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Wajahat Ali: Fighting Wells Fargo and Foreclosure

• Sep 23, 2010 from insurancemake in Business
  Could it be that the best chance to save a young family from foreclosure is a 28-year-old Pakistani American playwright/attorney who learned bankruptcy law on the internet?
  
  I was late when I first met my clients, the Lipkin family, outside my office. I was very late. I couldn't believe I was late. I felt like an imposter. Maybe I was an imposter. I had dressed as professionally as I could: a sophisticated sports jacket, slicked-back gelled hair, elegant briefcase. My straightened posture exuded the charismatic confidence of a seasoned attorney. In my mind, at least.
  
  I extended a hand and introduced myself to a family that was about to have their home foreclosed upon. Carl and Natalie, the husband and wife (I've changed their names), were both in their early thirties. Their three young daughters were with them, wilting in the heat of the parking lot. They met me with open smiles, even though they had just driven ninety minutes from Sacramento on a scorching summer day. I invited them in.
  
  I was hoping they would never guess that despite being a licensed attorney two years out of law school, I was utterly paralyzed with fear--and earnestly praying to Allah that my potential clients were not about to call me out as an incompetent charlatan, punch me in the face, storm out of the office, and call the state bar seeking to disqualify me.
  
  I was the guy who was going to save these people from being evicted from their own home? Who was I kidding?
  
  In reality, "my law office" was actually my friend's office, which he'd lent to me so that I could meet these clients. The classy jacket had been purchased at a clearance sale in an outlet store at the Great Mall in Milpitas. The gel was the last remnant of a decaying and potentially expired bottle I'd probably had since college but never found the opportunity to use. The suitcase was a gift from my relatives in Pakistan--who, much like the rest of my family, were thoroughly shocked that I had passed the bar exam and become a licensed attorney. My business cards had been printed for free by Vistaprint, and despite having a professional front side featuring my name in bold letters and the words ATTORNEY AT LAW, the back side glared BUSINESS CARDS ARE FREE AT WWW.VISTAPRINT.COM!
  
  Game over. I was doomed.
  
  - - - -
  
  It wasn't supposed to be this way. In 2007 I graduated from UC Davis School of Law, a reputable institution that ranks in the top forty of the inexplicably influential U.S. News &World Report annual school ranking. According to my Property professor, students who graduate from top-forty law schools are bred to "find a comfortable desk job, most likely in a corporation, and make a nice income without really having to get their hands dirty." The old saying goes that the A students become the professors, the B students find jobs in government or corporate law, and the C students end up making all the money.
  
  But given the economy, this conventional wisdom was out the window. Instead of being employed at all, like thousands of others who were unlucky enough to graduate law school in 2007, I ended up in my old bedroom, sharing the family home with my parents and my grandmother.
  
  Despite being thoroughly emasculating for a twenty-eight-year-old, living at home certainly has its benefits. You never have to cook, given that your mother, a culinary Jedi Knight, makes fresh Pakistani food every night. You avoid doing the laundry and the dishes, because your father has a "specific system" that only he has mastered. Also, you have your own personal "prayer factory" in the form of a very pious grandmother, who constantly sends duaas and blessings your way--and reminds you nonstop that the only reason she's still living is to see you married and with kids. And for a solo attorney without any money, home can also serve as a convenient and rent-free law office.
  
  After passing the bar, I immediately started scouring the internet for any job even tangentially related to law. I applied for legal-secretary positions, legal-assistant jobs designed for nineteen-year-old college students, unpaid internships at shady start-ups, even senior legal-counsel positions at corporations requiring a minimum of ten years' experience. I shamelessly claimed, as one of my qualifications, "worldly wisdom that compensates for lack of actual legal experience." I was denied by every recruiting center.
  
  Dejected, I lapsed into my innate South Asian melodrama. I made the following declarations: "My life is shameful. I'm a grown-ass man, thoroughly qualified, who just got denied a menial job at a small law firm. If I was a samurai in feudal Japan, I would have to harakiri myself out of dishonor and shame."
  
  "Well, you're no samurai," replied my mother, "and you're not in feudal Japan. You're Pakistani and you're living at home. So be quiet, eat your daal and naan, and afterward go get some hara dhaniya, pyaaz, tamatar, and Lactaid milk from Food 4 Less." My mother is the world's second-bluntest...

Wajahat Ali: Fighting Wells Fargo and Foreclosure

• Sep 23, 2010 from wwwma3hdnet(عبد الله) in World News
  Wajahat Ali: Fighting Wells Fargo and Foreclosure -
  
  Could it be that the best chance to save a young family from foreclosure is a 28-year-old Pakistani American playwright/attorney who learned bankruptcy law on the internet?
  
  I was late when I first met my clients, the Lipkin family, outside my office. I was very late. I couldn't believe I was late. I felt like an imposter. Maybe I was an imposter. I had dressed as professionally as I could: a sophisticated sports jacket, slicked-back gelled hair, elegant briefcase. My straightened posture exuded the charismatic confidence of a seasoned attorney. In my mind, at least.
  
  I extended a hand and introduced myself to a family that was about to have their home foreclosed upon. Carl and Natalie, the husband and wife (I've changed their names), were both in their early thirties. Their three young daughters were with them, wilting in the heat of the parking lot. They met me with open smiles, even though they had just driven ninety minutes from Sacramento on a scorching summer day. I invited them in.
  
  I was hoping they would never guess that despite being a licensed attorney two years out of law school, I was utterly paralyzed with fear--and earnestly praying to Allah that my potential clients were not about to call me out as an incompetent charlatan, punch me in the face, storm out of the office, and call the state bar seeking to disqualify me.
  
  I was the guy who was going to save these people from being evicted from their own home? Who was I kidding?
  
  In reality, "my law office" was actually my friend's office, which he'd lent to me so that I could meet these clients. The classy jacket had been purchased at a clearance sale in an outlet store at the Great Mall in Milpitas. The gel was the last remnant of a decaying and potentially expired bottle I'd probably had since college but never found the opportunity to use. The suitcase was a gift from my relatives in Pakistan--who, much like the rest of my family, were thoroughly shocked that I had passed the bar exam and become a licensed attorney. My business cards had been printed for free by Vistaprint, and despite having a professional front side featuring my name in bold letters and the words ATTORNEY AT LAW, the back side glared BUSINESS CARDS ARE FREE AT WWW.VISTAPRINT.COM!
  
  Game over. I was doomed.
  
  - - - -
  
  It wasn't supposed to be this way. In 2007 I graduated from UC Davis School of Law, a reputable institution that ranks in the top forty of the inexplicably influential U.S. News &World Report annual school ranking. According to my Property professor, students who graduate from top-forty law schools are bred to "find a comfortable desk job, most likely in a corporation, and make a nice income without really having to get their hands dirty." The old saying goes that the A students become the professors, the B students find jobs in government or corporate law, and the C students end up making all the money.
  
  But given the economy, this conventional wisdom was out the window. Instead of being employed at all, like thousands of others who were unlucky enough to graduate law school in 2007, I ended up in my old bedroom, sharing the family home with my parents and my grandmother.
  
  Despite being thoroughly emasculating for a twenty-eight-year-old, living at home certainly has its benefits. You never have to cook, given that your mother, a culinary Jedi Knight, makes fresh Pakistani food every night. You avoid doing the laundry and the dishes, because your father has a "specific system" that only he has mastered. Also, you have your own personal "prayer factory" in the form of a very pious grandmother, who constantly sends duaas and blessings your way--and reminds you nonstop that the only reason she's still living is to see you married and with kids. And for a solo attorney without any money, home can also serve as a convenient and rent-free law office.
  
  After passing the bar, I immediately started scouring the internet for any job even tangentially related to law. I applied for legal-secretary positions, legal-assistant jobs designed for nineteen-year-old college students, unpaid internships at shady start-ups, even senior legal-counsel positions at corporations requiring a minimum of ten years' experience. I shamelessly claimed, as one of my qualifications, "worldly wisdom that compensates for lack of actual legal experience." I was denied by every recruiting center.
  
  Dejected, I lapsed into my innate South Asian melodrama. I made the following declarations: "My life is shameful. I'm a grown-ass man, thoroughly qualified, who just got denied a menial job at a small law firm. If I was a samurai in feudal Japan, I would have to harakiri myself out of dishonor and shame."
  
  "Well, you're no samurai," replied my mother, "and you're not in feudal Japan. You're Pakistani and you're living at home. So be quiet, eat your daal and naan, and afterward go get some hara dhaniya, pyaaz, tamatar, and Lactaid milk from...

SF Signal: Free Christmas Fiction: 'The Sugarplum Favor' by Tad Williams

• Dec 26, 2011 from DrKyawwwin(DrKyawwin)
  Tad Williams' new short story collection, A Stark And Wormy Knight , is now available worldwide as an ebook for $4.99 (or equivalent) for one month
  
  To romote and celebrate, the following story, which is not in the book, is being posted here at SF Signal and a few others for your holiday entertainment.
  
  Happy Holidays!
  
  
  The Sugarplum Favor (A Christmas Story) by Tad Williams
  
  
  Danny Mendoza counted his change three times in while the teacher talked about what they were all supposed to bring for the class winter holiday party tomorrow. It was really a Christmas party, at least in Danny's class, because that's what all the kids' families' celebrated. Danny had his party contribution covered. He had volunteered to bring napkins and paper plates and cups because his family had some left over from his little brother's birthday party with characters from Gabba Gabba Hey on them. He'd get teased about that, he knew, but he didn't want to ask his mother to make something because she was so busy with his little brothers and the baby, and now that Danny's stepfather Luis had lost his job they had a Money Situation. Danny could live with a little teasing.
  Danny was going to buy a candy bar for his mother, one of those big ones. That was going to be his Christmas present to her and Danny knew how much she'd like it -- he hadn't just inherited his small size and nimble fingers from her, he'd got her sweet tooth, too. And she had just been talking about the Christmas a few years ago when Luis had a good job with the Sanitation Department and he'd brought her a whole box of See's chocolates. Danny knew he couldn't match that, but the last of the money he'd saved up from raking leaves in the neighborhood and walking old Mrs. Rosales' wheezy little dog should be enough to buy a big old Hershey bar that would make Mama smile. No, what to get wasn't a problem. The thing that had him thinking so hard as he went down the street at a hurried walk, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, was whether he dared to get it now or should wait another day.
  
  In Danny's San Jose neighborhood the Mercado Estrella was like an African water hole, not only a crucial source of nurture but also the haunt of the most fearsome predator in his 3rd grade world. Any stop at the little market meant he risked running into Hector Villaba, the big, mean fifth-grade kid who haunted Danny's days and often his nights as well. Danny couldn't even begin to guess how much candy and other goodies Hector had stolen from him and the other kids over the years, but it was a lot -- Hector was the elementary school's Public Enemy Number One. About half the time his victims got shoved around, too, or even hit, and none of the grown-ups ever did anything about it except to tell their humiliated sons they should learn how to fight back. That was probably because Hector Villaba's father was a violent, drunken brute who didn't care what Hector did and everyone in the neighborhood was as scared of him as the kids at school were scared of his son. The last time someone in the neighborhood had called the police on Hector's dad, all their windows had been broken while they were at church and their car scratched from one end to another.
  
  Danny was still trying to make up his mind whether to risk stopping at the market today or wait for better odds tomorrow (when class ended early because of the holiday) when he saw Mrs. Rosales walking Pinto, her little spotted dog. He almost crossed the street because he knew she'd want to talk to him and he'd spent a lot of time doing that already last week when went to her house to get Pinto nearly every day. He was too close, though, she'd seen him, and Jesus hated being rude to old people almost as much as he hated it when kids lied, or at least that was what his mama always told him. Danny wasn't expecting much from Santa anyway, but if Jesus got upset things would probably be even worse. He sighed and continued toward her.
  
  "Look who's here!" Mrs. Rosales said when she saw him. "Look, Pinto mi querida , it's your friend Danny!" But when he waved and would have passed by she told him, "Hold on a moment, young man, I want to talk to you."
  
  He stopped, but he was really worried that Hector and his friends might catch up if he stood around too long. "Yes, Mrs. Rosales?"
  
  "I short-changed you the other day." She took out a little coin purse. It took her a long time to get it open with her knobby old fingers. "I owe you a dollar."
  
  "Really?" Danny was astonished.
  
  She pulled out a piece of paper that looked like it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times and handed it to him. "I know boys need money this time of year!"
  
  He thanked her, petted Pinto (who growled despite all their time together, because Pinto was a spoiled brat) and hurried toward the market. Another dollar! It was like one of those Christmas miracles on a television show - like the Grinch's heart growing so much it made the x-ray machine go...