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“So, who was this date with again?”
“Paul, the dentist?”
“Oh right.” I nod. “The one with the cute dog.”
“Maybe that’s my problem. I need to stop swiping right on guys with cute dogs. I want to befriend the dog, not them.”
“Maybe you just need to get a dog?”
“With these ridiculous hours I work? I couldn’t do that to a pet. But if there were two of us…” she sighs. “It’s rough out there is all I’m saying.”
“I believe it. And you’re right, our work doesn’t help. Speaking of, Barbara is going to have my ass if I don’t get these briefs to her, so I’ll talk to you later.”
“Need any help with it?” she offers.
“No, I’ve got it.”
“Alright.” She waves and leaves me to my work.
My office line rings shortly after. “Julie,” I answer quickly.
“Hey, Julie.” It’s Jim again. “I’ve got a prospective client in need of translation on line two. Can you take it?”
“Of course.” I answer and switch over to line two. “Julieta Martí.”
“Buenos días, Señora Martí. Busco un abogado.”
Larissa usually fields these calls, but since I’m the Spanish speaker, I’m handling this one. As the man on the line starts speaking, stating his case, I write down the information quickly. We discuss details and I ask questions as we chat.
When I first applied to law firms fresh out of law school, they were always taken aback by my background and the fact that I could speak Spanish.
“You don’t even look Hispanic!” they would proclaim.
“Where are you from?” they would pry, as if perhaps they didn’t believe me.
I was born in Argentina, I would tell them. I moved here with my family when I was five and was practically raised here.
“Oh, Argentina,” they would brush off, with a tone that seemed to mean, “So, you don’treallyfit into the Hispanic stereotype society has mapped out. So, you don’t check the boxes.”
It was a rough road when we moved here, a jump in the dark that my family took to get a better life. All of them wanted the promise of a country where they could raise their children, find work, and get better pay.
But this country, with its space for opportunity and a better life, can be so unforgiving.
My parents did everything they could for my younger brother and me and in return, I made it my goal to make sure their sacrifices weren’t in vain. It was drilled in me to go to college. Get a degree. Get a good job. Make good money. Buy a house. Lay a foundation down for a solid life. Go through all the steps and go through them properly. Follow the path and do so withpride. We were given this chance, and we should remember to be grateful.
So, I went to college, and I went to law school, and I got a good job. I bought a condo, which was close enough. I went down the checklist fervently. I am successful—at least in their eyes.
I finish the conversation with the man on the line, Ramón Lorenzo, looking for a lawyer to take on his worker’s comp case, and head to the break room for my second coffee of the day.
The coffee area is a mess. Empty sugar packets and stirrers are littered about the counter. The creamer wasn’t put back in the fridge. I clean up as I go, throwing away the garbage and organizing the contents of the fridge, muttering to myself,Why can't anybody clean up after themselves?
I walk back to my office briskly, mug in hand, and sit back down to work on more cases.
***
“Hey, Julie. I setup your appointment for tomorrow morning at nine.” Larissa’s voice breaks me from my work as I’m typing away at the computer.
“Great. Thank you.”
