Audre Lorde was a queen. She was bold, brilliant, and badass. Her efforts to combat racism in the academy (and in society) are unparalleled - yet, few know her name. This post is dedicated to you, Ms. Lorde, because you epitomize the kind of brilliant bad-assery (yes, I made up a word - Shakespeare did it all the time, so why not me?) that I hope to one day eventuate.
Your 1981 speech, "The Uses of Anger: Women Responding to Racism", is pinned to my wall. Every time I read it, I get inspired, I get worked up, and I get...angry. I get angry over how racism still exists in the academy. I get angry over how racism still exists in the workforce. I get angry over how racism still exists in the school yard. I get angry over how my job prospects in the legal field may be severely limited due to the colour of my skin. I get angry over how lawyers - my future peers and colleagues - are angry about the LSUC's recently released diversity policy, which stipulates that lawyers must submit a "statement of principles" once a year that promises to promote diversity in the legal profession. I didn't realize that diversity was such a controversial topic. I didn't realize that my future peers and colleagues would prefer to have me pushed out of the profession simply because I'm not white. And if I'm being completely candid, I didn't realize that my race would be such a significant barrier to my future success within the legal profession until coming to law school and seeing the harsh realities of the hiring processes.
I grew up in a privileged household. I grew up with two loving parents, two beautiful siblings, and a big extended family of cousins who may as well be considered my siblings. I went to private school. I was given a car on my 16th birthday (even though I couldn't drive it...and still can't drive it alone. Yes, I realize how stupid that is and no, I don't want your two cents about it). And I was brought up with the understanding that I could do and I could be anything I wanted if I was willing to work hard for it. My parents taught me that the only thing standing in my way between me and the world was me. If I wanted it, I had to work for it, and then I'd get it, simple as that. In a nutshell, I was taught that hard work pays off. My parents immigrated to Canada from the Philippines when they were teenagers and they worked their asses off to be as accomplished, as settled, and as successful as they are now. They were able to provide their children with the life they never had, in hopes that we would turn out better than them. But in 2018, I don't know that, that's possible.
I grew up in a neighbourhood that was predominantly populated by Italians. I knew I was different at school, but I didn't really know that I was different. I remember playing with my Barbie Dolls - who represent the dominant archetype of beauty - wishing I had blonde hair and blue eyes. In fact, I remember asking my mom if I could have blonde hair and if I could colour my eyes blue with a marker so that I could look like my dolls and the other girls at school. But other than that, I pretty much grew up colour-blind. Once I went to high school, I was again the minority; but, I was never really aware of that. All my friends were white. Most, if not all, of my friends to this date are still white. Really, the only other Filipinos I know are my cousins, whom I hang out with all the time; but, in terms of meeting other filipino people at school or in life, nada. None. Literally zero. Even throughout my undergrad and grad studies, I remained a minority. Again, I was never really aware of the fact that I wasn't white - I felt as though I was always treated equally among my peers, so I never really internalized my race. Until law school.
The University of Ottawa has the biggest law school in all of Canada. They accept just over 300 first-year students. There was probably two first-year filipino students in my cohort, myself included.
I don't know if you guys know this, but there's an articling crisis happening out there. Society is oversaturated with lawyers and there aren't enough articling positions out there to accommodate newly graduated law students with massive student debt. The legal profession has traditionally been an "old boy's club", which puts me in a rather difficult position because 1) I'm neither old, nor white; and 2) I'm not a man. According to some LSUC stats, only 17% of Ontario lawyers are racialized and of that 17%, many had stated they struggled to find articles, could not find a mentor, and have been denied files at their workplace. It's a little ironic that the profession I entered into in an effort to fight discrimination is straight-up a place of grave discrimination. AND even with the recognition of systemic racism within the profession and the LSUC's efforts to eliminate that, my future peers and colleagues are getting all upset about having to increase diversity within the profession to allow people like me from fully participating because they maintain it infringes on their s.2(b) freedom of expression rights....like what?! Are you kidding me right now? You're telling me that I worked my ass off to get into law school and am so deserving to be there - and btw, killed it in 1L, but am not deserving enough to find articles and be gainfully employed because I'm not white? K.
Enter Ms. Lorde. I'm angry. I'm angry that my parents did everything right to raise me into a hardworking individual, deserving of all the opportunities - yet, I may not even get a chance to explore any of them because I'm not white and I'm not a man. I'm angry that I poured my heart and soul into getting into law school and getting good grades in law school only to find out that my efforts are completely futile. I'm angry that I am likely going to have a more difficult time gaining traction and setting up my foundation in my chosen area of the legal field that is currently dominated by white men, than my Caucasian female peers. I'm angry.
But anger is good. As Audre Lorde says,
"Every woman has a well-stocked arsenal of anger potentially useful against those oppressions, personal and institutional, which brought that anger into being. Focused with precision it can become a powerful source of energy serving progress and change. And when I speak of change, I do not mean a simple switch of positions or a temporary lessening of tensions, nor the ability to smile or feel good. I am speaking of a basic and radical alteration in those assumptions underlining our lives."
Anger is a powerful, productive emotion that can ignite a spark in you to make changes. Anger is simultaneously viewed as a negative emotion that inhibits growth. For me, the balance in deciphering where to draw the line between anger 1 and anger 2 is how I ultimately decide to utilize it and where I see the most opportunity for growth. Too often are women afraid to be angry (at least, I know I was, in both my professional and personal life, but not anymore), for fear of being called "crazy". Well, fuck that. Honestly men, who gives af about what you think about me? Call me crazy, call me psycho, call me a bitch, tell me I'm "too emotional", "too this", or "too that" - call me whatever tf you want. Because I don't care anymore. I'm angry. I'm passionate. And I'm here to tell you that I refuse to accept a reality where I will be overlooked for articles, work, and promotions - when I am just as deserving of them as you, if not more - because of the colour of my skin. Persistence, resilience, and being unafraid to "be the angry woman" in situations that aren't fair, aren't just, and aren't equal are all opportunities for me to focus my anger with precision to fight for and advocate for a more equitable legal profession. In harnessing my anger and releasing it into a productive fight for equality - not just for women who look like me, but for all women of colour - it might be possible to see a paradigmatic shift in the legal profession where problems like access to justice dissipate because clients will begin to feel more comfortable with a lawyer who not only understands them, but also relates to them in terms of race, gender, and sexual orientation. The law is seemingly impenetrable to those unfamiliar with it. It's serious. It's scary. It's overwhelming. People like me, who passionately want to advocate for injustices experienced because of oppressive laws and practices, can help remedy the access to justice crisis in significant ways. The profession just needs to give me an equal and fighting chance to do so.