My story

My mother has been unhoused for over two years. She blames me for it. 

I haven't spoken these words out loud to anyone at King Hall despite it weighing on me and greatly impacting my own educational experience. I think it's time I tell my story. 

One of the main legal issues I would work on during my AmeriCorps fellowship was helping tenants with their Unlawful Detainer cases. There were very clear rules that I had to follow, with the first and most important being to never render legal advice. They were not my clients, I was not an attorney. My role was clear: I would help pro se litigants fill out the paperwork to keep them in their homes, educate them about their legal rights and the eviction process, and then I would send them on their way. 

For years my mother had been barely scraping by, only narrowly avoiding evictions in the past. The only reason why she still had an apartment was because of the eviction moratoriums put into place during the COVID-19 pandemic. 

My mother and I have always had a tumultuous relationship. My parents had their first child when they were teens. By the time they had me, my dad's youngest, they were only 23. Between being young parents, battling cancer, financial instability, and unhealed childhood traumas, our family has always felt dysfunctional.

I felt like my mother had mentally checked out of our family years before she physically left me and my siblings with my dad. But I had always done everything I could to fix what I could. I raised my newborn sister while juggling high school and college applications so my mom could work. Once I got a job, I sent her money to pay for daycare or her rent. As always, when the last eviction notice wound up on her door, I set her up with all the legal resources that I could. This time it wasn't enough. 

Resources were steadily decreasing as we got further away from the pandemic, and there were no more protections that could keep my mom in her home. Despite doing what I could to prepare her for court, and help her during her mediation and hearings, she had to vacate her apartment by January 17, 2023. Worst of all, she blamed me for it. 

From the point on, nothing that happened to me mattered to my mom and my older sister. I couldn't be frustrated when my personal statement was deleted because at least I wasn't unhoused. I couldn't be happy when I got into school because it was still my fault for losing my biggest legal battle yet. Slowly, I stopped telling people anything about myself both at school and at home. I was ashamed that I get to live this life while my mother is unhoused and my dad doesn't think he'll make enough to pay the bills each month because he's taking care of my grandparents. 

There's a lot of hurt between the two of us that can't be captured in a short blog post, but looking back what hurts most is knowing that so much responsibility was put onto a child from both of my parents. Campoverdi's First Gen and some of our other readings have discussed that first-gen students' experiences such as mine cause these students to grow up too fast. I find myself now more than ever grieving my childhood, and the fact that I've felt like an adult for so long. 

I often hear stories about the relationships that people have with their families in our class, and I feel like there is something wrong with me for not having the same relationship. My partner's family knows more about me than my own family because I've stopped telling my own family anything about me. When my partner's family asks about me, or I hear about the relationships everyone seems to have with their families, I physically hurt because I realize that I'm now a stranger to my own family. But how do you repair years of strained relationships? 

Since getting to law school, I've kept not just my family but all of my peers at arms length. Much of this hesitance to share these experiences goes back to my shame. I don't talk to people at school, but I also don't talk to my family back at home. So who's left? 

I sat down today to write a letter to my past self, but I quickly realized that I don't feel ready for that yet. Law school has challenged me in every way imaginable. But most recently, the challenged I've faced is figuring out who is in my village. 

We need to stop catastrophizing when we're cliff jumping

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A self-help guide for eldest daughters

After reading the Refinery29 article entitled "6 Women On The Pressure Of Being The Eldest Kid Of Immigrants," I couldn't help but see the parallels to my own experience. The women discussed serving as the guinea pig for their parents, taking over familial responsibilities that are typically reserved for adults, and becoming the designated third parent.

As the eldest daughter in my family, I've had similar experiences: I consistently provide significant emotional support to each of my family members when they navigate intrafamily turmoil, serve as a role model for my brother in every aspect, and ensure that peace is kept within my home.

The best way I can describe myself is that I am the designated Family Manager. 

Those who experience "eldest daughter syndrome" typically feel a strong sense of responsibility; they are considered type A, overachievers, or perfectionists; they struggle with people-pleasing behaviors; and they have a hard time setting boundaries. This list isn't all-encompassing, but these are some of the most common traits that eldest daughters share. 

After reading through this blog, it appears I am not the only one who navigates the dynamics that come with being the oldest child in their family. As such, I decided to compile a "self-help" guide for those of us suffering from eldest daughter syndrome. Implementing the recommendations below is easier said than done, but it is a first step in prioritizing our well-being.

Develop Boundaries

One of the most important ways to combat eldest daughter syndrome is to create boundaries with your family members. This can be especially difficult when our families consistently rely on us, but establishing your limits and learning to delegate responsibility is one of the most important ways to avoid emotional burnout. 

Learning to set boundaries involves recognizing that saying "no" is not only acceptable but necessary for maintaining our well-being. This can start with small steps, such as limiting our availability to others, avoiding phone calls after a certain time, or declining requests that drain our energy. 

Differentiating between independence and excessive self-reliance is also key. Becoming independent can be seen as a strength and is commonly associated with being the eldest daughter. However, when that independence morphs into an unhealthy inability to depend on others, it can become a serious impediment to our health. If you find yourself slipping into the habit of refusing to ask for help, it is best to pause and remember to reach out when a situation become overwhelming.

Find a Community and Share your Experience

Finding a community of like-minded individuals is a powerful tool for eldest daughters navigating the challenges of our role. Connecting with others who have experienced similar pressures and responsibilities can provide us with a sense of validation.

For example, after reading a satirical article detailing the LinkedIn profile of an eldest daughter, I forwarded the piece to one of my childhood friends who--like me--is also the oldest daughter in her family. We shared jokes about which portions of the fictitious profile page was most applicable to us and we found it amusing, relevant, and almost too accurate. Reminiscing over our shared experience as eldest daughters reminded me that my experiences are not singular and that other people share the same struggles that I do. 

Practice Self-Love and Self-Appreciation

Practicing self-love is essential for eldest daughters seeking to overcome the pressures of our role. Growing up as a caretaker often means putting others first, which can lead to neglecting one's own emotional and physical needs. Self-love involves prioritizing personal care and recognizing that take care of ourselves is not selfish but necessary. This can include activities like spending time alone, engaging in hobbies, or simply taking moments to reflect on our own needs. 

In an effort to practice more self-appreciation, I created a list of traits I developed which can be attributed to being the oldest child in my family. For example, I love that I prioritize family time and I am extremely proud of my ability to be a problem-solver while also being empathetic; I attribute each of these qualities to my experience as an eldest daughter.

By implementing these strategies, eldest daughters can begin to break free from the pressures of our role, prioritize well-being, and cultivate a healthier balance between family responsibilities and personal fulfillment. As eldest daughters, we have to remember that we cannot pour from an empty cup. 

Lessons from a little golden wiener dog

A Long-Awaited Yes

Nearly 14 years ago, my parents finally agreed to let us get a dog.

I was only 10 years old when they gave in to our constant begging. We visited several shelters before one little golden puppy, shaped like a tiny hot dog, caught our eye. He was a blur of energy, racing up to us as we stood outside his kennel, wide-eyed and hopeful.

Several families were already interested in adopting him. It was easy to see why. He was the most beautiful, curious, and loving creature we had ever seen.

Yet somehow the stars aligned, and despite the odds, he became ours.

Learning Through the Unfamiliar

At the time, we were one of the first Punjabi families in our area to adopt a dog. Pets were often seen as an extra responsibility or financial burden, something unnecessary when life already came with enough challenges. Adopting him was a choice that felt unfamiliar, something that set us apart from those around us.

When we brought him home, that unfamiliarity became clear. None of us had grown up with dogs. For the first week, we felt unsure, maybe even a little afraid. We questioned whether we were ready, whether we knew what we were doing, whether we had made a mistake.

Over time, though, that little golden puppy taught us not to be afraid. His love was patient and steady. Slowly, he turned uncertainty into trust, fear into comfort, and transformed our house into a home filled with laughter, care, and growth.

The Lessons He Left Behind

This past Saturday, we lost our sweet boy.

The grief is heavy. Yet what remains is everything he gave us—his spirit, his loyalty, and the quiet lessons he taught us over the years. Most importantly, he showed us how to face the unknown without letting fear take over.

That lesson became even more important years later when I entered law school as a first-generation student. 

Walking into law school felt much like bringing him home for the first time. No one in my family had walked this path before. I didn’t have a roadmap or someone who could tell me exactly what to expect. 

Instead, I had to figure it out on my own, balancing the pressure of my own doubts with the weight of my family’s hopes.

First-generation students often live in two worlds. We carry the experiences and sacrifices of our families on our backs while trying to navigate spaces that were never built with us in mind. 

It is isolating at times—constantly feeling like you’re translating, adjusting, catching up. There is a quiet pressure that comes with knowing you are the first, and that your success feels like it carries more weight than just your own future.

I felt that pressure every time I stepped into a classroom filled with people whose parents were doctors, lawyers, professionals who could guide them through the process. I didn’t have that. 

What I did have, though, was the knowledge that unfamiliar things become familiar over time. My dog had shown me that firsthand. He taught me how to be patient with myself, how to lean into the discomfort of not knowing, and how to trust that I could figure things out along the way.

It is a lesson that grounded me when I questioned whether I belonged. When imposter syndrome crept in, when the workload felt endless, when the stakes felt impossibly high—I reminded myself that I had once been afraid of something as simple as bringing home a dog. Over time, I learned to love and care for him without hesitation. 

Law school, in many ways, was no different. The fear never completely disappears, but it no longer controls you.

Paving the Way Forward

His impact extended far beyond our family. 

After we adopted him, other families in our community began to feel more comfortable welcoming dogs into their homes. What once seemed unusual slowly became something others felt they could do too. That shift, small as it may seem, reminded me how much one decision, one act of bravery, can ripple outward.

Being a first-generation law student feels the same. 

It is not just about my own journey. It is about making the path clearer for others who will come after me. It is about showing my younger siblings and my community that we can belong in spaces where we have not traditionally been represented. 

Every time I take a step forward, I hope it becomes easier for the next person to take that step too.

The stars aligned for us once, all those years ago, when that little golden puppy became part of our family. I like to think they are still aligning now, in ways I may not fully see yet, guiding me forward.

He was the first of many.

So am I.

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. 

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.

Conquering spaces

As I enter the second half of the spring semester, I have come to the conclusion that the unofficial stereotype for most “first and onlys” is that we love to overcommit ourselves, no matter how unhealthy it might be for us. Moreover, we fear that our work products will be scrutinized under a microscope for total perfection, and therefore, in utter exhaustion, we try our best to make everything perfect. It's an endless game of progression and regression. In her memoir, First Gen: A Memoir, author Alejandra Campoverdi provides an insightful analogy for this "first and onlys" phenomenon in Chapter Five, "Crash into Me." Campoverdi compares this experience to the children's board game Chutes and Ladders, capturing the unpredictable rises and setbacks encountered by those navigating uncharted paths.

Although I am not a social scientist, it seems possible that our obsession with overcommitting could be based on the complexity of our backgrounds, specifically, an unintentional response to the constant reminder that we, as “first and onlys,” are often outsiders in the spaces we occupy. We are so used to being naturally excluded from certain social circles that when we have earned an opportunity to enter a new space, whether that is our first office job or attending college, we feel the need to integrate ourselves by proving to others that without any doubt we are worth the space we conquer. These feelings are very powerful. They can shape our self-perception of our overall worth. The most empowering tools I have utilized to combat these feelings are working on my individual acceptance and seeking a broader community of people who can relate to me.

Individual acceptance requires “first and onlys” to reflect deeply on their personal sense of belonging. As someone about to enter their last year of law school, I expected this time to be an opportunity to reflect on my achievements – but it has proven otherwise. Admittedly, these last few weeks have been an overwhelming period filled with constant stress and depression. I have been trying my best to balance my personal life with my obligations in law school, but it has been challenging.

Like many of my fellow “first and onlys” 2L classmates, we, as law students, are asked to balance class participation with completing assignments and projects, and attending meetings for the various clubs and organizations we are involved in while trying our best to maintain the little bit of social life we have left. Despite our meticulous time management, the volume of responsibilities leaves us feeling stretched too thin. Dealing with personal relationships and family losses only complicates our experiences. And as the semester goes on, we start to burn out from the constant stress and pressure, like a candle reaching its limit, trying its best to keep its flame burning.

Consequently, the aftereffect of being burned out makes an individual question whether or not they deserve to be in a particular space. In moments of vulnerability, it makes me wonder if I’m in the right place, asking myself, “Am I actually deserving, or am I just really good at lying to myself?”

However, the recognition of other “first and onlys” pushes me forward. Ironically, as I have learned this semester, “first and onlys” can find solidarity in knowing that these feelings of self-doubt are collectively shared among us, no matter what stage of our professional development we are in. Whether you’re an incoming first-year student preparing for college, an admitted student excited to start law school, or even a seasoned law student just trying to make it through the semester, we doubt ourselves, but long for integration and the acknowledgment of others that we are deserving of our place at the table. For me, the community of Latinx attorneys, judges, professors, and students that I have met these last few years has supported my process of self-awareness, allowing me to be more comfortable with my own resilience, even in spaces that were not traditionally designed with “first and onlys” in mind.

Last Friday, I attended the Cruz Reynoso Bar Association’s Annual meeting as one of only three law students. The association aims to create a community among licensed attorneys and students under the values of the late Justice Cruz Reynoso, California’s Supreme Court's first Chicano Justice. I saw firsthand the pride in the eyes of total strangers when I described the background that made my achievements possible. These individuals, some of whom had shared similar life experiences, collectively acknowledged me as worthy of my title of a law student. Having local lawyers, judges, and King Hall professors offer to be a resource if I ever needed it, truly recentered me, canceling my insecurities. Their willingness to mentor and share their insights, or even just listen, was reassuring. It reminded me that I belong in this profession by affirming my capabilities. Knowing that experienced members of the legal community were invested in my success has motivated me to approach challenges with renewed confidence and determination.

Through sharing my experience, I assert the necessity of growing and strengthening our “first and onlys” community. Expanding representation for underrepresented groups of “first and onlys,” can only actively reinforce our collective strength as a community. I call on all “first and onlys” who occupied spaces in the professional and the academic world, not to forget that as new generations enter our spaces, we are responsible for welcoming them with open arms and teaching them to do the same.

Sick of Second Chances

In the excerpt from chapter 17 in the memoir “Educated,” we saw the protagonist make a distasteful comment about the Holocaust because she had never learned or known about it. This caused the people around her to have a very negative reaction to her.  

This interaction begs the question: How much grace should we give to people who make ignorant comments as a result of how they were raised or because of a genuine lack of information?

Growth 

The knee jerk reaction of many people is to say that we have to give people grace. It is unfair to punish people for the things that they do not know, especially while they are teenagers or young adults. 

There is this idea that if we are too hard on people, then we do not give them the opportunity to grow and change. This idea that people should not be punished or crucified for a moment of ignorance or stupidity. That we must be willing to give people second chances for their mistakes. 

While I do understand this perspective, I am not sure if I fully agree with it.

For Context 

Because of the schools that I attended, I have been subjected to racist jokes and racial slurs since the age of five. In Kindergarten I had two young white girls try to have me pretend to be their “slave.” I heard the “n” word weekly from non-Black students. Sometimes the slur was even used directly toward me along with other derogatory remarks questioning my Blackness. 

Furthermore, there were countless jokes about my appearance, my skin tone, and my hair. People would often make jokes about my family being “thugs” or  make claims that my dad had to have been a drug dealer. Students would question my intelligence and undermine my accomplishments due to my race. 

These things happened consistently until I was 18 years old. 

My View

By no means am I saying that people should be perpetually punished for every single mistake that they made in their youth. 

I get it. No one is perfect at those ages, and we all have said or done things that we regret. However, I forgave many of these people only for them to continue the same behavior as we got older. 

I have never fully understood why I was expected to always be the bigger person. Why I was the one who had to continuously extend grace while being berated for something that I could not help. 

I also understand that the people making these comments were “just kids.” But so was I. 

Hearing those types of comments regularly during some of my most formative years had implications on my mental health and self perception that have taken years to reverse. I hated myself for many years of my life, as I was convinced that the treatment I received at school was because there was something wrong with me. 

Some of these students have grown and even apologized to me for the things that they said and did. And while I do appreciate those apologies, I feel absolutely no obligation to forgive any of them. 

I encourage their character development and even celebrate it. However, I have no interest in being used as a stepping stone to their growth. It is wonderful that they learned that what they did was wrong, but this acknowledgement of their wrongdoing did not erase the negative impact that it had on me mentally. A singular apology does not and cannot ever make up for years of ignorance and racism. 

I do not harbor resentment nor wish ill on the individuals who have apologized to me. However, I will never be guilt-tripped into believing that I must forgive and forget what they did simply because they decided to become anti-racist after years of treating me terribly simply for being Black.

The ignorance that many people were taught in their childhoods is not their fault, but it is not mine either. So I will not force myself to “give grace” or be the bigger person when people perpetuate discriminatory ideas, nor should I be expected to. 

Conclusion

I do agree that we must give people room to grow and change. However, I do not believe that the burden of extending grace and forgiveness should fall on the individuals or group harmed by the actions of that person. 

Forgiveness should not be an expectation of individuals harmed by bigotry, regardless of if the intent was malicious or not. Some people may forgive them and want to give them a second chance. Others may want absolutely nothing to do with someone after they make a bigoted comment out of ignorance. Both reactions are valid and acceptable. 

We should not police how people choose to react to any form of discrimination. 

When we have these conversations about giving people grace, I do think it is very easy to unintentionally dismiss the frustrations of those who were harmed in the process. 

It is essential that we find a balance in handling these situations and understand the complexities that come with making certain mistakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then, you show up anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The restrictions of language

My partner’s middle name is “JM”—but there is far more meaning in those two letters than anticipated.

“JM” stands for “jung-ming.” A Chinese name. My partner’s family uses generational names, meaning the names of children born in the same generation share a Chinese character. In my partner’s case, he and his brother share “jung.”

My partner was born close to the new millennium, on December 29, 1999. His parents wanted to signify the coming of the 2000s, and so, the meaning of his middle name was intended to be “bell ringing in the new millennium.” Due to influences that can only be guessed at, the true meaning of his middle name is—“dinner bell.” Meanwhile, his brother’s middle name means “unicorn.”

One theory for the middle name mix-up is that my partner’s mom, a second generation Chinese American, lost command of Mandarin as she became more assimilated. If this were true it would echo nay’s experience voiced in the blog post “Do you even know how smart I am in another language.”

Behind the letters “JM” that appear on my partner’s passport, there is a story, a misconception, and a connection to Chinese culture and his brother. There is a similar story behind the passed down initials of ACM.

I believe these stories demonstrate some of the gaps in experience language cannot cover. Labels alone are not reliable conduits in conveying an entire story.

I feel this tension in my own life, because my life experiences do not cleanly fit within many typically labeled traits. I grew up low income, but I am comfortable now. I fall within the LGBTQ community, but I realized quite late and have been dating a man for years. I am a first-generation law student, but I do not claim “first-generation” because my parents made it through my hometown CSU. In my mom’s case, after three tries—and in my dad’s, after breaking away from intermittent homelessness and parents with drug addiction.

I believe this feeling of tension deriving from the simplicity of labels and the complexity of lived experience is common.

One instance of this tension can be seen in an anecdote from the New Yorker article by Leslie Jamison. The article speaks mostly about whether the term “imposter syndrome” is flawed and whether it draws attention away from pressing societal issues regarding equity in academic and work spaces. However, it includes a story about Stephanie Land, the author of the “Maid:” a memoir recounting Land’s experiences as a maid, a job undertaken to support her unexpected pregnancy. The anecdote described a moment in which a stranger thanked Land for her writing. At the time of the conversation, Land was flying first class with her teenage daughter to see a Lizzo concert. Land described that she felt “she’d been caught somewhere she didn’t belong—as if flying first class made her current self a fraud, or else her past self a fraud…” because of the tension between the struggles she faced and voiced in Maid and the circumstances of the conversation.

My partner and other multiracial friends have similarly voiced that on any given day they may feel that they do not belong to any part of their identity.

What is to be done about the inadequacy of language in capturing someone’s essence within one or two words?

Personally, I try not to identify myself using the labels you might find on an employment form. Instead, I speak to who I am by being open about my experiences and the events and people who have shaped me.

AKJ wrote about the village it takes to raise and send a child to law school. I believe every person seeks and wants community, but sometimes it may not be clear where you will find the people critical to your “village.” Due to insecurity related to claiming parts of my identity that may lend itself more to built-in community, I never know where I may find kinship or support. So, I open myself to the world and leave it in the hands of individuals to decide whether the cloth from which we are cut bears any resemblance.

I know for others labels can be empowering, and I almost envy those who confidently wield them. From these individuals, though, I would ask for open-mindedness. It may surprise you who you end up having a lot in common with.

Writing to past me and future me

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


Dear 1L me,

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

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

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

 

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


Dear 3L me,

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

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

Life is too short to not do scary things

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

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

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

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

As first-gen college graduates or law students, we've all done something that scared us. We took the time to study and take the LSAT, apply to law schools in states we may have never visited, and ultimately move to one of those law schools. At that time, we had no idea what to expect from this experience. We knew we would be stressed; we knew it would be hard; and we knew that it would open the door to about a million more scary things. Despite the fear, our grit got us through those scary feelings.  

Looking back, I have no idea how I had the confidence in myself to do these wildly scary things knowing it would be unlike anything anyone in my family had done before. But much like Orozco, I never would be on this crazy law school journey had I not done scary things. 

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

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

"And thank goodness he isn't Mexican"

"You'll own nothing. And you'll be happy," is a prediction of the near future made by the World Economic Forum in 2018. This is a phrase that has come to mind more frequently as the world becomes increasingly dominated by subscription services, disposable plastics, and rentals. 

Desperate not to be lifetime renters, my fiancé and I recently purchased a condominium in the Greater Sacramento Area and have since been investing all our free time to the renovation and move-in process. Last weekend, this process involved the construction of a bookshelf and its installation into our living room accent wall (see photos below). To make our home improvement dream a reality, we enlisted the aid of my contractor "friend" (who I'll refer to herein under the pseudonym "Mateo" due to his documentation status).

Mateo is a paradox and an enigma, a middle-aged Mexican man with a hardboiled past and an impish sense of humor. Mateo was born in or around the city of Jalisco, Mexico, but with the way he describes it, you'd think he was born into the wild western frontier of the 1890s. In his early years, Mateo courted death numerous times working on neighborhood ranches. He's been kicked by a horse, hung on chicken wire, and has received more than his fair share of cuts and lacerations. I'm convinced his coarse hands are made up of scar tissue more than anything else. Regardless of the threats to his health, Mateo has always been happy to work and earn his living.

Mateo's time in Mexico was eventually cut short when he was forced to leave his pueblo around the age of 17. Alone, and with little money or supplies, Mateo crossed the Mexican-American frontier and survived by taking on odd jobs until he was finally taken in by a contracting company willing to exploit him for him full-time. A few years later, a now 19-year-old Mateo met his now wife while obtaining his GED. They became parents at a young age, an unseen inheritance. One fatherly punch to the jaw, a wedding, and a few years later, Mateo would find himself a respected member of his new family and a successful entrepreneur.

Mateo is an industrious man who values family, hard-work, and durability above all else. He has a very odd form of intelligence that allows him to organize labor, sell his skillset, solve problems and carry out complex renovations while believing with all sincerity and among other things that the world could be flat and that the act of flossing produces cavities. However, there is one odd trait about him I've yet to understand. While he carries great pride in his ancestry, being "hecho en Mexico," he also seems to carry an odd animus against Mexicans.

Recently, his daughter had an intimate courthouse wedding prompted by her now husband's obligation to the military (below, please enjoy a photo of the historic San Francisco courthouse for reference). Later that day, they held a beautiful reception restricted to 50 of their closest loved ones. One by one, her family and friends offered their blessings and shared memories about the bride and groom. When Mateo's turn came, he shared some of the joys and regrets he had accumulated along his life which ultimately played a small part in their union. Notably, he stated that while he was overjoyed by his daughter and her husband, he regretted bringing down his wife's potential in life. He concluded along these lines:

'I am so grateful that [my daughter] did things the right way. They are getting married today not out of responsibility but out of love. And to a great guy. Not like me. And thank goodness he isn't Mexican."

As he delivered that last line, his eyes (along with many others) fell in the direction of his niece's table, at which she sat beside her boyfriend, a relatively tall Mexican man with tanned skin and a wiry frame. After an awkward pause, the microphone and the attention eventually moved on.

Coming back to last weekend, as we drove back to my condo from El Pollo Loco to continue renovating, the topic of immigration and the Trump Administration came up in conversation. Being undocumented himself and a gracious employer to those in positions of need, I assumed he would feel a significant degree of empathy for those targeted by President Trump's authoritarian immigration policies (see, e.g., compulsory immigrant registry, removing sensitive area restrictions on ICE arrests, and contemplating the adoption of a pay-to-win back door for the wealthy into America). Instead, he told me that deportation is simply another consequence of choice.

"If you break the law, you go to jail. If you come in illegally, you get kicked out. You get what you deserve. Why I feel bad because you get what you deserve?"

I was shocked and disappointed, but I had no retort. How can one argue against such a simple, if not heartless, proposition? Even being at risk himself and knowing the collateral harms at stake with each removal, he was able to take the humanity out of the law. 

Mateo's confusing combination of Mexican pride and animosity is unfortunately not an isolated phenomenon. Hispanics and Latinx peoples across the country are shifting towards MAGA ideologies, as evidenced by our most recent national election; and for the life of me, I can't understand why. Mateo's case is especially troubling because, unlike those who voted for Trump this last November and wish to "close the door behind them" as they pursue their American dreams, Mateo "came in through the window."

If this self-destructive trend continues, those like Mateo may just receive the consequences they were willing to have others suffer. If that should come to pass, although he owns nothing, I doubt he'd be happy.

I'm so lucky, everything works out for me

"Every man and woman should have the opportunity to go as far as their hard work, individual initiative and competence can take them." These are the words the White House recently used to explain Trump's recent efforts to terminate DEI efforts in our country. 

As we have seen in this course, however, sometimes hard work is not enough. Disadvantaged groups face barriers that keep them from getting to where their hard work could take them. These barriers, and the knowledge of such barriers, have led to first-gen students and other students from disadvantaged backgrounds feeling like it was pure luck that enabled them to achieved the impossible. 

I think often about the mantra/manifestation that was going around social media for a while: "I'm so lucky, everything works out for me." Looking back, I can see this led me to fall into the "Lucky Girl Syndrome"  phenomenon (thank you, S, for inspiring my blog post). 

I had gotten to a point during my law school application journey where I would say "I'm so lucky, everything works out for me" to myself at least once a day in hopes that it would make up for where my application fell short. Once the acceptances started rolling in though, I got scared that it was an accident and that I didn't actually deserve what I had gotten. Looking back now, I can see how "Lucky Girl Syndrome" was ingrained into me for as long as I can remember.  I can even see it going back through generations of my family. 

Like others, I did not know what being "first gen" meant when I was applying to college. I didn't even know when I got there. I remember learning about first generation college students during my first day of orientation and it never occurred to me that I was part of this group. Still, I went to school grateful every day that any school would have just so happened to pick my name out of a stack of applications, let me attend the school, give me money to do so, and award me a diploma at the end of it. 

Looking back, I realize that I was taught to feel lucky to be able to take up space, or to be given any opportunity. Implicit in this, though, is that I didn't earn it, or deserve it, and that I am only ever in any place because of luck and because someone else had let me. I think that at least a little part of this is because of how I was raised. 

Similar to Campoverdi's telling of her family's novenas in Chapter 3, my family turns to God to guide them through hardships. I grew up in an extremely religious family. My family shares the same feelings that every time something good happens to them, it is because they got luck or because God made it happen. When my grandma gave up her own schooling to send her siblings to school and make sure they were taken care of, she said that God blessed her siblings with the education. When my mom went into remission from cancer, it was God who saved her. Every time we didn't lose our house, it was God blessing us. When I began traveling around the country to perform violin with my chamber orchestra, it was God giving me talent to spread his word. When I got into college, it was God giving me a way to use my gifts for good.

I think often about how my family tends to attribute our success to luck or to a higher power when it seems that we shouldn't have worked out in the way that it did. But looking back, what it really comes down to is a willingness to work in spite of and against adversity. It's grit. It's hard work and advocating from me and my family. It's never giving up, even when we've been told no. 

Ultimately, I think a consequence of these mantras - that everything works out for me because I'm lucky, or that my family gets through hardships because God makes it happen - is that in every space I am in, I feel imposter syndrome. I am not there because I worked hard to be here, but because I am lucky or because some higher power made it happen. I am in constant fear of failure because I feel like these spaces are not meant for people like me. These spaces certainly are not built for people like me, so what makes me think I can succeed? 

In fact, the current conversations around increasing DEI in school and employment settings only affirm my imposter syndrome. It is hard to ignore the suggestions that I took a more meritorious student's place (although I do understand that these suggestions entirely misunderstand the place and purpose of DEI) simply because the school was obligated to, or it made them look better. Both constructions suggest I did not earn what I got. 

Luck, religion, and spirituality certainly have their place in big milestones or in overcoming hardship. My family's faith undoubtedly gives us the strength and courage to keep going amidst seemingly never-ending adversity. It gives me the motivation to take up more space and challenge the barriers I face. 

That said, I work everyday on re-shaping this mindset, and I give myself and my family our flowers, so that instead of someone or something else being the reason I am here today, I recognize that it was me and my family working hard, pushing barriers, and never taking that we "can't do it" as an answer. 

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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Lucky girl syndrome

Image Description: Photo taken at UC Merced. Rancho Campana High School took students on a "college road trip" across the state annually. 

"Lucky girl syndrome" is a recent pop culture phenomenon. The phrase refers to the belief, or rather manifestation, that things will work out for you. As a first-generation law student, I can't help but wonder whether my success is a result of my hard work or of chance. Am I a lucky girl?

It has become increasingly clear that the primary and secondary schools you attend can have a large impact on the colleges to which you are admitted. A school's course offerings, state test scores, and extracurricular opportunities all influence the way a university might view applicants, despite the fact that students have little to no control over those details.

Advantages of magnet schools include specialized curriculum, improved educational opportunities, and valuing of diversity. They have an interesting history and mission of diversity, initially emerging as a desegregation response in the United States, aiming to encourage integration by drawing in students from different neighborhoods and addressing their academic needs.

Magnet schools typically prepare students for college, offering smaller class sizes for individualized attention, utilizing a hands-on approach, and allowing students the ability to focus curriculum on their particular curricular interests.

My K-12 educational background is not that of a typical first-generation student, or even one of a non-first generation student. In third grade, my family moved across the state of California and I began attending school in Ventura County. The school I attended wasn't great, but fifth grade was particularly bad. That year, I learned nothing, and I truly mean nothing. One vivid memory I have is when my teacher spent three days (yes, three) talking on the phone to her friend on speakerphone in front of the class. I also remember coming home and telling my mom about this. She was livid. 

The next week, Mom put my name in the "lottery" for a spot in a local magnet school. By the end of the month, we heard back that my name was selected. I won the lottery, literally.

And just like that, the next school year I was a magnet school student commuting thirty minutes every day to the "rich" part of town. My classmates had star-studded affiliations, lived in mansions, and participated in after-school activities like fencing and equestrianism. Class sizes were small, each student was given a school-issued laptop to take home, and the principal knew each one of us by name. It was very different from what I was used to.

I got lucky again in high school. A new school opened five minutes from my parents' house. It wasn't a magnet school, but a "STEAM" public school with three different academies students could tailor their studies to: the Academy of Arts and Entertainment, the Academy of Engineering, and the Academy of Health and Medical Sciences. Because attendance was in high demand, this school also implemented a lottery system. Once again, my mom put my name in the running, and I was selected. I won the lottery, again.

At Rancho Campana High school, all my classes were geared towards medicine, the field I thought I was going to pursue. It was the most beautiful public high school campus I had ever seen. Better still, by the end of my four years I had a padded resume. In addition to my participation in typical athletics and clubs, this school afforded me the ability to be a certified EMT. I took the equivalent of 6 years of science classes, did a hospital internship, and had cultivated strong, individualized relationships with faculty who could write my letters of recommendation. Furthermore, the classes were academically rigorous, and students performed well on the state's standardized tests. 

Rancho Campana High School is currently ranked 179th in the state. Comparing this ranking to the school I would have attended had my mom not put my name in the lottery is jarring--that school is 1,078th.

(To be clear, not everything was perfect. Instead of US History I took a "US Medical History" class. As a law student, I can say regular U.S. History would have been very, very helpful for Con Law classes.)

The luxury of the education I got from sixth to twelfth grade got me into my dream college, UC Davis. Looking back, I can't help but wonder if the outcome would have changed had I not won those two student lotteries.

As one student wrote, it sometimes seems as if our futures are dictated by our circumstances. Although I like to believe that my own agency, grit, and determination got me to where I am today, I get the sneaking feeling that I had a lot of luck on my side. That makes me wonder if that luck means that I'm taking up space I didn't earn.

It's hard for me to reconcile these conflicting thoughts. I think the only thing I can do is acknowledge how lucky I have been and recognize that those advantages have led me to King Hall. The combination of who I am and the forces beyond my control got me to where I am today. A little bit of luck helped me get to where I am today, and in my opinion there's nothing wrong with that. Maybe I am a lucky girl, but I'm also a lot of other things.