In my freshman year of forensics, I was dead on arrival. Used to the years of easy acting and low-stakes tournaments, the amount of work required for Freshman year hit me like a semi-truck going 90 in a 65. I stared the truck driver Katherine Rucinski, my forensics coach, dead in the eye and still was shocked. Every day called for some amount of work for this class. As one of those gifted students who really didn’t deserve much recognition, I wasn’t used to this. Everything came naturally. But forensics just didn’t. I got a B on my first performance and that was the final straw. I was a straight A-plus student, and this B would be the death of me. I wasn’t going down without a fight. The next unit was storytelling. This was a genre that was completely foreign to me. Storytelling was a humorous piece read to five to seven-year-olds. It had to include sound effects and worst of all, it had to be funny. This was the end of the world. But I was hellbent on raising my grade. I knew that I could be funny, I just wasn’t sure how to transport my on-the-spot quips into a children’s story. I complained to Rucinski that I had no idea what book to use, so she pulled Goldilocks and the Three Bears off the shelf. A simple book decaying from years of overuse. The art put me off, but I believed in Cinski’s best judgment after 17 years of doing this. At home, I practiced on my rickety kitchen chairs, cringing every time they would emit a loud squeal and signal to the rest of the house that I was trying again. Finally, it was time to perform in class. “On the kitchen table, Goldilocks found three bowls of porridge. She tried the largest bowl first.” I pantomimed lifting a bow to my lips with a loud slurp. Then, I uttered the phrase that would completely change my high school career. “Patooie!” I shouted, miming the action of spewing porridge from Goldilocks's pouty lips. Patooie was simply the noise of someone spitting and seemed like the correct option in context. I had no idea that the entire class would erupt with laughter and continue throughout the rest of the piece because I, for once, had a nearly perfect performance. Though misspelled, “Patooey” would become my namesake. It was a tradition in forensics to earn a nickname, most being very strange like “Corky” and “Spanky”. I knew the moment Rucinski crossed out Alexis on the board and wrote Patooey next to it that I was in good. This storytelling performance marked the beginning of a new era for me. I began staying after school every day and practicing. My next few performances were amazing and seeing Rucinski smile at me when I finished that last word made all of the effort worthwhile. My sophomore year I kicked into gear. I double placed at Conference, the tournament where only the best of the best go. I qualified for nationals, and had a pandemic not occurred, I would have attended. Junior year I joined the team as an officer and near the end of the year, attended nationals and campaigned to become president. I won the presidency and now sit as the president of the forensics team. This is a large responsibility, but I wouldn’t rather be doing anything else. Forensics is my second family. As I look back at my dedication to quit forensics, I realize that my life would be so much different without it.

Walking through the claustrophobia-inducing halls of my local animal rescue building, I saw many dogs before I saw him. I looked each dog up and down, read their chart, and then continued on. They all sniffed my hand as I held it close to them, some licked it (which, I am not a fan of, but I’ll let it slide for the joy in their eyes at the taste of my lunch lingering on my fingers). When the director returned to my family and asked if there were any dogs we wanted to see, I shrugged. None of them had caught my eye. “Frank,” Mom answered. I didn’t remember which dog Frank was, or why my mom wanted to see him, but when they placed him in a room with us, I knew it was meant to be. Mom played fetch with this so-called Frank with joy in her eyes that I hadn’t seen since she was younger. The thing that caught my eye, or rather my ear, the most was that he would talk. Not quite barking but not quite howling, he would make “woo-woo” noises with his deep voice. I knew the moment he walked in that we didn’t need to see any more dogs. We were surprised that the director seemed iffy to let us take this dog, and even more surprised to find out it was because he had been returned to the pound three times. He was a frequent escapee. He would jump fences and be gone for days at a time. We didn’t let this phase us and took him home as soon as we could. I named him after a movie I had watched earlier that day: Wall-E. My sister misspelled his name on his tag, however, and was from then on called Walley. Now, many years later, Walley is the most well-behaved dog I’ve ever owned. He knows commands that are personal to him, such as when I ask him to get off my bed because he’s taking it up, or just to roll over and shake. Without Walley, not only would my mental health suffer, but my sense of responsibility would too. I learned not only how to be the primary caretaker of a creature almost my same size, but how to clean up after him, how to keep a schedule to fit in his walks and play time, and I learned that animals deserve love just as much as people do. Walley taught me to not lash out in anger, even as I was going through puberty and got frustrated frequently. If he would do something bad, I learned to never be mean to him, but to offer him a treat for his good behavior. If I didn’t have Walley growing up, I don’t think I would be as loving as I am today. Growing up with Walley taught me many skills, but most of all, he taught me how to be kind.

Walking through the claustrophobia-inducing halls of my local animal rescue building, I saw many dogs before I saw him. I looked each dog up and down, read their chart, and then continued on. They all sniffed my hand as I held it close to them, some licked it (which, I am not a fan of, but I’ll let it slide for the joy in their eyes at the taste of my lunch lingering on my fingers). When the director returned to my family and asked if there were any dogs we wanted to see, I shrugged. None of them had caught my eye. “Frank,” Mom answered. I didn’t remember which dog Frank was, or why my mom wanted to see him, but when they placed him in a room with us, I knew it was meant to be. Mom played fetch with this so-called Frank with joy in her eyes that I hadn’t seen since she was younger. The thing that caught my eye, or rather my ear, the most was that he would talk. Not quite barking but not quite howling, he would make “woo-woo” noises with his deep voice. I knew the moment he walked in that we didn’t need to see any more dogs. We were surprised that the director seemed iffy to let us take this dog, and even more surprised to find out it was because he had been returned to the pound three times. He was a frequent escapee. He would jump fences and be gone for days at a time. We didn’t let this phase us and took him home as soon as we could. I named him after a movie I had watched earlier that day: Wall-E. My sister misspelled his name on his tag, however, and was from then on called Walley. Now, many years later, Walley is the most well-behaved dog I’ve ever owned. He knows commands that are personal to him, such as when I ask him to get off my bed because he’s taking it up, or just to roll over and shake. Without Walley, not only would my mental health suffer, but my sense of responsibility would too. I learned not only how to be the primary caretaker of a creature almost my same size, but how to clean up after him, how to keep a schedule to fit in his walks and play time, and I learned that animals deserve love just as much as people do. Walley taught me to not lash out in anger, even as I was going through puberty and got frustrated frequently. If he would do something bad, I learned to never be mean to him, but to offer him a treat for his good behavior. If I didn’t have Walley growing up, I don’t think I would be as loving as I am today. Growing up with Walley taught me many skills, but most of all, he taught me how to be kind.

The moment I learned the history of "Unfinished Painting" by Keith Haring, it was instantly my favorite. Keith Haring was an AIDS activist in the 1980s and 1990s and had AIDS himself. He created the painting to tell others that his time was limited and so were the lives of others with AIDS if something wasn't done about it. The painting itself is one corner of a wall covered with Haring's typically doodle style. However, the paint drips down and the rest of the canvas is blank, demonstrating that he, and others with AIDS, don't have much time left. Haring called for AIDS prevention and made art to spread awareness of the disease and how it spreads. "Unfinished Painting" is a powerful statement about the millions who died due to government inaction during the AIDS epidemic and reminds us all that our time is limited.

I keep a growth mindset by hearing other people out. When I disagree with another person, before formulating a quippy response to their argument to try and outsmart them, I’ll listen to what they’re actually trying to say. Sometimes, their argument can even change the preconceived notion that I had in my head before. Listening to people can show you a new perspective that you hadn’t even thought of previously. Being attentive to what other people have to say can help you in life to grow into a kind, understanding person. I try to open my horizons to the voices around me, which helps me grow as a person. Hearing people out has shaped my ideas and my personality as a whole as I grow older. Everyone should try and listen to one another, as it may be surprising what you can learn from someone even if you disagree with them.

One particular day when I was in my dreary 8th-grade art class, my teacher pulled up a presentation about famous pop artists and flicked through the slide. As kids in my class groaned about "easy art" that they could accomplish themselves, I was infatuated. This was when I was first exposed to one of my greatest idols of all time: Keith Haring. Keith Haring was a pop artist at the forefront of the LGBT rights and AIDS activism movements. He spread the word to keep other queer folks safe, like in his anti-drug campaigns where he warned people not to do drugs with his campaigns like "Crack is Whack", a phrase that is still passed around today. His seemingly unostentatious art held messages about sex, gender, safety, and love. Haring, unfortunately, passed away from complications at age 31 of the very same disease he fought so hard to spread the word of. Haring was an artist, and he carried out his message until the very end of his life. I admire Haring, not just for his gorgeous art, but for his courage to fight back against a society that was unaccepting of him. He fought for the safety of those who were left behind by the world, all while he himself was suffering. On top of this, he fought for accessibility of art for the average person, allowing people like me to be able to revel in art today. Haring is truly an admirable human being because he was the definition of the word selfless, even in a world where he was unaccepted.

Ever since I was young, I have struggled with my mental health. Depression, anxiety, ADHD, and more run in my family, so needless to say, I've always dealt with this kind of thing. That's why reading about mental health and illness is something that I enjoy doing. My favorite book is titled A Man Called Ove by Frederik Backman. I have never read a book like it since I read it five years ago. The book brought me a kind of emotion that books had never been able to bring me before. The book talks about loneliness, creating your own family, and mental health, which are all things I relate to. The book tells a story about a suicidal, grumpy old man and how he becomes unlikely friends with his new neighbors who he reluctantly comes to love. The story pulls you in from the very beginning with Ove's attempted suicide and his emotional healing afterward. Ove and his interactions with his neighbors fill you with a kind of love that you truly can't experience anywhere else. You feel as though you are in Ove's shoes and experiencing his joy, despair, and reluctant acceptance of his new life with his new neighbors. Overall, A Man Called Ove is a wonderful book that shines a light on the life of older people struggling with mental illness and pulls you into one of the most heartwarming stories you will ever read.