Reputation, relationships, and law school

One part of law school that has been more complicated to navigate than I expected is the social aspect of it.

I am no stranger to small class sizes or being around the same people everyday, as this was how my entire educational experience from K-12th grade was. However, there is one key difference here: this is professional school. I am surrounded by people who I may have to work with or around for the rest of my legal career.

I am someone who likes to keep a very clear boundary between my work life and my personal life. There are aspects of my life that I firmly believe are not for my colleagues or bosses to know. I have seen the drama that can ensue when boundaries between work and play are crossed, and I have absolutely no interest in being involved with any of it.

This also applies to law school.

At this school, I have a reputation for staying out of the loop. I avoid bar reviews, parties, and most large get-togethers that consist mostly of law students. I am also very private regarding my opinions on other students and with details regarding my personal life in general.

Many people have interpreted my behavior as being rooted in some sort of dislike or hate for other Davis law students.

This could not be further from the truth. I have actually met some really cool people here. Rather, it is me trying to maintain this balance that I have described. I have seen the amount of drama that arises for students who are heavily socially involved and this is just something that I want no parts of. Law school is difficult enough without the social drama.

Drawing these lines is always much easier to do in theory than in reality. Building relationships with people is very important for success and advancement within careers. Additionally, we cannot help who we naturally click with, especially when we are in this close of proximity to each other.

It is almost inevitable that you form at least some relationships with the people that you go to school with and work with.

There have been times that people make comments that upset me or make me uncomfortable. When this occurs, I am extremely careful in how I react. Generally speaking, I am very outspoken and have no problems standing up for myself. However, when surrounded by future colleagues, I cannot always react the way that I would outside of this space.

I have to be very wary of the “angry Black woman” stereotype. This is particularly true when an individual who says something that upsets me is white. If I raise my voice, or show too much emotion, there is a higher likelihood of me being perceived as “aggressive” or “scary” even if I did not instigate the situation.

If the person I have conflict with is someone who I end up working with in the future, my reputation could be damaged before I even get there. I could be perceived as “angry” or “difficult” before getting the opportunity to interact with anyone.

Beyond anger, people who like to gossip could share personal aspects of my life with potential employers and future colleagues. This could also give potential employers and co-workers the opportunity to view me in an unprofessional light or have perceptions of me based on situations that have nothing to do with my job performance.

Therefore, it is much easier for me to just avoid certain social spaces altogether.

Race matters in regard to perception of emotions and interactions, and I have experienced many micro-aggressions throughout my life that have confirmed this. The rules are not the same for everyone, and

I do not receive the same grace in expressing my frustrations or anger as many of my peers. I have worked too hard to allow any drama to taint the professional reputation that I am building for myself, and distancing myself socially has been the best way for me to do this.

I am a very big believer in the importance of community, which is why I make pouring into my friendships a very large priority in my life. My friendships are everything to me because they are the spaces where I feel the most myself.

Among my friends outside of school, I do not have to police my interactions. I do not have to worry about the whole school finding out about my personal life. I do not have to worry about how my career may be impacted by how they perceive my emotions. I do not have to perform. I can just be me. This is simply not my reality in law school, and that is okay.

This is not to say that I feel as though the friends I have made here would ever do anything to harm my career or share my personal business with future employers/colleagues. However, the presence of that risk –no matter how low–is ultimately what makes me operate with more caution within my relationships here.

I am excited to see all the new connections that this profession will bring me in the future. I also look forward to finally figuring out how to navigate this balance between my professional life and social life.

The barriers that keep us out

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

Undergraduate education

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

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

Law school admissions 

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

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

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

The summer position job search

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what do we do about it? 

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

“Big Law” Series: What does the "end" of DEI mean for students and "big law" job prospects? (Part III)

See Part I and Part II.

DEI and Big Law: Benefits of DEI initiatives 

In some ways, the elimination of law firm DEI programs will not significantly impact first-gen students' abilities to get "big law" jobs. Sure, these programs offer students a high-paying job and scholarship. But grades, achievements, and fit have and will continue to take precedence in hiring decisions. As a 2009 LCLD scholar states in his LinkedIn post, “[m]ost employers aren’t really in the business of hiring people who can’t do the work.” However, the elimination of law firm-DEI programs will influence accessibility and retention. 

For example, fewer first-generation students may be encouraged to apply for these spots because they do not hear about potential positions as firms cut their marketing budgets. Even for students who are not selected to participate in these prestigious programs, they get a competitive advantage by talking to law firm recruiters early in the process. Eliminating incentives to apply––like a hefty scholarship––may mean fewer first-gen applicants. Demand for "big law" jobs is also increasing as the Trump administration has eliminated the DOJ Honors program and other government work opportunities. 

Retention measures may also be at risk. Affinity organizations––groups which underrepresented minority individuals can join within firms––often help associates transition into big-law life. Advantages like meeting coworkers your first year versus second, learning the culture of the workplace, or understanding the structure of a law firm are exponentially beneficial to students who are the “first and onlys” in their families; they are, perhaps, lost on illegible students who come from a long line of attorneys or working professionals who can give them the same mentorship they would gain from an extra summer of work. 

First-gen law students will have to overcome many barriers, obstacles, and unknowns to get to law school, let alone to succeed in “big law:” taking the LSAT, completing several law school applications, purchasing suits, participating in "OCI," getting good grades, attending networking events, and more. Accessibility, in my opinion, is not defined as whether the application "door" is open. Accessibility connotes whether interested students are given equal opportunities to set goals; participate meaningfully in school- and workplace-culture; or control their careers.

Law schools should continue to use holistic measures to create a more diverse student population. This diversity is not limited to ethnic or socioeconomic diversity, though. It should be, as Justice O’Connor noted in the majority opinion of Grutter, “focus[ed] on academic ability coupled with a flexible assessment of applicants’ talents, experiences, and potential ‘to contribute to the learning of those around them.’” Id. at 315. The legal field––which, according to the ABA, has long been dominated by white (78% of the profession, 2024), straight (approx. 93% of the profession, 2023), able-bodied (approx. 98% of the profession, 2023) lawyers––is thus served by instituting these diversity measures. As long as financial and informational disparities exist, these DEI programs are justified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Big Law” Series: What does the "end" of DEI mean for students and "big law" job prospects? (Part II)

Context: DEI initiatives and Equal Protection

Several of my law school courses have explored whether DEI initiatives are legal under the 14th Amendment––the Constitutional requirement to treat all individuals equal. Even if they are legal, do DEI initiatives propel marginalized individuals forward? Or is “‘[d]iversity,’ for all of its devotees, is more a fashionable catchphrase than it is a useful term, especially when something as serious as racial discrimination is at issue,'" as Justice Thomas posed in his concurrence in the 2003 Supreme Court case, Grutter v. Bollinger?

The job market in an evolving “Equal Protection” landscape

President Trump’s cabinet asserts that DEI initiatives are not legal. Several “big law” firms have been the subjects of Executive Orders commanding them to halt their DEI practices, forgo certain pro bono projects, and end relationships with partisan clients. What do the orders mean for first-generation students applying for post-bar jobs? Although many “big law” firms recognize value in these DEI initiatives and are fighting to keep them in place, a growing contingent of big law firms have acquiesced. To avoid an Executive Order, the capitulating firms have promised the Trump administration hundreds of "pro bono" hours worth millions of dollars. Other large law firms have (thus far) remained silent.

Big Law "Spine Index"

As a law student, my news feed is filled with reactions against those firms bowing down to the Trump administration: open letters by associates threatening resignation; "big law" partners initiating focus groups for other partners to act; or data suggesting 1L students applying to jobs are avoiding those firms. The American Bar Association, law school deans, and various law school faculty have also issued statements against the Trump administration's actions. These entities, or members of the entities, also recognize value in recruiting diverse, first-generation students to their firms. They also observe a sizable risk to that goal in eliminating these programs.

So, how does this affect first-generation law students seeking admissions at law schools?

This year is the most competitive year in history for getting into law school. Law school admissions offices often consider a variety of factors––such as GPA, LSAT (law school admissions test) score, undergraduate institution and area of study, and reasons for attending law school––when determining which students to admit and how much financial aid to award them. With DEI programs coming to an end, will law school admissions be impacted? 

In my opinion, they will not be impacted significantly, if at all. Law schools have been afforded wide leeway to institute holistic review of applicants in the admissions process. See Grutter, 539 U.S. at 346. Programs which DEI initiatives may have been useful to “counteract”––like college admission legacy programs––have been largely dismantled. 

In Grutter, then-Chief Justice Rehnquist (joined by Justices Scalia, Kennedy, and Thomas) asserted that the University of Michigan Law School’s DEI admissions statistics do not support its stated DEI goals. Id. at 380-84 (Rehnquist, J., dissenting). They argued that “the Law School’s disparate admissions practices with respect to these minority groups demonstrate that its alleged goal . . . is simply a sham.” Id. at 383.  Maybe, as Rehnquist asserted,  DEI programs are "dishonest and dangerous activity . . . [that has] undermin[ed] democratic . . . process[es]." 

Perhaps Rehnquist is right––that the end of these programs means less gaming by prospective law students or “big law” associates who feel invalidated by DEI application questions. There may be less stigma associated with vulnerable students; who are racial or ethnic minorities or low-income, and who may be cloaked with a feeling of unreservedness, a lingering question of: “Was it what I achieved despite my adversity or my diverse perspective that gained me admissions? Or am I merely an ‘aesthetic [that shapes] the Law School[‘s] certain appearance, from the shape of the desks and tables in its classrooms to the color of the students sitting at them[?]’” Grutter, 539 U.S. at n. 3 (Thomas, J., concurring in part); see also an Op-Ed in The Atlantic about this sensation (reflecting on the autobiography Reflections of an Affirmative Action Baby).  

I will delve further into this debate in Part III, which will address whether this may affect first-generation students breaking into “big law” as a first-generation law student at a “big law” firm. 

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

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

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

My “First” Haircut

My parents are Sikhs from Punjab, India. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My First Swim Lessons and Camping Trip

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

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

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

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

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

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

I came back with sore legs and a full heart.

My First Estate Planning Job Offer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carrying These Firsts Forward

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

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

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

“Big Law” Series: Why do students want "Big Law" jobs? (Part I)

Firms are increasingly pushing the on-campus interview process ("OCI") earlier and earlier. Many DEI-eligible students have had a competitive advantage by applying to the 1L Leadership Council on Legal Diversity ("LCLD") or diversity programs offered by “big law” firms. But the existence of these programs raises the question:  why would students participate in stressful, opaque processes just to work in “big law”? What are the benefits of these programs? Why should firms solicit diverse, first-generation students to apply to their early-access programs? This post will explore what “Big Law” is and why first-generation, and particularly low-income, students might be interested in jobs at a big law firm. Subsequent blog entries will discuss President Trump’s executive orders against law firms and why these orders may be relevant to first-generation or diverse students interested in entering the legal field. 

What is “big law”?

Jobs in "big law"––the colloquial name for the top 100-200 law firms as ranked by American Lawyer––are highly coveted due to the type of work lawyers get to do (often representing titans in a field) and the enormous salary they earn (most "big law" firms have starting salaries of >$200,000). The financial stability, work, and prestige make competition for these jobs intense. I’ll unpack some of the details of what these firms offer in the sections that follow.

A. Financial Stability

For many first-generation students, these jobs are not just prestigious, they promise financial stability, which many first-gen students have not previously enjoyed. 

Law school tuition can be extremely expensive, averaging about $151,000 over three years at ABA accredited schools. Many students go into debt to pay for law school, on top of the debt they have accumulated for  college. A big law salary is typically the most efficient means to pay this debt off.

In addition, as a soon-to-be graduate, I have unveiled many "hidden fees" to becoming a licensed attorney: registration with the California State Bar ($150), registration to take the MPRE (ethics exam) ($160), registration to take the California State Bar Exam ($1,082), California Bar Exam prep course (>$2,800), moral character investigation (>$700), and more. These are all expenses for which my "big law” firm is reimbursing me and, in some cases, fronting. 

B. Work Opportunity & Resources 

Another reason why these jobs are so coveted is that they often provide a strong training ground for students to explore many different types of corporate/transactional law or civil litigation projects. As big law firms often have high billing requirements (e.g., minimum of 1900-2100 billable hours/year, often ~60-80 hours of work a week), they require that associates have strong work ethics. The "high-stakes" training ground signals that lawyers at these firms are detail-oriented, quick witted, and less inclined to make mistakes. This sets the lawyers up for opportunities to lateral into other careers in the future. 

C. Prestige

When I started law school, I was unaware that the legal field wielded prestige to impose and maintain hierarchy. There seem to be myriad ways for law students to be "ranked": judicial clerkships, T-14 law schools, Law Review, Order of the Coif, and Order of the Barristers. Yet, data shows that fewer first-gen students are involved in these activities than are their continuing-generation counterparts.

A lawyer’s career can be shaped by how they excelled or the times they did not excel. The legal field can be extremely unforgiving. This puts heightened pressure on students––especially first-generation students––who are unaware of what criteria will be used to evaluate them. As discussed, if first-generation student can break into a “big law” firm, such an opportunity can yield fruitful career opportunities. However, President Trump’s Executive Orders may reduce such opportunities for first-generation students, as will be discussed in Parts II and III. 

Trailblazer tolls: risks, rewards, costs, and benefits

Over the last week, I've been thinking a lot about the "blindfolded cliff jumping" metaphor Alejandra Campoverdi continuously uses in her memoir. Campoverdi uses the term to refer to the experience first-generation students have in breaking educational barriers. The phrase is meant to evoke feelings of danger, adrenaline, and possibility.

We all have different tolerance levels for risk. While I would never be personally comfortable taking on the level of risk Campoverdi describes in her journey to D.C., going to law school is still a risk. Choosing to be the First and Only in your family to pursue a higher level of education is daunting for a number of reasons. 

Being the First and Only in your family to go to law school is an intimidating financial risk. According to a survey conducted by the American Bar Association, the median amount of debt taken on by a law student is $112,000. I'm willing to bet this amount trends higher among First and Onlys, who often don't have the same familial wealth many other law students do to fund their education, nor do they have the same access to merit scholarships.

Honestly, I didn't realize the extent of the potential for debt coming in to law school. Or, I may have realized the extent of the debt but figured everyone graduating law school was handed out fancy, high-paying jobs immediately after graduation. 

Although the six-figure median salary ($106,744 in CA) for first year attorneys is a figure that would have impressed me previously, I'm not sure it is enough to justify the cost of law school. In fact, according to Education Data Initiative, an organization that provides research and resources to tackle the rising costs of higher education, less than half of new law school graduates say their education was worth the cost. In other words, the six-figure salary that might appear plentiful on the outside comes at a literal cost. 

Blindfolded cliff jumping isn't the only trailblazer toll. Being the First and Only also means you must leave home. Saying goodbye, even if it's temporary, is no easy thing to do. In order to pursue higher education, many of us are forced to leave our social support systems -- our friends and families -- that helped us get here. This affects us, but it also affects them. 

A few days ago, my best friend back home told me that she was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. Her test results were released to her, online, a day before her doctor's appointment. She opened them and told me what they said. The next morning, she had to walk into that appointment alone. That killed me.

Because I live four hundred miles away, there was nothing I could do. I wasn't able to hold her hand; I wasn't able to hug her and tell her everything was going to be okay; and I sure as hell wasn't able go with her to that appointment.

This isn't the only time I have dealt with this type of situation. In the middle of the second semester of 1L year, my dad became unwell after a surgery. He lived alone, so I left Davis and the demands of law school to take care of him for the weekend. This decision affected my performance on my midterm exams, which were the following week. This was not even a consideration in my mind when I decided to leave, but that decision had consequences. Following the exam, I visited the professor's office hours to talk about my concerns. She told me to leave my worries about home behind. To not look back. To not engage or worry about anything going forward that isn't law school. But how could I possibly do that?

The guilt that accompanies leaving the ones you love can be paralyzing, especially when you're not able to be physically present during their time of need. The demands from home don't stop, even if we are hundreds of miles away. "Hillbilly Elegy" demonstrated the conflict between the competing needs of career advancement and the health and safety of family members. When Vance got the call that his motner had overdosed while he was at a networking event, his sister pleaded with him to come home. Vance dropped what he was doing and made the hours-long journey home to pick up the pieces. 

I wish I could have done more for my friend in her moment of need. I wish I could have dropped everything and gone to that doctor's appointment with her. But I didn't, and I feel guilty for that. Ultimately, she is going to be okay. The survival rate for the form of thyroid cancer she has is nearly 100%. That the odds are in her favor, though, does not detract from the fact that I wasn't able to be there for her when she needed support. 

Is this fair? Probably not. I guess none of it is. Leaving home is hard, and leaving home when you know your friends and family need you is even harder. Although this conundrum is not unique to first-generation students, their friends and families may be less understanding of their geographic departure an inability to provide constant support. I'm not sure where the balance between being a good student and a good person lies. What do we owe those who helped us get to where we are? Not just because we owe them, but because we love them. 

Cold calling and confidence: learning what battles to fight in law school

 "Speak softly and carry a big stick"

I was recently watching a home movie recorded by my mom of my first grade class's show-and tell. It was my turn to get up in front of the class to share what I brought (a plush figure of Hello Kitty's friend "Pandapple" for anyone wondering) and why. As I began to share, the audio of me speaking wasn't picked up. Instead, my mother's video camera captured the voice of another parent remarking "I can't hear her" and my mother quipping back assertively saying that she could.

I'm probably not the typical person most people think would go to law school. I've been called "quiet" for as long as I can remember, constantly being told to "speak up" throughout my formative years. The culture accompanying  higher education and law school rewards those who confidently raise their hands with questions and follow-up hypotheticals. The boisterous are well-represented in this profession that rewards those who have no problem commanding the attention of a room.

Although this correlation of personality and profession might seem intuitive to some, this was not a connection I had made prior to my arrival at King Hall. As a first generation law student, my conception of lawyers was limited to the media I consumed. Truthfully, I had no inkling that the idea of "cold calling" would be something I would actually have to live through.

I got lucky my first semester. My professors were abnormally kind and gentle with us baby 1Ls. We were able to "pass" on a cold call without negative repercussions and incorrect answers were brushed over, delicately corrected so that peers could not decipher just how far off you really were. I distinctly remember one of my professors told the class that although he was planning on cold calling, we could email him and remove ourselves from the list completely. I resisted the urge (which was blaring almost to the level of a survival instinct) to do so. When my time came, I was terrified but prepared.

Second semester, professors began to expect more from us. The combined weight of professors' academic expectations and the need to prove myself to my peers was crushing. I attempted to placate my anxiety by preparing for any question that could come my way, spending hours preparing for any class session in which I could potentially be called on.

When finals came around, I realized just how much this cold call preparation had been an inefficient use of time. I had nothing to show for the countless hours I spent preparing for questions that never came. Rather than spending the semester to understand legal reasoning or improve my legal writing, I had spent it learning unimportant dicta as a means to combat my anxiety.

This was a mistake I had to make on my own because I had nobody to warn me. The term "First and Only," coined by Alejandra Campoverdi's memoir, highlights how isolating the journey to higher education can be for first generation students. As the First and Only in my family, I expect to make keep making mistakes that non First and Onlys don't have to. Instead of having a lit cobblestone path to follow, it feels like I'm trudging through the woods, fighting beasts of my own along the way. 

As other students have touched on in their blog posts, being the First and Only is often accompanied by many battles, including feelings of inadequacy and imposter syndrome. How we deal with these feelings can be make-it-or-break-it. This is all the more ironic when you consider the unique challenges first generation students face in addition to the actual material they must learn. Despite displaying higher levels of resilience, this study found that first generation students have demonstrated lower levels of emotional intelligence than their non-first generation counterparts. 

Going into 2L I knew changes had to be made. Rather than neurotically worrying about knowing all of the answers to a potential cold call ahead of time, I needed to focus on my understanding of the material. With that understanding, the answers would either come or they wouldn't, but I'd be fine either way. I had to learn how to trust myself and let go of the fear of being judged- after all I wasn't internalizing anyone else's performance. 

I am still the same person I was doing show-and-tell in the first grade. I tend to speak softly and I prefer not to speak in front of a crowd (I plan on staying far, far from a courtroom). In addition to the substantive material I've learned from law school, I have also learned a lot about myself and the ways I can become a better "me" than I was yesterday. I know there are more beasts in the woods for me to fight as I pave this path forward, but I'm no longer afraid of them.

Navigating religious affiliation at a secular law school

To help illustrate the concepts behind vicarious liability, my Business Associations professor had written on his PowerPoint two verses from the Bible: one each from Exodus and Deuteronomy. As students filtered into the room, some gazed at the verses with a puzzled curiosity. Class soon began, and the professor explained that, while he was an atheist, the Bible contained some interesting and at times conflicting views on the imposition of vicarious liability. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the class seemed almost relieved to learn their professor was not a Christian--and, grateful he was not evangelizing to them. While I can understand the latter sentiment, I couldn't help but feel disappointed by the former.

A week or so before today's class, I attended an annual Judge's Night Gala in Oakland. Two judges gave speeches upon receiving their awards for excellence within their occupation. One of those speakers was Alameda County Superior Court Judge Julia Spain. A single mother at a young age, Judge Spain recounted the struggles she faced as she worked her way through undergrad, took on law school, and helped to revolutionize a pervasively sexist legal culture. She eventually made it to the bench, through unexpected avenues. She credits Jesus Christ, and a single Bible passage in particular, as the inspiration for her unlikely success. As a first-generation college and law school student, I found the tale of her tenacity very inspiring. And as a child raised in a Baptist household, I couldn't help but linger on her words. 

After the awards were distributed and the main event concluded, I made my way to Judge Spain and introduced myself. We talked and she asked me an unavoidable question: 

"Are you a Christian?"

"Yes." I replied.

"Which church do you attend in Davis?"

I'd all but sworn off organized religion during undergrad in favor of theoretically finding my beliefs on my own, untainted by the beliefs and biases of a congregation. But I couldn't say that.

"I don't have a church I go to in Davis."

Despite a possible flash of disappointment across her face, she gave me her contact information and well wishes. However, a seed of guilt had taken root within me. Could I still consider myself a Christian while "hiding my light under a bushel?"

Although I take great pride in the friendly and open-minded environment cultivated by students at UC Davis, I don't feel that open religiosity would be very well received on our secular, liberal-leaning campus. I am not alone in holding the sentiment that religiosity is not encouraged within the context of legal academia. With stresses mounting every day and our paths so obscured by unforeseen and unavoidable circumstances, I hope that I and my classmates someday learn to balance our legal careers with faith in something greater than ourselves, and even greater than the law.

Figuring it out: the first-generation law student's journey

The Return Offer

Like every law student, I started my 2L summer job hoping and praying for a return offer. But, as they say, be careful what you wish for.

For the first three weeks of my summer job, I came home and cried in bed. I was exhausted from working nine-hour shifts, sitting alone in a cubicle, and having my complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD) triggered from being back home. Despite knowing deep down I didn’t want to return home after graduation, I worked hard and smiled through the pain to earn my return offer.

As a first-generation and low-income law student, a return offer represents so much more than just a job after graduation. It is the reassurance of a steady income to help support my family and myself. It is proof that I am capable, that I belong, and that I am building a future I have worked so hard to create. 

So, I worked overtime, paid for my own lunches even when partners invited me to join them, and kept my complaints to myself. I socialized, I bonded, and I gave it my all. When my summer job ended, I left feeling a mix of satisfaction and uncertainty, knowing I wouldn’t find out the status of my return offer for weeks, maybe even months.

The Advisor

While I waited, I knew I needed advice. I carefully chose an advisor from Career Services whose bio showed experience in the type of work I wanted to pursue. I thought I had chosen the best one for me, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

When I explained my summer experience and how I couldn’t go back for personal and professional reasons, their solution was: “You could always go back but not live at home.”

I was speechless. I had just explained how, as the eldest daughter in an Asian family, I’m expected to live at home and support my family. Moving out isn’t just a choice, it’s a balancing act. I thought finding a job elsewhere would help me move forward without hurting my family.

Despite their lack of empathy and cultural understanding, the advisor said one useful thing: “Come back once you’ve heard about your return offer, and we’ll use it to find something better.” I trusted them.

Weeks later, I got my return offer. I felt relief, disappointment, and fear. On one hand, I had security. On the other hand, I knew I couldn’t go back home without a fight.

I returned to Career Services, hopeful I could finally leverage my return offer like they’d suggested. Instead, I was met with a blank stare. They didn’t remember our conversation, their advice, or the hope I’d placed in them.

When I asked what I could do, they shrugged. “It’s too late,” they said. “Most jobs during 3L come from networking and connections.” Those were things that I, as a first-generation student, didn’t have much of.

Still clinging to hope, I asked how to break into estate planning. That’s when they delivered the final blow. They said it’s a tough practice area to enter because most attorneys are sole practitioners or work in small firms that rarely hire new attorneys. Instead of helping me strategize, they looked at me like I was crazy and asking for too much.

But isn’t that their job? To help students like me?

I left their office disappointed and scared. I had wasted valuable time waiting to reach out to firms because I followed their advice. The practice area I wanted to pursue felt like an exclusive club I wasn’t invited to. And worst of all, it felt like my path forward was closing in on me…I might have no choice but to return home.  

Like those first three weeks of my summer job, I came home and cried.

The Harsh Reality

Law school is not designed with first generation students in mind. In fact, the Law School Survey of Student Engagement (LSSSE) reports that only 29% of law students identify as first-generation, with students of color being disproportionately represented among first-generation law students compared to our white peers. Yet, the legal education system rarely acknowledges our unique challenges or provides the support we need to thrive.

This isn’t just about law school, it is about the systemic barriers that make certain professions feel like exclusive jobs. Jobs like lawyer and doctor are among professions most likely to be “passed down” through family connections, leaving first-generation students at an inherent disadvantage. 

So, how do we navigate a world that isn’t built for us? We figure it out, just like we always do.

As first-generation students, we are no strangers to resilience. We’ve taught ourselves how to navigate unfamiliar systems, overcome obstacles, and find solutions. It’s in our DNA to adapt, learn, and push forward.

We figure it out because we have no other choice. We figure it out because we are driven not just by our own dreams but by the hopes of our families and communities. We figure it out because we believe in our ability to pave the way for ourselves and for those who come after us. 

I am still figuring it out but I did reach out to a first-generation alum from our law school. I had met her by chance at an event, and she had always been willing to help. She gave me the encouragement I needed to negotiate for a higher salary and navigate this experience with my best interests at heart. She reminded me that even when the system lets us down, there are people in our corner who understand what it’s like to fight against the odds.

This experience reinforced what I’ve always known: first-generation students find ways to lift ourselves and each other up. We may not have inherited networks or built-in connections, but we create them. We build the bridges we need, and when we cross them, we reach back to help others do the same.

It’s not just about surviving; it is about creating a path forward together.

The Message

I hope this experience will also serve as a reminder to law schools that their first-generation students are being neglected. 

Before you parade around the number of first-generation students in your incoming class, take a moment to ask: are you truly supporting them? Are you providing the resources they need to thrive in an environment that wasn’t built with them in mind?

First-generation alumni should not have to step in to do the job of Career Services. Their willingness to help is a testament to their resilience and empathy, but it also reflects a gap in institutional support. Law schools must do better. They must acknowledge the systemic barriers their first-generation students face, from navigating cultural expectations to lacking inherited networks, and create actionable strategies to help them succeed.

Because when institutions fall short, first-generation students are left to figure it out on their own, just like we always have. And while we’ll keep rising to the challenge, we deserve better. We deserve a system that not only celebrates us but actively invests in our success.

Defeating imposter syndrome with female empowerment

No matter what your identity is, every person has at some point felt the overwhelming sense that they don't belong. Whether that be at a social event, the classroom, a professional setting, or even in their own home, imposter syndrome affects us all. 

But what is imposter syndrome? Imposter syndrome is the psychological experience of feeling like a phony, like you do not deserve to be where you are because you are not qualified. Despite this, those that struggle with imposter syndrome...

do not look ill at ease or uncomfortable. They appear very self confident but really it's just a mask they wear. And they are absolutely sincere in being unable to accept praise. It has nothing to do with false modesty. They are perfectionists who need to perform flawlessly and equate making a mistake with shame and humiliation. They often feel very guilty about the credit they receive for their achievements. 

This quote is from In Her Own Words (October 1985). 

Specifically in graduate students, imposter syndrome has shown to be extremely debilitating. 

In 2020, the Division of Cancer Epidemiology & Genetics conducted a systematic review of 62 studies which evaluated the prevalence of imposter syndrome. Showing prevalence rates as high as 56% to 82% in graduate students, college students, nurses, medical students, and other professions. Symptoms can include distress, anxiety, depression, burnout, exhaustion, avoidance of high-level tasks, rigid thinking, and dismissal of positive feedback.

National Cancer Institute, Division of Cancer Epidemiology & Genetics (2023).

I know for myself imposter syndrome is something I struggle with daily. It is one of the main reasons I am so eager to graduate law school––to get out of this setting that triggers feelings of inadequacy.

Constant exposure to environments where I am made to feel like I am not good enough has become exhausting for me. The mental gymnastics I go through to prove to myself that I am good enough is a routine that I am hoping comes to an end when I finally have a law degree. 

However pervasive imposter syndrome may be in the law school setting, I am even more concerned about it in the work force. This past semester I have been fortunate enough to have the opportunity to extern at a public defender's office in the felony intake department. Unfortunately, I have found this experience to be one that has had a detrimental effect on my self-confidence. The reason? Working exclusively with male attorneys.

 

After this semester, I feel as though I have a gaping hole in my self-worth that I will have to fill before I begin my post bar position. What troubles me more is that other female interns (who are also women of color) have had the same experience in this office, which is a stark contrast to the male interns that seem to be content with their intern experience. 

Everyday after work I would have to remind myself that I have spent well over half of my law school career in public defender offices. I know the ins and outs of how a PD office works and I know I have the capability to learn how to do my job right and go above and beyond if given the opportunity.

The main takeaway from this intern experience for me has been that as an attorney, I will make it my mission to pay it forward and empower female interns around me. Without the mentorship of female attorneys, I would not be zealously pursuing public defense work like I am today. Female mentors have taught me how to write, research, and speak in court. I owe them everything. 

I suppose it was unlucky that I got to know what NOT to do as an attorney working with interns, on such a personal level.

My opinion is not an unpopular one. Mentorship has been shown to be a valuable development resource for women. Dr. Candace Steele Flippin, a scholar and researcher who focuses on women in the workforce, conducted a study in 2017 titled Gen X Women and Career Advancement. This study found that women who lack mentorship experiences have careers associated with unfavorable outcomes such as restricted careers and diminished job performance. 

Comparatively women who did have mentorship experiences reported to have skills in career planning, leadership, and self efficacy. Fifty-three percent of females in the study reported that their most helpful mentor was female.

As evidenced by the study, women need women to look up to and support each other. In a male dominated career field, I know for a fact that without the female attorneys that guided me, I would not have faith in my own ability to be a successful public defender. I am able to have some sense of self assurance because of those who came before me––those who have shown me that I can do it, too. 

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.

Am I the only one?

Am I the only one?

 

Am I the only one who hates networking? It feels icky and unauthentic. I don’t know how to talk to lawyers. What if they are talking about some case I don’t know about or maybe they are discussing the philosophy of a legal doctrine and I have nothing of substance to say? I don’t know how to be myself around professionals. Do I act formal? I am not a very formal person. Do lawyers even care what a law student thinks? Maybe I am supposed to shut up and listen. I think I will shut up and listen. 

 

Am I the only one who feels like a child as an intern? I am 24 years old but when I am at the office I feel like an annoying child. The attorneys don’t really trust me at first. The clients think I am too young to help them. I am in an office, but I am not a part of the office family. I feel like a guest over-staying my welcome. I ask questions but try not to be too burdensome. I observe and try to figure things out on my own. I never ever complain. I listen and don’t offer my opinions. I feel the weight of being a woman in a male dominated career. I ignore the feeling. 

 

Am I the only one who is afraid that law school won’t teach me how to be a good lawyer? Oh my, I am almost done. When will I feel like an attorney? Is it after I pass the bar? Is that when I will know what the hell I am doing? I think I need another year, or five. Maybe it is like getting thrown in the deep end; sink or swim. I wish my parents could tell me; they usually have all the answers. 

 

Am I the only one?

 

Yes, you do belong

An article by Linda Sugin, a professor at Fordham Law School, describes a mental health crisis affecting law students. She explains how a recent survey revealed that 75% of law students reported increased anxiety because of law school and more than 50% reported feeling depressed. The numbers were worse for women, nonbinary, and students of color.

As a woman of color and a first-generation law student, I felt anxiety creeping more and more into my everyday life during my first year of law school. It is hard to pinpoint one source of it all, but one common question I remember asking myself throughout my first year of law school was, “Do I even belong here?”

I did not realize it then, but this was just the beginning of my journey with imposter syndrome.

The phrase “imposter phenomenon” (commonly known as imposter syndrome) was coined by psychologists Dr. Pauline Clance and Dr. Suzanne Imes in 1978 when they published their article, “The Imposter Phenomenon in High Achieving Women: Dynamics and Therapeutic Intervention.” The article explains how the two psychologists spent five years talking to high-achieving women from various fields, including nursing and law. In the end, the article detailed how high-achieving women were more likely to experience self-doubt and fear that someone would discover they were “intellectual imposters.”

I did not know what imposter syndrome was – had experienced no hint of it – until I was a law student and began experiencing overwhelming feelings of doubt.

I was the first person in my family to graduate from an American high school and the first person to graduate from college. I remember feeling truly accomplished when I showed off my bachelor’s degree to my parents and grandparents at my college graduation party. There was no doubt in my mind that I belonged in college, given the fact that I received academic awards and graduated in three years.

After college, when I showed up at law school, I also had no sense of not belonging there. However, after my first week of law school, feelings of uncertainty washed over me. All of the other students were much older than me and more established. Some had different careers and even held PhDs, while others had built-in connections with law firms.

As one of the youngest law students and one with no connection to the legal profession, I felt I somehow slipped through the system since there was no way my achievements could mirror even a fraction of my peers’ successes. As I tried to blend in, I felt somehow my peers could “see through me,” and they could tell that I did not belong.

About a month after law school, I remember blurting out to my parents over dinner, “I don’t think I belong at law school.” My parents looked so confused as I tried to explain other students’ successes and how I compared to them.

As my parents hugged me tightly, they reminded me how I accomplished so much and that law schools did not make mistakes in their admissions process. “You belong there,” my mom said. Even though it did not feel like it, I tried to find some comfort in those words.

Imposter syndrome does not go away overnight. The feelings may simmer, but they are still there. When an individual faces a new situation, the destructive cycle of self-doubt may likely resurface.

Haley Kick, an associate attorney at Brennan, Manna, and Diamond, writes about the imposter syndrome and the first-generation experience in her article, “The Imposter in the Room: A First-Generation Lawyer’s Tips To Remember You Are Enough.” Kick explains how the frenzy of self-doubt started when she began college as a first-generation college student. Now, as a third-year attorney, she shared how she still experienced self-doubt, such as questioning whether she deserved to lead an arbitration hearing.

As I enter into my second year of law school, I still have a hard time adjusting to my self-doubt in law school. However, I have learned a few techniques to cope with my imposter syndrome.

First, I have learned to channel my imposter syndrome. Usually, if you are experiencing imposter syndrome, it means you care. So, I channel my feelings of uncertainty to learn and grow from my environment. This pushes me to focus on what I can control and let go of what I cannot.

Second, I make efforts to celebrate any positive outcomes. In her article, Kick shares that she keeps a “win folder” that documents positive outcomes. It serves as a reminder of how much she has achieved.

Although imposter syndrome will not disappear overnight, it is important to find ways to cope and grow from it. So, the next time I look in the mirror and question whether I belong. I simply say, “Yes, I do belong.”