The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines “heritage” as “something transmitted by or acquired from a predecessor” and as “something possessed as a result of one’s natural situation or birth.”
It was this that led me to the practice of law.
I first decided to become an attorney in the fifth grade in a quite cliché manner. One day after picking me up from school, my mother asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Nodding her head in a disapproving manner at my response that I wanted to be a vet, in Spanish she explained, “Vets don’t make a lot of money. You should instead become a doctor or a lawyer.” Setting aside the now-obvious error in her statement that veterinarians aren’t doctors, I reflect on this moment with a smile.
As the eldest daughter of Mexican immigrants, I was often pushed to gain a title for the prestige – encouraged to chase a dream that under the lenses of American society was deemed worthy or desirable. Becoming an attorney for me symbolized a personal achievement by immigrant and American standards. With this mentality and ultimate yearning for acceptance, I began my path to pursue the study of law.
I attended the Law Magnet High School in Dallas, part of the Townview Magnet Center. This school, in true magnet school fashion, aimed to educate minorities and disenfranchised students who were academically inclined and showed promise as community leaders. One of the most inspiring aspects of this curriculum for me was our weekly visits to the Frank Crowley Courts Building. Now I recall that as a student I rejoiced at the sight of the courthouse in all its grandeur, the revolving glass doors spinning as attorneys went in and out – modern-day heroes, I always thought. While this grandeur has never quite faded for me, it was greatly juxtaposed to my college and law school years when my brother was incarcerated and later sentenced to 20 years in prison for a serious offense. Visiting the courthouse during this time of my life exposed an unsettling reality of the practice of law – the legal community is all but diverse.
On my first visit to Frank Crowley (and the Lew Sterrett Justice Center), I was faced with an often underappreciated reality. Everyone waiting in line to visit an incarcerated family member was either African American or Hispanic. After an hour of waiting in line, I was ushered to a small cubby-like space enclosed by cement walls. The phone, my only means of talking with my brother, was to the right of me. I couldn’t adjust the volume and hearing him was difficult. I could not touch him. I had no sense of how much time was allotted or how much time had passed. Every topic seemed like the first and last. I was frustrated.
During my first jail visit with my brother, the frustration I felt confirmed that I wanted to become a lawyer. Just as I felt furious, frightened and flustered, I imagined that many people in my neighborhood experienced these same feelings as they visited their relatives or friends. Worse still, they probably think of the justice system as something foreign. To them it is a system that works against them, not for them. Feeling underrepresented and ostracized, they hold little hope that the justice system will serve them. They don’t have the education to understand the system – both its magnificent achievements and squalid failures. At that moment, I was determined to make a difference with the privilege and education (and later my law license) afforded me.
I am not a criminal attorney. I’m also not a prosecutor. And if you ask anyone in the profession, they likely will say that I ended up working for “the dark side.” That is, I’m a civil litigator that represents mostly corporate or business clients. I did not become a civil servant attorney, nor do I work for the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund. However, I do not think that I failed in my mission to represent and help individuals from my community. Setting aside pro bono matters where I’ve represented immigrants or minorities seeking legal relief, I also am proud to walk the halls of the George Allen Courts Building as a female attorney. I’m also a native Spanish speaker and first-generation Mexican American.
At the risk of sounding pompous, as a commercial litigator I have the privilege of showing my clients and adversaries that the practice of law is not limited to affluent individuals and is not foreclosed to persons of color. If I can do it, others can, too. I would posit that diverse attorneys have a certain strength and drive that is unique, and that is valued in the practice of law.
After all, constantly pushing against the norm is not easy. I say this, not out of vanity, but instead to take a moment to underscore and appreciate the heritage and circumstances of diverse attorneys who defeat the odds – particularly those, who like myself, grew up viewing the law under a much different lens than their peers. With this appreciation, I applaud my diverse peers and hope that persons of color will continue to diversify the legal profession. Wouldn’t the world be grand if it was better, and more diverse than how we found it?
Dorlin Armijo is an associate in the Dallas office of Carrington, Coleman, Sloman & Blumenthal, LLP. Her practice focuses on complex commercial litigation matters, including matters involving partnership disputes, breach of contract, breach of fiduciary duty, allegations of fraud and shareholder issues.