Critiques welcomed! Thanks in advance!
There is a tattoo of a rosary on my left wrist, etched into my skin as a lingering shadow of the relic my grandmother would often cling to for solace. When I was kid, I once found her alone in her room with her eyes closed, squeezing her rosary amidst the dim candlelight that flickered with every prayer she whispered. When I asked her why she was squeezing so tightly, she simply replied, "Because when you hold on tightly to what you believe in, your faith gives you strength."
Over the years, I came to learn that the faith that carried my grandmother through abject poverty in rural Mexico was the same faith my mother used to overcome her own struggles as an immigrant, single mother in the U.S. Humbled by the resilient women that raised me, I developed a great desire to help individuals who have similarly been confronted by great adversities. I naturally gravitated towards a career in working with one of the world's most vulnerable populations: refugee children. The kids I have worked with have been subjected to a litany of horrors such as sexual abuse, armed violence and endless psychological trauma. Yet despite such misfortunes, I quickly learned that these children were not victims, they were survivors.
I remember one particular interview with a young boy who stopped in the middle of recounting how he was brutally tortured by one of the Mexican drug cartels after being kidnapped from his home. He closed his eyes tightly as if trying to find the strength to continue reliving the incident, but when he opened his eyes, he rested his gaze on my tattoo. His eyes lingered for a moment and then a modest grin came across his face as he looked up at me. With a steady gaze and unwavering conviction he said, "My faith gave me the strength to escape." I smiled at him because in that moment I saw the same faith that I saw in my mother, grandmother, and every survivor I have ever met. It is a faith irrespective of religious dogma, but rather, couched in hope; and it allows the individual to overcome unimaginable hardships in the fight for their survival.
Having seen first hand the scars left on the human spirit from having to endure oppressive circumstances, public interest law seemed like a logical career choice for me. I have found legal interventions to be the most empowering protection mechanism for individuals who have been beaten and worn by the world's injustices. To legitimize their grievances through the eyes of the law is to restore their dignity and enable them to regain their self-determination. Yet, it wasn't until I moved to Texas to work with unaccompanied minors during the height of the humanitarian crisis unfolding at the U.S.-Mexico border that my career choice quickly became a passionate one.
Providing aid and protection to unaccompanied children fleeing for their lives is unquestioned in much of Berkeley, within the UN system, and among the international community in Geneva; all of which are places that have influenced my world-view. Thus, falling within the jurisdiction of the Houston Asylum Office—an office with one of the lowest approval rates in the entire country—has proved to be a sobering reality of the high politicization of humanitarian assistance. It is equally sobering, if not enraging when State court judges display a complete lack of compassion and sensitivity towards children who have endured more suffering than most people experience in a lifetime. The perpetual injustices I’ve witnessed within the legal profession have challenged what I thought I knew. I’m no longer the naïve idealist blind to the disparate values that pose objections to humanitarian protection. I’m now a tactical idealist compelled to become a child's advocate: an attorney with the skills to translate unbridled compassion for human suffering into sound reasoning that effectively advocate's for a child’s need for protection in the face of opposition.
It's been years since I've picked up a real rosary, but every time I look down at my tattoo I am reminded of the unyielding perseverance I inherited from the women in my family that is reinforced with every survivor I meet. So like my grandmother, I’m holding on tightly to the justice I believe in so that I have the strength to fight for that justice; and I will fight the way countless survivors have taught me how to fight.
