TRAM Resilience Scholarship

I was born a Black man with Albinism. My disability made me visibly different in every room I entered, while the low vision that accompanies it made the standard machinery of school—the board at the front, the fine print, the assumption that everyone learns the same way—a daily negotiation. I learned early what it means to be present in body but rendered absent: labeled before given chances, accommodated before celebrated. Systems that were supposed to educate me instead delivered quiet verdicts about what I could not do. My life's work has been to reverse that verdict—first for myself, and now for every learner I serve. For more than twenty years, I have believed that art is not a luxury for marginalized people; it is a lifeline. That conviction shapes my work as a doctoral candidate in Learning Sciences at Northwestern University, where I study how interdisciplinary arts empower marginalized communities to heal from trauma and develop self-agency. As lead teaching artist and student researcher for Shakespeare Behind Bars at the Illinois Youth Center in Chicago, I sit with incarcerated young people as they inhabit Shakespeare's characters and begin to imagine futures the world tried to foreclose. That work produced the Cross-Dimensional Future Orientation Framework, identifying four previously unnamed types of future orientation among incarcerated youth—research I presented at the 2025 International Conference of the Learning Sciences in Helsinki, where it was nominated for an Outstanding Student Paper award. I recognize myself in my students. Like me, they have been defined by how the world sees them before anyone asked how they see themselves. I once wrote in my journal: "My faith in my students' success must be greater than their faith in reality." Living with a disability taught me that faith firsthand—someone had to see further for me than the world's verdict allowed, until I could see it for myself. Now I hold that vision for others. It is why I co-created Grow/Share/Belong, an adult literacy program at the Evanston Public Library rooted in dignity rather than correction, presented at AERA 2026. It is why I train undergraduates as mental health facilitators through Northwestern's Cities Mentor Project, co-develop the D65 Coded Beats program with Northwestern's Tidal Lab, and co-authored "Observing Joy," presented at AERA 2025. I am grateful for the Lader Family Scholarship from the Chicago Lighthouse and the Jim Reilly Reformer Scholarship, and honored by my 2026 induction into the Edward A. Bouchet Graduate Honor Society. My goal is to build a body of scholarship establishing the arts as an evidence-based tool for healing trauma and developing self-agency, and to advocate for structural change in how schools, libraries, and correctional facilities serve learners whom institutions have failed—including students with disabilities, who are among the most frequently rendered absent by systems that measure worth through narrow benchmarks. My disability is not a footnote to this mission. It is its origin. I know what it feels like to walk into a room built without me in mind. I intend to spend my life building rooms that say, in every possible register: you are enough. You are capable. You belong here. Your mind is worth knowing.

Some wounds you can see. Others you carry beneath the surface. I live with both. As a disabled U.S. Army veteran, I carry the scars of war—some visible, like the mobility impairments I sustained from an IED blast in Afghanistan, and others less obvious, like the chronic pain and psychological trauma that linger long after the battlefield has quieted. But these challenges have not defined my limitations; they have defined my purpose. In 2009, while deployed in Helmand Province, my convoy struck an improvised explosive device. I was the only survivor. I suffered extensive orthopedic injuries, underwent numerous surgeries, and began a long, painful road of physical rehabilitation. Even today, I live with permanent mobility impairments that affect everything from how I walk to how long I can sit in a classroom chair. But the biggest impact of my disability has not been on my body—it’s been on how I see the world and what I believe I’m called to do within it. Navigating life after combat as a disabled veteran was not easy. Simple tasks became complex. My identity as a soldier had to evolve into something new. I became a single father to my daughter, Adysen, who has been my greatest source of strength and motivation. I also became a mentor to other veterans, helping them navigate their own healing journeys. These experiences helped me realize that while I could no longer serve on the frontlines, I could still serve—just in a different uniform. That realization led me back to school. I’m currently pursuing my Master’s Entry in Nursing Practice (MENP) at Elmhurst University. My goal is to become a psychiatric nurse practitioner, specializing in trauma-informed care for veterans, first responders, and underserved populations. I believe that those of us who have endured the deepest wounds are often best positioned to help others heal. I want to turn my lived experience into professional expertise—combining clinical skill with hard-earned empathy to walk alongside others through their pain. Living with a disability has taught me patience, adaptability, and relentless determination. I've had to advocate for accommodations, adjust to physical limitations, and prove—again and again—that I am capable, even when the world sees my disability before my ability. It’s also taught me compassion. Whether volunteering with a local veteran support group or mentoring first-generation students with disabilities, I’ve committed myself to lifting others up, just as others once did for me. The financial burden of graduate school is heavy, especially as a single parent living on a fixed income. Scholarships like this one don’t just make education possible—they affirm that stories like mine matter. Receiving the TRAM Resilience Scholarship would help me cover tuition, purchase adaptive equipment, and reduce the stress that comes from balancing medical bills, school fees, and parenting responsibilities. More importantly, it would empower me to keep moving forward toward a future where I help others rise from their own brokenness. My disability may have changed the way I walk, but it never changed my direction. I walk now with greater purpose—toward a life of service, healing, and hope. With your support, I will continue this journey, not as a victim of circumstance, but as a leader shaped by resilience.