Ruth Jensen Scholarship for the Arts

The arts are more than just a creative outlet to me and many others they are a lifeline. In both education and community settings, the arts have the power to transform peoples lives, build bridges, and offer healing where words can fall short. For me, they have been a way out of the sadness, and now, a way forward, into a life full of joy, connection, and hope for others. Growing up, I often felt like the world was moving past me, like I was watching life from behind glass. I wasn’t someone who fit in easily, and my home life was often heavy with worry. We struggled financially, and I spent many nights trying to make sense of everything I was going through while reading books by the dim light of an old desk lamp or scribbling poems and doodles in the corners of my notebooks. I carried a lot of sadness as a kid. some of it from the outside world, and some of it from within. But what gave me light in those darker seasons was art and the power to create. Music, books, and small acts of creativity became my refuge and, eventually, my voice. Today, I work at the Flint Institute of Music (FIM), where I’ve spent the past few years years collaborating with music therapists to create programs that combine music, movement, and visual art for students with disabilities. These students have taught me more than I can put into words, more than I expected to learn. I’ve seen a child with autism begin to express emotions through rhythm, and a teenager with anxiety and Down syndrome find peace in dancing. Healing that once seemed impossible is now happening through the arts before my eyes. Working with people who often feel misunderstood or overlooked, I’ve come to understand the deep and universal need to be seen, heard, and celebrated. The arts make that possible for everyone no matter who they are or where they come from. Outside of my job, I use creativity in quiet, intentional ways. I carry sticky notes with me almost everywhere. They are used as a small form of origami paper, Whenever I see a veteran or a child in public, I make them a paper crane. It’s my way of offering joy or gratitude, sometimes both. I’ve made thousands by now, the folds engraved into my hands and brain. I can make them in seconds, and sometimes I leave them in random places. tucked between books at the library, on a café table, the halls of college. hoping someone who needs a little beauty or hope in their day will find it. To me, that’s what art is, a gentle offering that says, “You matter. And You are not alone, I see you.” As a music major, I want to take this mission further. My dream is to develop inclusive arts programs that welcome people of all ages, abilities, and backgrounds. Something that shows art is for everyone. I want to host community workshops, start inclusive performances, and create spaces where creativity can bring healing to others, just as it did for me. I believe in the quiet power of the arts to connect us, to soften us, and to remind us of our shared humanity. I grew up sad. Now, I want to be someone who brings joy to others. Through art, I’ve learned how to turn pain into purpose. And through music, paper cranes, and community, I want to keep sharing that light.

My art is inseparable from my personal background and life experiences. Growing up in Detroit in a low-income household, I witnessed firsthand the challenges of violence, financial hardship, and generational struggles. In that environment, art became more than a hobby—it became a lifeline. It allowed me to process grief, express emotions I couldn’t put into words, and imagine worlds where hope, strength, and resilience could exist. I started drawing when I was young, grabbing whatever I could find—cardboard, old papers, pencils—and sketching superheroes while watching videos online. Those early drawings weren’t just practice; they were my way of creating order in a chaotic world. Over time, I began to notice details others might overlook: the way sunlight hits a city skyline at dusk, the subtle expressions on someone’s face, or the quiet gestures of resilience in my community. These small observations now inform the characters and stories I create, giving my art both depth and authenticity. The most defining moment in my life was losing my older brother, Jamal, to an overdose during my senior year of high school. That loss left me overwhelmed by grief while facing the everyday challenges of family and financial hardship. Instead of letting the pain consume me, I turned to my art. I began creating a comic book that reimagines Jamal as a superhero—someone his children could remember for his life, not the way he passed. That project allowed me to heal, honor his memory, and channel my emotions into something tangible. It also reminded me of the power of storytelling and how art can preserve personal and communal histories. My identity as a first-generation college student, a young Black man from Detroit, and someone who has faced loss and adversity is reflected in everything I create. I want my work to honor resilience, celebrate real stories, and give a voice to those who are often overlooked. I hope young people who feel unseen can look at my art and realize their experiences matter, and that their voices deserve to be shared. Art has taught me to transform struggle into purpose. It’s more than drawing—it’s expression, connection, and a way to make sense of the world. My life experiences shape not only the stories I tell but also the person I am becoming: someone committed to using creativity to inspire, uplift, and honor the people and communities around me. Through my art, I strive to turn personal challenges into meaningful stories, creating work that reflects both my identity and the strength of the world I come from.