Tell us about your community growing up. Looking back, how did they shape who you are now?

Let’s start by identifying my gender and sexual identity – I’m a cis-gendered gay man, legally married to my husband for ten years now, though we’ve been together 28 years. I was born in Miami, Florida, the first generation, U.S.-born child of Cuban parents who emigrated from Cuba in 1961 (along with my older siblings). While my parents wanted me to assimilate into U.S. culture — giving me American first and middle names rather than Spanish ones and sending me to American Catholic elementary and high schools — I was raised in a Cuban household. I spoke Spanish before I spoke English, I listened to Cuban music and ate Cuban food, and my mother (sometimes frustratingly) insisted that I speak Spanish at home (even though I spoke English at school and elsewhere). Being that first-born son “destined” to fulfill my parents dreams for an American, I suffered significantly from the “best little boy in the world syndrome.” Everything I did was influenced by an overwhelming desire to make my parents proud and satisfy their expectations. Of course, that wasn’t exactly healthy for my gay identity. Even though I knew full well that I was attracted to other males as early as 12 years old, I figured I could sublimate that aspect of my life by pretending to be what would make my parents (and everyone else in my family) happiest. That led to my coming out when I was 27 years old, three years after graduating from law school! I’ve been accused of not so much having come out of the closet at 27 as having smashed through the door like a freight train. So, at that point, I essentially began my life again and began to experience the world, in all its aspects, as my authentic self.

Describe your journey to law school. What motivated you to enroll?

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a lawyer. I didn’t have a fireman or policeman or astronaut phase. Everyone knew I wanted to be a lawyer. I was accused of arguing about everything, which would inevitably be followed by, “You should become a lawyer.” However, no one in my family had ever been a lawyer. For that matter, no one in my family had attended college. There was no one in my family to guide me. All I knew was that, if I planned on fulfilling my parents’ dreams, I had to take life seriously. Thankfully, I had teachers throughout my elementary and high school years who knew me better than I knew myself (in hindsight, that was true with respect to all aspects of my life). They guided me and put me on a path that allowed me to flourish and avoid pitfalls. My parents sacrificed along the entire path to give me the advantages I needed, including restricting their lives to pay for tuition they otherwise could not really afford. Because of my parents and teachers, I was fortunate to attend Amherst College and then Harvard Law School, which made all the difference in the world.

What was your law school experience like?

Harvard Law School was not the traumatic academic experience for me that it seemed to be for so many others. And it’s not because I was particularly qualified to be there or because it came easy — neither is really true. But for whatever reason, I took it in stride. That said, when I would look around, I wouldn’t really see others like me. I don’t recall a single Latino professor at the law school while I was there (during the mid-1980’s), much less one that openly identified as LGBTQ+. And because there were no family members who could guide me, I sort of “felt” my way through law school. And because I was not out, I was scared to associate too closely with other students who self-identified as LGBTQ+, for fear that what I was still suppressing might be exposed. Fortunately, the other Latino/a law school students were a source of some support; but as anyone who is Latino/a will tell you, we are not a monolithic group with universally shared cultural values or political priorities. I was not aware of any other Cuban students at Harvard Law. So, for much of my law school experience, I was primarily an American, straight, and — because most people didn’t realize I was Cuban — white man.

Did you know about appellate work in law school? If not, when and how did it first get on your radar and why were you drawn to it?

Isn’t it funny that while law students spend most of their time in law school reading appellate decisions to understand common law principles, I somehow didn’t realize that there was such a thing as “appellate practice”? In my mind, being a lawyer (and I knew I wanted to be a litigator) meant being a trial lawyer. I knew nothing about the potential to specialize in appellate practice or what skill set would be needed to succeed in that field. It wasn’t until several years after I began practicing law that I had the opportunity to handle my own appeal and came to realize the unique characteristics of the practice area that make it so rewarding, most significantly, the ability to shape how the law develops.

Tell us about one of your appellate cases that you found particularly meaningful.

I’ve been fortunate to work on a significant number of really interesting appeals in my career, including some that have taken years of strategizing before achieving really satisfying success. But arguably the most meaningful of all my appeals was one where I was privileged to have been brought in to represent a group of indigenous people in Mexico, who were suing former Mexican president, Ernesto Zedillo, in connection with atrocities inflicted on them during raids on their villages by paramilitary groups. It was alleged that Mr. Zedillo, then residing in the United States, had directed the paramilitary groups to conduct the raids while he was president of Mexico. The United States government had interceded in the action, which was taking place in the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of New York, and asserted that Mr. Zedillo was entitled to “head-of-state” immunity. Based on the United States’ invocation of immunity on behalf of Mr. Zedillo, the district court dismissed the lawsuit for lack of jurisdiction. We appealed to the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit. For those who aren’t familiar with this area of the law, when the United States government intercedes and invokes immunity on behalf of a head of state or former head of state, it is virtually impossible to overcome the immunity. And sure enough, the oral argument was brutal (even if exciting), and the dismissal was affirmed. But regardless of the outcome, my involvement in the appeal made me realize on a very personal level the extent to which under-represented communities around the world, particularly those of color, are subjected to great injustices and usually lack anyone to advocate on their behalf. The mere act of pursuing litigation helped bring to light the atrocities that had been committed.

How often do you encounter other LGBTQ+ attorneys, particularly those of color, in the appellate field? Why do you think that representation is important?

Easy answer: never. I cannot think of a single other attorney who regularly practices appellate law who is LGBTQ+ and is a person of color. That is certainly true in Florida, where I primarily practice; but even nationally, as a member of organizations that focus on appellate advocacy, I cannot think of another openly LGBTQ+ appellate practitioner who also happens to be a person of color. In some ways, that is shocking. In other ways, it’s not. The openly LGBTQ+ community is already a small subset of the larger population (although recent statistics relating to younger age groups suggest that subset is growing and self-identifying). Filter, then, that group for race and/or ethnicity, then filter it again for those who choose to become lawyers. Finally, apply one more filter to those that choose appellate advocacy, and you see the problem. In my case, if I were to examine the statistical probabilities that I would become a gay, Cuban-American appellate practitioner, I’d have to admit that sheer happenstance led me to where I am. Given the lack of knowledge and lack of guidance I had, my path might have been derailed at any number of junctures. For that reason, it is critically important that information about such opportunities be made available to young LGBTQ+ people of color, even before law school, so that they understand the paths they might travel (and are fully capable of traveling). Our representation within the appellate bar is important because our life experiences help us shape the arguments we make and help us relate to the difficulties litigants often experience. And when judges see us appear before them and do exceptional work and achieve successes for our clients, their perceptions (and any preconceptions they may have) begin to change. Of course, in the context of the LGBTQ+ community, that means, first and foremost, coming out. Which leads me to your next question….

What advice would you give to a law student of color who aspires to be where you are now?

Given that this is a Pride month questionnaire, I’ll take the liberty of modifying the question to address advice I might give to an LGBTQ+ law student of color. My first piece of advice would be: come out, if you haven’t already. Doing so is the single most liberating, most self-affirming, and most political action an LGBTQ+ person can take. I realize that for the current generation of young people, the coming out process is not what it once was (thankfully), though the transgender community is experiencing today much of the same kind of hate and prejudice gays and lesbians experienced regularly decades ago. But self-identifying, followed by self-realization, is what will allow you to succeed authentically as yourself. The path may not always be easy, but it is ultimately and infinitely rewarding. And by coming out, you give others with whom you interact, including other students, lawyers and judges, the opportunity to expand their experiences and grow. Assuming you’ve already come out, the best piece of practical advice I can give a law student who wants to be an appellate practitioner is apply for a clerkship. In hindsight, my greatest regret (other than waiting until I was 27 to come out) is that I didn’t even know to apply for a clerkship. I’ve come to realize how significant that can be in terms of succeeding as an appellate practitioner. To be clear, it’s not that you can’t become a successful appellate practitioner without a clerkship. It’s just that you will likely be afforded greater opportunities within the appellate field if you’ve had one.

What’s one thing law schools and/or the appellate bar can do to ensure our highest courts are representative of all our communities?

Virtually no effort is spent, in my view, educating law students about what it takes to become an appellate judge. The process can be dramatically different depending on whether the judicial position is a federal or state one, and can further vary depending upon the state. As someone who tried in earnest to become an appellate judge in Florida, and who ran headlong into certain political realities, I can tell you that I might have approached the process differently if I had known earlier on what it would entail. Law schools can begin to educate their students from the start on what it means to pursue a career as a jurist (including the potential financial sacrifice that entails). Once students graduate, the appellate bar and specialized voluntary bar associations can also provide guidance to budding jurists on how to plot their course to judicial election or selection. Though honestly, in my opinion, if someone is waiting until they’ve started practicing law to consider being a judge, they’re likely already a step behind. The decisions you make in law school and the employment you accept upon graduation can materially affect a person’s likelihood of judicial success. For that reason, I think law schools should take the lead in educating their students about the available opportunities.