Pierson Family Scholarship for U.S. Studies

"CHECK THE DICTIONARY" Staring at me unapologetically while I doodled with my little orange pencil in my notebook, my father reiterated, "Check the dictionary." The clock chimed two hours to midnight, yet all attempts for him to define the dozen-and-one words in my fourth-grade vocabulary assignment proved futile. Dad believed they were mere combinations of alphabets, so I needed to roll up my sleeves. Now and then, when Dad insisted that my siblings and I peruse the dictionary for such answers, we always found them in there. I became accustomed and then looked forward to playing Scrabble on Saturday mornings and receiving encyclopedias and puzzles, not video games, as presents. Indifferently, then eagerly perusing these, I gradually understood that no solution was elusive. There is always an answer. But how do I find it? Growing up with my paternal family of philosophers, I learned to seek the rationale behind concepts. Playing ball games demanded spatial awareness and proprioception; drawing, my favorite pastime, insisted on continuing a dot across a blank paper. To even exist within my comfort zone, I desired to understand the underlying principles, as everything seemed to have one — its algorithm. If every seemingly new idea were a slight modification or yet-predictable application of a basic concept, wouldn't every challenge be surmountable once I grasped the algorithm? Was I running on an algorithm? Bird-watching or Rubix-cubing, I considered such possibilities, taking my brain on a wild joyride while appreciating [cyclical] problem-solving patterns. Developing an interest in neural processes, I stumbled upon a WIRED article on Irish neurosurgeon Phil Kennedy, who — in an attempt to induce synthetic communication in ALS patients — hacked his brain and almost lost his mind. Enthralled by the possibility of fusing a career in medicine with engineering, I recall dragging my thirteen-year-old self out of bed the following day, having stayed up late, eager to debate the ethical concerns with my eighth-grade class. Leading such conversations in my high school community catalyzed my interest in neuro-engineering. Still, as this field is yet nascent in my home country — Nigeria — I feared these ideas would only go as far as insightful break-time conversations, and once again, seeking my father's counsel to surmount this, I learned to "step back." I embraced 'earthcare,' starting with dissolving non-biodegradable polymeric foams (salvaged from appliances' packaging) in petrol to produce homemade styrofoam glue for leather shoes and boiling homegrown 'acalypha wilkesiana' as an herbal remedy for my younger cousin's dermatitis then moving on to synchronously pioneering an ornamental garden in my community church and the Friends of Nature Club in high school. Opening myself to the joys of ambiguity, I revitalized my curiosity through the nuances of ecosystems [nature's balancing act] and insightful interactions in the communities I created. By stepping back, I gained two significant insights. The first was the focal point of my diverging interests — restoration. My "restorative" instincts had kicked in to combat challenges in my family and communities and now, ultimately influence my post-graduate plans — designing sustainable nano-biopolymers to reduce amyloid build-up accounting for most neurodegenerative diseases, ultimately increasing life expectancy, perhaps right from the embryo. The second was that I could get closer to these dreams by stepping farther from my comfort zone, perhaps as far as 30.57˚N and 92.33˚W from my home country — the United States. Through higher education in the United States, I aim to continue my quest in its diverse and innovative communities, where each mild gesture or grand measure refines the quality of knowledge and broadens my horizon, tapering my fears.