Advice for First-Generation Lawyers and Second- and...

I always thought I was privileged. After all, I was a Nolan, living in picturesque Brooklyn amid a large, loving, fun family. My grandmother lived with us, my aunt and her four girls downstairs, my other grandmother and aunt with her four boys two blocks away. And we were continually together for birthdays, holidays, and first communions, or just because it was Sunday afternoon.

Not only was family everywhere, but so were friends. I was one of 100 kids on my block, and everybody knew everybody since my father was born across the street and my mother a few blocks away. An idyllic world, where we played and prayed, learned and loved within a few crowded blocks hidden between Prospect Park and Green-Wood Cemetery. From age six, we were free—“Go out and play”—and except for a quick sandwich stuffed with two slices of baloney—weren’t allowed to return until you heard some mom scream: “Time for dinner.”

Of course, we never had an extra penny, and our living conditions were out of the Dark Ages—literally—since my mother never turned on a light. We dried our hand-me-down clothes on the line strung across the backyard. No fans or air conditioners cooled our homes. Vacations were at Riis Park, a crowded, ragged public beach in Queens. My two brothers and I were crammed in a 10-by-14-foot bedroom; our kitchen was the size of a thimble. I commuted to tuition-free Brooklyn College since I could attend any college, I was told, as long as I paid for it myself. Oh yes, I never lived in a house with a shower—only cold iron bathtubs—until I was 29.

We never realized what we didn’t have. Sure, we knew about rich people since our F Train rose from the dark, dirty tunnel to soar into the light, revealing the wealth and glory of the Manhattan skyline. But we didn’t know them, never met them. I was in college before I was in an apartment house with a doorman, before I met someone who belonged to a country club.

Our goals were simple—study hard and get a solid job with a good pension so you could afford a new car, not the used ones my parents drove. Maybe make enough money to move to the suburbs. Yet, we were insanely happy in our isolation, our shared successes and sacrifices, a time my friends and I recall with joy and celebration. Our utopia was the concrete streets and schoolyards devoid of grass or beauty.

Like everyone else, my parents had to work during the Depression, and then my father spent more than three years winning World War II, so college was for others. But my parents were bright and ambitious, especially my mother, a child of Irish immigrants, who was never shy to push us to excel. If I came home with a 92 on a test, her displeasure was never hidden: “Well, I guess you didn’t study hard enough.” Results mattered, not effort.

Only recently, while reading about how law schools should encourage and support first-generation students, did I realize that, hey, that’s me—I’m a first-generation lawyer. And before that, a first-generation college grad. Somehow, they forgot to nurture me, forgot to tell me the Ivy League secrets to success.

Nah, I’m not bitter, for if I was ever singled out for help, I would have laughed. I believed all that stuff about how we could be anything, even president. I still do. Yeah, we froze in the winter—“You’re cold? Put on another sweater”—but we survived, were resilient. In the scorching summer, my mother, then in her 70s, would hop on a New York City bus and ride back and forth for a few hours, reveling in the free air conditioning.

When I finally matured, I realized I had a George Bailey life. Sure, we had to work from age 10 or 11 delivering papers or groceries, but we weren’t dragged, at age four or five, through the subways peddling candy like today. Times are different, much more difficult. First-generation law students should accept all assistance and advice. Can’t hurt. But be wary. Only you know what you want, what brings fulfillment. And, no doubt, I can provide more sage advice than law schools filled with lawyers who have practiced only at the piano.

Depend on nobody. Law is a business—forget this “profession” malarkey. Yeah, most will treat you fairly, but never count on the goodness of others. If you want success, earn it. Do it yourself. You’ll only be disappointed if you rely on others. Recently, in an employment retaliation case against Davis Polk, a legal career development person testified, “You can’t really be friends with associates. We’re managers and so we can’t be their friend friend. It’s a business.” These forthright and blunt words apply to everyone in our industry, especially partners.

Of course, there are exceptions—family, close friends, saints. Most lawyers are good, honest people, but they’re going to put themselves first. I did. Will they risk reputation and income to support you, or will they remain silent and slink away? Ask any big-firm associate passed over for partner.

Follow your own star. You’re talented, intelligent, industrious. Have the confidence to choose: big firm, counsel at a nonprofit, small local partnership—or forgo law to open a trattoria. Nothing is easy, and all success involves sacrifice. Not for everyone. But do what you want, not what others want. It may take a while to figure out, and you can always change your mind.

I wish someone had revealed the Wall Street riches that existed a few subway stops from my home. But even if some brilliant seer showed me the yellow brick road, I doubt I would have joined Dorothy. Financial gurus always tell me where to stash my money. I listen but mostly ignore their advice. I’d rather make my own mistakes. Same with you; make your own mistakes.

It’s hard. In some of my college classes, no one received an A. Today, Harvard’s average GPA is 3.8. You’re brilliant, articulate, and determined. Everyone is. But success—professional, financial, or personal—is never guaranteed. A jury won’t be impressed by your LSAT score. A judge won’t rule for you because you were on law review. You can succeed, but only if you work your butt off. And law is a people business, so put down your phone and learn to talk to people—face to face. Effective oral and written communication is imperative. And check your spelling and grammar. Nothing broadcasts laziness more than a misspelled word.

Some superstar lawyers make $10 million and more. You can, too, but you’re on the phone at weddings, bar mitzvahs, birthdays. . . . Only those who win get paid the big bucks. Effort no longer matters. You want to be partner and have the co-op overlooking Central Park, you better win. Even Bill Belichick, with his six Super Bowl rings, was canned because he lost when Tom Brady left. You can’t win every trial, but you better win most.

Even if you’re content with a decent living and a nice, polite practice, you still must work crazy, stressful hours. Family life and practice often conflict, and, at some point, you must choose. Nothing wrong with opting for being home for T-ball, soccer, dance recitals. Indeed, many believe that the endless hours demanded by big law is detrimental to family life. Maybe so, but that’s your decision.

Save your money. Two blocks from my home was an attorney’s office, attractive and professional—now closed. I didn’t know the young guy until I read that he was arrested for stealing from clients. He wanted the gorgeous life of cars and vacations and clothes and restaurants. And he’s not the first local lawyer who got jammed up because he wanted more than a pizza from Nino’s on Saturday night.

Everything seems a million times more expensive today. Even after I earned a few dollars, my expectations were tempered by an upbringing where debt was anathema, where luxuries were for others. Live within in your means, and stop spending $8 on a morning latte.

Accept that you won’t have a private jet, won’t lounge in a Nantucket bungalow on the bluff. No one loves money more than I do, and it certainly makes everything easier, but it won’t make you happy. Way more enjoyable to have a summer home on Shelter Island than to drive home from Riis Park in a wet, sandy bathing suit, but family and friends bring joy; not fancy houses or cars.

Be generous. Don’t forget—you’re better off than 99 percent of the world. Give back in time, money, talent. Volunteer for Girl Scouts, swim team, the PTA. . . . Get involved in a nonprofit, and participate on a regular basis. It’s not enough to buy a ticket to a gala and throw some money around.

I was blessed to have parents who loved me—except for my teenage and college years. Not everyone is so fortunate. I’m involved in a nonprofit that deals with foster care, and the accounts of abuse and neglect are shockingly heartbreaking. Just recently, over our objections and the objections of New York City’s child services, a judge returned a one-year-old to her parents despite previous findings of abuse. A few months later, the child died of a fractured skull.

These tragedies are all too frequent. So many need so much. You have the ability and opportunity to make a difference. And you have an obligation to do so.