Don't think of school as an obligation or a sacrifice. Think of an investment in yourself and your future. Because when you think of it as a requirement, you close your mind to what school is really about: preparing you to live your best life in whichever way you choose. School gives you the freedom to choose.

Learning how to reconcile my intersectional identities was a painstaking process for me. I grew up surrounded by white people in a household that never celebrated or highlighted our blackness. And because of that, I struggled to understand my unique position in my white community. At my young age, all I could tell was that I was treated slightly differently than my white peers. I would run into trouble that my white friends often avoided. . But things changed when I came out in eighth grade. As the only gay kid in school, I was treated like a novelty by those who had hitherto shunned my identity. I felt accepted for the first time, and basked in the adoration of my peers. But even though I felt like I was finally one of them, I was not. As time passed and I began to want more than cheap accolades from the people I though were my friends, I was once again confronted with the reality of my race. And this time, I had matured too much to be sheltered by ignorance. I started suffering from depression and severe loneliness, and I felt like completely misunderstood. That is, until I moved into a area with a larger black population in tenth grade. Once there, I felt like I had finally found a place where I belonged. I realized that I'd began to associate my gay identity with the white community I'd fostered it in. So since then I've been trying to realign my two identities, and my efforts have been awarded greatly. I now know that by continuing to recognize both parts of myself, I can be a more secure person. Recognizing who I am has greatly improved my outlook on life, and motivated me to do more and explore more.

Playing the cello is a huge part of my life, but sometimes I feel like I must be doing it wrong. Whenever I’m talking with my friends, we sometimes discuss who our favorite composer is. And usually, somebody says Beethoven, maybe Tchaikovsky if a pianist is in the room. But people always seem surprised when someone asks what I’m listening to as we warm up for rehearsal and I honestly answer “Greedy” by Ariana Grande, a few people wonder how I was even allowed on stage. Occasionally, I wonder the same myself. I’ve been playing classical music since I was 4 years old, yet that feeling of not belonging follows me relentlessly. At times it’s been hard to push through that. At times, I couldn’t. I gave up the piano my freshman year because ‘I didn’t have the time’: the trumpet because ‘it just wasn’t important to me’. Music, my oldest companion, became an estranged acquaintance. But things changed for me entering my sophomore year. I met people who not only made me feel included, but pushed me to be better. My friend Joe and I could make a TikTok then give each other tips on vibrato. I no longer felt torn between myself and my music, but like I was my music. Just that feeling of belonging pushed me to become the principal cellist of the best youth orchestras in both Saint Louis and Cincinnati. I've incorporated my identity as a black man with Cincinnati's Nouveau program. Because although music is my greatest skill, it's grown to be more than that for me. It calms me when I’m anxious, and focuses me when I’m distracted. It’s my home. And I’m no longer just a guest.

Learning how to reconcile my intersectional identities was a painstaking process for me. I grew up surrounded by white people in a household that never celebrated or highlighted our blackness. And because of that, I struggled to understand my unique position in my white community. At my young age, all I could tell was that I was treated slightly differently than my white peers. I would run into trouble that my white friends often avoided. . But things changed when I came out in eighth grade. As the only gay kid in school, I was treated like a novelty by those who had hitherto shunned my identity. I felt accepted for the first time, and basked in the adoration of my peers. But even though I felt like I was finally one of them, I was not. As time passed and I began to want more than cheap accolades from the people I though were my friends, I was once again confronted with the reality of my race. And this time, I had matured too much to be sheltered by ignorance. I started suffering from depression and severe loneliness, and I felt like completely misunderstood. That is, until I moved into a area with a larger black population in tenth grade. Once there, I felt like I had finally found a place where I belonged. I realized that I'd began to associate my gay identity with the white community I'd fostered it in. So since then I've been trying to realign my two identities, and my efforts have been awarded greatly. I now know that by continuing to recognize both parts of myself, I can be a more secure person. Recognizing who I am has greatly improved my outlook on life, and motivated me to do more and explore more. 

Out of the many significant black figures in American history, Jackie Robinson claims his position as one of the most influential. Amongst activists who devoted their entire lives to bringing about change for Black Americans, such as Martin Luther King Jr. and Harriet Tubman, the thing that highlights Robinson’s impact on the future is how he brought about change. Robinson changed the attitude towards black Americans simply by doing what he loved. Just by being on the team, he changed baseball. Just by being in the room, he changed business. Of course, he also excelled at the things he did. He wasn’t just on the team, he was on the field. But the means were just as significant as the achievements. It was not just his competence that drew him into the heart of white Americans, but also his charisma, palatability, and passion for everything he did. Seeing someone so invigorated, so caring and so talented represent those who were hitherto considered animals, his fans were transformed into advocates for Civil Rights. Robinson's most lasting effects go far beyond his baseball career. They're the change he made in America's very understanding of black people. For centuries, the U.S. has been the biggest global example of celebrity culture and consumerism. Yet for decades after their emancipation, black people were demonized in the media. But with Jackie and others came a new view of the Black American. He allowed us to be seen as people, ones worth celebrating. He astounded white Americans and inspired them to be more humane. An example of the change he instigated is the march on Greenville Municipal Airport after Robinson's 1959 NAACP speech. By forcing celebrity culture to work for him, Jackie Robinson achieved great things for black Americans.

Playing the cello is a huge part of my life, but sometimes I feel like I must be doing it wrong. Whenever I’m talking with my friends, we sometimes discuss who our favorite composer is. And usually, somebody says Beethoven, maybe Tchaikovsky if a pianist is in the room. But people always seem surprised when someone asks what I’m listening to as we warm up for rehearsal and I honestly answer “Greedy” by Ariana Grande, a few people wonder how I was even allowed on stage. Occasionally, I wonder the same myself. I’ve been playing classical music since I was 4 years old, yet that feeling of not belonging follows me relentlessly. At times it’s been hard to push through that. At times, I couldn’t. I gave up the piano my freshman year because ‘I didn’t have the time’: the trumpet because ‘it just wasn’t important to me’. Music, my oldest companion, became an estranged acquaintance. But things changed for me entering my sophomore year. I met people who not only made me feel included, but pushed me to be better. My friend Joe and I could make a TikTok then give each other tips on vibrato. I no longer felt torn between myself and my music, but like I was my music. Just that feeling of belonging pushed me to become the principal cellist of the best youth orchestras in both Saint Louis and Cincinnati. I've incorporated my identity as a black man with Cincinnati's Nouveau program. Because although music is my greatest skill, it's grown to be more than that for me. It calms me when I’m anxious, and focuses me when I’m distracted. It’s my home. And I’m no longer just a guest.

Without any doubt, I will be an adolescent psychiatrist. To practice, I must first earn an undergraduate degree in psychobiology or neuroscience. Then I’ll proceed to medical school, and finally, I’ll pass certification and earn a license. I initially determined I would practice psychiatry in early tenth grade. But even before that, I’d always wanted to enter a career that would help people. What ultimately motivated me to commit to psychiatry was my own family’s struggles with mental illness. When I was in ninth grade, my older brother Daniel attempted suicide by suffocation. When I found his unconscious body, I was completely astonished. We’d never talked about mental health or wellbeing, and the concept was mostly foreign to me. But my ignorance of the perils of the mind didn’t stop them from ravaging my home. Since that terrible moment, addiction, depression, and psychosis have plagued my family. As the second-youngest of five, I was unable to do anything but watch each of those ahead of me succumb to their various vices and instabilities. But now that I’ve grown, I’m no longer helpless. I can control my future, and I can help families that are going through what mine still goes through. Even though it seemed like those problems appeared out of nowhere, in reality they festered for years before exploding into crises. And so, I will become an adolescent psychiatrist, to prevent others’ mental illnesses before they spiral out of control. For so long I’ve anticipated my future. And now that it is almost here, I’m filled with excitement. I’m only 17, and I can’t wait to carry out my life. So I know that I’ll be successful, because I will make it happen.

Without any doubt, I will be an adolescent psychiatrist. To practice, I must first earn an undergraduate degree in psychobiology or neuroscience. Then I’ll proceed to medical school, and finally, I’ll pass certification and earn a license. I initially determined I would practice psychiatry in early tenth grade. But even before that, I’d always wanted to enter a career that would help people. What ultimately motivated me to commit to psychiatry was my own family’s struggles with mental illness. When I was in ninth grade, my older brother Daniel attempted suicide by suffocation. When I found his unconscious body, I was completely astonished. We’d never talked about mental health or wellbeing, and the concept was mostly foreign to me. But my ignorance of the perils of the mind didn’t stop them from ravaging my home. Since that terrible moment, addiction, depression, and psychosis have plagued my family. As the second-youngest of five, I was unable to do anything but watch each of those ahead of me succumb to their various vices and instabilities. But now that I’ve grown, I’m no longer helpless. I can control my future, and I can help families that are going through what mine still goes through. Even though it seemed like those problems appeared out of nowhere, in reality they festered for years before exploding into crises. And so, I will become an adolescent psychiatrist, to prevent others’ mental illnesses before they spiral out of control. For so long I’ve anticipated my future. And now that it is almost here, I’m filled with excitement. I’m only 17, and I can’t wait to carry out my life. So I know that I’ll be successful, because I will make it happen.

Though I’ve been in high school for three years, I’ve only focused on two. I was less concentrated on my backpack and its contents than on the bruises I carried underneath it. I’ll never forget how it felt to be dragged by my brother Daniel, or attacked by my sister Mona, both adults, while my mom idly watched. It seems miraculous that I passed any of my classes, though my GPA can’t recover from the neglect we suffered. Things improved after my brother’s extensive therapy and my mom’s shift to a more passive disdain. But I couldn’t push myself to care about my grades, my education. So I coasted, earning low B’s in some classes, and lower in others. But something changed when the quarantine descended. I realized the feeling I thought of as a casual nonchalance wasn’t my own, but an escape from how unsupported and unseen I felt in and outside of the classroom. It was a coping mechanism. I couldn’t fail if I never tried. But being sent to my dad’s house after spring break in 2020, away from anyone I knew made me realize that I wouldn’t succeed either. I understood that the grades, the effort, the pride in my work weren’t traps set by some malicious authority figure. They were ways to apply myself. It became a matter of dignity to succeed, and Junior year saw my efforts rewarded. When I received my ACT scores, 35’s in 3 subjects and a 36 in reading, it didn’t matter that my mom’s only response was how I could do better, because I took the test for me, and for my future. For the respect from my friends, from my classmates, from myself. Though my scars still show, my skin shines with success, and I’m proud.

Though I’ve been in high school for three years, I’ve only focused on two. It’s not that I wasn’t attending classes in ninth grade. But I was less concentrated on my backpack and its contents than on the bruises I carried underneath it. I’ll never forget how it felt to be dragged by my brother Daniel, or attacked by my sister Mona, both adults, while my mom idly watched. Or to be laughed at as I called the police in tears, trying to tell them I was bleeding from her serrated spoon: my geometry homework forgotten. It seems miraculous that I passed any of my classes, though my GPA can’t recover from the neglect we suffered. Things improved after my brother’s extensive therapy and my mom’s shift to a more passive disdain. But I couldn’t push myself to care about my grades, my education. So I coasted, earning low B’s in the classes I could sleep through, and lower in the ones I couldn’t. But something changed when the quarantine descended. I realized the feeling I thought of as a casual nonchalance wasn’t my own, but an escape from how unsupported and unseen I felt in and outside of the classroom. It was a coping mechanism. I couldn’t fail if I never tried. But being sent to my dad’s house after spring break in 2020, away from anyone I knew made me realize that I wouldn’t succeed either. I understood that the grades, the effort, the pride in my work weren’t traps set by some malicious authority figure. They were ways to apply myself. It became a matter of dignity to succeed, and Junior year saw my efforts rewarded. When I received my ACT scores, 35’s in 3 subjects and a 36 in reading, it didn’t matter that my mom’s only response was how I could do better, because I took the test for me, and for my future. For the respect from my friends, from my classmates, from myself. Though my scars still show, my skin shines with success, and I’m proud.

Playing the cello is a huge part of my life, but sometimes I feel like I must be doing it wrong. Whenever I’m talking with my friends, we sometimes discuss who our favorite composer is. And usually, somebody says Beethoven, maybe Tchaikovsky if a pianist is in the room. But people always seem surprised when it's my turn to share, and I confidently declare Nicki Minaj. Sometimes I try to defend myself, proclaiming that she writes her raps and therefore qualifies as a composer, but I still get a couple of bewildered stares. Or when someone asks what I’m listening to as we warm up for rehearsal and I honestly answer “Greedy” by Ariana Grande, a few people wonder how I was even allowed on stage. Occasionally, I wonder the same myself. I’ve been playing classical music since I was 4 years old, yet that feeling of not belonging follows me relentlessly. At times it’s been hard to push through that. At times, I couldn’t. I gave up the piano my freshman year because ‘I didn’t have the time’: the trumpet because ‘it just wasn’t important to me’. Music, my oldest companion, became an estranged acquaintance. But things changed for me entering my sophomore year. I met people who not only made me feel included, but pushed me to be better. My friend Joe and I could make a TikTok then give each other tips on vibrato. My new teacher, Ken, would tell me about his family drama and then overwhelm me with practice assignments-- but in a good way. I no longer felt torn between myself and my music, but like I was my music. Just that feeling of belonging pushed me to become the principal cellist of the best youth orchestras in both Saint Louis and Cincinnati. I've incorporated my identity as a black man with Cincinnati's Nouveau program. Because although music is my greatest skill, it's grown to be more than that for me. It calms me when I’m anxious, and focuses me when I’m distracted. It’s my home. And I’m no longer just a guest.

I have no clearer goal than becoming a psychiatrist for those struggling with addiction. Graduating college with a degree in psychology, completing medical school and eventually beginning my practice is my indisputable plan for the next chapter of my life. I've already been accepted into the University of Chicago's prestigious neuroscience program, though I'm still looking for ways to pay my way. But there's one thing that worries me: I'm not the first in my family to go down this path. That would be my brother Daniel, who moved to LA to study psychology at Occidental College. The golden boy, he excelled at everything he did. That’s why it was so devastating to watch him slowly succumb to severe drug addiction, schizophrenia, and BPD. Now he is in a 6-month rehabilitation center once again, with a criminal record and a scarred face. He's trying his best to recover, but like many drug addicts his path is bumpy and uneven. Daniel’s story scares me. It intimidates me because I know the passion we once shared for psychology can be lost almost instantaneously. It terrifies me because regardless of how many college-level psychology courses I take, the only thing that separates me and Daniel is time. Yet despite my fear I’m still pushing towards my goal. And that's because I know that Daniel isn't alone. There are hundreds of thousands of people like him who have become victims to circumstance or genetics and have their lives destroyed by substance abuse. Whether it be powders or bottles, drugs are ruining lives across the world. And there's insufficient medical assistance to those who need it. More therapists, psychologists, neuroscientists, and psychiatrists are needed. That's why I know I can't stop pushing forward towards my future. No matter how difficult the journey becomes, I'm called to complete my education and become somebody who helps the addicted and dependent.

Though I’ve been in high school for three years, I’ve only focused on two. It’s not that I wasn’t attending classes in ninth grade. But I was less concentrated on my backpack and its contents than on the bruises I carried underneath it. I’ll never forget how it felt to be dragged by my brother Daniel, or attacked by my sister Mona, both adults, while my mom idly watched. Or to be laughed at as I called the police in tears, trying to tell them I was bleeding from her serrated spoon: my geometry homework forgotten. It seems miraculous that I passed any of my classes, though my GPA can’t recover from the neglect we suffered. Things improved after my brother’s extensive therapy and my mom’s shift to a more passive disdain. But I couldn’t push myself to care about my grades, my education. So I coasted, earning low B’s in the classes I could sleep through, and lower in the ones I couldn’t. But something changed when the quarantine descended. I realized the feeling I thought of as a casual nonchalance wasn’t my own, but an escape from how unsupported and unseen I felt in and outside of the classroom. It was a coping mechanism. I couldn’t fail if I never tried. But being sent to my dad’s house after spring break in 2020, away from anyone I knew made me realize that I wouldn’t succeed either. I understood that the grades, the effort, the pride in my work weren’t traps set by some malicious authority figure. They were ways to apply myself. It became a matter of dignity to succeed, and Junior year saw my efforts rewarded. When I received my ACT scores, 35’s in 3 subjects and a 36 in reading, it didn’t matter that my mom’s only response was how I could do better, because I took the test for me, and for my future. For the respect from my friends, from my classmates, from myself. Though my scars still show, my skin shines with success, and I’m proud.

Without any doubt, I will be an adolescent psychiatrist. And I know I’ll succeed at my goal because failure isn’t an option. Adolescent psychiatry is a medical specialization that focuses on diagnosing and treating neurological disorders in teens. It’s a branch of medicine that is neglected as a whole, and it especially lacks black doctors. To practice, I must first earn an undergraduate degree in psychobiology or neuroscience. Then I’ll proceed to medical school to complete an M.D. program. And finally, I’ll pass certification and earn a license. I initially determined I would practice psychiatry in early tenth grade. But even before that, I’d always wanted to enter a career that would help people. I wanted to be a farmer when I was younger, and I would spend a lot of time gardening to practice. But once I realized I really hated being outdoors, I began to look into medicine instead. What ultimately motivated me to commit to psychiatry was my own family’s struggles with mental illness. When I was in 9th grade, my older brother Daniel attempted suicide by suffocation across the hall from my room. When I found his unconscious body, I was completely astonished. We’d never talked about mental health or wellbeing, and the concept was mostly foreign to me. But my ignorance of the perils of the mind didn’t stop them from ravaging my home. Since that terrible moment, addiction, depression, and psychosis have plagued my family. Daniel himself continues to struggle with bipolar depression, severe drug addiction, and schizophrenia. My little brother, Kibe, suffers from frequent seizures, and even I have struggled with anxiety and depression. As the second-youngest of five, I was unable to do anything but watch each of those ahead of me succumb to their various vices and instabilities. But now that I’ve grown I’m no longer helpless. I can control my future, and I can help families that are going through what mine still goes through. Even though it seemed like those problems appeared out of nowhere, in reality they festered for years before exploding into crises. Serious mental illness usually starts in childhood, when trauma or genes begin to shift the brain away from its healthiest state. And so, I will become an adolescent psychiatrist, to prevent others’ mental illnesses before they spiral out of control. To achieve this, I’ve focused my education on classes that’ll better prepare me for my future, excelling in AP Psychology, Biology, and Chemistry as well as anatomy and sociology. I also studied under Maggie Yeh in the summer of 2021 at the University of California: Los Angeles’ summer program (SCIP) and earned college psychobiology credits. Now, I’ve been accepted into the undergraduate Class of 2026 at the University of Chicago, a prestigious school with amazing neuroscience programs. And in the upcoming months, I plan to visit campuses and create a college budget for the next four years. For so long I’ve anticipated my future. And now that it is almost here, I’m filled with excitement. I’m only 17, and I can’t wait to carry out my life. So I know that I’ll be successful, because I will make it happen.

For most of high school, I’ve struggled immensely with my mental health. It was mostly circumstantial for a while. I was living in a physically and emotionally abusive household up until eleventh grade. My mom and I had a horrible relationship, and the rest of my family constantly treated me like an enemy. Year after year, life felt like a cruel trial with no reward, and I eventually became disenchanted. The summer after junior year I attempted suicide. My mom had just kicked me out of my home, and I saw no hope in my future. Fortunately, my attempt wasn't successful. I recovered, and had no choice but to move on from the past. I had relocated to my dad's house, and I began looking for ways to begin to live life in the way I couldn't before. Eventually college application season arrived, and I turned to west coast universities like UCLA and USC with hopeful eyes. Months later, reality came again to correct my foolishness. I was rejected from UCLA, then USC, due to the low GPA from my younger years. In my personal struggle, I'd neglected to take care of my academics. I found a sense of cruel irony in the verdicts. The version of myself that had been keeping me alive all those years ago became the destroyer of my dreams. In the months leading up to admission announcements, I had repeatedly imagined how I would handle any rejection. I thought I'd cry, weep, despair, and maybe even mourn my aspirations. But then the rejections came, and all I felt was indignance. How dare these greedy colleges, who knew nothing of the life I'd lived, reject me from their overpriced halls? My transcripts showed a clear upwards trend, to the point where I have all but 2 A's for the past 2 years. I deserved to be admitted, and there must be some mistake on their part. My anger spread to larger targets. How can a 13 year old be expected to pave his whole life's path, while still dealing with the challenges of being a teen? Why was no one there to help me, instead of simply giving me a failing grade and dismissing me as delinquent? There's no room in society for error or for less-than-perfect mental health. Everyone - from preteens to elders - is expected to be perfect at all times. And imperfection is met with punitive disgrace. I realize now that this is what stigma is. The complete disregard and punishment of humans' natural variations in mental state is a pervasive and cruel issue. Struggling with a significant mental illness is regarded similarly to committing a felony: both will bring long-lasting consequences both professionally and personally. It shouldn't be this way. This belief is what motivates me to want to become an adolescent psychiatrist. There are many fronts on which this problem needs to be addressed. One is the cultural front, where people need to become accepting of others' mental health struggles. To this day, any attempts at discussing the past with my mom’s side of the family is met with ridicule. One downside of being part of a black family is that events are always seen as they are, never how they’re felt. Another is the professional front, where employers need to be considerate of employee's mental circumstances at all times. And another is the medical front, where people in mental crisis should be able to find immediate and reliable treatment and help. Many who have tried to turn to psychiatry for help can attest to the difficulty in finding a reliable care provider. I hope to turn my past and personal experience into something productive by pursuing psychiatry. That way, I can prevent any other children from feeling forsaken and hopeless in the same way I did.

"If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader” -- John Quincy Adams. Though short, this quote is my favorite definition of what it means to lead. To me, the words hold two meanings. They’re most clearly Adams’ opinion on leadership requirements and who fulfills them. To embolden the others around you is no small feat, and those who do so deserve to be recognized. More people than I can count inspired me to become who I am today; it was through them that I became a musician, an athlete, and a student. One of the most memorable leaders in my life was Mr. Jackson, the orchestra conductor in Webster’s 2020 Young People’s Symphonic Orchestra. I vividly remember when he pulled me aside before our first rehearsal. He praised my audition, and he eagerly asked me about my plans for the future. But most importantly he made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t experienced before in an orchestra. To him I owe my continued commitment to cello and my current success in music. As for the second meaning, I believe Adams wanted to push people to see themselves as leaders. He wanted to establish that one doesn’t need power or fame or influence to lead, one only needs to inspire. This perspective is what makes his supposed quote my favorite. I’ve struggled with the duality of having valuable experience and advice, while also being someone who despises patronizing people. As I grew and became wiser than some of those around me, I began to question how I could help my younger peers without seeming condescending. In the end, I reached an answer that echoes President Adams’: the best way I could impact those around me was by always exemplifying excellence. By doing so the people around me could look to me as a role model, and I wouldn’t have to force my instructions down their throat. When I was voted team captain of my wrestling team, I didn’t begin screaming commands at my team. Instead I did what I knew was supposed to be done, and people followed my lead. My outlook stems from my belief that everyone deserves the chance to form their own opinion and follow their own path. And so this quote, in a way, reassures me that a leader doesn’t have to be over-assertive and domineering. And it encourages me to pay mind to my actions, and to how I am impacting those who look to me as a role model.

I can clearly remember when I first realized that I wanted to work in the foodservice industry. I was 11 or 12, and I'd been enjoying eating at a restaurant with my family. For some reason, I suddenly stopped eating and looked up. And when I did, I was amazed. All around my table were superheroes: hardworking servers, polite hosts, and busy bussers. And all I could think was that I wanted to be just like them. Now, I couldn't necessarily get hired to serve on the spot as a preteen. But when I turned 14, I applied to work at a Jack-in-the-Box down the street from my house. I was overjoyed after the interview, which I felt I'd aced with ease. Looking back, the job wasn't that similar to the restaurant environment that had inspired me. Working fast food is probably completely different than working at a sit-down place. But I wouldn't even know, because they never called me back. I waited for weeks before accepting my rejection, and when I did was filled with dejection. It felt like my dreams had disintegrated into thin air. For years I couldn't even think of trying somewhere else. It wasn't until a few months before I turned 16 that I applied for another job. This time I pursued a barista position at the cute cake shop, Sarah's, by my new house. And, much to my shock, they hired me. After years of yearning I had finally gotten my coveted food service job...or had I? For half a year I worked at Sarah's. And as time went by, I realized this was nothing like what I had imagined. People were incredibly rude and ungrateful. And of course, this was in the latter half of 2020, meaning business was slow because of the COVID pandemic. My boss was racist and had said racial slurs in front of me before. She even defended herself and said it was an accident as if that made it any better. My paychecks were miniature and my hours meager. And by the end of that winter, I'd had enough. I refused to let my path to service greatness be blocked by a subpar work environment. I used what money I had to get a bike and I applied to buss at Corner; a pub around a mile from my house. They had been understaffed due to the pandemic and were more than happy to hire me. And so, I began the next phase of my employment. I was happy at Corner. I worked 10 hours a week, and I got a few months of real restaurant experience under my belt. Though it was difficult biking so far, especially when it was pouring rain, I made it work. Yet most things don't last. And when I had to move states in the summer of 2021, my job at Corner faded into the past. As soon as I landed in my new city, I scoured the streets for a restaurant to work at. I'd gotten a taste of the real thing, and I was hungry for more. My search ended at Bru, a beautiful and modern restaurant suffering severe staffing shortages. There, I secured a job as a host. I didn't know it yet, but that simple title would bring me innumerable challenges. A normal restaurant should have a few managers, a couple of bartenders, some expeditors, a few hosts, a couple of dishwashers, and plenty of servers and cooks. Together, this large team keeps the restaurant running smoothly. Bru had no such thing, and it still doesn’t. Company policy eliminated the position of busser and expeditor, and staffing shortages had left one manager, 5 servers, a couple of chefs, and little else. This large, eye-catching restaurant in the heart of downtown Cincinnati had 6-7 people running it during the summer. To say it was hard would be an understatement. I was working 40-50 hours a week and doing 3 jobs at once. There was so much drama and so many customers that I almost passed out at least once a week. And yet it was incredibly fun. To be so productive and to face so many challenges was stimulating, and it boosted my sense of self-efficacy. I look back fondly on that time when it was just Alex the Host against the world. School eventually started, and I had to reorganize my schedule. To this day, I still work 20-30 hours a week, on top of taking 3 AP classes and maintaining all A’s. Through a series of events, I ended up playing in the city’s two most advanced youth orchestras. I’m also a Varsity team member of my school’s wrestling and track teams. A lot is going on, and the days when I could spend all day simply working are gone. Now I spend more time focusing on my long-term career goals in psychiatry. And as I try to plan out my future, there seem to be more questions than answers. How will I succeed at a school as difficult as the University of Chicago? How will I pay for tuition? In Illinois, waiters in alcoholic restaurants have to be at least 21 years old. Is there any way I can make enough money at a restaurant, even though I’m unable to serve? I wish I could answer these inquiries, but I can’t. That’s why I’m turning to outside sources for help. Up until now, I’ve been able to pursue my dreams. Since little me saw that hardworking restaurant staff all those years ago, I’ve resolutely followed in their footsteps. But now, I need more than just my determination to carry me forward. I need help. And with it, I know that I can achieve everything I set out to do.

If I had a nickel for every high school I’ve been to, I’d have fifteen cents. That’s not really that much money, but it's still a lot of schools. My first and favorite school was Lindbergh. After two years I moved to Lafayette; after another I moved to Walnut Hills where I am now. Moving high schools is a shockingly humbling experience. Your most unforgettable friends vanish into thin air, and your new school is its own planet with its own culture and norms. That makes you an alien. For me, moving--particularly to Walnut--was not easy. Since Lafayette had been only thirty minutes from Lindbergh, I still hung out with my old friends. That wasn’t the case for Walnut. Now five hours away from everything and anyone I knew, I felt at first like I had experienced real death. The things that defined me--my friends, my family, my favorite places to eat--were suddenly wiped from existence. I felt like a shell of my former self, fell deep into a depression, and formed suicidal ideations. In the end I did attempt suicide, but was embarrassingly unsuccessful. As I clearly had no other choice, I pressed on. Eventually the pain subsided, and it dawned on me that my situation wasn’t completely hopeless. I realized that I actually benefited from moving so frequently. Even before high school, I was moving states every year of elementary school due to my mom's job. Though I may have gotten used to Saint Louis--my home of six years--impermanence was nothing new to me. Rather it was my one constant. It was what taught me how to adapt and persevere, and how to find friendship in foreign faces. It taught me to remain confident no matter how unfamiliar my environment was. I understood that moving didn’t kill my identity, it was part of it. And it made me strong. Look at me now. Walnut Hills is the number one public school in Ohio. It's filled with honor roll, straight-A students. Standing out is almost impossible. And yet I do. On top of maintaining all A’s and good attendance, I almost won homecoming king, headlined several issues of the school newspaper, and won 2 superlatives. I’m Varsity in both Wrestling and Track, I lead the cello section in the top in-school orchestra, and I’m a club organizer for the Black Culture Club. I work part time in the heart of downtown Cincinnati, I’m in the 2 best youth orchestras in the city, and I have a friend group of beautiful black women who I love wholeheartedly. I turned it up to 11, then to 12, and in just nine months I made this large city my home and myself its active inhabitant. And yet in six more I’ll be leaving again, this time on my own. I’ll pack my bags, part with my friends, and move out to Chicago for college. And when that time comes, I won’t be distressed, nor will I feel lost. I’ll do it all over again, except I’ll do it bigger and better. Because that’s just who I am.

The memory of when I came out is still engraved deeply in my mind. I've grown, learned, and found great friends since then, and I wouldn't change who I am for the world. But being out wasn't just terrible at first; it was a downright nightmare. I spent weeks crying and depressed, wishing that people like me were the norm. I was called slurs and bullied incessantly, and at times I felt quite suicidal. But eventually I understood and appreciated my differences, because they were what characterized me. Once I grasped that, it became important to me to live as proudly as I could and become a local example of what could be. Now, I lived in Missouri at the time. Being gay was almost a death sentence, and was most definitely not as easy as it would be in West Hollywood. People did their best to make me feel an ‘other’, and the way I was treated was truly disgusting. But I had finally accepted myself, and no one was going to take that from me. I saw their ignorance as just an opportunity to educate. And my relentless optimism paid off. As I won homecoming, joined the wrestling team, and just talked to those who misunderstood me, I think the attitude towards gay people changed. When I came out I was the only out LGBTQIA+ member in the whole school. So I began my school’s Gay-Straight Alliance. I was the club leader and was responsible for organizing events and spreading awareness about our meetings. Running the club was an uphill battle at first. We had dismal attendance, and not much administrative support. But as the year went on more people joined, and we ended up being one of the largest clubs in the school. We fostered a safe space in an environment of homophobia and transphobia, and by giving people a place to go to when they felt lost we changed the school community. More people came out, and some told me personally that I had helped them with their journey. The community and peers I found through that club changed me forever, and they helped me grow as an individual. I moved from Saint Louis before graduation but I’m glad to have changed Lindbergh High School, even if only a little bit. And I want to continue to change the world in the same way by being an example for those who aren’t free to express themselves. Progress is being made, but there’s miles to go before queer people everywhere are free to be proudly who they are. And I will be at the forefront of the change.

Everyone possess something that makes them unique, like a trait that only someone with their history could've attained. Sometimes the trait itself isn't unique, but rather the circumstances that led up to it are especially interesting. These small contextual differences can translate to massive variation between how certain people express their personality. To understand someone's character, you have to know their past. Growing up, I always felt inadequate. I was the fourth of five children, and was the youngest for over a decade. Unlike me, all three of my older siblings shared a father, and they had immigrated with my Mom from Kenya in 2003. Compared to the history that they shared, my relationships with them seemed customary at best. There was only thing that made me feel welcomed at home, and that was success. We were an extremely intellectual household, with Kumon on the weekends, music lessons on Mondays, and tutoring on Thursdays. Only by conforming to this incessant hunt for knowledge was I able fit in. As can be expected, we eventually ran ourselves into the ground. When I began 6th grade, the tension in my family exploded. My home opened up to physical and verbal abuse, drugs, and crime. One-by-one we fell apart, and for solace I desperately clasped onto my inherited competitive spirit. My feelings of inadequacy morphed into avidity, and now the holes from my past yearn for the future. Even though my mom’s medical practice is what kept her away for weeks, I’ll follow in her footsteps and become a psychiatrist. I'm driven to help people, and have already begun planning how I'll best succeed on my journey. I'm committed to The University of Chicago, one of the best schools for neuroscience in the country, and have already begun thinking about medical school. But context is key. And for my own sake I remember that a history of misery lies underneath my driven nature. The lessons I learnt weren’t taught through instruction, but by absence. By the absence of closeness in my family, by the lack of innocence in my childhood. I’m best at wanting what I don’t have, at learning what I don’t know. And to this day I’m still grasping at the art of contentment. But in the meantime, I utilize the one value my family shared: ambition. And with that legacy I'll go farther than any of us have before.