Seven-years-old in my black shorts. Back then, I would’ve loved nothing more than to spend a sweltering summer night furrowed under my blanket, all tucked in, mother asleep, doing nothing but kid things to placate my never-ending boredom at home. I was someone who, when given car toys, would drive them all around the house, collapsing into fits of laughter as I raced past furniture and into my parents’ bedroom. Maybe they didn’t like it as much as I, but that didn’t matter. As far as I could tell, I made the rules—not them. In the eyes of a pompous child, it was easy to pretend we were happy. More than anything else, it was convenient to profess that my parents were satisfied together—though, frankly, they were not. Despite being a tumbling boy of seven, even I knew that our time as a family would someday halt; that, no matter how much me or my brother pleaded, there was no mending my parents’ irreparable relationship. One day, one night, they would tragically seek divorce. When my mother made the most valorous decision of her life—a two-thousand mile move to America with her two twin boys—I changed. Time ebbed and flowed; months turned to years. No longer was I the mischievous, foolishly ignorant child that wanted things placed perfectly under his feet. As I was made aware of the many sacrifices my mother made, I instead became fixated on finding solutions. Ways I could improve myself. Ways I could enact change in others. Ways to do things right. Because although I had an ill-entrenched childhood, who was I to take it from others? Though not an exquisite adventure like my younger self would’ve dreamt, starting high school, I became truly fanatical about servicing my community. I joined school-wide volunteering projects. Reached out to local service groups. Even became staff volunteer at the Hazleton Integration Project—a place that, to this day, continues to influence my perception of the world. In ways, tacking on such accomplishments meant self-growth; it meant sharing opportunities with those who, like me, came from stark backgrounds. Volunteering offered me a renewed sense of fulfillment, more refreshing than a clear bucket of late-summer water. Participating in drawn-out volunteering excursions made me ecstatic. Donating piles of canned food on Thanksgiving Eve felt just right. When I discovered community service, I, in part, unearthed wedges of myself—found lumps of me that, bluntly, I would’ve never known existed. Now, seventeen-years-old, I realize I’ve triumphed many hardships. During my scholarly journey, many unchanging factors influenced my rationale. My mother’s taut, unbroken support throughout all of childhood; my wishful, well-anchored quest for voluntary service in high school—just to name some examples. But if not for the inconstancy, if not for those quaint, mercurial mishaps along the way, perhaps I would’ve turned out a different, less intellectually-roused student—someone not eager to learn as I am now. Looking into the prospect of a college education, these are the many things that comprise all of who I am. These are the things that define me, inspire me to become someone truly passionate about my career. Armed with the financial means to persevere in university, I believe the Morgan Levine Dolan Community Service Scholarship will enable me to extend my service efforts on a broader, more effective scale than ever before. And while, of course, I may never know what the future has in store for me, I’ll know my college education has been fulfilling when it allows me to be me—someone who truly cares about his community.