Making And Taking Your Place In The Legal Field As A Black Woman
85% of lawyers are white. Why are we still forced to drag our seats to the place we rightfully belong?
“If they don’t give you a seat at the table, bring a folding chair.” — Shirley Chisholm
A s we marched down Florissant Road with our signs, my heart began to beat. We were walking towards the Ferguson police department to protest another killing of an unarmed Black man, Alton Sterling, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The wound left from police brutality was personal for those from Ferguson, as Mike Brown had been murdered a year prior.
We were tired.
Tired of having to explain our struggle, tired of having to educate and fight for fair treatment within society. We walked and screamed, “United we stand, divided we fall! “You can’t stop the revolution!” Local businesses along the street began to close and lock their doors as if expecting violence and destruction. It was a surreal moment.
I felt angry that it was so easy for them to ignore our message.
But my desire to be heard as an advocate outweighed my own fear and feelings of rejection. That was my call to action to do the work, but first I had to gain the knowledge and experience that would support it.
In August of 2015, I moved to a new city to attend college at the University of Missouri — St. Louis. I was filled with a mix of excitement and anxiety for the college experiences that would lead me towards self-discovery and educational advancement.
I began my career studying nursing. But living in St. Louis, I soon found my purpose elsewhere.
My alma mater is located less than 10 minutes from Ferguson and in this close proximity, I saw this city is far from the negative images depicted on the news, but instead is a place still reeling and reflecting St. Louis’ long history of redlining, disinvestment in Black communities, and political stagnation.
Americans around the nation were angry at the widespread loss of lives due to police brutality; they were demanding change and unafraid to resist. This very resistance afforded me my first opportunities to protest. And the empowerment I felt protesting led me to realize my purpose lay within political and legal work.
Shirley Chisholm uttered those iconic words more than 60 years ago, but the sentiment still rings true across the Black community.
We’ve been historically excluded at every kind of table that directly impacts us. And we’re still often forced to advocate for ourselves and drag our seats to the place we rightfully belong.
The ubiquitous absence of substantial representation in major areas like media, law, politics, and law enforcement results in the dangerous and far-reaching development of false narratives of Black people, the exploitation of our history and stories, dehumanization, and legislation that does not reflect the needs of struggling communities or implementation that does not meaningfully address or rectify decades of oppression.
One of the harsh realities of this historic exclusion has underpinned my own experience as a Black woman navigating law school, on the cusp of entering the legal field.
According to the American Bar Association, lawyers of color represent 14.6% of the legal profession; of that small sliver only 4.7% are Black.
85.4% are white.
My desire to enter the legal field is deeply rooted in the necessity for an increased presence of Black people practicing law, the desire to advocate for the rights of marginalized communities, and to work to dismantle systems that forward societal inequities.
When I shifted my major and later graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in Political Science from the University of Missouri- St. Louis, my goal upon graduating was to attend law school and work in an area that allowed me to merge my political and legal knowledge.
But my dream of an inclusive and empowering environment has been deflated by the reality of what I now experience as a law student.
Legal courses such as criminal law, contracts, property, constitutional law, and legislation are generally required within your first and second years of law school. Landmark cases discussed within these courses have significant implications on race relations and the deprivation of rights throughout legal history.
These cases include; Dred Scott v. Sanford — where the Supreme Court ruled that African Americans had no right to sue in federal court due to being considered property, instead of citizens of the United States; Brown v. Board of Education — where the Supreme Court ruled that racial discrimination in public schools was unconstitutional and required desegregation; and Gideon v. Wainwright and Powell v. Alabama — which established the constitutional right to a fair trial through legal representation for pro se litigants, meaning, for oneself.
These classes have not only been taught to me entirely by white professors, but in ways that don’t dig deep enough to convey the real-world implications to my classmates who hail from different cultural backgrounds.
An educational framework that does not fully address the impact of law and policy on disadvantaged communities misses the opportunity to foster and release lawyers into the world that recognize and utilize their privilege in true allyship against injustice. It’s a chance to support the development of cultural competency and inclusivity in a way that would create a progressive and safe learning environment.
But this isn’t what’s happening.
It wasn’t until my second year of law school that I had a professor of color, and the second semester of my second year that I had Black professors. They taught public interest law courses. This left me feeling conflicted, as I was seeking to excel academically in an environment where I generally don’t feel represented or understood.
And this is a reality for many Black law students, especially Black women; the legal field remains 63% male and in 2020, 61% of first-year law students were white.
The absence of Black lawyers within the field contributes to distrust within the legal system itself, limited knowledge of legal rights and processes, and creates disparities within legal sectors.
In practice, race impacts a Black lawyer’s professional trajectory in nearly every way from being overlooked for promotions and assignments to hiring and receiving inequitable compensation. I worry about the challenges my colleagues and I will face entering the legal field.
In our criminal justice system, race severely impacts a person’s likelihood of being pulled over, their pretrial release or detention, and the severity of sentencing. Black people are incarcerated in state prisons at nearly 5 times the rate of white Americans, and I have personally borne witness to these disparities manifesting in the lives of my family and childhood friends.
Black representation in major areas would serve to reverse bias and stereotypes that prevent meaningful progression and the development of equity.
My first-year experience forced me to quickly thicken my skin, to power through microaggressions and learn in an environment with many who do not understand my background, the difficulty of being one of the few Black women in the program, and the dire importance of my presence in law school.
But I’ve carried my chair with me; I’ve found my community and I’m doing the work I set out to do. I’ve joined the board of our Black Law Students Association, and this upcoming academic year, I will be its President.
I’ve been able to serve as a mentor to incoming law students, plan events to build community around my law school’s Black students, and interned with the Chicago Lawyers’ Committee for Civil Rights where I supported the organization’s settlement assistance program, voting rights, education equity, and equitable community development and housing teams.
And here at Public Rights Project, I’m supporting impact litigation at various stages with the goal of fighting for civil rights, and economic and environmental justice. This fall will find me entering my final year of law school at Chicago-Kent College of Law and I will become a Civil Rights Attorney.
I’ve not only brought my folding chair, but I’m working to carve space for everyone who looks like me to gather around the table as well.
