Coty Crisp Memorial Scholarship

“Can I ask you a question?” For much of my childhood, those words carried fear. Growing up in a deeply religious household, that question rarely came from curiosity. It often meant judgment—an invitation to explain myself before I had the words or safety to do so. Each time I heard it, I learned to brace, stay quiet, and mold myself into something less visible. Survival meant answering carefully, or not at all. At eight years old, that lesson took shape when a small act of self-expression—cutting my shorts into a skirt—was met with anger and discipline from my father, who shoved me into a corner and shouted that it was abnormal. In the background, my brothers laughed, chanting “Bakla! Bakla!”—a Filipino term used to demean an effeminate male. After that, home no longer felt safe or predictable. I learned to monitor my tone, my posture, even how much space I took up. By middle school, that vigilance had followed me beyond home. Some mornings, I would lie in bed hoping to wake up sick, searching for any reason to miss school. I was not just avoiding class; I was avoiding another laugh, stare, or question that made me feel exposed. Childhood became an exercise in self-surveillance. I was not simply learning how to behave; I was learning that the most honest parts of me were safest when hidden. My voice grew smaller, not because I lacked thoughts or questions, but because expression could invite punishment. I moved through childhood inside a shell—watching, wondering, and quietly asking myself why others saw me as something wrong. Fear did not erase my curiosity; it buried it. Over time, the questions I was too afraid to ask aloud became how I tried to understand myself, others, and the world. At UCLA, I began giving myself permission to explore the parts of me I had once hidden. That freedom showed up through fashion, self-expression, and the confidence to take up space, but the deeper change was internal. I became braver and more trusting of my perspective. Biology became one of the first places where that curiosity felt safe. In science, questions are not dangerous; they open understanding. I learned to examine systems, seek evidence, and recognize how small changes affect health. As I reflected on why being seen had once felt so dangerous, I realized many people carry fear, shame, or guardedness after being made to feel different. That realization made me more compassionate and attentive to moments when someone feels unseen. In that awareness, healthcare began to feel less like a career choice and more like a calling. That curiosity followed me into dental clinics. I noticed patients carrying anxiety, shame, or mistrust—through tightened shoulders, avoided eye contact, or unanswered questions. I recognized that fear immediately; I had lived it. Dental hygiene stood out as a field where science and human connection meet, where asking questions can build trust, prevent disease, and restore dignity for vulnerable people. As I pursue dental hygiene, I carry the lessons of those struggles with me. Growing up queer taught me what it feels like to shrink under judgment, but it also taught me the healing power of being understood. In a field rooted in prevention, education, and trust, I want to use questions to build safety rather than fear. I want my patients to feel their concerns, anxieties, and stories are welcome. The question that once silenced me now gives me purpose. I am no longer the child bracing for judgment; I am becoming the provider who can ask with empathy, “Can I ask you a question?”

As an omnisexual identifying individual pursuing the pre-dental field following my prerequisites as a biology major, I have faced many harsh stereotypes and cruel remarks by many as the field I am pursuing isn't very common with minorities of any sort. I am a firm believer that race, gender, sexual orientation, or religious beliefs do not dictate a person's performance in any medical field. I have been told I do not look like a dentist, don't deserve to be a dentist, or that if patients knew I experienced same-sex attraction, they would never attend my practice. One of my goals in life aside from continuing my education, in which I'm very adamant about, is to prove these people wrong. This has proven difficult in a state such as West Virginia, where hate seems abundant and it's almost as though that's all peers in my age group seem to learn. This being said, I still wish to work locally and give back to my local community because in truth it has already given so much to me. This makes the challenge of overcoming small town stereotypes even more difficult, though I'm steadfast and willing to take on this challenge. I may never understand why throughout life those my age have always seen me as inferior or less than, just because I have so much love to give and don't wish to live my life in complete secrecy. Society as a whole is evolving and I believe all humans are in fact, humans and acceptance for these ideals will eventually grow. To expand on this idea, I dream of opening a practice that is affordable and welcoming for all, at lower costs and a friendly atmosphere for all walks of life. By doing so I can only hope to open the eyes of others and bring awareness to various situations in hopes to prove we are truly all equal at heart. In summary, I believe in equality for all (and have hopes of doing so given the opportunity of opening my own business/practice,) hope that someday the harmful stereotypes that come with living in a rural town will vanquish, leading to peace for all walks of life, and by working together as human beings within the same society we can create peace and unison with our words and actions, together we are one, and each day the world is advancing in society and views.

I’ve always been a quiet, timid kid who kept to himself. But people looking for someone to target with their hatred always seem to find a way. I grew up with a single mother who worked long hours just to provide for us. Because of that, certain conversations like the birds and the bees never really happened. I had to learn about things like that from other kids, including what it meant to be gay. For a long time, I didn’t understand the word. But in third grade, I was given a new nickname: “the gay kid.” Even though I didn’t yet know what it meant, I could tell from the way they said it that I was supposed to feel ashamed. From third grade until the end of high school, I endured name-calling and taunts. It became so normal that I learned to keep it all in and not show how much it affected me at least on the outside. On the day of graduation, I sat next to my best friend who also happened to be gay. In front of us sat a group of students who, without hesitation, called us both slurs as we stood up. For the first time, I felt a sharp anger not at them, but at myself. I was angry that I had let it happen again, this time to someone I cared about deeply. As I got older and began to explore the world beyond my small rural town, I realized that this kind of discrimination wasn’t just a local problem it was everywhere. I saw people like me being mistreated in schools, public spaces, and even healthcare settings. I knew I wanted to be someone who could help others feel safe, accepted, and cared for. I just didn’t know how yet. When I started taking college classes, my path became clearer. I felt a strong pull toward healthcare not just because of the science or the service, but because it was a way to make a difference. I realized that by working in healthcare, I could do two things at once: provide quality care and create a safe, welcoming space for those who are often excluded or mistreated. That’s when I discovered my passion for dental hygiene. Growing up, one of the things I was bullied for aside from being gay was my teeth. Getting braces changed more than just my smile it gave me confidence and a sense of strength. It allowed me to face the world with more courage. If I can give that same sense of confidence to someone else, especially someone who has also been made to feel less than, then I’ll feel like I’ve made a real difference. Even if my role is small, I believe that helping people feel seen, respected, and cared for—especially in a place as personal as a dental office—is one way I can fight against discrimination. And that, to me, is more than a career. It's my purpose.