts that our futures are not even under our own control. We didn’t choose to be born into the families we are dealt. 

As author Alejandra Campoverdi has emphasized throughout her book First Gen: A Memoir, the First and Onlys experience is constantly having to deal with issues outside of our control. It’s about refusing to back down in the face of injustice. It’s about standing tall, even when the world tries to break you. 

With that being said, I want to apologize to you, Ines. I’m sorry it took me 15 years to visit you. I’m sorry I could not do more for you. Please know I have never forgotten about your sacrifice, and although law school is still very scary, I will be brave for you. Our mother and brothers are thriving because of you. I thank you for the person I have become, and I hope you are proud of me.

To live, or not to live with our parents, that is the question

Living at home with your parents as an adult has traditionally been seen as a failure in American society. People who did so were often deemed lazy, incapable of being independent, and moochers. Living on your own signifies independence, freedom, and success.

On the other hand, growing up in an immigrant household I was taught the exact opposite. Family is the most important thing in life, and this means living with family or—at the very least—nearby them to provide care. Additionally, living at home is preferred because it saves money. Why pay rent to a random stranger when you can pay rent to your own parents, either with money or by helping them out? In theory, this is a “win-win”.

An ongoing dilemma I have, however, is one I am sure many other young adults have: Are the monetary savings of living with my parents worth the non-monetary costs? Fortunately, I am lucky to have grown up in a loving household, and my parents would welcome me back to live with them. So I should want to live with them right? Yet, there is a part of me that does not want to go back. It is not that I do not miss being around my parents, but more so I do not particularly enjoy the heightened familial obligations, stunted personal growth, and lack of independence that comes with being under the same roof.

When I am home, I am expected to help the family. This means taking on running errands for my mom or folding laundry for my entire family. Honestly, this is not too bad, but pairing this with not being able to stay out late with friends or constantly updating my parents on what I am doing or where I am going whenever I leave the house is hard. It is especially hard to return to this lifestyle when I have had a taste of freedom while living on my own in college and law school. 

Additionally, returning home also means returning to my past self. The old me was the family therapist who resolved conflicts amongst family members and who had to seek parental approval before doing anything. I would be returning to the room filled with my childhood stuffed animals. This is the room with a bed where my feet hang off the mattress if I move a couple inches deeper under the covers. This is the room missing a door since my brother and I broke it when playing at least 15 years ago. My room at home represents the old version of me who felt lost and unsure of herself. Going back after all the growth and independence I have gained while away feels like a regression and losing the progress I have made. 

The flip side to maintaining my independence and freedom is the exorbitant costs of living on my own.  According to data from the U.S. Census Bureau, one in three U.S. adults between 18 years old and 34 years old live in their parents' home. The Harris Poll for Bloomberg reported that more than 60% of Gen-Zers and millennials moved back home in the past two years due to financial challenges. 

Even if I do not move back in with my parents, my familial and work obligations will require me to live in the Bay Area. This means I will pay rent in the Bay Area, one of the most expensive places to live. What's worse is not only would living on my own be unaffordable but there are additional hidden costs of feeling guilty and selfish for not staying with my family when I am so close by.

Throughout college and now in law school, I looked for work to be close to my parents. Previously, there was no doubt that I would live at home to save money because there was a tangible end date for when I would move out and live on my own again. More recently though, thinking about my post-graduation plans that feel more long-term, I am seeing the situation differently. I am lucky to be able to talk to friends my age with varying living situations to help me determine what I may want to do myself. 

I wish I could say I have figured out my plans, but unfortunately, that remains to be clear. I am glad that I  understand the cost of independence and that freedom is more than money before I make any decisions though. In the meantime, I will embrace this period of my life where I have the opportunity to explore my options and be grateful that I am lucky that my family is there to support me by providing a place for me to stay in the first place.

Lessons from a PBS kid

Fact: The Thresher Shark uses its long tail to stun its prey.  

Fact: There have been ongoing debates on the existence of a ninth planet called Planet X.

Fact: These were the actual things I used to tell other kids in the schoolyard at recess before they would walk away and tell me I was weird. 

Recently, we read the NPR article "In 'Columbus,' John Cho Reckons With His Own First-Generation Culture Clash." The article details Cho's upbringing and the struggles he encountered dealing with the culture clash of being the child of immigrant parents. What stood out to me the most was how the article highlighted the limbo immigrant children are in when exposed to different cultures, struggling to find an identity.  

Growing up in an immigrant household, all we had was satellite TV. I grew up with the kids' shows on PBS, such as Cyberchase, Maya and Miguel, and if I stayed up late enough, Nova. That's right, everyone. I was watching science documentaries for fun. 

I remember going to school the next day, excited to tell the other kids what I had learned, only for them to talk about shows like Kim Possible or The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. It was hard to fit in or find friends who shared my unique interests, especially because at the time, we couldn't afford cable. I felt angry that we couldn't afford to be "normal" and felt lonely because no one really knew about the shows I talked about. 

Like Sonia Sotomayor's mom telling her, "you know best, Sonia," my parents expected me to figure out "American life" on my own. As I previously discussed in another blog post, I had undiagnosed ADHD, and so I really didn't know what was best. Often, I did what I thought was best on impulse. As this article in Think Global Health by Hannah Todd and Eliza Martin explains, "the hardships of immigrant parents in one generation . . . influence the struggles and successes of the next generation."

I learned the quickest, easiest way to "make friends" was to act a fool for some laughs. Disrupting class for some cheap laughs meant to me, "if someone laughs at me, it meant they didn't hate me." Like Gob Bluth in Arrested Development, they weren't laughing at me; they were laughing with me. 

Unfortunately, that didn't sit well with my teachers. After many parent conferences, my mom sent me to work with my grandpa mowing lawns. 

I can still smell the gas fumes and hear the squeaking suspension of the 1990 Ford Econoline van as we drove out at 5AM to mow lawns in Baldwin Hills. My mom believed it would teach me some discipline and I guess by her own logic, teach me to appreciate the luxuries I had. If I wasn't at home causing trouble, it was because I was working. 

Every Saturday, I was given a rake and bin while my grandpa began operating the machines. As we drove through LA, I saw the different cities in LA County. Meeting some interesting people through his routes, I learned that not all of us live the same "American life." Seeing apartment units use children's blankets for window curtains versus seeing houses with garages filled with cars put into perspective what life as a child of immigrants meant to me. 

I learned that immigrant parents will work the hardest jobs during the worst times to give their kids a nicer life. Even if it wasn't the best, it was better than they had. One of my favorite songs of all time "La Jaula de Oro" by Los Tigres del Norte, portrays the fact that parents of immigrant children also face a culture clash. The song comes from the perspective of a father who longs for his life in Mexico and feels he's trapped in a cage made of gold in the U.S. The song describes how the singer's son doesn't even speak his language and denies he's Mexican. This song is a must-listen for the children of immigrant parents. 

I felt compelled to write about this struggle because it was mowing lawns with my grandpa that taught me to realize the sacrifices my parents made for me to be here. Of course, this struggle was not without its faults, and I would later develop that feeling of guilt many of us first gens experience when attaining higher education. The notion that we needed to be the best because we had our family struggles on our shoulders was like an invisible weight being placed slowly over time. But at the time, the hands placing those weights on my shoulders did it slowly, and I wouldn't know this until years later. 

Though I would go on a mental health journey to reflect on this toll, I realized the best thing about working with my Grandpa was that he would listen to my endless talking. Sure, he only spoke Spanish, but I did my best to translate what I'd learned on PBS. I learned a great work ethic from him and would follow his outlook on life: "When life gives you problems, just get straight to working through the dirt, and it will come out alright." 

As of writing this, I feel I've found the definition of the "American life" I struggled to define as the child of immigrants:

Empathy and compassion. 

These are valuable lessons I feel all of us need to learn before we become attorneys. No matter where we end up or how much money we make, always remember to treat each other with kindness. Lend an ear to a stranger, learn to listen, and be there in the moment. 

Looking back, I'm glad that I didn't fit right into the "American life" everyone else fit into. I loved every moment of being able to watch PBS shows and documentaries or check out books from my local library for free. 

I wanted to dedicate this blog post to my grandpa, who taught me a strong work ethic, and my TV grandpa, Mister Rogers, who got me through some of the hardest times of my life and never judged me for my mistakes. Both of them taught me to love myself and appreciate where I came from.  And finally, I wanted to also dedicate this post to LeVar Burton and Reading Rainbow who helped me find other worlds I could escape to in books when I couldn't quite fit into this one sometimes. 

"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.

"That's my boy"

I watched a lot of Tom and Jerry with my dad growing up. I always enjoyed watching Jerry torment Tom because I always loved annoying my older sister. But my dad's favorite scenes always involved the bulldog, Spike. Spike was aggressive and tough to everyone but his adorable son. The puppy, who looks just like Spike, was praised, protected, and pampered. Spike's iconic line was "that's my boy." Whenever we watched a scene with Spike, my dad would always look and over and say in the same voice, "that's my boy."

My dad loves me; I've never doubted that for a moment. We have a posterboard for family photos where we have a photo of my dad at twelve years old and myself at 12 years old. We look so identical that visitors have a difficult time telling the two of us apart. My dad loves showing off these photos to his middle school students. He's always expressed how he wants me to have a son that looks just like me. 

Homogenous 

I grew up in a Korean community, Korean church, and all my closest friends were Korean when I was growing up. It was natural to be surrounded by other Koreans everywhere I went. I knew my parents expected me to have a Korean family, but I always thought it was a desire, not an expectation. 

When I told my parents that I started dating a white girl recently, they were shocked. As the child of immigrants, I've always known my parents were going to cling to their community. I’ve always known they were going to speak their native language at home. I always thought having "a son that looked just like me" was a joke; a small wish that my dad had. But when I told him the news, expecting some sort of celebration, all I got back was silence and a solemn face. 

My mom tried explaining it away as shock on his part, but I asked him how he felt and he started trying to explain it away and used the word "homogenous." My dad teaches middle school math; homogenous isn't part of his vocabulary. I was taken aback because I felt like he was explaining this to me as if I should have known this, as if this wasn’t expected of me. His sentiment made me question what he really wanted for me. 

Second-Gen immigrant 

A lot of first-gen students are children of immigrants who came to America without any savings or formal education. My parents stuck with other Koreans to make a living. My mom's employers were always Korean, often connected through church. We joke that any place they live has to have a Korean supermarket nearby. 

As a first-gen student, I couldn't be as insular as my parents when I went off to college and law school. I could converse with professors, make jokes with friends, and talk to strangers about sports or the class reading. This meant my closest group of friends were all ethnically mixed, and my parents never had a problem with that. But my father took exception to the idea that I could potentially end up with a white woman. I'm not writing this to say my father is a racist; I'm saying he never had the opportunity to take a step outside of his Korean community. 

As first-gen students, we often grew up in cultures that were very insular simply because our parents didn't have the complete opportunity to interact with other cultures. When we went off to college, we stepped out of our communities, and we brought new ideas back to our families. I thought my parents loved the fact that I was going to friends' homes and trying homemade tamales or pho. It turns out though, that their line was the family unit. 

It wasn't about me having a Korean family as much as it was about their expectation that I would be like them. Many first-gen students' parents immigrated and worked incredibly hard so that their children could have an opportunity for class mobility. Likewise, my parents prioritized their family and their children, and they expected that I would do the same. 

I've worked incredibly hard to succeed in undergrad and in law school. Now, I have that opportunity that my parents worked so hard for. But when I consider taking that next step and solidifying my place in the "next class," I feel as though I'm betraying everything my parents worked for because I'm not prioritizing the same understanding of family and community that they did. It feels like I'm watching Tom and Jerry with my dad again, but now he wants to say, "that's (not) my boy."

Are we part of the problem?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

"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.