Lucky girl syndrome

 "Lucky girl syndrome" is a phenomenon that has been taking over pop culture in recent years. 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 schools you attend can have a large impact on your college admissions. A school's course offerings, state test scores, and extracurricular opportunities all influence the way a university might view students as 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 US, 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 specific interests.

My 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 and I began attending school in Southern California. 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 this -- she was livid. 

The next week she put my name in the "lottery" for a spot in a local magnet school. By the end of the month, we had 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.

Here, all my classes were geared towards medicine, the field I thought I was going to pursue. On top of it being the most beautiful public high school campus I had ever seen, 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 had taken the equivalent of 6 years of science classes, had been set up with a hospital internship, and had cultivated strong, individualized relationships with faculty who could write my letters of recommendation. Even further, the classes were academically rigorous and students performed well on state-testing. My 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 -- 1,078th.

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

Image Description: Photo taken at UC Merced. My high school took students on a "college road trip" across the state annually. 

The luxury of the education I have been afforded from sixth to twelfth grade got me into my dream college, UC Davis. Looking back, I can't help but wonder the outcome would have been the same if my name hadn't been selected in those student lotteries.

As one student wrote, it sometimes seems as if our futures are chosen for us by surrounding circumstances. Although I like to believe that my own agency, grit, and determination got me to where I am today, I can't help the sneaking feeling that I had a lot of luck on my side. I then wonder if that luck means that I'm taking up space I haven't earned.

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 an education here at King Hall. The combination of who I am and the forces beyond my control got me to where I am today. In my opinion, there's nothing wrong with acknowledging a little bit of luck helped get you to where you are. Maybe I am a lucky girl, but I'm also a lot of other things. 

Defining and appreciating my "village"

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Mom and Younger Brother: My Anchors

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

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

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

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

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

Friends: Past and Present

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

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

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

Extended Community: Mentors in the Legal Field

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

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

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

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

Gratitude and Appreciation

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

The hardest lesson in advocacy: knowing when to step back

From Lost to Empowered

I did not always understand what it truly meant to be a first-generation college student. Stepping onto my undergraduate campus for the first time felt like entering a world designed for those with guidance from parents, siblings, or mentors who had already navigated this path. Instead, I had to figure things out on my own, constantly wondering if I was missing something important.

Thankfully, that changed a few weeks into my freshman year when I was selected for a retention program designed for first-generation and low-income students. At the time, I did not realize how much I needed it.

I once believed success was just about working harder, but this program showed me that access to resources made all the difference. It provided priority registration, free private tutoring, a quarterly book stipend, and, most importantly, a support system. I was no longer just surviving college; I was thriving.

That experience changed me. I realized how many first-generation students struggle not because they lack ability, but because they are navigating an unfamiliar system without the same safety nets as others. It also showed me the power of having a community that understands and supports you.

When I applied to law school, I knew I needed that same sense of belonging. I prioritized schools with strong first-generation support, places where students were not expected to figure everything out alone. At King Hall, I found that in the First Generation Advocates program.

When Advocacy Feels Impossible

I wish I could say that I joined the First Generation Advocates Student Board (FGASB), advocated for first-generation and low-income law students, and everything else fell into place. But that would be far from the truth.

Advocating for others is difficult, especially when you're struggling yourself. The truth is that I have struggled from the moment I walked into law school orientation. Law school was unlike anything I had experienced before. However, like always, I figured things out with time.

But nothing could have prepared me for this past semester.

FGASB had won an important award for its service, and I was chosen to deliver the acceptance speech on its behalf. I sat in my seat, nervously waiting for my turn to speak, when my phone buzzed. It was my brother.

“The landlords have decided to sell the house. We will need to move out soon.”

My mind went blank. For most, this news would be stressful. For me, it was a trigger.

I started spiraling, remembering the times we lived in transitional homelessness, the fear of losing everything again, and the uncertainty of what would happen next. Just as the thoughts became overwhelming, they called our organization’s name. I took a deep breath, walked up to the podium, and read the speech I had written just hours earlier.

I did not ask many people for help after that. I convinced myself I could handle it on my own. But a few weeks later, my dad suffered a major heart attack.

No warning signs. No time to prepare. Just a single phone call that changed everything.

I suddenly had so many doubts. I did not know if I would have to drop out in my final year of law school to support my family or if I would even make it to the end of the semester. I did not know how to advocate for myself, let alone for others.

Stepping Back to Move Forward

For so long, I believed that to be the best advocate for myself and others, I had to always be present, always be strong, and always have answers. One of the hardest lessons I have learned is that advocacy is not about doing everything alone. It is about knowing when to lean on others, when to delegate, and when to trust that the work will continue even if you need to rest.

1. Lean on Your Community

Advocacy is a collective effort. Just as I encourage others to seek support, I have to remind myself that I, too, deserve that same support.

Reaching out to trusted peers, mentors, and colleagues when things get overwhelming is not a sign of weakness. It is a way to sustain yourself so you can continue doing the work. 

First-generation advocacy exists because people have built communities that uplift and support each other. It is okay to be on the receiving end of that support sometimes.

2. Set Boundaries and Recognize Your Limits

When you are constantly advocating for others, it is easy to neglect your own needs. But pushing yourself beyond your limits does not make you a better advocate. It only leads to burnout.

Setting boundaries is not about disengaging. It is about being intentional with your energy. This can look like saying no to certain commitments, taking breaks when needed, or stepping back from leadership roles temporarily if life becomes too overwhelming.

3. Give Yourself Grace

One of the biggest challenges I have faced is learning to be kind to myself. When things in my personal life started falling apart, I felt like I was failing as an advocate because I was not able to give as much as I once did.

But advocacy is not about being perfect. It is about doing the best you can with the capacity you have. There will be seasons when you can give more and seasons when you need to take a step back. Both are okay.

Giving yourself grace means recognizing that you are human. It means recognizing that taking a break is sometimes the most responsible thing you can do, not just for yourself but for the people who rely on you.

Lessons for Law School and Beyond

Being a first-generation student comes with unique challenges. Trying to advocate for others while navigating those challenges makes it even harder. But stepping back when needed does not mean you care any less. It means making sure you can continue the work in a way that is healthy, sustainable, and impactful.

These lessons are not just about surviving law school. They are about building the resilience and awareness necessary to be an effective advocate in any setting, including as a future attorney. The best advocates are not the ones who never struggle. They are the ones who recognize their limits, know when to rest, and understand that advocacy is a long-term commitment that requires sustainability.

As I move forward in my career, I know that the same principles will continue to apply. To serve clients, support communities, and create meaningful change, I have to balance my dedication with self-care. The ability to step back when necessary is not a weakness. It is a skill that ensures I can continue advocating, not just for others, but for myself as well.

Do you even know how smart I am in another language?

"Do you even know how smart I am in Spanish?" 

Gloria is my favorite character in Modern Family, not just because she's funny but because she embodies what many of us, whose first language is not English, feel. I grew up speaking Cantonese and Mandarin with my immigrant parents and never felt embarrassed until I was told at school that my "English was weird."

Just like how Campoverdi, in her memoir, would duck down to "tie her shoelaces" when passing by her school to prevent others from seeing her in her abuelito's old car, I also would have my popo (grandma in Chinese) drop me off at the school's back entrance to prevent others from talking to her. I was ashamed that my grandma couldn't speak English to communicate with my teachers and that my parents were always busy working seven days a week. Whereas other people's parents were in attendance, helping out at every school function.

Seeing how my family members who couldn't speak fluent English were less respected and struggled to get opportunities, I bought into the idea that achieving the "American Dream" required complete assimilation into American culture, which meant English fluency. From then on, I spoke English whenever possible, even though it isolated me from the rest of my family.

The better my English got, the worse my Cantonese and Mandarin got. The way words are pronounced and the tonal changes in Chinese are drastically different than in English, let alone the written language. So, by becoming more fluent in English, I became more and more detached from the Chinese language, my culture, my family, and my identity. For many first and onlys, this is a common struggle because it appears to us that the fastest way to progress in our society is to "play the game right" by molding yourself into the type of person that you see benefiting the most socially and career-wise. 

It wasn't until I got to college, an environment much more diverse than the community in which I was raised, that I realized the error in my thinking. Meeting people from different states, countries, and socioeconomic backgrounds helped me learn the value of what makes me different than others. Being multilingual is a blessing in many ways. 

Living in the dorms with two roommates and a packed floor during my first year of college, I had little privacy. However, I could speak privately to my family in Chinese without having to leave the room. In job interviews, I can leverage my ability to connect with certain communities in our primary language. At restaurants, I can connect to servers and show them my appreciation for their food. 

Through these experiences, I became in touch with my identity as a Chinese-American again. However, something that still stumps me to this day is how certain languages and accents are more respected and valued. Despite a couple of my high school friends struggling with speaking broken English, they didn't face these same struggles. 

A recent conversation with a law school friend made me more curious about this phenomenon. We talked about how certain languages and accents have more positive connotations, like sounding more educated. For example, we have noticed that when someone speaks with a British accent, they are often perceived to be smarter or more attractive. When our friends spoke French, Italian, or other romance languages, their bilingualism was very admirable. 

Yet, I've been told in college to steer clear of certain professors with Indian accents, not because it's hard to understand the concepts they're teaching but because it's hard to understand what they're saying in general, a common trend not just in the United States. The stark differences in our experiences with those who speak in highly regarded accents or languages in American society are fascinating. I often hear about and see privilege in the context of being white, conventionally attractive, and wealthy, but I think this phenomenon is also notable.

I'm sure there are many underlying explanations, but what stands out most to me is that people like accents, languages, and people who are more similar to them but just different enough. Certain accents and languages are associated with disadvantaged and low-prestige minority groups and are less "standard." This makes them vulnerable to negative bias. For many first and onlys, this poses an additional challenge, along with all the other ones, to navigate.

Yet, we must not be discouraged because we need to remember that, despite our unique and different identities being our source of struggles, they're also what make us strong, resilient, and hardworking. So even if others don't know how "smart we are in Spanish," it doesn't matter because we, ourselves, know our capabilities. 

The value of the American Dream

It's date night, and of course, we get into one of the most heated topics a couple in the 21st century can endure. 

"What do you want to watch?" 

"I don't know, you pick."

Our back-and-forth between streaming services took longer than the actual movie. My wife decided to show me movies she grew up watching. She would ask me, "Have you seen this one?" Every time I answered in the negative, she would write it down on a list. Today, that list comprises her childhood movies like Step Up, Mean Girls, and Legally Blonde. 

Yes readers, a law student who has never seen Legally Blond color me shocked. 

In turn, I suggested some of my childhood movies, such as the Indiana Jones trilogy or The Beatles, Yellow Submarine. 

"Huh? Those old movies?" 

"Ahem, excuse you, ma'am, those old movies are classics. "

My wife grew up in a home with a huge DVD collection. I grew up with the VHS copies we found at yard sales, the Salvation Army, or the county library. 

This isn't to say her family didn't encounter their own struggles. Instead, they were at a different rung of the American Dream than my family. When I visited her childhood home, I felt small. Two stories, a garage not filled with junk, and most shocking, internal A/C! This is coming from a guy whose A/C system consisted of negotiating with my siblings to set a schedule to not trip our circuit breaker. 

At first, I was intimidated. I felt every time she came over she was in the poor house. But after beginning to take care of my mental health, I realized that her lifestyle wasn't a divider but a goal. 

The Washington Post article by Tara Parker-Pope discusses the comparisons of a "fixed vs. growth mindset." I was definitely in a fixed mindset going into undergrad. The dream of becoming a lawyer felt like a dim, flickering light at the end of a dark tunnel. When I overheard conversations about students using resources I had no idea about, it felt like that flickering light started to fade out. 

I hated how lost I felt. I was angry running the race miles behind the starting line. My fixed mindset had set my destination toward going nowhere. 

On top of my struggle to succeed in school, there was also the struggle to succeed in life. A study by the College Student Affairs Journal highlights the discrepancy first-generation students have with financial literacy. Speaking from personal experience, yeah that sounds about right. I was working while going to school at Target of all places. It's a cycle, you get your paycheck working in the electronics department and you think, "why not, I couldn't afford this as a kid." 

Next thing you know you're scrounging for hours to make ends meet but hey at least you have some AirPods to block out your guilt. 

Joshua Tree, CA

Feeling all the pressure to do good in school and learn how to budget weighed heavily on me. I found myself irritable and irresponsible. Until I started dating my wife. This New York Times article best explains the phenomenon that is "cross-class friendships." In essence, having kids from lower-income backgrounds mingle with kids from higher-income backgrounds benefits the financial prospects of low-income kids.

Being with my wife, I learned how to appreciate the value of things. How not to buy things on impulse and most importantly how to budget. She taught me how to budget and take care of the nicer things I could afford.

Throughout this post, I've included some pictures of my pair of Adidas Samba shoes I bought in 2018. These shoes were the first nice thing I bought for myself, since upgrading from Converse. Each picture is from the little road trips we went on because I learned how to save and budget. I still wear these shoes to this day and I would've never gone to these amazing places had it not been for my wife. 

Rosarito, Mexico

I am proof that "cross-class friendships" can improve the lives of others. I want others to learn that first-gen students can let down our ever-present guard to admit we need help and learn. I would have never learned the value of money had it not been for the lessons I learned from others. These pictures define who I am and what is possible "With a Little Help From My Friends." Sorry, but I had to make an obligatory Beatles reference, they were my childhood. 

I've come to learn financial literacy is the knowledge gained from family members who climbed the ladder of the American Dream. From those who painted their white picket fence for their kids. To other first-gen students out there who feel shame in not being financially literate, don't be hard on yourself. The deck has always been stacked against us since we got into the game. But remember, as first gens we have always been resourceful, and willing to learn! 

Monterey Bay, CA

While writing this blog, I found this YouTube video from TIME about how some notable people spent their first paycheck.

Looking through the glass window: the first-generation experience

I am a first-generation law student. Technically, I wasn’t a first-generation college student as my mom attended college and nursing school online when I was a kid, and my dad earned his degree just a few years ago. But in many ways, I still shared the first-generation experience.

Both of my parents pursued their education later in life after I was born. My mom juggled nursing school while raising three kids, often on her own while my dad was deployed with the U.S. Army. My dad, too, worked tirelessly to build a career, and just last year, he was promoted to Sergeant Major while simultaneously earning his master’s degree. Watching them push forward, despite the odds, left a lasting impact on me.

My parents were teen parents. College and careers weren’t something they had been raised to think about and they were the least of their parents’ worries. But they were smart students, great athletes, and heavily involved in extracurriculars. They practically raised themselves before raising three kids and eventually, a fourth, born 11 years later in 2016.

They broke generational cycles: poverty, alcoholism, and the expectation of staying in the same place. But breaking cycles isn’t just about moving forward; it often comes with hard choices. Both of my parents are Native American from different tribes, and they met at a powwow. Being Native comes with deep ties to the land, community, and traditions. 

But as my parents built a better life for themselves, they moved farther from their reservations and the people they grew up with. Their success wasn’t always celebrated with some family members seeing their new lifestyle as my parents thinking they were “better” now that they had financial stability. They were often asked for money, as if they owed it. But when they were teenagers, pregnant and struggling, no one was there to guide them. No one told them what was best for their future. They had to figure it out on their own.

In First Gen: A Memoir, Alejandra Campoverdi talks about those referred to as “First and Only” defined as the first or only person in their community to cross a significant threshold. But with that comes what she calls the Trailblazer Toll. One part of that toll is breakaway guilt that develops with the feeling of having to prove your family’s sacrifices were worth it while grappling with the reality of having more financial security than your loved ones.

This post by AKJ discusses breakaway guilt and the trailblazer toll in more detail. 

I felt that tension growing up watching as my parents created a future they never had, while also seeing the weight they carried because of it. Now, as a first-generation law student, I carry that same drive. My parents always believed in my future, and college was always part of the plan. 

But they couldn’t provide much guidance on the hidden curriculum—the unwritten rules of higher education. They didn’t know about applications, campus life, or preparing for in-person classes. I like many first gen students learned those things from TV shows, movies, online research, and the occasional tip from a friend’s parent who had been to college. My mom only considered college because her wealthier friends were encouraged to apply. Without that push, she may have never pursued nursing.

This post by SC goes into depth on the struggles often faced by first gens new to a college environment. 

I had that encouragement, but in many ways, I felt like I was looking through a glass window—seeing the possibilities but unsure how to reach them. The first-generation experience doesn’t disappear in one generation. Even as one generation makes it better for the next, the effects linger.

Campoverdi notes that “there are thousands of people in each of our family lineages, and their emotional experiences leave a mark on us.”

 As a Native American, I often reflect on my ancestors and the trauma they endured. My great-grandmother and great-aunties survived residential boarding schools. That history isn’t distant, it echoes through my family. Progress beyond the reservation is difficult to imagine for many in my tribe because, for so long, the outside world was the enemy. That generational trauma still shapes us.

Campoverdi describes how being a “First and Only” means being forced to survive, and if you are good at surviving, the gap between where you came from and where you are now can feel even larger. But she also describes first-gens as the bridge—stretched from where we come from to where we hope to arrive. In many ways, my parents built that bridge for me.

I like to think one day someone else looking through the glass window won’t feel lost because I’ll be there to give them the answers I once searched for. And I like to think I will continue to create a path on the bridge.

"That's my boy"

I watched a lot of Tom and Jerry with my dad growing up. I always enjoyed watching Jerry torment Tom because I always loved annoying my older sister. But my dad's favorite scenes always involved the bulldog, Spike. Spike was aggressive and tough to everyone but his adorable son. The puppy, who looks just like Spike, was praised, protected, and pampered. Spike's iconic line was "that's my boy." Whenever we watched a scene with Spike, my dad would always look and over and say in the same voice, "that's my boy."

My dad loves me, I've never doubted that for a moment. We have a posterboard for family photos where we have a photo of my dad at twelve years old and myself at 12 years old. We look so identical that visitors have a difficult time telling the two photos apart. My dad loves showing off these photos to his middle school students. He's always expressed how he wants me to have a son that looks just like me. 

Homogenous

I grew up in a Korean community, Korean church, and all my closest friends growing up were Korean. It was natural to be surrounded by other Koreans everywhere I went. I knew my parents expected me to have a Korean family but I always thought it was a desire, not an expectation. 

When I told my parents that I started dating a white girl recently, they were shocked. As the child of immigrants, I've always known my parents were going to cling to their community and they were always going to speak their native language at home. I always thought having "a son that looked just like me" was a joke; a small wish that my dad had. But when I told him the news expecting some sort of celebration, all I got back was silence and a solemn face.

My mom tried explaining it away as shock on his part, but I asked him how he felt and he started trying to explain it away and used the word "homogenous." My dad is a Korean immigrant who teaches middle school math. Homogenous isn't part of his vocabulary. I wasn't completely surprised but this really made me question what he wanted for me.

Second-Gen immigrant

A lot of first-gen students are children of immigrants who came to America without any savings or formal education. As aforementioned, my parents stuck with other Koreans to make a living. My mom's employers were usually always Korean, often connected through church. We joke that any place they would live has to have a Korean supermarket nearby. 

As a first-gen student, I couldn't be as insular as my parents when I went off to college and law school. I could converse with professors, make jokes with friends, and converse with strangers about sports or the class reading. This meant my closest group of friends were all ethnically mixed and my parents never had a problem with that. But my father took exception to the idea that I could potentially end up with a white girl. I'm not writing this to say my father is a racist; I'm saying he never had the opportunity to take a step outside of his Korean community. 

As first-gen students, we often grew up in cultures that were very insular simply because our parents didn't have the complete opportunity to interact and share with other cultures. When we went off to college, we stepped out of our communities and we brought new ideas back to our families. I thought my parents loved the fact that I was going to friends' homes and trying homemade tamales or pho. It turns out their line was the family unit.

It wasn't about having a Korean family, it was about their expectation that I would be like them. Many first-gen students' parents immigrated and worked incredibly hard so that their children could have an opportunity for class mobility. Likewise, my parents prioritized their family and their children and they expected that I would do the same. 

I've worked incredibly hard to succeed in undergrad and in law school and now, I have that opportunity that my parents worked so hard for. But when I consider taking that next step and solidifying my place in the "next class," I feel as though I'm betraying everything my parents worked for because I'm not prioritizing family and community. It feels like I'm watching Tom and Jerry with my dad again, but now he wants to say, "that's (not) my boy." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Should I?

Code-Switching

Code switching has been a part of my for as long as I can remember. 

For Context

To paint a clearer picture, from Kindergarten to 12th grade I attended predominantly White, upper to upper-middle class, conservative, Christian schools where there were very few people who looked like me. From Kindergarten-8th grade, there were fewer than five Black students out of approximately 150 students. 

My family does not practice any sort of organized religion and is overall rather liberal. While my parents achieved class mobility, they both came from lower middle class military families and many of the cousins/relatives that I have the most contact with also came from similar class backgrounds. I should also note that I myself am mixed-race. My father is Black while my mother is Creole and Spanish. 

Additionally, outside of school, the demographics that I socialized with were almost the complete opposite of those with whom I went to school. Outside of school my friends, teammates, and cousins were mostly Black. If they were not Black, they were typically some other type of POC. 

Caught in Between

Growing up, it often felt like I was living two completely different lives. Everything always felt complicated.

In order to be able to function in both spaces, I had to learn how to compartmentalize. I quickly learned the concept of “knowing your audience,” and that there is a time and place for everything. There were certain jokes or cultural references that I could not make at school, because my classmates would not know what I was talking about. On the flip side, there were certain musical artists or TV shows that I knew I could not watch or listen to with my friends and family outside of school because they would not like it. 

Jokes, cultural references, and pop culture were not the only areas where I would code switch. One of the most significant areas that would change is in the way I speak. While in my school environments, I would not use certain slang or dialects when talking to my classmates or teachers. Additionally, I recognized that I had to police my tone very differently while at school.  

At school I had to ensure that I smiled or softened my expressions in order to avoid coming off as “angry.” I had to learn how to manage my anger or frustration in certain situations because I knew that I would get painted as “aggressive” even if I was not the one who started a conflict. I had to learn to socialize and engage with others, because being too shy or quiet would lead me to be painted as standoffish. Overall, I had to be very precise in how I presented myself because I was given less grace than many of my peers.

My language and interactions would completely change outside of school. I felt less pressure to conform to the people and culture around me. I would speak freely without carefully calculating how I put my words together in order to ensure that I did not come off a certain way. I could express my frustrations and emotions more, without concern over how I would be labeled.  

Getting Used to It

While it certainly started off as a chore, code-switching has just become a natural part of my life.

Being in these two spaces shaped my interests in very interesting ways. There are very sharp cultural contrasts in the types of media I consume. Whether it be musical discographies, television shows, iconic movies, or other forms of art, I find myself drawn to content that people traditionally associate with both Black audiences and White audiences. However, it is no longer because I am trying to assimilate to the environments around me, but rather because I have grown to genuinely enjoy the content.  

While I have become very comfortable and confident within my elastic identity, there are still some complex questions that code-switching raises. For example, I cannot say whether or not I feel code-switching is an inherently negative thing. I do code switch when I talk about some of my niche interests with certain friends that I went to the private Catholic schools with. However, I am not acting differently out of fear of them judging me. Instead, it is because I do not generally have any other spaces to express those interests, as they tend to differ from those of my Black or predominantly POC friend groups. 

Sometimes I am simply expressing different interests in different spaces, which causes me to present myself differently.

The Real Me

There is one question that has always sort of stuck with me: If I code switch so much, is there anyone who truly knows the “real” me? 

Honestly, I do not know. What I can say is that all of my friends see different pieces of the real me. While my varying friend groups may not see the exact same version of me, I know that they would love and accept whichever one shows up that day without any form of judgment. And ultimately I think that is all that matters.

Lifelong protectors learning to rely on others

"Family comes first – because that’s all we have." These words from my mother represent foundational principles I refuse to compromise. As a young child, this phrase always hovered over me, telling me how to act and treat others, what to value in life, and most importantly, who to protect. During challenging times, this standard seemed like an insurmountable task—I was just a kid trying to do normal kid things while also bearing the responsibilities of an adult.

Living up to this phrase required me to step up to any occasion that called me to action. It meant embracing challenges with courage whenever the situation demanded my involvement, despite the genuine fear I had in the moment.

Because of this phrase, I often found myself on the frontlines of my family’s problems, hoping every conflict would be resolved with the best solution possible but always preparing for the unexpected. Today, like many other first-generation professionals from mixed-status households, I struggle with relying on others for help, often grappling with the ingrained belief that I must navigate my problems alone and maintain hyper-independency. These feelings are often associated with parentification, a common experience with many children of immigrant families.

A parentified child is when a child is forced to take the role of a supportive adult within their family, often due to uncontrolled circumstances rather than through any fault of the parents. This role reversal is not necessarily indicative of parental neglect but rather a transformation of the child’s responsibilities that, I believe, can profoundly impact their development into adulthood and how they interact with the world.

I have noticed that in higher academia, parentified children are often described as resilient and groundbreakers. We are considered individuals who, against all odds—escaped some petrified generational trauma, whether that harm is social, economic, etc. We are paraded for our achievements but rarely are our journeys recognized by others, and even if they are, hardly any listener can truly understand the depth of our experiences. I think this detachment is one of the reasons why I, and many others with similar upbringings, remain unable to fully abandon our tendency to be hyper-independent.

After my parents separated, I became the family’s legal researcher and problem solver, my mother’s interpreter, and my younger brother’s daily caretaker. Like many children of mixed-status households, the pressure was very real to me. I was expected to navigate whatever forms or documents that required my attention. The way I spoke to others always needed to sound as professional as possible so that my role as a liaison would be taken seriously. In the moment, I was often proud of how I could empower the voices of my loved ones. Here we are, a household headed by a single mother with three boys, navigating the problems of the world alone. But today, I recognized that I was lying to myself.

Whenever my own problems came up, I often felt that I needed to handle them alone – very rarely seeking and actually avoiding others for help. Being independent was a way of easing the burden on my loved ones. But I was self-aware that my experience was not normal. I often wondered what a normal childhood was supposed to look like. I knew that my friends, who were predominantly white and middle-class, didn’t have the same problems as me.

Of course, the concept of a “normal” childhood can be elusive and varies widely across cultural and social contexts, especially in places as diverse as the United States. But to my imagination, a “normal” childhood meant avoiding expectations and responsibilities and living carefree of the anxiety associated with being a leader in my family.

Admittedly, the role of a parentified child is a weird one. In the eyes of the outside world, we are viewed merely as children, yet within the confines of our families, we are thrust into roles that carry the weight and responsibilities typically reserved for adults. This duality places us in a unique, quasi-adult status that is neither fully child nor completely adult, straddling a blurred line between two very different sets of expectations. For example, first-generation students who are parentified are often juggling expectations to perform well in school while also providing the emotional and instrumental support our loved ones need.

Today, I have met other law students who resonate with my experience. Others who shared childhood expectations and pressures, individuals who can truly understand the lived complexity of a former parentified child. In one way, our intimate conversations feel like merely trauma dumping on each other, but these conversations also serve as a therapeutic mechanism to acknowledge our successes through the help of others.

I believe that the sense of belonging that comes from visual representation in spaces often considered exclusive has been a powerful tool for boosting confidence among first-generation professionals. I’ve witnessed this impact firsthand through the mentor-mentee relationships that I and others have formed, illustrating to me how crucial it is to see oneself reflected in these environments. My law school community serves as allies against my tendency to be hyper-independent.

Being able to have conversations with other law students has caused me to reflect on whether being a parentified child was actually a bad thing. With everything considered, if given the opportunity to change the past, I do not think I would change anything. After all, I believe being a parentified child fueled my ambition to become the first in both my immediate and extended family to attend college and eventually law school. I have a healthy relationship with my partner because I know firsthand what an unhealthy relationship looks like. I’m financially literate and can manage money because of past instabilities. As adults, former parentified children are powerful individuals who can be empathic while maintaining the strength to navigate the world for themselves and others. As a community, we are unstoppable.

First-gen guilt: the emotional toll I carry as a first-gen student

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 and who you are at school, it requires 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, but it also 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 being away from them and not being able to care of them in the way that I always have 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 or taking care of myself. I do this to make sure that leaving them behind was not for nothing, and that even if I did go to law school back home I couldn't 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 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 literally. My family has not always been the most supportive, and I was told 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 and disappointed the professor. 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 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, while I also feel isolated from my family and ashamed for living my life. 

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, and first-gen students are not well-equipped to handle this guilt. How can students grapple with the guilt experienced on both sides of the lives 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.

You're the reason I live and the accompanying guilt

In First Gen: A Memoir, Alejandra Campoverdi mentioned how her mother and grandmother would often tell her that she was the reason they live. This is something my own mother has told me many times from a young age. Much like Campoverdi, I have felt a lot of pressure knowing that my mom's life is in my hands just as much as my own. 

My mom met my father at a country western bar when she was in her 30s. She has always said that she married the first man who asked. They had a terrible marriage that ended four years after my birth. I am the only child of both of my parents. My mom quit her travel agent job when she was pregnant with me and didn't go back to work until I was in high school. My mom never tried to remarry or date. 

Growing up, it was essentially my mom and I against the world. We spent all of our time together, and she always made every effort to make my childhood enjoyable. She was always the parent volunteer for field trips. She DIYed games and decorations for every one of my birthdays, inviting all of my classmates to a party. She even borrowed money from family friends to take me to Disneyland for my tenth birthday. 

As I started getting older, it was clear that this close relationship developed into a case of childhood parentification. As already mentioned in a couple of previous blog posts, a parentified child is one who has taken on the responsibilities of a parent, which is not developmentally appropriate for their age. Parentification can be like having to take care of a sibling or being responsible for the family financially, but it can also be emotional, as discussed by Alejandra Campoverdi. 

I was a substitute therapist for my mom starting at a young age. She would frequently talk about her stress relating to my dad, money, family dynamics, etc. For Campoverdi, her emotional parentification left her hiding her own feelings in order to not stress anyone out. This was the same for me. I have grown up learning to stifle my true feelings or emotions because I did not want to add to pre-existing stress. The emotional sponge I have become has led to my mother seeing me as less of a daughter and more of a best friend. 

    "You're the reason I live..."

I have heard variations of this phrase many times. 

My mom had a semi-exciting life before I existed. In high school, she was a theater kid who played major roles in renditions of West Side Story and Fiddler on The Roof. After graduating, she moved from rural southern Oregon to Portland with her sister and spent time traveling around the state as the lead singer of a band. Even in her 30s, she and her friends often frequented the same country western bar where she met my father. 

Upon having me, she sacrificed any potential of living the life she had before. She moved back to southern Oregon to be closer to her parents and grandma. She gave up what could have been a prosperous career. She never tried to date or remarry. She spent all of her time doing whatever she could to raise me. Any job that she was able to get after my birth never paid enough to keep us afloat. Everything that she did from that point forward was for me. 

When I went to undergrad, I stayed in-state. This allowed me to visit home and still do whatever I could for the family. The Covid-19 pandemic was a blessing for my mom because I no longer had the means nor a reason to stay away from home. 

There was an incident where my mom and I had been kicked out of the home my great-grandma had originally provided us when my parents divorced, so then I was responsible for working and paying rent in the new apartment we had found. This was not a happy time for her, but at least she had me, or so she would tell me. We were roommates and spent almost every free minute together. 

I was not happy in this environment. I had only ever lived in Oregon. I was working as an administrative assistant. I did not have the means to go anywhere or do much of anything, even though I was with my mom. I knew I wanted to leave. 

I wanted to be the one who broke the generational cycle that has persisted with the women in my family of staying in Oregon, marrying the first man who asked, and working secretarial jobs. I knew I needed to go to law school and do it out of state, if I was to have a happy life. 

Going to law school out of state meant that my mom could not afford to live in the apartment by herself. She ended up moving in with her parents, who cause her overwhelming stress. I am the happiest I have ever been while in law school. Unfortunately, my happiness has come at the cost of my mom's wellbeing. I know that she is the unhappiest she has ever been. Not because she's told me explicitly, but because I still serve as her substitute therapist. 

I talk to her multiple times a day, and each time I sit and listen to her speak of mistreatment and misery. She spends every waking hour at the beck and call of my grandparents. She never makes time for herself. She has told me that the only thing keeping her sane is the thought of moving to California with me someday. 

So yes, I have done what so many other first-gen students have done to seek more for myself and my family, yet I feel overwhelming guilt knowing that my happiness has been sought at the expense of my mom who has sacrificed so much for me. I've taken away my mom's free-time, her chance at a life she can be proud of, and her best friend. 

So am I really the reason my mom lives, or am I the reason that she gave up living in the first place? 

Who gets to choose and who doesn't?

 A recent conversation with a friend made me realize how much one's upbringing and identity influence one's perspective on career choices. While many different factors affect people's desire to pursue a certain career path, what stuck out to me from talking to people in my life is that the socioeconomic class of one's parents or guardians and their cultural identities seem to be the most prevalent factors, with first-generation students being at the intersection of these two factors.

People with elite backgrounds are increasingly dominating academia because this field and similar jobs where the rewards are generally non-monetary, typically attract a demographic of people who do not have cash concerns. Multiple studies confirmed this finding as children from high-income households find jobs with non-monetary benefits more attractive than those with less wealthy backgrounds do. This is why people with less privileged backgrounds will pass up opportunities, like in academia, for better-paid work in finance or law.

My friend and I are great examples of this phenomenon. My friend wants to pursue a PhD, and I have chosen to pursue a career in law. When our college professor encouraged us both to pursue PhDs, my friend was much more open to the idea than I was. While I entertained the prospect for a bit, after comparing the journey to obtain a PhD versus a JD and the average salaries in careers with the two different degrees, I decided to stick with my original plan of becoming a lawyer.

While I want to become a lawyer for many reasons, I'd be lying if I said that job prospects and salaries didn't play a major role in my career choice. After all, the legal profession is one of the most stress-inducing professions. Yet, my parents' socioeconomic status and cultural background greatly influenced my decision.

Hearing about my mother's financial hardships motivated me to find a financially lucrative career to ensure she and my family would never have to worry about money again and that they would be well taken care of. Additionally, witnessing people make fun of or take advantage of my grandparents' and parents' poor English drove me to a career that is well-respected and thus, socially powerful, so I can protect them. This is especially important to me because in Chinese culture, family is always supposed to look after one another regardless of age. I am one of many whose family circumstances greatly shape their children's lives and career choices. 

On the other end of the spectrum is my friend. She doesn't have to worry about her financial security because her parents are both well-off, and she can lean on them if she needs to, so she has the opportunity to study what her heart desires. She can, in her words, "take her time, enjoying life being lost to figure out what she wants." My friend could choose what she studied and the career path she desired based on intellectual fulfillment without focusing on the financial gain of her education and choices due to her socioeconomic background and her lack of familial obligations since the culture she was brought up in valued individualism and independence over everything else. Of course, this is in no way trying to understate other struggles my friend may have but is a mere acknowledgment of how one's circumstances greatly impact one's career pursuits. 

I was curious to see if this is also true in other countries and societies. A couple of studies done in Bangladesh also echoed the same findings, which state that many children's career choices are based on their parents' occupations. Even more, these studies also noted age, religion, location of residence, and parent's education (not just current occupation) have positive impacts on students' career choices too.

While socioeconomic status and cultural identities seemed to be the most prevalent factors that I've seen around me affecting people's professional pursuits, I wanted to note how these factors are rarely mutually exclusive. Oftentimes, at the intersection of lower socioeconomic status and certain cultural identities are first-gen students. This is true for a multitude of reasons.

Historically and presently, minorities and those of the lower socioeconomic classes have a harder time attaining higher education due to discrimination. As such, the first-generation population tends to be individuals from these communities who are disadvantaged due to their limited professional networks. Consequently, securing job opportunities and mentors is more challenging. The less exposure one has to various professions, the more limited one's understanding of available career options.

This limited exposure and view is instead filled by the perception of success (like becoming a doctor, lawyer, or engineer) of one's family. In my opinion, many people's perceptions of successful careers tend to be strongly correlated with their salaries.

So do we actually "choose" our careers? Or are our careers chosen for us?