My ability to learn and adapt is something I value the most. Being a first-generation college student, I went through several transitional periods largely on my own between high school and my undergraduate career. Since I had nobody in my family who understood the process, I shouldered the task of discovering how to approach every step. I actively sought out academic opportunities and staff who would give me information regarding resources. This skill was not only helpful in thriving in my undergraduate career, but it bolstered my confidence in my own ability to handle situations in the future. Growing up in a close-knit Hispanic family, I value familial connections and would honestly do anything for them. I state this because I do not believe it conflicts with my previous statement, even though one's independence seems like an inherently selfish value. The saying, "You can only give to others what you have yourself" is something I live by, so I firmly believe that in order to lead, one must have confidence in their own ability first. For me, this is achieved by a consistent practice of my own independence, involving research and exhausting options until I find my answers. Throughout the years, I can safely say that I do not know everything, but knowing what I was capable of so far proves to me that I have it in me to give a solid attempt. This means the world to me because it is often the most persistent ones who make their cause heard; and if I am comfortable fighting for my own necessities, then I am assured that I will be able to advocate for others. _ The most valuable insight in the law school application process was actually being admitted into the Seton Hall Pre-Legal Summer Program. It was a special opportunity for Equal Opportunity Fund students in the state of New Jersey who were interested in law, which allowed us to dive into the life of a residential law student. The admissions process is extremely competitive: applications included a transcript with two recommendation letters, an interview and three mandatory full-day class sessions before the final notice of acceptance. Then the hard work began. All accepted candidates are in similar financial positions, same high academic standing, and have equivalent passion. Not only this but we would be taught by leading professionals in the legal field – all alumni who started out just like us. There is no doubt about it: once you’re in, you belong. The program immersed us in the rigor of law school, plunging us head-first into the unfamiliar Socratic method of delivering lessons and herculean reading tasks. I learned to thrive by dismantling the habits that carried me in undergrad and crafting new models of study. Every box was checked except for one. Every one of my peers and professors was proud to declare their ambition and race with dignity, a simple detail that seemed so foreign to me. When I did so in my own head, it didn’t feel as natural. This experience led me to introspectively analyze where it could've originated. I knew it all started with an unusual memory of my first day of kindergarten. Five-year-old me was ecstatic about starting this exciting era. As I was being prepared, I could hardly contain my electrifying energy until my mother pulled me aside and gave me a serious look. She held my hand, looked me in the eyes, and urged me to not tell anyone that I am Mexican. I didn’t know what Mexican was. Little me couldn’t point it out on a labeled globe if you asked me to. Though I happily agreed, it seemed like a simple enough instruction: don’t talk about something. But, I learned a lesson about my heritage before I even understood it: I can’t talk about it. My mother wanted to protect her children from the cruel harassment of the world, but it inadvertently led me to disconnect my heritage from my academic ability. Could I ever truly be proud of myself if I am detached from my own achievements? Even in a crowd of my peers, I was insulated. Something that saved me from this sinking experience was the recollection of when I am proud: speaking Spanish. I met people who struggled to communicate in public, and the minute I recognized their accents and responded, there was always a clear look of relief: they met someone in a harsh world who understands. By the time I received the certification a month later, I was not only more confident about my adaptability but how instrumental my perspective will be in the field of law.

I am different. A few years ago, I couldn’t tell you how, but I knew it all started with an unusual memory of my first day of kindergarten. Five-year-old me was ecstatic over starting this exciting era. As I was being prepared, I could hardly contain my electrifying energy until my mother pulled me aside and gave me a serious look. She held my hand, looked me in the eyes, and urged me to not tell anyone that I am Mexican. I didn’t know what Mexican was. A food? A weird alien species? Little me couldn’t point it out on a labeled globe if you asked me to. Though I happily agreed, it seemed like a simple enough instruction: don’t talk about something. But, I learned a lesson about my heritage before I even understood it: I can’t talk about it. My mother came to America with her husband and son over two decades ago. No money, no shelter and no immediate family. There was nothing in their pockets but they carried the American dream in their hearts. However, the society they found was cruel to outsiders, and they faced pressure from others who saw them as pests. She protected us from being accosted for something we couldn’t control and helped us assimilate into this country by telling us to follow a simple rule: don’t tell anyone you are Mexican. Ergo, don’t talk about yourself. We believed that the best way to make your way in the world was to prove what you were capable of, and for us, it was to become educated. I never second-guessed why this detail had to be a secret, or why it was something that would cause me to be universally hated. In fact, I used to see it as a setback, something I had to keep separate if I were to ever be a professional. However, my undergraduate experience demonstrated a diverse population who was going to go to law school like me. Every one of my peers and professors was proud to declare their ambition and race with dignity, a simple detail that seemed so foreign to me. When I did so in my own head, it didn’t feel as natural. Could I ever truly be proud of myself if I am detached from my own achievements? Even in a crowd of my peers, I was insulated. Something that saved me from this sinking experience was the recollection of when I am proud: speaking Spanish. Though there are different dialects, Spanish is a main unifier between Latino ethnicities. I met people who struggled to communicate in public, and the minute I recognized their accents and responded, there was always a clear look of relief: they met someone in a harsh world who understands. Maybe I am different, but I can make others feel like they are not alone. In an age where there is so much radical political hostility against Mexicans, it may be that this is the time to stand up and be counted – for the voiceless and therefore the powerless.

My first impression of the legal field was that it was boring. At seven years old, I remember a long evening in the waiting room of an immigration lawyer. In this tightly packed room, I saw other families with small children who sat restlessly or were already dozed off. Seeing the example of my intelligent mother enduring those long hours with an unwavering focus, I realized that some knowledge was off limits. I figured, in my naivete, that the world would always be open for me. There I saw an element of integrity assumed for those who have a higher education. Though, I had no clear sense of what I wanted to do. Then on November 21 2018, a day before Thanksgiving, me and my little brother got hit by a car. We woke up that morning to get ready for our half-day at the high school we both attended. When we crossed the street in front of the school, a car stopped before turning the corner, silently signaling for us to pass. Then it accelerated. A car engine roared and then my face pressed against the windshield. On my left I took the brunt of the hit, on the right I clutched my little brother close. All I kept thinking was, “keep him safe.” A few seconds later, we both tumbled off the hood of the stopped car and onto the cold road. Two herniated discs in my L4 and L5 vertebrates. Patellar subluxation; a partial dislocation of my left knee. Ganglion cysts in my left ankle joint. Abrasions from hitting the street. Whiplash and migraines induced from trapezius muscle tension for months. But my brother left without a scratch. We were roped up into the system in an instant, and our situation was assigned a case number. There wasn’t a moment to be comfortable; a plethora of new conflicts arose at unexpected times. Deciding which firm we want to represent us, correcting a false detail on the police report stating we were “running,” having to switch physical therapists due to insurance issues, all with the sleepless nights I laid gritting my teeth to cope with the icy pain. It didn’t help that nobody in my family knew how New Jersey tort laws worked. As a native English speaker, I became responsible for making calls and keeping track of the moving pieces in our case. Nevertheless, I kept this chaotic whirlwind in my private life while I went to school; confining my time for assignments within school hours since I had to chase the bureaucracy the minute I got home. Though the day I collected the check should have been the end of this journey. September 21, 2020 was the official date when my case was settled. The paralegal pulled it out in front of me and casually sorted the papers detailing my experiences before he placed the white envelope in front of me. The nonchalant nature of the paralegal – and how thin my manilla folder was – stuck with me. From then on, I was sure I wanted to make a difference in the legal field. I took a step towards this remote goal when I began as a legal intern for an elder law firm in the summer of 2022. Whenever I held a client file in my hands, I felt like I was holding their livelihoods. Recalling my own manilla folder, I drove myself to consider the in-between moments that get lost in translation to legalese. I found that this sentiment carried into my professional demeanor. Some clients thanked me after I guided them over the phone, not for what but for how I helped them. One caller seemed genuinely relieved that I was patient with them during their stammering episode when all I did was calmly request the information I needed. The flattery I felt sat on top of a lurking realization – how many times these people had to have been disregarded so that they would be shocked when they were finally met with compassion. These voices still move me when I consider how a little respect can mean so much to someone, or how it would’ve meant to me. It was the gaps between what I am presented with and what I don’t know that taught me to humbly approach situations, because you cannot tell when you will be on the other side.

At seven years old, I remember a long evening in the waiting room of an immigration lawyer. In this tightly packed room, I saw other families with small children who sat restlessly or were already dozed off. The appointment we had was for knowledge, not cold text you find from a book but the guidance of a person. While me and my younger brother are naturalized citizens, my parents and older brother were immigrants, so there were times they needed to look for instruction to navigate an unfamiliar land. Seeing the example of my intelligent mother enduring those long hours with an unwavering focus, I realized that some knowledge was off-limits. I figured, in my naivete, that the world would always be open to me. There I saw an element of integrity assumed for those who have received a higher education. Growing up as the first native English speaker in my family, I had a certain set of expectations inadvertently put on me. I was the interpreter and translator for my parents, who were learning a complicated language with difficulty. I would say this was a big determiner in my personality growing up, because I can safely point to this as the reason I became more research-driven, critical thinking and independent overall. When you learn to make decisions by taking into account the time and money of the people closest to you, you begin to develop cautious and meticulous habits. Though there was a significant drawback -- the connection with my parents. Since neither had completed a college degree, a part of them believed I might develop a superiority complex and look down on them for this perceived flaw in their intelligence. This was further exacerbated by the language barrier: while I also spoke Spanish, I had equivalent difficulties understanding the language in conversation growing up. To mitigate division in our relationship, I learned to catch my tone before I speak and "proofread" my language. These skills allowed me to tread humbly and check my knowledge, leading me to become more open-minded about perspectives and experiences. Above all, I learned to be emotionally intelligent about situations and people in conversations, and how this is a pivotal skill in the professional sphere. While my first impression of the legal field was a boring wait, I knew that I owed it to the legacy that my parents by coming to this country.

My future self would have the resources to educate and assist others who need help; in becoming an attorney, I wish to use legal knowledge to right injustices present when minorities and vulnerable populations attempt to seek institutional benefits.

Getting hit by a car in November of 2018, during my high school career, solidified my certainty about pursuing a law degree. This incident threw me into the system in an instant. Being a native English speaker, I often was responsible for translating the process for my immigrant parents while keeping track of the moving pieces in our case. There wasn’t a moment to be comfortable; a plethora of new conflicts arose at unexpected times. Deciding which firm we want to represent us, correcting a false detail on the police report stating we were “running,” having to switch physical therapists due to insurance issues, all with the sleepless nights I laid gritting my teeth to cope with the icy pain. I kept this chaotic whirlwind in my private life while I went to school; confining my time for assignments within school hours since I had to chase the bureaucracy the minute I got home. While I was just a high school student then, I began to take note of a significant flaw in communication between attorneys and clients: it was nearly impossible to get direct communication with them. I was assigned a main attorney and a paralegal, though while I knew I would not be talking to the attorney every time, I would rarely even be able to reach out to the paralegal -- whom the main attorney expressed should have been constantly giving us updates about our case. At nearly every step of this process we faced speed bumps, and throughout it all I felt a sense of being insulted. Nobody was considerate of my efforts, my parents' time, or even willing to understand the stressful position we were in. From then on, I was sure I wanted to make a difference in the legal field. I took a step towards this remote goal when I began as a legal intern for an elder law firm in the summer of 2022. Whenever I held a client file in my hands, I felt like I was holding their livelihoods. Recalling my own manilla folder, I drove myself to consider the in-between moments that get lost in translation to legalese. I found that this sentiment carried into my professional demeanor. Some clients thanked me after I guided them over the phone, not for what but for how I helped them. One caller seemed genuinely relieved that I was patient with them during their stammering episode when all I did was calmly request the information I needed. The flattery I felt sat on top of a lurking realization – how many times these people had to have been disregarded so that they would be shocked when they were finally met with compassion. These voices still move me when I consider how a little respect can mean so much to someone, or how it would’ve meant to me. It was the gaps between what I am presented with and what I don’t know that taught me to humbly approach situations, because you cannot tell when you will be on the other side.

My first impression of the legal field was that it was boring. At seven years old, I remember a long evening in the waiting room of an immigration lawyer. Seeing the example of my intelligent mother enduring those long hours with an unwavering focus, I realized that some knowledge was off-limits. There I saw an element of integrity assumed for those who have a higher education. Though, I had no clear sense of what I wanted to do. Then on November 21, 2018, a day before Thanksgiving, me and my little brother got hit by a car. We woke up that morning to get ready for our half-day at the high school we both attended. When we crossed the street in front of the school, a car stopped before turning the corner. Then it accelerated. A car engine roared and then my face pressed against the windshield. On my left, I took the brunt of the hit, on the right I clutched my little brother close. Two herniated discs in my L4 and L5 vertebrates. Patellar subluxation; a partial dislocation of my left knee. Ganglion cysts in my left ankle joint. Abrasions from hitting the street. Whiplash and migraines induced from trapezius muscle tension for months. But my brother left without a scratch. We were roped up into the system in an instant, and our situation was assigned a case number. There wasn’t a moment to be comfortable. Deciding which firm we want to represent us, correcting a false detail on the police report stating we were “running,” having to switch physical therapists due to insurance issues, all with the sleepless nights I laid gritting my teeth to cope with the icy pain. As a native English speaker, I became responsible for making calls and keeping track of the moving pieces in our case. Nevertheless, I kept this chaotic whirlwind in my private life while I went to school; confining my time for assignments within school hours since I had to chase the bureaucracy the minute I got home. Though the day I collected the check should have been the end of this journey. September 21, 2020 was the official date when my case was settled. The paralegal pulled it out in front of me and casually sorted the papers detailing my experiences before he placed the white envelope in front of me. The nonchalant nature of the paralegal – and how thin my manilla folder was – stuck with me. From then on, I was sure I wanted to make a difference in the legal field. I took a step towards this remote goal when I began as a legal intern for an elder law firm in the summer of 2022. I found that this sentiment carried into my professional demeanor. Some clients thanked me after I guided them over the phone, not for what but for how I helped them. One caller seemed genuinely relieved that I was patient with them during their stammering episode when all I did was calmly request the information I needed. The flattery I felt sat on top of a lurking realization – how many times these people had to have been disregarded so that they would be shocked when they were finally met with compassion. It was the gaps between what I am presented with and what I don’t know that taught me to humbly approach situations, because you cannot tell when you will be on the other side.