For the Record

Personal Statement — Exhibit A

Let's be clear about something.

She enrolled in paralegal school because of a TV show.

Harvey Specter looked at her through a 42-inch screen and she thought: yes. THAT. That is what legal work looks like. Glass offices. Tailored suits. People who knew exactly what was happening at all times and were respected for it.

She was early into her first job before she understood what Harvey Specter had done to her.

Very early.

The baby attorney could not figure out the printer. Possibly the scanner. The distinction was never established because at some point the papers left his hands and arrived at her desk. Thrown. At her. By a licensed attorney who had access to the same machine she had been using without incident and who had apparently decided that she was the appropriate recipient of his frustration with it.

She picked them up. Every page. Stacked them. Walked into his office. And threw them back.

Then she fixed the printer. Herself.

That was fifteen years ago. She's still here. Different office. Same printer energy.

Here's what they don't put in the job description. And they don't put it in there on purpose. Because if they told you, the paralegal profession would have a vacancy rate so catastrophic law firms would cease to function by Thursday.

You will be the most indispensable person in every building you ever work in. You will know where everything is. You will know what's happening before anyone tells you. You will hold entire transactions together with a staple and a prayer on a Tuesday night when everyone else has gone home. And then, and this is the part, someone will hand you a fruit basket.

Not even for you.

It will arrive addressed to the attorney. The attorney will look at it, look at you, and with the energy of someone presenting you with the Nobel Prize, slide it across your desk. The card will have someone else's name on it. The fruit will include three kiwis. Nobody ordered the kiwis. Nobody wants the kiwis. The kiwis are just there, doing nothing, like a metaphor she didn't ask for.

FIFTEEN YEARS.

She has been introduced at firm events as "my assistant" by attorneys whose calendars she runs, whose typos she catches, whose clients call her when they can't reach them. She has been removed from email threads she started. She has been copied on emails she was never supposed to reply to. She has received feedback that made genuinely no sense, looked that person in the eye, said "got it, thanks" and driven home in complete silence.

She has proofread 200 pages at 11pm and found the one error nobody else found.

Harvey Specter. HARVEY. Not once. Not one single episode did that man deal with a last-minute court filing at 4:58pm because someone forgot to tell him the deadline was today and not tomorrow. The show knew. The show KNEW and it aired anyway.

She took notes on all of it.

Fifteen years of notes.

This is what happens when the notes run out of room in her head.

The Unredacted Paralegal™. Nobody approved this. That felt appropriate.

Still employed. Still showing up. Not giving legal advice.