Influencer Marketing: How can I make money or expand my network while in law school?

As I sit in the expansive meeting hall amongst a sea of other 1Ls during orientation, I think about how nervous I am to be here. Even my scholarship-subsidized $20,000 tuition for the year was difficult to come up with, but it's significantly less than what most others pay (UC Davis Law tuition is just under $60,000)––or will have to pay after incurring significant debt––for law school. One of our academic deans walks up to the stage and announces that law school will be rigorous, stressful, and time-consuming. She also announces that we should not have jobs while in school.

This is not a unique experience. Many friends who attend other law schools told me that their deans don't just advise against students getting jobs, they forbid it. Students are thus faced with a difficult question during their first year of law school: do I incur massive debt and throw myself into my law school experience, or do I work and achieve financial security while putting my law school experience at risk? 

There's now a third option in a growing age of social media marketing: law students can monetize their "influence" by either documenting their law school experiences online, or by engaging in brand deals where they recommend products to their “followers.” Two of my friends have particularly enjoyed their experience as “influencers,” and have reaped other perks, too. 

One friend, "A.J.," shared that her experience working with brands resulted in transferable skills in her job as a transactional attorney at a “big law” firm. As an influencer, she often "marked up" potential contracts with her brand partners, negotiating key terms such as deliverables, timelines, price, and usage rights. During interviews, she explained that the negotiation and contract-drafting skills she acquired would allow her to be a stronger negotiator. Her personal experience translating "legalese" to lay terms allowed her to do the same for clients once she began working as an attorney. 

That said, she also acknowledged several risks to availing oneself to an online audience. These include the potential for reputational damage. A.J. writes, "Your professional reputation starts in law school, if not before. If you are connected with your classmates and coworkers on social media, they may judge you for what you post. Being called an 'influencer' has had a negative connotation in my opinion, so you may have to manage that."

Fortunately, a growing community of lawyers engage in content creation. This mitigates some of the negative perceptions of being an "influencer." 

Potential tax liability can be another pitfall. A.J. warns that "free gifts" or "free trips" delivered by brand partners to influencers are actually income on which taxes must be paid.  

Another friend, "B.Q.," shared that she "wouldn't consider herself an influencer" but has enjoyed sharing her experience online as a first-gen and DACA student. She garnered her platform after posting a "reaction video" to Tiktok of opening her California Bar "Pass.” Since then, many individuals have messaged her, often to ask questions about the law school application process.  She thus realized there was a need to document what it's like to attend law school and work at a "big law" firm. She is using her platform to post educational videos about the law school admissions process, on-campus interviewing (“OCI”), and her journey in general. B.Q. has connected with women in San Francisco who share identities with her, and she says it has helped her foster community. 

That said, B.Q. cautions against having too-large a social media platform. 

Every law firm has a social media policy. Many are becoming more conservative with respect to their social media policies, so I definitely recommend being very cautious about what you post. I don't post my firm's name in any video and am careful to not come across as speaking on behalf of my firm or posting any confidential information on my platform. 

B.Q. also shared that, during the OCI process, she made most of her social media accounts private to avoid being judged for her personal views. 

Whether you decide to supplement your law school career financially via influencer marketing, or to grow your network via influencer networking, social media is a new tool law students can use to expand opportunities. While it was not the best opportunity for me, I have seen several friends successfully manage their accounts to supplement their experiences in corporate world, be it through paying off debt, speaking about “influencing” in interviews, or finding a community or network of similarly situated individuals.  

As the legal field adapts to technological and media advancements, influencer marketing could be a useful skill to add to your resume. 

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

Lessons from a PBS kid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Empathy and compassion. 

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

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

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

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!

Who shapes you?

Author's note: When I first began writing this story, I had no idea that my paternal grandmother's recollection of her childhood and life were available online. I incidentally discovered a small piece of her own memoir upon asking my aunts for any writings from her masters degree that may be available online. My grandmother passed of lymphatic cancer when my father was thirteen, so any memory I have of her is built off fragments of my family's memories and old black-and-white photographs. 

Now, as someone writing her own memoir (of sorts) in this blog, amongst others, I realize how poignant telling a story in one's own voice is. Her initials, the same as mine ("A.M.," separated only by my middle initial) recounting moments in time that led to her journey to America, my father's birth, and so many things that shaped the people who shaped me. It gave me a glimpse into why my father often says we "are so alike." 

This blog post is dedicated to my grandmothers; for all the ways they have taught me, all the ways they have shaped my life, knowingly or not. I encourage everyone to write their stories; not necessarily to recount the same story from a different perspective, but to make permanent your voice. Thank you for reading my story, for listening to my voice. I hope from it you can find some solace in our similarities, or learn something as I did reading the same story I'd heard from a different perspective. 

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Bringing your whole self to work when you are not standard issue?

When I was kindergarten age, I got a teacher fired.

Based on parental retellings, I pieced together that I was enrolled in a summer course intended to strengthen students’ reading ability. On the first day of class, the teacher laid out piles of books in the middle of each cluster of desks…and that was all.

I noticed several of the kids did not know how to read, but time was left to pass. So, one day I showed myself right to the principal’s office—and I tattled. I told the principal about how the kids who did not know how to read were not being helped and that it was wrong for them not to be assisted. The principal observed the class, and let the teacher go.

I picked up an intuition for right and wrong at a young age. Instances of unfairness bothered me. So, despite being low on society’s hierarchical ladder, I developed a stern voice to wield against inequity. This is similar to Campoverdi’s description of herself as the protector of her family in Chapter 3 of First Gen, except I tried to be protector of all. As “M” states, I, too, believed “if I don’t do it, no one else will.” 

Until recently, I felt pride at having such a voice. But interactions with legal institutions have caused me to question whether this feature—one I believe is central to my identity—can be used freely in the workplace.

At the end of Chapter 3, Campoverdi considers that she may need to take steps to protect herself moving forward. I find myself in a similar position, but do not like how protecting myself might equate to burying a piece of my identity.

Before law school I was a paralegal at a highly ranked law firm where I worked hard. I was on-call around the clock and worked past midnight on numerous occasions. In a review a senior attorney noted, “…R is always a pleasure to work with, even when faced with difficult tasks or tight deadlines. I can also rely on her to flag issues before they arise or that are missed by junior attorneys….”

This acknowledgment that my feedback was sometimes more useful than that of people with advanced degrees bolstered my sense of utility and value, and was reinforced by overwhelmingly positive reviews from other surveyed attorneys.

So, when I was denied a summer associate position at my old firm, I was surprised. Was my advocacy a factor?

At my old firm the paralegal program is two-years, but paralegals are hired every year. I was part of the class of 2021. There were four of us: three women and one man. When I was hired, I asked if the salary was negotiable due to studies showing women are less likely to negotiate their first salaries, leading to income disparity. I was told it was not negotiable, because of a lockstep pay scale. A female colleague in my class, “Gideon,” was told the same.

The following year, a man hired with the 2022 paralegal class was able to negotiate his salary. He was accelerated onto the step of the pay scale my class was earning after our first-year promotion. Adding insult to injury, he started in June (I had started in August), so he was brought into the company making more money than I was—even with my year of in-company experience. The male paralegal who had started with my class left the firm early for a master’s program. This left three ivy-league educated women getting paid the same or less than a new, male paralegal with less relevant experience.

Perhaps there was more nuance to the situation, but the circumstances closely approximated gender discrimination. So, I approached my manager about negotiating a class-wide raise. I maintained a professional tone while advocating for my colleagues and me. Despite a response along the lines of “I wish you guys wouldn’t discuss your salaries,” I convinced management to award my class an additional bonus that year.

This was not the only time I was forthcoming with management about my perspective on fairness.

When our department was hiring the 2023 paralegal class, three internal referrals were handed down to our manager. My manager reviewed their resumes, conducted screener interviews, and then had us conduct secondary interviews. Our, paralegal, interviews were followed by attorney interviews. There was no public job posting for the duration of those events.

The candidates were fine, but not stellar. Despite this, my manager thought the referral candidates should receive offers to keep hiring simple. This did not sit right with me, because it exemplified the privilege of pursuing law in the footsteps of one’s family, or with the advantage of having family friends positioned to provide access to opportunity. “Lawyers have parents who are lawyers at a rate 18 times the rest of the population”—a strong indicator of inherited advantage.

We did end up making a job posting and interviewing additional candidates. But only because Gideon and I maintained that we should widen the pool of opportunity. Gideon and I came from similar backgrounds—and we were hired from the resume pile. We did not have someone to discreetly hand our resume directly to the person making the hiring decisions. There were no lawyers in our family tree nor a legacy of wealth for us to fall back on. Our families had made the crawl to middle class within our lifetimes.

Gideon and I wanted to serve as the bridge allowing access to law for others with first generation and low-income backgrounds.

To the extent I stood up for fairness in my first job, I was entirely myself. I argued against gender pay disparity and in favor of widening applicant pools to include candidates beyond those cultivated by nepotism. But, despite glowing reviews, I was not welcomed back.

Within our class we have read about how law school prepares students for the hierarchy and seemingly arbitrary decision making that occurs in a law practice. Was I rejected because I did not fall into place at the bottom of the hierarchy? Because I could not accept the firm’s decisions when they were not just seemingly arbitrary, but also wrong? Does thriving in a private firm mean being complacent to procedures that effectuate “closing the door” behind me?

I hope to find that the answer to all the above questions is “no.” I want to be the kind of lawyer my younger self would be proud of—and she was never a fan of caving to intimidating forces out of fear.

Further, if the answers are “yes,” breaking into law will continue to be difficult for “First and Onlys.” I know that adopting behaviors such as “passing” and “dodging” are necessary for some to protect their peace. But I have tried to accept all aspects of myself growing up, including my proclivity for clashing with authority where I believe it necessary to stimulate positive change—and I do not want to give that up. 

Should I?

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.

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.

It's just a name

In Chinese culture, your name is given to you by your parents, and it usually expresses their hopes for your future. Each word has a different meaning. When combined, the meaning can change. Your surname, which is spoken first when stating your name, is very important, as it is a name passed down from many generations of your elders. My surname, Wong, is represented by the character 黄, which means yellow.

I was not given a Chinese name by my parents. Initially, I never questioned why this was the case, or even the significance of such an action. I brought it up to my parents a few times when I was younger, but they always told me that they simply did not see why it would be relevant, given that I was growing up in America. They always told me that it’s just a name, and that it was not such a big deal. Over time, I stopped asking because their answers never changed.

I would come to realize that this was just one of the many cultural chasms that existed between different generations of my family. In his interview with NPR, John Cho speaks about how the desire to absorb American culture led to differences with his immigrant parents growing up, but differences between me and my parents primarily stemmed from their desire that I not be overly immersed in my cultural background.

Like my fellow writer, Simran, my parents came to the United States give me a better life. I came eventually to realize that my parents also came to America in order not to be associated with China. While I did speak Chinese growing up, and my parents still use the language often, my mother in particular often purposefully avoided buying food products that were made in China. She also spoke in English to waiters at Chinese restaurants, though she often then reverted to using Chinese. I came to realize that she was not particularly proud of her upbringing and where she was raised. Surprisingly, I learned that these feelings are not uncommon among Chinese Americans, as reflected in this study, which shows that most Asian-Americans have favorable views of their hometowns, Chinese-Americans being the exception.

As I did not really need to use Chinese beyond interacting with family members, I didn’t think too much of these things. They did not impact my daily life until I came to law school. In my 1L year, my Chinese friends marveled at the fact that I did not have a Chinese name, as it was so crucial to their identity. Learning about Asia from them and ultimately being around them and using Mandarin more really made me reflect on my lack of a connection to my own ethnicity.

What made me reflect even more profoundly, however, was my grandfather’s funeral this past summer.



From the photo I took of the funeral wreath, half-covered by my finger, you can see that all my cousins have a Chinese name except for me. I remember sitting in the funeral home with my family members and honestly feeling ashamed that my name was written out in English. I was particularly ashamed given that some of my family members could not even speak English, let alone read or write it. While I did not fault my parents for their actions, I realized that I would need to take active steps to change this part of my life after that day.

What I now realize is that I would like to make my culture a bigger part of my life, and that the onus is on me, and me alone to make that happen. While I have not finalized my plans for next fall, I hope to study abroad at Tsinghua University in Beijing. If I get the opportunity to do so, I will continue to improve upon my understanding of my ethnic background, regardless of what my parents originally may have wanted for me.

How Tyler, the Creator got me into college

When I was fifteen years old, I had an indescribable, all-consuming obsession with an up-and-coming rapper named Tyler, the Creator. I listened to every song, had notifications turned on for every one of his tweets, and watched every interview and vlog of his I could find. 

In October of that year, I waited in a six-hour line at the grand opening of his Odd Future store on Fairfax Avenue in Los Angeles, CA. When I finally reached the front of the line, I met Tyler. We took a picture, he told me I had pretty teeth, and I bought a photography book and tank top. For years, I never washed the shirt I was wearing while I met him. It was literally the best day of my life up until that point. 

This is the picture of Tyler & I (There was a no photo policy in the store but he made an exception for me, because I was practically hyperventilating, saying, "Someone take a picture of us before she passes out.") 

I saw a bunch of street banners advertising UCLA while waiting in line. I assumed the campus was close by, not knowing anything about LA's geography or traffic. That day changed the trajectory of my life and was the birth of my "dream school." My goal was clear: I would gain acceptance to UCLA, putting me in clear proximity to Tyler's store which would allow me to be around him often enough for us to fall in love and get married. 

The second part of the goal never came to fruition; I very rarely went back to his store. The first part of the goal, however, did come true on March 21, 2014. This became the new best day of my life. Little had I known, my unhealthy obsession with a rapper would lead to my acceptance to UCLA. 

Once I got to UCLA, I realized my journey there was unlike the rest of my peers. In the words of Claire Vaye Watkins, "All educations, [I] realized then, are not created equal." In The Ivy League was Another Planet, Vaye Watkins tells her college admission story. Growing up in rural Pahrump, Nevada, population 44,738, she explains, "By the time they're ready to apply to colleges, most kids from families like mine--poor, rural, no college grads in sight--know of and apply to only those few universities to which they've incidentally been exposed."

This blog by Professor Pruitt explores Vaye Watkins article in more detail.

Growing up in Merced, California, was similar in a lot of ways to Vaye Watkins in Pahrump but also very different. Merced is a mid-sized, agricultural city in the middle of the central valley, but it also the home of the University of California's newest campus, UC Merced and Merced Community College. Moreover, twenty minutes north is California State University (CSU), Stanislaus and fifty minutes south is CSU Fresno. It is a great privilege to grow up surrounded by so many options for higher education, one that many rural students don't enjoy.

For the most part, however, I learned of these schools because of proximity or incidental exposure, not because they put any effort into recruiting my classmates or me. Like Watkins' high school, the only recruiters that came to Merced High were military recruiters. And their efforts were rewarded. We loved the college-aged men coming to our school, getting us out of history class to go into the quad and engage in pushup and pull up challenges. They bragged to us about seeing the world, buying brand new Mustangs and Camaros, and making double the money for simply being married. Sarina Mugino discusses military recruitment, and military marriages, in more detail in this blog. At my high school graduation, a small group of us were going off to a university, but plenty of others stood to be honored for enlisting in the military. 

Ivy League schools were truly another planet. I couldn't even name any outside of Harvard and Yale. I often got Stanford confused with CSU Stanislaus. I knew absolutely nothing about the vast range of prestigious universities throughout the country.

I applied to eight schools because I qualified for a fee waiver that granted me four free CSU applications and four free UC applications. At seventeen, my choices were based on location. I knew practically nothing about any of the schools, but I knew UC Santa Barbara, UC San Diego, and San Diego State University were by the beach. I knew CSU Chico was known for parties. I knew UC Irvine, CSU Humboldt, and CSU Northridge were far enough away from my hometown that I could distance myself and begin healing from the difficult environment I grew up in. 

Outside of Tyler, the Creator, UCLA also had one thing no other school had. It had prestige. The day I proudly announced to my geometry class that I planned to go to UCLA I had no clue of its prestige or small acceptance rate. After my announcement, two of my classmates burst out laughing, telling me that "like 5% of people accepted there are Black" and I wouldn't qualify to join that small number. I will always remember my geometry teacher, Mr. Aguayo, for adamantly and immediately sticking up for me by saying his brother, "who was a lot less smart than me," graduated from there and Riki could, too. 

Unfortunately, Mr. Aguayo was an exception to the norm. It became a pattern for people to doubt my dream. Repeatedly, I was told I would not be admitted. These messages came from classmates, teachers, an assistant principal, and probably many more people behind my back. Eventually, I allowed the doubts to erode my enthusiasm until I stopped telling people my dream. In fact, by UCLA's decision day, I told all my classmates I wasn't going to check because I would never go to UCLA anyways. I will always regret waiting to read my acceptance until I was at home and all alone. I wish I had trusted myself more. 

In hindsight, the people who doubted me knew something I, very thankfully, had no clue of--the resources of the students I was up against. 

I took my SATs twice, with no studying beforehand. I had straight As, but from a low-funded, low-performing high school. Most shocking of it all, to me, is that little seventeen-year-old me submitted every part of my college applications through my iPhone because my family had no computer. I wrote my personal statement and scholarship essays in my notes app, copy and pasting straight from there to admissions portals. 

I've worked in college admissions since I was nineteen and I've seen over and over how unequal educations are. With my current company, students start their college preparation as early as middle school. They are assigned a tutor for every subject they can't get an A in. They begin our rigorous, years-long SAT/ACT prep. They are assigned a college counselor who studies their transcripts, extracurricular activities, interests, etc. and curates a perfect college list for them that ranges across the country. And, before the applications even open, essay coaches, like me, fine comb through every word on each and every one of their applications, using our CEO's essay writing formula, until each is polished to perfection.

I look back at my own college application efforts and I truly marvel that I ever stood a chance. 

In some ways, I think there is a privilege in growing up a world away from the Ivy Leagues. I still remember the unexplainable joy I got reading I was accepted into my first college, San Diego State. I ran to my mom's room and we both cried, repeating over and over, "we're going to college." She immediately asked me to send her a screenshot so she could brag on Facebook. For us, honestly, any college was a dream.

But I was lucky enough to grow up in California. Even my "safety" schools were great schools. There are many students for whom UCs and CSUs are on another planet, and many for whom even community college is in another universe. Watkins ends her article with a very powerful question, "...is it any wonder that students in Pahrump and throughout rural America are more likely to end up in Afghanistan than N.Y.U.?" From my experience, there is no wonder in this at all. 

This post, by Geovanna, goes into detail about other risks that hold rural students back from receiving college educations.