A prudent concern to cultivate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Success is never permanent, and failure is never final.

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

But now, I hear it differently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still, we climb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But maybe that was never the point.

Maybe it’s not about the destination.

Maybe it’s about the crossing.

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

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.

We need to stop catastrophizing when we're cliff jumping

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What my eight-year-old sister taught me about imposter syndrome - integrity, discipline, and the excitement to try again

I struggle with the fear of not knowing enough. I struggle with the possibility of failure and the fear of not being able to hold my own hand through it. I struggle with imposter syndrome.

When you’re the first to do something, the first in your family to go to college, the first to step into a career path, you carry the weight of uncertainty. You walk into rooms where no one looks like you, where no one seems as flustered as you, and where everyone appears to have a roadmap but you. There is no familiar voice to turn to for reassurance, no safety net of lived experience to tell you, “Yes, this is how it works!” or “You’re doing the right thing.”

Psychologists Pauline Clance and Suzanne Imes, who first coined the term impostor phenomenon, described it as the persistent fear of being exposed as a fraud despite evidence of success. Their research showed that many high-achieving individuals, particularly women, lived in a constant state of self-doubt, convinced that their achievements were due to luck or deception rather than ability.

This post by Anjali Mistry explores the impact of impostor syndrome on women in the workforce, particularly in law, and the role of mentorship in overcoming self-doubt.

For me, that persistent fear is all too familiar. And yet, the thing that has cured my imposter syndrome time and time again is the perspective of an eight-year-old girl who means the world to me—my little sister, Shandiin. Her name is Navajo for sunshine, and she is exactly that: a warm, comforting light, illuminating a path forward.

For an eight-year-old, she carries a lot of fear. She gets anxious about being late. She is reluctant to try new foods. She is scared of failure, as most kids are. But the remarkable thing about her isn’t her fear, it’s what she does despite it.

Recently, she competed in her first taekwondo tournament. It was a huge deal because she was new to the sport. My parents recently moved from Texas to California. In Texas, she took karate, but taekwondo is different. Different forms, different goals, different stances. Yet in just six months, she embraced an entirely new discipline.

I love watching her practice because I can see how much she wants it. She is a typical energetic, silly kid, always joking and playing. But in practice, she is different. She stands still, listens intently, absorbing every movement her instructors make. She isn’t just present—she is studying. And before we knew it, she had won her studio’s award for integrity.

During class, when the kids were told to complete their moves and sit when finished, some sat down early, following the crowd. But not Shandiin. It didn’t matter if she was the last one standing—she completed every move to fruition. She wasn’t afraid of being slower because she was focused on doing it right.

Her integrity and discipline is why she was chosen for the tournament training team despite being new to the sport. 

But she was hesitant to join. She didn’t know what a tournament looked like. She didn’t know if her skills matched up. No one in our family had ever done taekwondo, so we had no wisdom to pass down.

Sound familiar? It’s the first-gen experience in a different form.

You step into spaces where no one before you has gone. There’s no advice to lean on, no “this is what I learned” to guide you. You study those around you, listen closely, and try to decipher the unspoken rules. You wonder if you belong. You wonder if you’ll be good enough.

But then, you show up anyway.

That’s what Shandiin did. When she came home from her tournament after placing third, she wasn’t most excited about her medal—she was excited to try again. She went on and on about the next competition, about how she had observed the sparring category, one she had been hesitant to try, so she could be more familiar with it next time. She was already thinking about what she would do differently.

She wasn’t discouraged by her inexperience. She was making a plan to tackle a challenge instead of giving up on herself. And the next week, she was back at practice. Same energy. Same drive. Same willingness to learn.

Watching her, I realized: this is how you beat imposter syndrome, in tournaments and in life.

You don’t count yourself out because you’re afraid of being inexperienced. You don’t let the unknown stop you. You step in, watch, learn and try. You might fail, but that’s just an opportunity to learn and try again with new knowledge and perspective.

This post by SC also discusses challenging your feelings of uncertainty to learn and grow.

And when you do, you don’t just shine a path for yourself — you make it easier for those who come next.

Shandiin isn’t just teaching me some of her taekwondo moves in our living room. She’s teaching me how to step into the unknown and see it as an opportunity to grow. She is teaching me how to trust myself even when I don’t have all the answers. She is showing me that the best way to defeat imposter syndrome is with integrity, discipline, and the excitement to try again.

Writing to past me and future me

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


Dear 1L me,

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

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

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

 

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


Dear 3L me,

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

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

Life is too short not to do scary things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Defining and appreciating my "village"

Most people have heard the following phrase: "It takes a village to raise a child." This expression is thought to have originated in Africa and attempts to convey the importance of providing a safe and healthy environment for children to grow up and thrive in.

The "villagers" in a child's life can be their parents, siblings, friends, school peers, religious leaders, or other community members. Each of these social connections can add richness into a child's life and provide a positive influence on the child. 

In my humble opinion, it also takes a village to send a child to law school. 

Receiving an acceptance letter to law school is the culmination of completing an undergraduate degree, studying and taking the LSAT, requesting letters of recommendation, writing personal statements, and submitting applications. Each of these steps require substantial time and energy, and can often lead students feeling emotionally drained. 

Michael Sandel notes in his book entitled The Tyranny of Merit that those who achieve success in a competitive meritocracy are "indebted in ways the competition obscures." In other words, our personal success can be attributed to other factors or people outside of our own doing and hard work. 

In an effort to shine light on those who have supported me on my journey to law school, I want to take a moment to highlight people who I would consider myself indebted to.

My Mom and Younger Brother: My Anchors

I could very easily spend an entire blog post dedicated to describing the support my family has given me. Suffice it to say, I owe so much (if not all) of my success to the love from my mother and little brother.

My mom has been a public school teacher for her entire career, has spent time teaching at the graduate level, and holds a Master's in Education. Her background led her to always push me and my brother to take advantage of education at every step in our lives. When I was accepted into an elite liberal arts college, she took on a second job teaching English to Chinese students via Zoom to help pay for my tuition.

Her sacrifice to help send me to college is one I think about every day. Without her support, I would have never been able to attend a top college and receive an amazing education. On top of it all, she has loved me through thick and thin; she is my biggest fan, my best friend, and the best person I know. She demonstrates to me what it means to work hard, never give up, and always be there for the ones you love. All of the traits I like about myself come from her and I always want to do my best so she is proud of me.

My brother has always served as a calming presence in my life. I admire his cool-headed demeanor and the positive perspective he can provide. He never fails to make me laugh and his kind, sensitive heart serves as my reminder to always stop and smell the roses.

It is difficult to find the right words to encompass all of the gratitude and love I have for them. All I can say is "thank-you" and I hope they know they are (and always will be) my biggest source of strength.

Friends: Past and Present

As those with great friends understand, there is nothing better than knowing you have a group of people cheering you on no matter what.

Prior to law school, my friends were nothing but supportive of my journey to becoming a lawyer. Although many of them were unfamiliar with the process or never attended an elite academic institution, that never stopped them from listening to me discuss what it would be like to be an attorney and encouraging me to chase my dreams.

My friends in law school have also been a steadying force. Law school breeds a competitive environment, but I have never once felt ashamed, belittled, or nervous to share any of my struggles. In fact, I always turn to them when I am facing a challenge I am not sure I can overcome because I know they will push me to do my best while also providing me with a safe space to share my feelings. Law school can be exiling at times, but I feel fortunate to have friends who never make me feel alone.

Extended Community: Mentors in the Legal Field

A common piece of advice many 1Ls receive upon entering law school is to find a mentor within the legal field. Mentors can provide students with their own lived experience as an attorney, act as a sounding board for the student, and give their advice on how to navigate challenging or confusing situations while in law school and beyond. But for First and Onlys, seeking a mentor can prove more difficult compared to students who enter law school with pre-established connections. 

I was fortunate enough to meet my mentor during the spring semester of 1L. One of the required courses first year law students must take at UC Davis is "Lawyering Process" and my mentor was the designated supervisor for our section. I connected with her because of her practical approach to her career and her passion for helping her clients.

When I was struggling to find a job last semester, we met at a coffee shop and she shared her story about job searching right out of law school. She reminded me to rely on my scrappiness and to stay resilient, just as she had done years ago. 

Job searching in law school tested my determination, but the support I received from my mentor reminded me that everyone faces setbacks at some point in their career. Her words of advice have continually stuck with me and constantly serve as a reminder that I can make it through tough situations as long as I stay committed. I will forever be thankful for her encouragement.

Gratitude and Appreciation

It is clear to me that my success and achievement is the product of all the love, support, and encouragement I have received from the "villagers" in my life. Without them, I would not be the woman I am today. I have so much gratitude and appreciation for those who have poured into me and I hope that I can make them proud as I continue down my path.

It’s time to organize (part II: inspirations)

Inhale (deep breath, an inspiration). When I posted my first blog, I featured a photo of myself standing at the apartheid wall that separates the West Bank from settlements in occupied Palestine. I didn’t expect that what this visual represents would take such a center stage for so many so soon. Since starting to draft this third blog, the collective conscience of the world has been fracturing. These are the only words I can use to describe watching the horror of escalated genocide and ethnic cleansing unfold on our phones daily while we continue to move between the day to day tasks of law school and life. Despite the anguish, rage, grief, our student body has been pushing onward, with as much care as we can muster. Unless folks have remained willfully uninformed, I haven’t seen an area of the law school that hasn’t been affected by the ongoing genocide in Gaza that is in large part funded and supported by the US.  

 

In the past month, I have been constantly reminded that our legacies matter so far beyond individual “successes” but more meaningfully toward what future we are creating. We get to (and must) choose the paths forward. This is why the American Bar Association messages standing against repression matter, the National Lawyers Guild unequivocal support for liberation and critical engagement matter, why I’m so proud of my own LSA (law student government) for the statement we released on October 24 after intentional time hearing from students, having multiple meetings and votes in order to support our community and call for a ceasefire. I’ve been so inspired by my mentors, my friends, my community, students, laborers, journalists, people of conscience. Right now, especially, it feels like we’re looking for inspiration. Inspiration to do the “right” thing, to do the hard thing, to do anything.

 

In my previous blog post, I briefly mentioned a few inspirational folks in my journey who I never met: Assata Shakur, Thurgood Marshall, Martin Luther King Jr. I felt inspired by a former classmate’s post about how Tyler the Creator influenced her college journey, and I planned this follow-up post to continue to explore the inspirational folks that we look to as we organize as law students (or whomever we may be) for better futures for all. What I had planned to share when first writing this post was about the legacies we engage when we look to our inspirational leaders. What I have instead is these musings and by way of my original topic, I’ll highlight an elder of conscience who I continue to look to in times of political chaos. While celebrity culture is not something I endorse, we see that folks who have become idols in popular culture can certainly use their platforms in meaningful ways (shout out to Kehlani, to Macklemore (?!?!), to Kid Cudi, Jamila Woods, and so many more folks who have decidedly chosen to speak out against ongoing atrocities in the past month in such ways as Artists Against Apartheid). What I wanted to talk about was living into the legacy of people like the namesake of our law school. What I am saying is that we still have the opportunity to do so.

 

The elder of conscience I wanted to highlight who influenced my journey is Angela Davis. The night this photo was taken at Busboys & Poets in Washington, DC, I was in the throws of wanting to drop out of school to become a “full-time activist.” I was advised by beloveds that this was not an “actual career plan,” and encouraged rather that sometimes we should stick to the status quo. Having the honor to enjoy a pastry (my favorite thing) in conversation with Angela Davis, I asked her thoughts on whether I should stay in school. When I shared that I had only one semester left until graduation, she said, unequivocally yes, finish out if it is right for me. So I stayed, and I graduated, and I hurt and I learned and I grew, and here I am, cultivating a path on which I deliberately include organizing, activism, art, joy, my passions and people I care deeply about. This is in small part because of the conversation I had, but in larger part because of the ongoing learning from mentors and community and from leaders like Dr. Davis. The revolutionary author of Freedom is a Constant Struggle (relevant for our current times) as well as a number of other essays and books has consistently shown the true nature of not only a revolutionary, but also an activist-academic. I recently hung a timeline of Dr. Davis’s life to date on the wall in my office that I got as a souvenir from an exhibit at the OMCA. I wanted a reminder that the time we spend matters. 

 

I’ve been privileged to continue to witness and learn from activist-academics in practice (starting from my own mother) through mentors I have gained while in graduate school. What I am currently considering is that facing down the worst parts of what our humanity is capable of is not disconnected from what we puzzle over in the classrooms… atrocities we read about in textbooks are not just thought experiments, there are human lives connected to each loss, each law, each choice. The devastation in the world weighs heavily on my heart and mind, but/and I’m privileged and grateful to be where I am right now, working toward the legacy that stops these kinds of atrocities in their tracks before they can be carried out against anyone else. 

We can choose who we take inspiration from. We can become inspirational. More on this next time. As I continue to think through this moment and what it means for all of us, I’ll end with an excerpt from the poem that starts Assata Shakur’s biography, as an exhale (breathe out):

 

Affirmation

“I have been locked by the lawless. 

Handcuffed by the haters.

Gagged by the greedy.

And, if i know any thing at all,

it’s that a wall is just a wall

and nothing more at all.

It can be broken down.

 

I believe in living. 

I believe in birth.

I believe in the seat of love 

and the fire of truth.

 

And i believe that a lost ship, 

steered by tired, seasick sailors, 

can still be guided home

to port.”