Goths Belong in STEM Scholarship

Tattoos, piercings, and pitch-black outfits dominate my social scene. My “southern goth” community in Raleigh, NC, is integral to who I am. While I find shared identity through alternative style, I am also deeply connected to my community as a queer person. My journey toward alternative identity began in 2020, when I became a photographer for Black Lives Matter protests. While documenting demonstrations advocating for equity, I listened as peers described the pressure to conform and the stereotypes imposed on people of color. These conversations pushed me to reflect on my upbringing as an Asian-American raised by Indian immigrants who taught me to present myself “respectfully” and avoid standing out. I began to deconstruct gender and self-presentation, realizing I had been socialized to “perform” femininity in ways that prioritized others’ comfort. The protest dialogue shifted my mindset: suppressing individuality not only stunted my growth, but also hindered social progress. I began to prioritize authenticity, belonging, and community alongside academic success. When I entered UNC-Chapel Hill, I embraced this shift. I got piercings and tattoos and wore my curly hair naturally instead of straightening it. While I found a community, I realized how rare it was to see someone like me pursuing medicine. Among Indian-American pre-med students, few were openly queer or visibly alternative; within alternative spaces, few aimed for clinical careers. In both spaces, I often felt out of place. Comments like, “Do you know those tattoos are permanent?” or “Why did you bleach your eyebrows? You were so pretty!” made me question whether deviating from expectations would limit my opportunities. My commitment to authenticity was tested more recently, when I competed in a highly publicized, queer “fight night” boxing event rooted in heavy metal and goth culture. As the only brown competitor, I worried that photos or associations could follow me into medical school admissions and be misunderstood. Despite that, I chose to participate. It was a space built on community, self-expression, and joy: values I was no longer willing to suppress. Showing up fully, especially as a South Asian person in NC, felt important for myself and others who may not see themselves represented in queer and alternative spaces. Alongside authenticity, a calling to build trust and connection shaped my path into medicine. During my freshman year, I helped build my campus EMS agency, starting by administering COVID-19 vaccines. In a time of uncertainty, I became a trusted peer. Some students chose to be vaccinated only if I was the one administering their shot, and staff later recognized me, expressing how comfortable I had made them feel. That trust continued to build as I worked as a technician at Duke University Hospital after graduating. I communicated with many patients who only spoke Spanish, and saw them relax when they realized I spoke their language. My clinical experiences showed how connected we are by human experience. Pain, fear, and vulnerability are universal, and effective care depends on meeting patients where they are. My alternative identity has made me more attuned to those who feel marginalized or unseen in clinical care. After medical school, I plan to work in harm reduction in Latin America, designing human-centered strategies for addiction care. I am particularly drawn to grassroots work: mobile clinics, community education, and overdose prevention. Representing alternative identities in STEM matters to me. By showing there is no single way to exist as a physician, I hope to expand what is seen as possible. In every space, I aim to create an environment where patients and peers feel supported in their individuality, helping build a more inclusive future for medicine.

Being Goth isn’t just about how I look on the outside, but how I actively make choices to advocate and support the communities around me. Attending the local concerts, discussions arose about what each of us could do to improve the world around us. Protests, mutual aid, education, and our own day-to-day choices. As a bitter, low-income queer teenager in Texas, I resonated with the messages of hope and change. The messages of inequality, calling out the unjust system, and untaught history that got expressed through music at local punk and goth shows ignited that flame of passion and perseverance, which inspired me to take Environmental Science and African American Studies in high school as my electives to further build on the foundation of knowledge I already had. I was learning the impact climate change had at a disproportionate rate in low-income neighborhoods that are majority People of Color. Having grown up on “the wrong side of the tracks” in Houston, I’ve felt and seen the impact of climate change on low-income communities. The physical, mental, and economic health of my friends and me is constantly threatened by climate change. I became even more outraged, for my friends, for my community, for me. Frustrated at how the system has us set up for poverty. This is what kept me within the alternative spaces. I would often ask myself, “Why isn’t anyone doing anything?” That question got answered at a concert when a band opened up with “YOU are someone, DO something to make a change.” I never even wanted to pursue higher education, but this experience changed my mind. I was someone, and I love my community enough to try to make the world a safer place for them. Because of this experience, I am pursuing education in Environmental Science with a focus on Intersectional Environmentalism. However, due to my appearance and assortment of oddities in the lab assistant's office, I was faced with a lot of judgment from the funding department last year. I was harshly criticized and had to move cubicles multiple times because of claims that “We have a different vision for the appearance of the office,” despite having been given explicit permission to decorate as I please, which eventually led me to just move my station into the lab away from other departments' view. The other departments also would spread rumors about me, saying that I come into work high (which is funny because I am sober living) only due to my appearance. Eventually, with the budget cuts that happened this past year, they decided to cut me first from my job despite my lab managers' and supervisors' protests. I remain in contact with them, and they overheard the funding department stating some unsavory words about my appearance, despite it being within uniform, and having been a good labby. Despite this, I will continue with my studies and volunteer with labs to gain more experience in research. That environment was simply not meant for me, and I will find my place. I can see myself contributing to Environmental Science by finding solutions that will reduce air pollution in low-income communities to prevent disease, and how climate change affects the spread of invasive species. I have done some undergraduate research projects on using GIS and warming climate studies to track the trajectory of invasive spread to predict its next growth cycle and take preventative measures beforehand. I am also shooting for the goal to pursue graduate school, and eventually contribute as a supportive educator to underrepresented students to pursue Earth STEM as well.

In every STEM class I’ve taken, I’ve been the only one who looked like I didn’t belong there. Not because I couldn’t keep up, but because in environments like anatomy and chemistry, I was bold enough to be authentic and devote myself to something seemingly out of the bounds of what it means to be alternative. While others may have seen contrast in my Gothic lifestyle and even social rebellion, I felt alignment and freedom. My alternative identity did not pull me away from science. It led me toward my calling. I have been part of the alternative umbrella since I was eleven, after being introduced to shows like Daria and bands like Paramore by my older cousins. By fifteen, I had become a baby bat. What began as a curiosity about sound and style, like listening to The Cure and embracing my love for dark romantic aesthetic, became something deeper. Goth subculture does not romanticize death; it refuses to look away from it. It creates space to acknowledge mortality with honesty and reflection. That perspective shaped my worldview and ultimately guided me toward a career in mortuary science. Before turning twenty, I have lived through more than I ever expected to at such a young age. I didn't grow up in the healthiest family environment. In a toxic multigenerational immigrant household, financial stability, encouragement, and emotional safety were often absent. During that time, the goth community became the first place I felt unconditional acceptance. It offered belonging when I needed it most and taught me that difference isn't something to minimize, but something to hold with pride. That lesson strengthened me academically as well; when I walked into rigorous STEM classrooms, I was no longer afraid of standing alone. When I was seventeen, I lost a friend suddenly. Her death shook me deeply. I attended her service, carrying grief I did not yet know how to process. What I encountered changed me. Her service was beautiful, peaceful, and dignified. She was dressed in her own alternative style, reflecting exactly who she was: confident, expressive, unapologetically herself. Seeing her presented that way brought me comfort. In death, she was honored as the person she truly was. She would be remembered exactly as she had lived. That moment solidified my calling. I realized how powerful death care can be when it's done with compassion and attention to identity. Mortuary science is grounded in biology, chemistry, restorative art, and technical precision. It requires knowledge of anatomy, preservation methods, sanitation protocols, and meticulous care. In my STEM courses, I found comfort in that structure, the certainty that process matters, and that detail protects dignity. But beyond the science, funeral service is stewardship. It's about safeguarding a person’s story during one of the most vulnerable moments a family will ever face. As a nonbinary Mexican American, I understand how meaningful it is to be seen fully. Cultural background, gender expression, and personal style should not disappear at death. I want families to feel reassured knowing their loved one is presented authentically and respectfully. Representation and cultural awareness matter profoundly in this field, and I intend to embody both. Becoming a funeral director is not simply a career goal; it's a commitment formed from grief, resilience, and reverence. I am pursuing mortuary science not in spite of my alternative identity, but because it has given me the courage to confront mortality with honesty and compassion. I will carry my friend’s memory with me into every preparation room and service I help create, ensuring that each life I honor is treated with dignity, precision, and authenticity.