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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The difference work ethic can make

When I was 17 and preparing for a college admissions interview my dad and I were bouncing ideas back and forth when he suggested that I be forthcoming in my interview that academic achievement doesn't come as easily to me as it does to some. He said that my accomplishments were a result of the tremendous effort I had put into school. At the time I took this comment as a slight on my ability, but I have come to see the value and truth in what he said.

The middle school I attended was located in a wealthy part of the town; I did not live in that upscale area, and got a spot through the school's "lottery" system. Before I realized just how hard I had to work to succeed academically, my grades fell somewhere close to the 50th percentile of my peers. I got mostly B's and some A's. The grades didn't matter much to me until, one day, there was a school-wide ceremony celebrating different honor roll distinctions became a wake-up call. 

All of my (admittedly nerdy) friends received the "Gold Honor Roll" distinction. But not me. As ridiculous, vain, and snooty as it might sound, I remember being called up to receive my "Silver Honor Roll" certificate and looking left and right to my peers, and thinking "is this who I want to be?" I felt embarrassed. It was at that moment that I decided I was going to do whatever it took to be going up with the "Gold" group the next trimester.

I started participating in after-school study groups, took on extracurricular activities that bolstered my understanding of class material, and spent more time learning the material on my own. With a lot of extra hours, I did get the "Gold" distinction the following trimester... and every trimester after that.

This work ethic persisted throughout the remainder of middle school and high school, though I still felt ashamed that things didn't come as easy to me as they did to my wealthy peers. With a tremendous amount of effort, I finished ranked 11th in my high school graduating class (just shy of top 10, which is a classic "me" moment). By the end of high school, as a means of protecting my own ego, I identified more with my academic accomplishment than the effort it took to get there. 

In college I was faced with a harsh reality of having a new group of peers: the level of natural ability of those surrounding me was like nothing I had experienced before, and I hadn't realized the extent to which my effort would have to increase to match their pace. Neither of my parents had experienced this themselves, so nobody had warned me. As a consequence of my failure to understand the simple notion that college was harder than high school and would therefore require more effort, my first quarter of college left me on academic probation with a 1.9 GPA. 

This was a wake-up call. I changed the way I studied, sought out campus resources (especially for my Chemistry and Calculus courses), and began studying in groups with peers. I turned the metaphorical ship around and ultimately graduating with honors.

Entering law school, I had absolutely no experience in the legal field. As a first generation law student, I had no idea of the academic and professional advantage of coming in with legal assistant or paralegal experience. When it came time to interview for my first summer job, I had nothing on my resume besides the menial jobs I worked in high school and college, most notably at McDonalds. I was embarrassed by this. How was I supposed to compete with my peers, some who had spent years working in law firms as paralegals or administrative assistants?

My first interview was with a law firm based in Sacramento. The firm partner asked me the dreaded question: what legal experience did I have. I had none, and I told him so. I suppose he knew this, because he replied saying that was the reason he chose to interview me over other candidates. More explicitly, he told me that seeing "McDonalds" on my resume told him I knew how to work. Go figure. 

My experience is not an isolated one, especially for first generation students. The reading that inspired this post was Michelle Obama's Becoming. In her memoir, Obama briefly discusses her academic experience in comparison to that of her peers. Despite being a good student, she always felt like there were others ahead of her "whose achievements seemed effortless," but with "with hours of studying [she] could often close that gap."

The things I perceived to be holding me back-- my lack of professional experience and the way I had to work 50% harder than everyone around me to accomplish the same things-- ended up working in my favor. My lack of professional experience was interpreted as having a strong work ethic, and my ability to put my head down and get the job done has seemed to be an invaluable skill in the field of law.

As many other students have noted in their blog posts, status as a first generation student status is a signal of "ambition and resilience." Although we (or maybe just I) find it easy to focus on the challenges of being first gen, the status signals much more than disadvantage. First-generation status suggests a strong work ethic, diligence, and attention to detail that have been necessary to get us to get to where we are today.

First-gen guilt: the emotional toll I carry

The Guilt of Missing Out 

Breaking barriers often requires leaving a self behind and reinventing yourself in an attempt to fit into where you're going. Not only does this create a divided self -- who you are at home versus who you are at school -- it may require that you no longer fill the role of your old self at home. This might leave a gap in the family, creating tension in your own relationships back home. This takes a toll on the student. 

I am often made to feel guilty for experiences that I never could have imagined: traveling out of the country, skiing, learning to golf. However, what I wish my family could understand is the guilt that I feel over being away from them and not being able to care of them in the way that I used to do as an adult. I feel like a bad daughter, and a bad sister -- like I'm missing the biggest parts of my little sister growing up. Like I have left them behind because I do not know how to bring them with me. 

While I am still low income, I often wonder how I could live like this -- going to fancy parties and golfing -- when my family is struggling at home. In addition to imposter syndrome, this guilt often manifests in working hard and not taking enough breaks, in not taking care of myself. I work as hard as I do and neglect my own wellbeing to make sure that leaving them behind was not for nothing. I know that even if I did go to law school back in Los Angeles, near them, I would still struggle to be a good sister, daughter, or granddaughter to them anyways. 

 The Need to Prove Yourself

"If I don't do it, no one else will." 

I have lived by this mantra for as long as I can remember. If I didn't ask about the SAT, no one was going to come help me. My parents wouldn't have reminded me. If I didn't ask about college application fee waivers, no one else would ask for me. I have been on my own since before I was even a legal adult, and I lived by the idea that if something needed to get done, it was on me to do it. It was on me to make sure that bills were paid, that I had food to eat, and that the house was clean. 

It came as no surprise to me that it was on me and only me to get myself to college, and then through college, and then a job and then to law school. This independence was financial, emotional and literal. My family has not always been the most supportive, and they told me that if I wanted to go to college, I was on my own -- even if it was what they wanted from me too.

From that day on, I was determined to do everything on my own. This included being headstrong in my independence, turning down help from others, and never using my extenuating circumstances as an excuse to fall short. I carried this independence and responsibility with me to law school, and I found myself over-preparing for class because if I couldn't answer the questions or raise my hand, no one else would. I did not want to let down my professors. 

I began to feel pressure that if I didn't raise my hand when no one else would, I would have let the class down. I explained this to my mentor that I had to prepare for class in case no one else wanted to participate, and she identified that this is my first-gen guilt, which includes a need and desire to prove myself to everyone around me, including my family, and take on the responsibility when I am uncomfortable or afraid of others falling short. 

I recognized this same guilt in Campoverdi's First Gen: A Memoir in Chapter 1. Campoverdi's resolve on her first day of work at the White house that, from that day forward, she must be the first and best reminded me of this feeling of responsibility and guilt that comes with the possibility of letting others down. 

The Shame and Isolation 

There's a guilt that comes with taking up space. The need to apologize for asking questions and for making appointments when we need a little more help than the others. There's also a shame in admitting that you need that help. This guilt and shame often isolates me from my peers. At the same time, I also feel isolated from my family and ashamed for getting on with a life so separate and distinct from theirs. 

It's an uncomfortable position to be in, to feel guilt for being away from my family, but to feel guilt for taking up space in our new world. First-gen students are not well-equipped to handle this guilt. How can students grapple with the guilt associated with each of the lives they are living, each of the worlds they are straddling?  

"Out with the old and in with the new"

“Its out with the old and in with the new,
Goodbye clouds of gray, hello skies of blue”

These lyrics might sound similar to you. They are from Sharpay Evans song “Fabulous” in High School Musical 2. Arguably one of the most impactful movie series for a little girl growing up in California in the 2000s.

As a little girl who had just moved to the US with her family in 2004 I had no idea what “American culture” entailed. Being raised by parents who spoke no English, my sisters and I used movies we rented from the local library to understand what we thought our lives “should” look like. 

12 years later I went off to college at a big beach town school, where I thought I would finally experience what Sharpay was talking about in her song. However, this is where I first faced the reality of class and elitism and the "step ahead" it can provide you. Of course growing up I was aware of class distinctions, but I grew up in a predominantly brown community with most of my peers belonging to the lower middle class like me. That was not the case at my undergrad. I was constantly thrown off by what I believed to be “normal” versus what my peers found “normal” in terms of lifestyles.

The difference between my peers who were upper class and I didn’t just stop at the lifestyles. There would be times in the classroom it felt as if my professors and classmates were speaking a secret language that I hadn’t learned yet. Not just my peers but my professors came from elite backgrounds. This secret language between my professors and peers was indicative of the “hidden curriculum” that many first gen students are unaware of.

While I was feeling constant imposter syndrome in an elite environment I wasn’t sure I belonged in, I was reminded of one of the main reasons I wanted to pursue higher education. A better financial life for my family and I. Going to college is the best thing to do if you want to move up the financial ladder. This is what I had been told by teachers since middle school. I believed that I only had to work a little harder, struggle a little more, and I would be able to join my peers in this elite world.

However, as Alejandra Campoverdi discusses in First Gen: A Memoir, climbing the social and financial ladder alone can be isolating. Campoverdi describes someone who is first generation or the only person in their family, community, or social demographic to cross a threshold as a “First and Only.” First and Onlys can end up facing dual rejection as they cross these unfamiliar thresholds. Rejection from our friends and family with a “You’ve changed” quip and rejection from our new environment because we feel like outsiders.

Reading Campoverdi’s experience as a First and Only felt far too much like my own. While I was climbing this economic ladder and going from undergrad to law school, I became aware of the feeling of being First and Only in both my old life and new. As a First and Only I'm not just uncommon in law school where I'm not being passed down this career like many of my peers, but am also uncommon in my community and family as the only person who is crossing this elite higher education threshold. As I move further along in my educational and professional journey, I notice how “far away” I am feeling from my family and old friends. This is a common experience for first gen students as they accumulate degrees.

As I was debating what to write for this blog post, I was listening to “Fabulous” in the car. The lyrics “Out with the old and in with the new” made me think how much I am losing in order to obtain the new. I want to have new experiences, live different lifestyles, and climb the economic ladder, but I don’t want all of that to come at the expense of my old life. I don’t want social and economic mobility to take an emotional toll on me like it can for many First and Onlys. I think as First and Onlys the only way to avoid this toll is to take stock of what’s important to us and take care of our mental health as we navigate foreign environments and make our marks.

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.

Generational wealth

I spent my senior year of high school annoyed with my abuelita’s inability to throw out rotting food. Similarly, she had a hard time throwing out clothes and shoes even when they were well beyond repair. I also noticed she kept bags in her room of items that could only be considered trash.

However, my greatest annoyance, was that after every meal, she would take the leftover tortillas and stuff them in the left side cabinet of the fridge. I’d often open the fridge only to be met by an avalanche of hard and inedible tortillas flying at me. When I tried to throw them out, my abuelita would insist that they were still good. To dissuade her hoarding, I’d point to the bags of fresh tortillas in the fridge. She remained adamant that we needed to save the leftovers.

My abuelita is a formidable woman. She moved permanently to the United States from Mexico after my grandfather, her partner of forty-three years, passed away. She survived being the child bride of her first husband who kidnapped her and forced her into marriage, much in the tradition of rural Mexican villages. She endured the untimely death of two of her children. She has weathered the storms of her remaining children with an unflinching conviction that all turbulence eventually passes. She is the matriarch of our family, a steading presence who at 80 years old, has known more pain than any one lifetime should allow.

As the only grandparent I have ever known intimately, I love her deeply.

But at seventeen, I certainly did not understand her. She seemed far away, a representative of a different time and nation with allegiances to notions of womanhood that I did not care to replicate.

I eventually voiced my frustrations about her hoarding to my mom. My mom told me that my grandmother was still saving for a rainy day. She explained that in Mexico, when there had been no food for her to feed her children with, my abuelita would add salt to tortillas and they would eat them with hot water.

I realized that day that I have never, and will likely never, know hunger like my abuelita has.

Even my mom cannot recall a time when there weren’t at least tortillas with salt to eat.

I find that much in the words of Lucy Barton from "Oh William!" by Elizabeth Stout when you come “from the very bottom of it [poverty]…it never really leaves you.”

I’ve seen similar behavior in my mom, although not related to food.

Last week I arrived home for Thanksgiving wearing my favorite pair of boots. The boots had recently given out from overuse with the sole detaching from the base. I did not care to stop wearing them.

However, my mom immediately took notice of the boot and told me I could not walk around like that. I assured her it was fine and that I’d get new ones when I had some time.

But she doubled down and insisted I go to the store immediately. I did not.

The next day, I had a zelle deposit from my parents to buy new boots. I was stunned. Why was this so important?

Eventually, at my mom’s continuing insistence, I allowed her to drag me to five different stores looking for boots. When I found a pair I liked, she told me to grab two, one for now and one for when those wear out. While I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful, I laughed. She was not amused.

It was in her desperation that I finally realized I was shopping from leisure while my mom was shopping from survival.

I grew up hearing the stories of how she often did not have shoes and would walk the muddy terrain around her house barefoot. My mom insisted my whole life that I wear sandals in the house. She also has an extensive shoe collection, with each pair kept neatly in their original boxes.

In my family, I actively see the ways the past manifests itself in the present. There is no running from the dark places even after the cease being quite so prevalent.

While I grew up poor by United States' standards, it certainly does not compare to the poverty of my family. And yet, I am prone to excessive spending. When I had an income, I would squander it quickly, uncomfortable with having money in the bank. I did not save. I did not invest. I resist financial literacy because it feels so foreign and selfish to keep anything just for myself.

More pertinently though, I haven’t completely outrun the scarcity of my lineage. Despite having much more than my ancestors, I worry it won’t be enough. My abuelita and my mom’s worries were legitimate. I have never not had enough.

And perhaps that is the curse of upward mobility and what JD Vance meant in "Hillbilly Elegy" when he said, "I want people to understand something I learned only recently: that for those of us lucky enough to live the American Dream, the demons of the life we left behind continue to chase us."

However, I am not running from the difficult truths of generational trauma. I am embracing the dark crevices in hopes of healing. I resist the American Dream rooted entirely on meritocracy. I’m hopeful for an abundant life in the ways that matter: spiritually, communally, and familial. I will remind myself of this wealth, which my generations have always had.

American limbo

I am crying in the parking lot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, I resist.

Once the shame subsided, the distance dissipated as well.

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

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

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

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

Who I owe it to

The first time I went into a courtroom I was fourteen years old. I wandered my way through the courthouse and found my family already sitting in the first two rows of the hard, wooden benches, behind the defense table. My cousin, Greg (who was fifteen at the time), was in the beginning stages of a criminal case. His lawyer told my family that we could speak with him if we got there before the judge started calling cases, but the window was brief. 

I spent the entire day prior curating an outfit that represented my family as respectable and dignified. I hoped that the judge could look at me and see someone who was in Pre AP English and Geometry, who participated in academic decathlon, and numerous other accolades. I thought that if I represented us well, it would have some bearing on Greg’s case. If someone like me loved him, then he obviously was a good person.

Greg’s lawyer was there explaining to us the dangers of a trial. He asked us to “talk some sense” into my cousin “before things got worse.” These are the only conversations my family ever had with this lawyer though we had turned our lives upside down to pay him. They were always rushed, immediately before court calls, and filled with his insistence that we “do our part” in convincing Greg to forfeit his freedom. He, of course, reached out to remind us when payments were due for his retainer.

I remember feeling that day, nervous, to the point that it nauseated me to see Greg again. I didn’t know what to expect. This was the first time I could remember going longer than a week without speaking to him. He and I had grown up together. Greg was a year older than me and we were so close we called each other brother and sister. I loved him for his humor, his unique intelligence, his rambunctious outlook on life, and his protective aura. Whenever I had problems, with whomever, he was the person I depended on.

Now, he was no longer in a position to protect and instead needed protection. When he walked into the room, I held my breath until he let out his signature crooked smile and winked in our direction. He sat down and immediately took on his usual role within my family dynamic.

“Damn, your mama let you miss class for this shit?” he asked me, causing us all to laugh.

“The hall (a shortened name for juvenile hall) is easy. I just been in there smashing books and working out. I’ma probably run it by the time I’m out,” he bragged, a play on his intelligence and rambunctious spirit.

“Y’all don’t even need to worry about any of this, I’ma be home soon.” He promised us, more than himself, trying to preserve the protective aura he was known for.

I spent the next few months with a never-ending pit in my stomach, waiting for Greg’s next court date so we could share these brief moments. In the end, neither my nor my family's efforts no efforts mattered. Greg was sentenced as an adult to twenty-nine years, and he has spent every day of his life in prison ever since. He never stopped telling jokes and assuring us that he would be out soon, up until the moment he accepted his plea.

I remember walking into court that last day and even though his attorney had told us what to expect, there was not a single piece of my heart that could imagine a judge actually imposing a prison sentence of more years than my Gregory had even lived. And there was no way anyone would see him as an adult, let alone an adult criminal. At the time, he still had red braces brackets across his teeth. He hadn’t even begun to grow facial hair. Regardless of all of this, he accepted the deal, and our lives have never been the same since.

During the first two weeks of our classes, two questions came up that reminded me of this experience.

First, when reflecting on the Hidden Brain podcast with Shankar Vedantam, Professor Pruitt asked something along the lines of what we all have had to give up in order to get to where we are. When I really reflect on this question, I think my answer is a lot different than many other first-generation students. To get here, I feel like I gave up nothing, but everyone around me gave up everything.

As we have discussed throughout the semester, there are systemtic barriers that run deep throughout the professional and academic world. As put by Tanvi Sakhamuru, this world wasn’t made for people like me. In a weird, and probably cynical way, I feel like there was only room for one person from my background to succeed like I have, and I was just lucky enough that it was me.

Growing up, none of my friends or family had any different dream careers than the mainstream ideas of becoming doctors, teachers, scientists, psychologists, lawyers, etc. Unfortunately, almost none of these goals came to fruition.

It is a sobering thought to feel like everyone around me was held back so that I could strive. This feeling leads me to the second question, which was asked by Alina Ali during week two: why should we, as first-generation students, be the ones who have to spend our lives trying to fix the systemic issues that we didn’t create? (This is paraphrasing and not a direct quote at all). This is a very understandable question. For me though, when I think about the people I know who have spent the majority of their lives struggling, in jail cells, poor, overworked, and with little to no hope for change, there is no other option but for me to use all of the sacrifices they have given me to give back to them and people like them.

When people ask me how I will handle public defense work, I just tell them I was born to do it. In my mind, I remember the moments I spent on those cold, wooden courtroom benches where my family suggested, compromised, begged, and pleaded with a lawyer who deemed us as inferior from the second after we signed his retainer contract. I remember those feelings any time I meet a new client and I know I owe it to Greg, and everyone else who lifted me up, to do everything I can to defend them like they deserve to be defended.

Gregory and I at my eight grade graduation. This was a few months before he was arrested.

The materialistic underpinnings of upward mobility and class migration

Every time you make a major decision in your life—whether changing your job, moving across the state for school, or getting married—your choice results in some sacrifices, or trade-offs. When my mother decided to immigrate to the United States, she recognized that doing so would sever her from home, where her entire family resided and where she spoke the same language as everyone else. The economic opportunities in America were, perhaps, worth the sacrifice at the time. At least that is the calculus she made.

The impact of such trade-offs is especially salient for first generation college students in America. In a recent episode of The Hidden Brain podcast, Philosophy Professor Jennifer Morton discusses the difficulties first gen students face when deciding whether to make such trade-offs to seek upward mobility. In fact, Professor Morton sympathizes with those who, unlike herself, decided that the potential for upward mobility was not worth the non-economic sacrifices required to attain such prosperity:

And so, I think there’s a lot to be said for being deeply rooted and connected to a place. And so, I think in the case of students and young people who are growing up in concentrated poverty in the United States, there’s a similar rhetoric that opportunities are elsewhere and that they would be lucky to leave. And then puzzlement as those who might’ve been able to leave and don’t leave, as if they’re making some sort of mistake. But I don’t think in many cases they are making a mistake. They are prioritizing other valuable things in their lives over economic advancement and opportunity.

I would go one step further to argue that such decision to stay despite clear opportunities to migrate to an elevated economic class should be celebrated and even encouraged rather than merely viewed as “not being a mistake.” This is because there is more to be cherished in the world and in human beings than material “success”.

The stereotypical notion of a “rags to riches” success story is often depicted in light of material rags to material riches. Arguably, the American dream itself, is a “rags to riches” dream. Dr. Tara Westover’s bestselling memoir Educated is another, more nuanced, example. Yes, her story is largely about becoming “educated,” but how is education to be assessed? Is it materialistic? I would argue that in our times, yes, because the purpose of becoming “educated” is largely to make money. 

This is a uniquely modern phenomenon. Traditionally, (as early as Plato) the primary purpose of education has been to inculcate virtues into the soul—to live a virtuous life. The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was especially cognizant of this. Here are his words from an article he published at Morehouse College in 1947, titled “The Purpose of Education:”

But education which stops with efficiency may prove the greatest menace to society. The most dangerous criminal may be the man gifted with reason, but with no morals. …
Intelligence plus character—that is the goal of true education. The complete education gives one not only power of concentration, but worthy objectives upon which to concentrate.

Thus, when we talk about upward mobility and class migration, we must ask whether we consider non-materialistic aspects of the trade-off analysis? Is it possible to achieve “upward mobility” in life without an increase in economic earnings?

The reason this is vital to our discourse is because neglecting the real benefits of selecting non-economic interests over material ones breeds societal distaste and contempt for non-elite jobs and those who work them. Consider how our society views garbage collection or janitorial work in comparison to any type of engineering. We even use different terms to describe the work—one is a job, the other a career.

When I lived in Egypt, I met countless folks who thrived—not just survived—upon income levels that were appallingly low in comparison to the American poverty standard. The opportunity to move for the sake of more money was unthinkable because they already had everything that they needed, as basic as it might seem to a modern American mind.

My teachers have echoed this with stories of their own from their time studying with Bedouin scholars living in tents in Mauritania.

I will never forget the quote one teacher shared: "Everything you desire exists with God—so if you have God, you have everything you desire.”

My purpose for sharing this is to highlight that there are people living in our times (and not just overseas) who ascribe to and operate within a completely different worldview than that of the zeitgeist of modern materialism. And discussing upward mobility in order to address the ostensible plight of such people misses the mark and results in greater harm than good. This is not to say that there isn’t a baseline threshold of material resources that one needs to survive, and potentially thrive. However, by touting “success” as that which conforms to the materialistic framework of class migration, we risk perpetuating part of the problem of class structures in the first place. That is, we devalue the honor and dignity of work, whether it be engineering or janitorial, and we breed contempt for those who choose not to migrate economic classes despite their migration of spiritual “classes”.

 

Trade-offs as an exchange student

As an exchange student, I think my experience can be valuable both for my classmates who have not lived elsewhere, and for other students who are thinking about coming on exchange sometime.

So, today I want to talk about trade-offs. I remember the first class, when we talked about this, I had to google what it meant (in Chile we speak Spanish as a first language, so I am still learning English words every day). When I read it, it made a lot of sense to me.

When I was in Chile I never thought it would be so difficult to be in the United States. As a fact, we Latinos don't like to call the United States "America", since we feel we are Americans also because we belong to the continent. Maybe because movies, music and culture had sold me "the American dream", so I thought everything would be easy here - almost as if by magic, happiness would come packaged in my plane ticket that would bring me to a developed country.

When I arrived here, I immediately felt the cultural difference. I wanted to greet my roommate with a kiss on the cheek and she looked at me like I was crazy. The food the first few days felt great, but after eating at In-n-Out 3 days in a row I decided that my mom's food definitely tasted better. The same thing happened to me with independence. I gradually discovered that I prefer the closeness and concern of my parents to the loneliness that many students experience here.

                A plate of "pantrucas" a typical Chilean food that my mom cooks all the time in the winter. 

Leaving your whole life, family, friends, pets and everything you knew, including your language, is the biggest trade off I think I will have to face, no doubt. As I explained the other day in class, in Latin culture, family is very important. In Chile children leave home at about 30 years old, so, I still regularly feel like a child who does not know how to take care of herself. On the other hand, my classmates here are often already used to independent life, as some may live alone from the age of 18.

I find this class particularly interesting because I can see the cultural, social and even class differences with my classmates who have lived here all their lives. In Chile I don't think we could have a so-called "first gen" class because probably more than half of us at my university are first gen.

The middle class in Chile is more like what is known here as the "lower income class", even though it is said that we are the "richest" country in Latin America. Furthermore, it is very rare for Chilean students to have a car; here, most of them have a car even in high school. Even when I see how expensive universities are here, I realize that for the middle class in Chile it would be impossible to pay for a university in the United States, comparatively annual tuition in Chile costs around $5000.

Many times I feel strange, I have attended countless talks against racism and discrimination since I arrived here, but I really feel that racism is always present, unconsciously. Although not only here, also in Chile we are racist, many times with immigrants from neighboring countries. However, this time it is different because I had never had to live it myself.

Clearly not everything is bad, I have met wonderful people. Moreover, I have the opportunity to study the strong corporate law course here, which I want to dedicate myself to in Chile. Also, my professors and classmates are very understanding. I have made incredible friends and I have visited places I never thought I would visit. Therefore, I know that this is an opportunity that many of my friends and peers in Chile do not have, so I try to make the most of it.

However, I can't help but miss my home, my people, and my customs. When I feel that I miss them too much, I think about how lucky I am and that, if I took a plane to get here, I have to take advantage of the experience and learn from it. So every day I become more observant and try to make friends who will allow me to get to know new cultures (Latin culture will always have a special and reserved place in my heart). 

My family and I in a church in Peru. Religion is very important in our culture, especially Catholicism which is the most professed religion in Chile.

One of the trade-offs first gen students make: loss of place

With my maternal grandparents, Effie and Elver Shatwell
at their home in Vendor, Arkansas (1995)

At our first class meeting of the fall semester last week, we discussed this Nov. 2020 episode of The Hidden Brain podcast when Jennifer Morton was Shankar Vedantam's guest.  She's a philosopher, now at the University of Pennsylvania, who has published a book called Moving Up without Losing Your Way (Princeton University Press 2019).  In it, she brings her perspective as a philosopher to think about what I call the class migration phenomenon.  Specifically, Morton talks about the trade-offs students must make when they pursue a course different from that of their families of origin.  Vedantam introduces Morton's work:   

Morton argues there is [a] less obvious ingredient in the story of upward mobility: a willingness to make ethical trade-offs. She doesn't mean lying or cheating, but something subtler and far more consequential.

* * * 

[S]trivers are, as you might expect, ambitious, hard working, smart, but also I think are willing to make trade-offs in the pursuit of those ambitions. Some of those trade-offs in some cases are quite difficult and painful.

My mother at a family cemetery
in Newton County, Arkansas 
(c) Lisa R. Pruitt 2017

We talked in class about some of the trade-offs--we could even call them sacrifices--that we, as first gen students, have made as we have pursued higher education.  A lot of us spoke about giving up time with family--even the opportunity to get to know family members, such as older relatives, or attend their funerals.  That reminded me of the visit captured in the photo above with my maternal grandparents, a few years before my grandfather died.  I was glad I got to see him the weekend before his death but sad I could not be at his funeral to honor and remember him.  It was just too far to travel from California, mid-semester, the first year I taught at UC Davis.  Unfortunately, for similar reasons, I was also unable to attend the funerals of my other grandparents, as well as that of a great grandmother.  All died while I was living too far away or doing work that made it impractical (sometimes just prohibitively expensive) to go home to their funerals in the small Arkansas community where I grew up and where they all lived.  

We talked in class about how some parents arduously protect the time of their "striver" children, while others are oblivious to the twin demands of higher education and family, expecting the sacrifice of the former in the name of family duty.  My mom was in the former category.  She never put pressure on me to attend a grandparent's funeral because she knew it would distract from my school work or my job--and also that it would be a big financial burden. 

One thing we didn't talk much about in class as part of this discussion is loss of place, though it was implicit in some of our answers, like those referencing family.  What I mean by loss of place is that many people can't or don't remain near their families of origin when they go to college.  This means they experience not only diminished family connections, they also experience diminished connections with the place they grew up, the place they consider home.  

The house where I grew up, a few weeks before my family 
moved in, fall 1964

This can refer to the community, the state or even the house where one grew up.  I recently wrote this about the house where I was raised.  We moved into it when I was three weeks old, and my mother still lives there.  I will always be attached to that house and wish I could see it more often; unfortunately, I've not even set foot in Arkansas during the pandemic, though I'm excited to visit The Natural State next spring, when there will be a reunion/Birthday Party for the 8th Circuit judge for whom I clerked, who has taken senior status but still works in Little Rock. 

Same house where I grew up, after some improvements
(c) Lisa R. Pruitt 2017

The loss of place may be a particular loss for students who grew up in rural places because those rural areas are associated with attachment to place.  This is because many rural residents live on land passed down from their ancestors, and rural land is more likely than urban land to remain in a family over the course of generations.  

That was the case with me.  I am the fifth generation on both sides of my family to grow up in a rural county in Arkansas.  Both my mother's family and my father's homesteaded the land on which they lived, and I was raised on part of the farm that had been in my father's family since the late 1800s.  There is even a town--really a wide spot in the road that used to have a post office and is now an access point on the Buffalo National River--called Pruitt. 

With my son and my mother
on the Buffalo National River
Pruitt access point 2015

It is a little known fact that many students attend the college nearest their home--if, that is, there is one.  Lack of a nearby college or university is one reason that many rural high school graduates don't continue on to college.  

I was a rural high school graduate who didn't have the opportunity to attend a college within commuting distance from my parents' home (there was a two-year community college 20 miles away), but I was lucky in that the state's flagship land grant university was just 80 miles away.   So, I got a good education, while also being able to maintain many family connections. 

Still, when it came to careers, I was unable to return home to fulfill my professional destiny.  First, I earned an undergraduate degree in journalism, but there was only a weekly newspaper in my hometown, and they didn't have the budget to hire people with journalism degrees.  Indeed, the journalism market in Arkansas is one reason I decided to go ahead and undertake law school, which had long been a dream.  (At the time, journalists in Arkansas earned about $10K/year, which seemed barely enough to service my student loans). 

I had only been in law school a short time when I realized I'd never "go home" to the county where I grew up (Newton) to practice law, simply because there was no market there.  My county of 8000 residents was home to one attorney.  They didn't need another, and there was no one there to mentor me.  Eventually, law school channeled me to the city anyway and to what passes for "big law" in that region.  I had summer associate gigs in Little Rock, Tulsa and Kansas City before deciding to pursue a PhD, which took me to London (because that's where the best scholarship opportunity was).  That led to a decade living and working abroad.  

Then, when I went on the law school teaching market, I'd hoped to be offered a job back in Arkansas, but that didn't happen.  (It is typical for law schools, unless they are T14, not to hire their own graduates, though I note that exceptions get made for men more often than for women). I wound up in California, where I still live and work 23 years later.  I'm very grateful for my career--and the opportunity to raise a Californian--but I still lament that many (though certainly not all) of my Arkansas connections have slipped away. 

With my mother, at the Newton County Museum,
Arkansas
(c) W.R. Pruitt-Herbert 2017 

I moved to California to fulfill what I believe was my professional destiny--becoming a law professor--and one consequence of that was a certain loss of place.