Every day when I arrive at work, I pass through metal detectors and undergo searches, with security sometimes asking, “What’s in your bag?” Some days I use the employee entrance, where I am still asked if I work there. And every day, at the end of the day, I get to go home. No, I don’t work at the airport — I am walking into the Los Angeles Superior Court of Pasadena to begin my day as a client advocate.
I, a woman of color, am often reminded of what a unique privilege I carry. When I arrive at the courthouse, I see many other people walking through the same doors, intimidated and frightened by the weight of an open case. The advantage I hold in coming and going freely for my job is a reminder of my responsibility to advocate for justice and equity for the people I support.
I am not an attorney, but I work inside public defense, helping to reshape the idea of public safety by redefining how we think about individuals ensnared in the criminal legal system. I work with Partners for Justice — a fellowship program that places early-career professionals with public defender offices nationwide — and I am, I hope, through my placement with the Los Angeles County Public Defender’s Office, helping to bring about the future of public defense.
From very early on, I was drawn to the social services field. I was born and raised in Los Angeles as a first-generation American, and the opportunity to uplift individuals from communities similar to mine felt more like a dream than work. Like many first-generation kids from marginalized backgrounds, I witnessed our systems fail the people around me.
I saw loved ones and community members cycle through the legal system. My father and other male figures in my family missed out on precious years with their children due to incarceration. I had friends drop out of school and turn to gangs in search of belonging. And I lost family members to substance abuse because the only solution offered to them was incarceration — not the support they truly needed. The pain of watching these things unfold shaped my profound belief in the inherent dignity and worth of people, reinforcing the idea that everyone deserves access to opportunities.
One of the best parts of my job is that I can help individuals access the support and rehabilitation they need. Yet the journey to get there is never the same. Some days I help people get to work, stay housed, feed their kids by securing food benefits or driver’s licenses, navigate community resources, or lock in thousands of dollars in rental assistance. The goals change daily, and much of what I do is tied to a client’s case or overall well-being, but nothing is ever off the table. When I meet a client, my first question often is, “What do you need?”
The truth about this country’s criminal legal system is that it is not designed to meet needs; it is designed to punish. I have had clients who wanted to do the right thing, such as completing court-ordered classes, but had to overcome roadblock (no access to a computer) after roadblock (the 12-week course is cost-prohibitive) after roadblock (there is a free version of the course, but it is in English only and the client doesn’t speak English). The system did not provide a solution. But I could.
