A Letter to A Young Public Interest Lawyer

I wrote this letter at the request of an insanely creative law student friend of mine. Letters to a Young Public Interest Lawyer is an event inspired by a series published in a law review. I could not be in Boston but wrote this. Event organizers - thank you for your vision, which inspired me.

LETTER TO A YOUNG PUBLIC INTEREST LAWYER

From Richael Faithful – February 2, 2013

I never wanted to be a lawyer, and you shouldn’t assume that you want to be one either.

If your early years resembled mine, I long-struggled to define my own identity. I was a competitive athlete that didn’t want to grow up to become a basketball or soccer player; I was a political geek that didn’t want to eventually find myself on Capitol Hill; and I was an opinionated Black girl that most certainly didn’t want to become a lawyer.

I resisted the idea for a long time, even saying as much during my Administrative Law class introductions during my 2L year second semester...

Now, I’m a lawyer. And I am beginning to understand why. It is not my primary identity—rather it’s probably fourth, rivaling writer, healer, and organizer. Yet it’s there, and I’m happy that it is.

I attended law school after a disenchanting spell as a full-time organizer. I was trained through college by a great state-level organization but found professional organizing to be morally confusing, as my relationship changed with the work once my livelihood depended on it. I vaguely considered law school as a next step if I felt ambivalent at the end of my year-long contract. The idea of law school merely sounded less uncomfortable during my last year of college after I had thoroughly defined myself as an organizer. I wasn’t, after all, being relentlessly teased that I should become a lawyer because I was an opinionated Black girl.

Naturally, I took applying to law school very seriously. I prepared for the LSAT by reading every Agatha Christie Hercule Poirot novel ever published. (That’s over 40 books.) Poirot’s “little grey cells” got me paying attention to detail, and brushed up my “logical” thinking that apparently went somewhat unpolished when studying sociology.

Next, I applied to three law schools. Totally safe choice…I can’t remember the topic of my essay but it was probably as clever as my college admissions essay on my founding of my high school’s “Dead Philosopher’s Society.”

And I knew that my application packet was complete with my college President’s recommendation letter, only that he was my college’s former President due to his irreverence for authority. I was an ideal law school candidate—obviously.

The ways in which I shrugged off the rat race known as law school admissions, I did take seriously my preparation for attending law school.

I knew that I would enter an elite institution and profession that offered a narrow and rigid education of “the law.” I understood that my presence and abilities would be subtly questioned by other students, faculty, and myself at times, in light that there would be few queer students of color. I realized that I would fight every day to stay grounded in my core values, which honored community, ancestry, and love, within a culture that promoted individual ambition, future success, and profit-making. Playing the role, and even becoming, a law student was not a naïve choice.

I sought advice from friends, and friends’ friends; I read all the critical race theorist books about being a law student of color that I could get my hands on; I reached out to female faculty of color for mentorship; and importantly, I asked whether I should attend law school every day for months. By the time I entered into American University Washington College of Law, I was beginning to entertain the possibility that I could become a lawyer.

Law school, as it turned out, ended up being a formative experience that conjures up positive feelings. It wasn’t terrible, at all. I found powerful role models in experienced attorneys and peers, stretched my intellectual capacity through independent work, learned how to build community under restrained conditions, and met remarkable people with whom, despite appearances, I share a great deal in common and since call close friends.

I’ve been a lawyer for a year and a half now. The verdict is that it fits me in a lot of ways. I am fortunate in that I have had the freedom to shape my practice through a post-graduate fellowship, which allows me to provide direct services, co-organize a statewide campaign, and prepare impact litigation. On one hand, this freedom is likely temporary because to embody all these levels of work in a single job is unusual, which speaks to the law profession’s limitations and value it places on public interest work. On the other hand, I’m consistently amazed by some public interest lawyers’ creativity to arrange their lives to do sustainable, necessary work. I hope to always count myself among this group of lawyers, in one way or another.

I decided to attend law school for a purpose. I rationalized law school because I believed that it would give me powerful access and tools for my Beloved Community, which radical people and marginalized communities deserve to share—a Rawlsian kind of analysis I suppose. I finally appreciate, as I take risks, seek new skills, and have new experiences as a young public interest lawyer, that I should be here, at least for a time. I don’t envision myself being a full-time lawyer forever (and will be challenged to find innovative ways to manage my debt and pursue my heart’s work interests). But the value of being able to engage with law, as a person with a formal legal education, and in my case, an active law license, is enormous to those with whom I’m struggling every day. 

Ultimately, I may be like you or I may not. You may have always had wanted to be an attorney or meticulously planned for law school or chose the attractive detour of working for a large firm until you pay off your law school debt. Nonetheless, I recommend a daily examination – a gentle ask – “why am I doing this?” Should an answer become lost on you – or unpleasantly arrive in your gut – I wish you the courage and conviction to re-make your practice, however you define it, even if you have to leave it behind. This choice is your lifeline and that of the “cause.”

Let me share one last recommendation because it has served me well. Carry with you a robust imagination and rooted spirituality. A robust imagination offers a vision for the present and future that allows you to see the edges of reality as you work toward transformation, and a rooted spirituality (distinct from religiosity) offers the grounded-ness necessary to have your heart blown-open and broken-apart day-in and day-out by your work. I am easily inspired with a stake in the ground and a beautiful view of the sky.

Thank you for reading my letter. I look forward to reading yours in the not-so-distant future.