My father is the most impressive man I have ever met. He and I are the only family we have, and I watch him toil every day to set me up for a better future in New York City where I can follow my dreams at borderline fantasy schools. While my dad never finished college, he studied at several schools throughout his life and has achieved more success than most people could hope to find. His dedication to life, work, and my dream drives me every day. I’m not just going to New York for myself, I'm going for the culmination of a generation of hope. One thing my father has instilled in me is a detestation for mediocrity. I have tried before to blend into the crowd or change my standards, and it only ends in disaster. I don't want excellence, I need it. I need to know I'm putting in my best effort, that the people around me are too, that I'm working for or studying under the best people-- or I’m on my way to. I have always been drawn to the arts, and if I want to turn that passion into a career, I need to be in the best place I can be. That’s why New York City is so important to me. When my dad heard about my interest in the city, he urged me to apply to top schools. After years of preparation, research, and resume-building, I can proudly say that I am a dramatic writing undergraduate at NYU! While this is a huge step, not just for me but for my family, it is only the first of many. From here I plan to take the bull by the horns and charge at college full steam ahead. I want to hone my skills as a writer and artist to open as many doors in the city as I can. My dad has shown me that the impossible can be overcome in almost every scenario. I will take his lead and thus take the world by storm. By pursuing my dreams of becoming a writer, I’m taking my father's dreams and bring them to reality. He is my rock, my inspiration, an occasional pain in the butt, and the best dad I could hope for. With his help, I plan to make NYU a reality, make the impossible possible.

Growing up in an abusive household as a gay, trans kid meant I had very few people to look up to, it's something I still grapple with to this day. Although I have come a long way since I left my mother's house, the impact of the past still shapes how I interact with the world. I had good grades and impeccable behavior throughout elementary and middle school, but my home life was troubled. My parents were separated before I was born, but any contact they did have was loud and frightening due to my mother's narcissism. As I got older, my mental health deteriorated and my mother's abusive nature worsened. At fourteen, I was diagnosed with clinical depression, anxiety disorder, and ADHD-- and when Covid-19's lockdown hit, I struggled with suicidal thoughts and self-harm. Sitting inside, isolated from the world and trapped in a broken house built from fear, I could see no reason to keep going. That was four years ago. Since then, I have improved more than I ever thought possible. I live with my dad full-time and have no contact with my mom. When once my days were filled with chaos they are now filled with peace, stability, and recovery. I am re-learning how to be sociable, make lasting relationships, get and stay in shape, and keep professional commitments. Not only that, but I have maintained a 4.0 throughout high school, got a 31 on the ACT, became the president of my high school's theater program, and have been accepted into top schools in New York City where my identity and self-expression will no longer be stifled. I am immensely grateful for my life. One paragraph cannot sum up how far I've come or what I've sacrificed to get here. But no matter the difficulties I continue to face with mental health, I cannot help but be grateful for the experience. There are too many ways to interpret what happened to me in that house. If I try to dissect it all, my head starts spinning. So I try to look back with optimism and an understanding that I wouldn't be who I am today without it. Without growing up in an abusive household, I would not know the love and support that comes after escaping it. Without suffering from anxiety and depression, I would not know the hard work necessary to battle through such ailments day by day-- nor the incredible realization of, "I really HAVE gotten better!" after years of seemingly pointless effort. Without teetering on the edge of suicide, I would not know how truly precious life is. And without knowing true despair, I would not be able to look back and see the good in these situations. As I prepare for my freshman year of college in a city so big that my hometown could fit into a few blocks of downtown, I can only be proud of myself-- and grateful for my friends and family who got me here. I have big dreams, I want to be an artist, a writer, a singer, and an advocate, but most importantly, I want to be someone kids like me can look up to when they have no one else.

Growing up in an abusive household meant I had very few people to look up to, it's something I still grapple with to this day. Although I have come a long way since I left my mother's house, the impact of the past still shapes how I interact with the world. I had good grades and impeccable behavior throughout elementary and middle school, but my home life was troubled. My parents were separated before I was born, but any contact they did have was loud and frightening due to my mother's narcissism. As I got older, my mental health deteriorated and my mother's abusive nature worsened. At fourteen, I was diagnosed with clinical depression, anxiety disorder, and ADHD-- and when Covid-19's lockdown hit, I struggled with suicidal thoughts and self-harm. Sitting inside, isolated from the world and trapped in a broken house built from fear, I could see no reason to keep going. That was four years ago. Since then, I have improved more than I ever thought possible. I live with my dad full-time and have no contact with my mom. When once my days were filled with chaos they are now filled with peace, stability, and recovery. I am re-learning how to be sociable, make lasting relationships, get and stay in shape, and keep professional commitments. Not only that, but I have maintained a 4.0 throughout high school, got a 31 on the ACT, became the president of my high school's theater program, and have been accepted into top schools in New York City. I am immensely grateful for my life. One paragraph cannot sum up how far I've come or what I've sacrificed to get here. But no matter the difficulties I continue to face with mental health, I cannot help but be grateful for the experience. There are too many ways to interpret what happened to me in that house. If I try to dissect it all, my head starts spinning. So I try to look back with optimism and an understanding that I wouldn't be who I am today without it. Without growing up in an abusive household, I would not know the love and support that comes after escaping it. Without suffering from anxiety and depression, I would not know the hard work necessary to battle through such ailments day by day-- nor the incredible realization of, "I really HAVE gotten better!" after years of seemingly pointless effort. Without teetering on the edge of suicide, I would not know how truly precious life is. And without knowing true despair, I would not be able to look back and see the good in these situations. As I prepare for my freshman year of college in a city so big that my hometown could fit into a few blocks of downtown, I can only be proud of myself-- and grateful for my friends and family who got me here. I have big dreams, I want to be an artist, a writer, a singer, and an advocate, but most importantly, I want to be someone kids like me can look up to when they have no one else.

Growing up in an abusive household meant I had very few people to look up to, it's something I still grapple with to this day. Although I have come a long way since I left my mother's house, the impact of the past still shapes how I interact with the world. I had good grades and impeccable behavior throughout elementary and middle school, but my home life was troubled. My parents were separated before I was born, but any contact they did have was loud and frightening due to my mother's narcissism. As I got older, my mental health deteriorated and my mother's abusive nature worsened. At fourteen, I was diagnosed with clinical depression, anxiety disorder, and ADHD-- and when Covid-19's lockdown hit, I struggled with suicidal thoughts and self-harm. Sitting inside, isolated from the world and trapped in a broken house built from fear, I could see no reason to keep going. That was four years ago. Since then, I have improved more than I ever thought possible. I live with my dad full-time and have no contact with my mom. When once my days were filled with chaos they are now filled with peace, stability, and recovery. I am re-learning how to be sociable, make lasting relationships, get and stay in shape, and keep professional commitments. Not only that, but I have maintained a 4.0 throughout high school, got a 31 on the ACT, became the president of my high school's theater program, and have been accepted into top schools in New York City. I am immensely grateful for my life. One paragraph cannot sum up how far I've come or what I've sacrificed to get here. But no matter the difficulties I continue to face with mental health, I cannot help but be grateful for the experience. There are too many ways to interpret what happened to me in that house. If I try to dissect it all, my head starts spinning. So I try to look back with optimism and an understanding that I wouldn't be who I am today without it. Without growing up in an abusive household, I would not know the love and support that comes after escaping it. Without suffering from anxiety and depression, I would not know the hard work necessary to battle through such ailments day by day-- nor the incredible realization of, "I really HAVE gotten better!" after years of seemingly pointless effort. Without teetering on the edge of suicide, I would not know how truly precious life is. And without knowing true despair, I would not be able to look back and see the good in these situations. As I prepare for my freshman year of college in a city so big that my hometown could fit into a few blocks of downtown, I can only be proud of myself-- and grateful for my friends and family who got me here. I have big dreams, I want to be an artist, a writer, a singer, and an advocate, but most importantly, I want to be someone kids like me can look up to when they have no one else.

Growing up in an abusive household meant I had very few people to look up to, it's something I still grapple with to this day. Although I have come a long way since I left my mother's house, the impact of the past still shapes how I interact with the world. I had good grades and impeccable behavior throughout elementary and middle school, but my home life was troubled. My parents were separated before I was born, but any contact they did have was loud and frightening due to my mother's narcissism. As I got older, my mental health deteriorated and my mother's abusive nature worsened. At fourteen, I was diagnosed with clinical depression, anxiety disorder, and ADHD-- and when Covid-19's lockdown hit, I struggled with suicidal thoughts and self-harm. Sitting inside, isolated from the world and trapped in a broken house built from fear, I could see no reason to keep going. That was four years ago. Since then, I have improved more than I ever thought possible. I live with my dad full-time and have no contact with my mom. When once my days were filled with chaos they are now filled with peace, stability, and recovery. I am re-learning how to be sociable, make lasting relationships, get and stay in shape, and keep professional commitments. Not only that, but I have maintained a 4.0 throughout high school, got a 31 on the ACT, became the president of my high school's theater program, and have been accepted into top schools in New York City. I am immensely grateful for my life. One paragraph cannot sum up how far I've come or what I've sacrificed to get here. But no matter the difficulties I continue to face with mental health, I cannot help but be grateful for the experience. Without growing up in an abusive household, I would not know the love and support that comes after escaping it. Without suffering from anxiety and depression, I would not know the hard work necessary to battle through such ailments day by day-- nor the incredible realization of, "I really HAVE gotten better!" after years of seemingly pointless effort. Without teetering on the edge of suicide, I would not know how truly precious life is. And without knowing true despair, I would not be able to look back and see the good in these situations. As I prepare for my freshman year of college in a city so big that my hometown could fit into a few blocks of downtown, I can only be proud of myself-- and grateful for my friends and family that got me here. I have big dreams, I want to be an artist, a writer, a singer, and an advocate, but most importantly, I want to be someone kids like me can look up to when they have no one else.

My father is the most impressive man I have ever met. He and I are the only family we have, and I watch him toil every day to set me up for a better future in New York City where I can follow my dreams at borderline fantasy schools. While my dad never finished college, he studied at several schools throughout his life and has achieved more success than most people could hope to find. His dedication to life, work, and my dream drives me every day. I’m not just going to New York for myself, I'm going for the culmination of a generation of hope. One thing my father has instilled in me is a detestation for mediocrity. I have tried before to blend into the crowd or change my standards, and it only ends in disaster. I don't want excellence, I need it. I need to know I'm putting in my best effort, that the people around me are too, that I'm working for or studying under the best people-- or I’m on my way to. I have always been drawn to the arts, and if I want to turn that passion into a career, I need to be in the best place I can be. That’s why New York City is so important to me. When my dad heard about my interest in the city, he urged me to apply to top schools. After years of preparation, research, and resume-building, I can proudly say that I am a dramatic writing undergraduate at NYU! While this is a huge step, not just for me but for my family, it is only the first of many. From here I plan to take the bull by the horns and charge at college full steam ahead. I want to hone my skills as a writer and artist to open as many doors in the city as I can. My dad has shown me that the impossible can be overcome in almost any scenario as long as hard work and dedication are applied. I will take his lead and thus take the world by storm. By pursuing my dreams and a college degree, I take my father's dreams and bring them to reality. He is my rock, my inspiration, an occasional pain in the butt, and the best dad I could hope for. With his help, I plan to make NYU a reality, make the impossible possible.

As a trans kid who grew up in an impoverished abusive household in lower Alabama, Jack Terry's story resonates with my determination to not only leave my circumstances behind but overcome and surpass them. I know firsthand how it feels to be persecuted based on one's identity, and now, as more and more anti-LGBT laws are passed, it resonates more than ever. Now is the time for me to burst forth into my dreams, and in turn, spread that dream and inspire those who follow right behind me. My childhood was less than ideal. Filled with strife and trauma, I was surviving day by day as I tried to avoid my emotionally abusive mother in my own home. It did not matter though, no matter how careful I was I could never escape alone. I faced a lack of support for my identity, constant belittlement, and an utter lack of control or security; coupled with a home that was falling apart, cared for by a woman who refused to work. My room was filled with rats, roaches, termites, ants, and spiders (looking back I could have started a zoo!) the ceilings were either fallen in, leaking, or both. It has only been three years since I made it out, I am happily living full-time with my father and have no contact with my mom, and-- like Jack-- I am working hard and thriving. While fourteen years of psychological abuse coupled with social isolation were not ideal environments for me, I refuse to let those years define who I am or how my future will play out. I maintained a 4.0 throughout my academic career and since leaving, my grades have only improved (4.23). I took on several leadership roles in various clubs, including my beloved high school theater department and game club, advanced to varsity on my high school tennis team, excelled in several instruments and areas of the arts, and have thrown myself into funding my future at full throttle. Running concurrently with my extracurriculars is intense physical training in league with Gulf Shores Beach Rescue, my future employer, as I develop the physical skills necessary to serve as a lifeguard in Gulf Shores, Alabama. From my suffering, I have learned resilience and strength. I know now because of how far I've come, that no matter the struggle I can overcome it. But it would be remorse to say that this growth was done all by my hands. My friends, family, coworkers, teachers, counselors, parents, and peers. These have been the true teachers of strength in my life. They've shown me love, empathy, and compassion, and most importantly, they told me the truth even when I didn't want to hear it. I want to show people the same life-changing affection that I have received-- this is one of the reasons life-guarding appeals to me. By spreading kindness, I hope to instill in others the same desire to extend kindness to the people they meet. And in turn, the ones they meet and so on and so forth. While I have lofty ambitions to become a writer who spreads the voices of the unheard, life is unpredictable, and there is no guarantee I will make it big. However, I know that if I spread a little bit of love everywhere I go, I'll change the world no matter what.

My father is the most impressive man I have ever met. He and I are the only family we have, and I watch him toil every day to set me up for a better future in New York City where I'll be able to follow my dreams at borderline fantasy schools. While my dad never finished college, he studied at several schools throughout his life and has achieved more success than most people could hope to find. His dedication to life, work, and my dream drives me every day. I’m not just going to New York for myself, I'm going for the culmination of a generation of hope. One thing my father has instilled in me is a detestation for mediocrity. I have tried before to blend into the crowd or change my standards, and it only ends in disaster. I don't want excellence, I need it. I need to know I'm putting in my best effort, that the people around me are too, that I'm working for or studying under the best people-- or I’m on my way to. I have always been drawn to the arts, and if I want to turn that passion into a career, I need to be in the best place I can be. That’s why New York City is so important to me. When my dad heard about my interest in the city, he urged me to apply to top schools. After years of preparation, research, and resume-building, I can proudly say that I am a dramatic writing undergraduate at NYU! While this is a huge step, not just for me but for my family, it is only the first of many. From here I plan to take the bull by the horns and charge at college full steam ahead. I want to hone my skills as a writer and artist to open as many doors in the city as I can. My dad has shown me that the impossible can be overcome in almost every scenario. I will take his lead and thus take the world by storm. By pursuing my dreams and a college degree, I take my father's dreams and bring them to reality. He is my rock, my inspiration, an occasional pain in the butt, and the best dad I could hope for. With his help, I plan to make NYU a reality, make the impossible possible.

Growing up a trans guy in lower Alabama certainly wasn’t a cakewalk. From locker rooms to the sidewalks of too many churches to count on two hands, trans kids don’t have many safe spaces to be ourselves or feel comfortable. It’s easy to feel the weight of the world on your shoulders when you take adult bigotry as a child. Being “trans-masc” brings a specific kind of pressure. “Real men don’t paint their nails,” “skirts aren’t for boys,” and “boys don’t cry,” are not only phrases trans men face, but are also sayings that cisgender boys hear all their life. But what does it mean if I still feel the urge to play dress up? How can I reconcile my innate manliness but still maintain my effortless glam? I only started to realize both are possible after several years of trying to keep my inner sparkle inside. When I came out as trans at fourteen I had a mission: go undetected for as long as humanly possible. I had always been the weird kid, but now I had a giant pink, blue, and white target on my back. Covid meant I came out during the lockdown, so I felt like I had the chance to blend into the start of high school like a “normal” guy. Freshman year was scary enough, sticking out was not an option. My closet was full of black t-shirts, black pants, black hoodies, even my mask was a perfect shade of please-god-nobody-notice-me black. I was set, I was going to be an average dude. My first few days were incredible, I made myself make a couple of guy friends— despite how I had nothing in common with them— and it seemed like I was finally fitting in, but the first obstacle I faced was PE. We couldn’t dress out (when I heard the news I almost wept for joy) but there was still a girl's and a boy's side and Alabama law is historically strict. After a few days, the other guys started noticing something was off, I couldn’t keep this up for long and I knew it. Inevitably, one swift blow finally put the nail in the coffin: my dead name. In my freshman year, my name had not been legally changed yet (thanks to my wonderful, ever-supportive dad that was only a year away) so my teachers still had my birth name on their roster. For three days I had to correct almost every teacher before they finally started to learn, but this was too late for the other students. The boys I had painstakingly tried to talk to started to ignore me; the boys I had desperately tried to avoid stopped ignoring me. I was back at square one. That year was by far my toughest year of high school. The bullying took an upswing, I made some very dramatic, and oh-so freshman, relationship errors, and went into sophomore year more confused than ever. Looking back, though, I learned something from that suffering that would’ve helped me out a lot from the start: no matter how much I change myself for others, not everyone will like me. I tried to play immature and blend in when in reality, I didn’t even like the crowd I was trying to blend into. There was no point in bending myself to fit the expectations of people who didn’t think my identity and expression were valid. Four years later, being glamorous, fashionable, and having a fun and wacky time is so much more rewarding than trying to be someone I’m not. If I could go back and tell my insecure freshman self anything, I’d say, “Hey man, turns out real men DO paint their nails”.

My father is the most impressive man I have ever met. He and I are the only family we have, and I watch him toil day in and day out to set me up for a better future in New York City where I'll be able to follow my dreams at schools kids like me can usually only dream about. While my dad never finished college, he studied at many schools throughout his life with a focus on culinary and has achieved more success than most people could find in two lifetimes. His dedication to his life, work, and my dream drives me every day. I am not just going to New York for myself, I'm going for the culmination of a generation of hope and dedication. One thing my father has instilled in me is a detestation for mediocrity. I have tried before to blend into the crowd, to dumb myself down and change my standards, and every time it ends in disaster. I don't just want excellence, I need it. I need to know I'm putting in my best effort, that the people around me are too, that I'm working for or studying under the best people-- or at least on my way to. I have always been drawn to the arts, and if I want to turn that passion into a career, I need to be in the best place I can be. That is why New York City is so important to me. When my dad heard about my interest in the city, he urged me to apply to New York University. After years of preparation, research, and resume-building, the time finally came. Now, I can proudly say that I am a dramatic writing undergraduate at NYU! While this is a huge step, not just for me but for my family, it is only the first of many. From here I plan to take the bull by the horns and charge at college full steam ahead. I want to hone my skills as a writer and artist to open as many doors in the city as I can. My dad has shown me that the impossible can be overcome in almost every scenario. I am going to take his lead and thus take the world by storm. By pursuing my dreams and a college degree, I take my father's dreams and bring them to reality. He is my rock, my inspiration, an occasional pain in the butt, and the best dad I could hope for. With his help, I plan to make NYU a reality, make the impossible possible.

My father is the most impressive man I have ever met. He and I are the only family we have, and I watch him toil day in and day out to set me up for a better future in New York City where I'll be able to follow my dreams at schools kids like me can usually only dream about. While my dad never finished college, he studied at many schools throughout his life with a focus on culinary and has achieved more success than most people could find in two lifetimes. His dedication to his life, work, and my dream drives me every day. I am not just going to New York for myself, I'm going for the culmination of a generation of hope and dedication. One thing my father has instilled in me is a detestation for mediocrity. I have tried before to blend into the crowd, to dumb myself down and change my standards, and every time it ends in disaster. I don't just want excellence, I need it. I need to know I'm putting in my best effort, that the people around me are too, that I'm working for or studying under the best people-- or at least on my way to. I have always been drawn to the arts, and if I want to turn that passion into a career, I need to be in the best place I can be. That is why New York City is so important to me. When my dad heard about my interest in the city, he urged me to apply to New York University. After years of preparation, research, and resume-building, the time finally came. Now, I can proudly say that I am a dramatic writing undergraduate at NYU! While this is a huge step, not just for me but for my family, it is only the first of many. From here I plan to take the bull by the horns and charge at college full steam ahead. I want to hone my skills as a writer and artist to open as many doors in the city as I can. My dad has shown me that the impossible can be overcome in almost every scenario. I am going to take his lead and thus take the world by storm. By pursuing my dreams and a college degree, I take my father's dreams and bring them to reality. He is my rock, my inspiration, an occasional pain in the butt, and the best dad I could hope for. With his help, I plan to make NYU a reality, make the impossible possible.

When I started playing tennis at seven years old, I hated every second of it. I cried at practice, whined at matches, and felt an overwhelming relief when clinics were over. Tennis was so difficult, and my coach was difficult too. Every missed shot was another disappointment I wore on my soul. However as the years progressed, I got better. Bit by bit I honed my skills, played more and more matches, more and more practice, more and more time with just me and my racquet and split second decisions. Tennis is my bedrock, a safe place to fall back into. From young childhood through adolescence, it has always been there. The real reason I love tennis now (and why I hated tennis when I started) is discipline. When I started I lacked true discipline— as most seven year olds do. Hard work and discomfort felt like the highest form of punishment, near akin to death (Although four hour clinics in blazing Alabama Sun feels like death for more reasons than one). Eventually, though, as I saw my improvement, I realized how invaluable hard work really is. I began, putting thought into my training and, miraculously, I felt better on the court. In recent years, I’ve been able to apply these lessons towards more adult issues. As I grow towards adulthood, I am faced again and again by many challenges. Whether it be navigating complete independence with both of my parents out of town, Applying to colleges and scholarships, Or keeping up all A’s As my classes get more academically rigorous. No matter the Difficulty I can always apply the discipline I learned in tennis. I know that whatever quality of thought I put into my work I will receive double the quality in the outcome, good or bad. This applies to patience as well. I cannot say I’ve always been the most patient person, And tennis has always been the biggest thing to test it. But as my young competitiveness fades, the easier it is to apply that patience to life. My boss is talking down to me? Nothing he says can ever surpass Coach David’s smack talk! A friend of mine is being selfish? Not my problem, battle is out like a long point. Difficult assignment I can’t figure out? I’ll analyze the strategy of the opponent and pace myself. Lessons like these will stay with me throughout my career And will remain at the core of my being throughout the rest of my life. I’ll carry tennis’s wisdom beside me until the day I die, and a couple of rackets to boot!

Growing up with a single father is difficult, but growing up knowing it’s because your mother just doesn’t care to support you is even harder. When I escaped from my mom‘s house at fourteen, whatever came next was uncertain. It was just me and my dad and the rest of the world set against us. While my dad has always been my biggest supporter, I couldn’t have accounted for the impact he would have on my life over the course of the next four years. Now I can say with confidence that having Dick McGill as a father is the best thing that has ever happened to me. My dad is 58, and when most people hear about his list of accomplishments and the amount of work he still does today they question how he’s still standing. He is the hardest worker I’ve ever met and has dedicated himself since the day I was born to giving me the best life I could possibly get. He bought property 15 years in advance, knowing that I would need funds for college. He started a car business knowing I would need to buy a car six years down the line. He enrolled me in every extracurricular under the sun, knowing how it would look on my college resume. My whole life, despite the instability and abuse in my mother’s house, I knew my dad would be there for me. Dedicating myself to my future the same way that he has is the least I can do. I’m taking the incredible momentum my dad set me up with and running with it all the way up to New York City. In New York, I plan on studying dramatic writing at NYU, an institution I know will take me to great heights. I have my whole future ahead of me and what I want to do more than anything is to pay it back to the kids I bc could’ve been. Those who don’t have a parent dedicated to their future, those who are unsure if they’re going to bed safe or not, those who don’t have the opportunities I am so incredibly lucky to have. For 18 years, I’ve watched my dad make sacrifice after sacrifice without a partner to back him up. Not only has he achieved more than the average person could do in two lifetimes, but he’s shown me that anything is possible. It’s thanks to his love and support that I know my dreams will come true as long as I dedicate my heart and soul. So thank you, dad, I am lucky to say you are the dad I want to be.

Freshman year started off exactly how I expected: in tears. My schedule had been messed up, which is far from uncommon, but enough to send my stress addled brain over the edge. I already had enough to worry about, COVID-19 was just settling down, the bullying was just starting up, and on top of that, this was my first year out of the closet as gay and trans. So when I walked into my theater class and wasn’t on the first period roster, suffice to say it was all I could do to keep myself from bursting into tears. Ms. Rogers (affectionately dubbed Rog) quickly diffused the situation. She called me by my correct name and stayed straightforward in the face of my tears. She didn’t patronize me, but wasn’t unkind. I went on my way but looked forward to seeing her later in sixth period. As time went on, it was clear that Rog was going to be my favorite teacher. She was young, hilarious, kind of a hippie, incredibly smart, and didn’t take BS from anyone— even those she “vibes well with” (she firmly denies having favorites to this day). When I joined the school’s theater department, her love of theater made me respect the art form tenfold. I wanted to impress her, show her, and the department, that I could exceed expectations. Since then, I’ve only ever had to do three pushups for not knowing a line past off-book day (a staggering number compared to some of my less prepared co-actors’ 70 pushups per rehearsal) and I’ve only worked closer and closer with Rog as the years went by, both in her classes and during productions. It has been an opportunity that has permanently changed my life and granted me a lifelong friend. Ms. Rogers has gone beyond what is expected of any high school arts teacher. Not only has she taught me discipline, respect, leadership, and dedication, but she has shown me my own self worth. When I first walked into her classroom, the only thing I was focused on was fading into the background. Now, as I graduate from her class, I am the president of the department and have many lead roles under my belt. This, coupled with many hours of chatting, planning, brainstorming, supergluing fake donkey teeth to my retainers, has developed a mentor-mentee bond I never thought I would be lucky enough to form. Ms. Rogers has not only fostered a love of the arts and learning itself in me, but a genuine appreciation for who I am. I was recently accepted into New York University’s Dramatic writing program, a dream of ten years come true. Without the love, acceptance, and training Ms. Rogers has given me I never would’ve had the ambition or belief in myself to turn my dreams into a reality, And for that, I owe her the world.

Coming from a long line of musicians and music lovers meant that singing lessons were a must when I turned three years old. From there I took off, singing, piano, violin, French horn, guitar, ukulele, hell- I’d take the tambourine! Music has always been a huge part of my life, and I cpuldn’t be more grateful for the impact it had on my social life in high school. Growing up as a gay, trans man in the Deep South was isolating, to say the least. By the time I started high school, I was terrified to be myself. I wore black every day, avoided eye contact in the halls, and spoke only when absolutely necessary. My confidence was nonexistent, and I felt invisible. That all changed when I joined the musical theater program during my freshman year. It started on a whim—I wasn’t sure I belonged there, but the music and the sense of community pulled me in. What I found wasn’t just an after-school activity; it was a lifeline. The theater room became my safe space, and the people there became my family. For the first time, I was surrounded by people who not only accepted my quirks and differences but celebrated them. Music became the foundation of those relationships. As we rehearsed for shows, sang harmonies, and danced in sync, I felt something I hadn’t experienced before: belonging. Music gave me a voice when the world convinced me I didn’t have one. My peers encouraged me to sing louder, to take risks, and to step into the spotlight. I went from a quiet, insecure freshman to a confident senior who now leads the program as president of the theater department. Being part of a musical theater family didn’t just change my life—it allowed me to help change the lives of others. As president, I’ve worked to make our theater department a haven for anyone who feels like they don’t fit in. I’ve seen students walk into the program with the same fear and uncertainty I once had and transform into confident, vibrant individuals. Music is at the heart of that transformation. It has a way of breaking down barriers, bringing people together, and giving them a sense of purpose. High school has been far from easy, but music and the friendships it has fostered have given me strength I didn’t know I had. They’ve taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of creating spaces where others feel safe to express themselves. As I move forward, I know music will always be a part of my life—not just as a passion, but as a reminder of how far I’ve come and how powerful it is to be seen and heard.

Writing has always been my way of making sense of the world. I wrote my first novel when I was three years old, “The Power of the Stones” was a trilogy of twenty printed-paper paged book that came with illustrations on every page! And even before I was physically writing I was dictating my stories to my dad… although “The Little Mouse Hole” might not be something I put on my resume, it’s still worth consideration. Writing has always been how I process emotions, navigate challenges, and connect with others. From a young age, I realized that stories have the power to make people feel seen, understood, and less alone. That realization fueled my passion to keep writing, turning it into not just a creative outlet but a vital part of my identity. I love writing because it allows me to capture the complexities of life and give a voice to those who might otherwise go unheard. Growing up as a queer, trans individual in the Deep South, I rarely saw stories that reflected my experiences. The media I consumed lacked characters who looked like me or shared my struggles, leaving me feeling invisible. Writing became a way to reclaim my voice and create the representation I never had. Through storytelling, I’ve been able to explore perspectives that are often overlooked and build empathy for others, all while carving out a space for myself in a world that sometimes felt unwelcoming. Writing has taught me the power of words to challenge perceptions, spark change, and bring people together. As I prepare to attend NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, I’m excited to immerse myself in dramatic writing and continue honing my craft. College will provide me with opportunities to refine my skills, collaborate with other creatives, and learn from industry professionals who share my passion for storytelling. I plan to take full advantage of workshops, classes, and internships to develop my voice as a writer and gain the tools needed to thrive in the competitive world of entertainment. Outside the classroom, I will continue to write independently. Whether I’m working on screenplays, journaling, or experimenting with new forms of creative expression, I’ll make time to create. Writing is my way of staying grounded, and I know it will remain a constant throughout college and beyond. One of my long-term goals is to write stories that amplify underrepresented voices and offer hope to those who feel unseen. By continuing to write in college, I’ll ensure that my voice—and the voices of the communities I aim to represent—will not only be heard but celebrated. Writing is more than my passion; it’s my purpose, and I’m eager to carry that purpose into the next chapter of my life.

Throughout high school, I have sought to create spaces where everyone feels seen, safe, and supported—something I desperately needed when I was younger. As president of my school’s theater department, I have made it my mission to provide a haven for students who often feel like they don’t belong. Our program welcomes everyone—regardless of background, identity, or interests—and has become a second home for students who might otherwise fall through the cracks. For many of these students, the theater department isn’t just an extracurricular; it’s their refuge. It’s where the shy freshman discovers their voice, where the kid who eats lunch alone finds a family, and where the ones who’ve been bullied can finally feel celebrated for being themselves. I know how transformative this can be because I was one of those kids. When I joined as a nervous freshman, I was newly out trans kid with no friends, and I was terrified. Growing up in a conservative environment, I learned to keep my head down, stay quiet, and avoid standing out. But the kindness and support I found in the theater changed my life. My peers embraced my quirks, celebrated my identity, and gave me the confidence to do the same. As president, I’ve worked hard to continue that legacy. Under my leadership, our department actively combats in-person bullying and cyberbullying by fostering a culture of kindness, respect, and inclusivity. We encourage students to report bullying and support each other both on and offline. Through group discussions and mentorship, we address the importance of standing up for one another and creating inclusive spaces. I also use my platform to model empathy, working directly with students to build their confidence and ensure they know they’re valued. I’m especially proud of how our theater program has become a safe space for LGBTQ+ youth, students from difficult financial circumstances, and others who might otherwise feel like outsiders. Financially, I have significant need as I enter higher education. My father, a single parent who juggles multiple jobs, has always worked tirelessly to support me, but the cost of college—especially in New York City—exceeds what we can manage alone. Scholarships are essential to reducing my student debt and allowing me to focus on my education and community. By lessening this burden, I can dedicate myself fully to my studies and my goal of writing stories that reflect and uplift marginalized voices. Theater taught me the power of community and gave me a purpose. It’s my turn to pass that gift on—to create spaces where young people can thrive and be themselves. With your support, I can continue that mission, both as a student and a storyteller, ensuring that no one feels alone in the face of bullying or hardship.

Creative writing has always been my way of making sense of the world. From my earliest days, when I would scribble nonsensical stories on scrap paper, to now, as I craft narratives that resonate with myself and others, writing has been the art form that allows me to turn chaos into beauty. Growing up in an environment that often felt hostile to difference (let’s just say growing up as a gay, trans man in lower Alabama isn’t exactly a cakewalk…) writing gave me a refuge—a space where I could be unapologetically myself and dream of something bigger. It all started as a love for storytelling, an innate curiosity about people and their emotions. Writing became the medium through which I could explore those feelings and experiences, creating characters and worlds that echoed my own struggles and triumphs. Over time, it evolved into something greater: a way to connect with others. Sharing my stories with friends, family, and eventually larger audiences and workshops, such as my dramatic writing class at New York University’s Precollege program, has shown me how powerful creative writing can be in fostering empathy and understanding. My words have sparked conversations about acceptance, identity, and the beauty of individuality. Through entertainment and storytelling, I’ve found a way to heal myself while helping others feel seen. The stories I write aren’t just for me; they’re for the person who feels invisible, who longs to see their reality reflected in a book, a play, or a film. By creating worlds where everyone matters, I hope to remind people of the magic in their own lives. Writing has also taught me discipline, resilience, and the importance of persistence. It isn’t always easy to put my soul on paper or face rejection, but every word I write strengthens my resolve. It has also given me the ability to bring joy to others. Whether it’s a heartfelt short story shared with a friend or a laugh from a comedic script, writing has allowed me to create moments that matter. My passion for writing has enhanced my life by giving me purpose and a way to contribute to the world. It’s a calling that I’ve followed to New York University, where I’ll hone my craft in dramatic writing. I aim to create stories that challenge, inspire, and ultimately change the way people see themselves and each other. Writing is not just my art medium; it’s my way of making ripples in the world, one story at a time.

From the moment I realized that education could be my ladder to a better life, I’ve been climbing steadily toward it. Growing up in Alabama as a queer, trans man, I quickly learned that the world doesn’t hand opportunities to people like me—I had to create my own. Higher education isn’t just a chance to grow; it’s my ticket to freedom, creativity, and the power to make change in the world. For me, pursuing college is about more than earning a degree—it’s about gaining the tools to turn my passion for storytelling into a career that can amplify voices too often left unheard. As a first-generation college student and son of a single father, preparing for this journey has been both exciting and daunting. My dad has laid out the stepping stones for me since the beginning. I can still hear him sitting me down at five years old, saying, “Alex, you get all A’s!” That determination to succeed has stuck with me. Through high school, I maintained a 4.26 GPA, earned a 31 on the ACT, completed several AP courses, and took on leadership roles as president of multiple clubs. But my preparation went beyond academics. Being the first in my family to navigate the complexities of college applications meant learning as I went—researching schools, scholarships, and financial aid while balancing part-time work and extracurriculars. One of my biggest challenges as a first-gen student has been believing I deserve a seat at the table. Growing up in a small, conservative town, I’ve often felt like I’m on the outside looking in. That changed when I joined my school’s theater program. Theater taught me to see myself as someone who mattered—someone with talent and a voice worth hearing. That confidence has shaped how I approach every aspect of my education. I’ve also sought out opportunities to prepare myself for the rigors of college life. Whether it was tackling the challenge of AP Statistics, where I learned how to adapt my study habits and persevere, or using creative writing as a way to explore my identity and connect with others, I’ve taken every experience as a stepping stone. Each challenge has prepared me not just for college, but for the career I’m building in dramatic writing. Studying dramatic writing at New York University will be the result of years of hard work and preparation. My goal is to earn a BFA in dramatic writing and later pursue an MFA, using my skills to tell stories that elevate marginalized voices. As a first-generation student, I understand the value of education as a tool for breaking cycles, lifting communities, and creating change. I am ready to bring the same determination and resilience that got me here into every classroom, stage, and opportunity that waits up there in NYC. Higher education is more than just the next chapter in my story—it’s the foundation for the stories I want to tell. It’s how I will build a future that honors where I’ve come from while striving toward where I’m going.

Growing up in the Deep South as a gay trans man was a challenge I could never have prepared for. My freshman year of high school coincided with two major transitions: the aftermath of the COVID-19 quarantine and the beginning of my new identity. I walked into high school a bundle of nerves, avoiding eye contact and doing everything in my power to fade into the background. I wore all black, kept my voice low, and prayed that I’d go unnoticed. Then, on a whim, I joined my school’s theater department. I can’t say I knew it would change my life, but it did. In that classroom, I found a community—a group of people who saw me not as a stranger to blend into the tiles but as someone worth embracing. Slowly, I began to shed my fear and isolation. My funky, artsy personality was not only accepted but celebrated. Through theater, I rediscovered myself, along with a profound passion for the arts. It was there that I first realized the transformative power of storytelling. That realization was pivotal. Theater gave me confidence, but writing gave me purpose. Through creative writing, I found a way to channel my experiences, amplify unheard voices, and bring visibility to those often forgotten. My own struggles taught me just how powerful representation can be. It has the ability to change lives, to give hope, to make someone feel seen and valued. That’s why I’ve dedicated myself to crafting stories that matter—stories that uplift marginalized communities and reflect the vast, beautiful diversity of human experience. My journey has also shaped how I approach education. I used to see school as an obligation—something to get through so I could move on to the “real” work of life. But overcoming the challenges of being an out, queer student in Alabama taught me the true value of education as a tool for change. Knowledge doesn’t just empower the individual; it equips us to empower others. That’s why I want to pursue a BFA in dramatic writing, followed by an MFA, at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts. With a minor in psychology, I hope to better understand the human condition, strengthening my ability to tell stories that connect and heal. Education isn’t just a step in my journey—it’s the foundation for the impact I want to make. I’ve learned that storytelling is my gift to the world, and I plan to use it to inspire others to embrace their authentic selves. I want to build spaces where queer voices are not just acknowledged but celebrated. Beyond writing, I dream of establishing initiatives for underprivileged LGBTQ+ youth—safe spaces where they, too, can find their voice as I found mine. My experiences have taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of lifting others as I climb. The challenges I’ve faced have not defined me; they’ve refined me. I am ready to use my education to make a tangible impact on my community and the world at large. With the right tools and support, I know I can make a difference—one story at a time.

Coming from a single-parent household has shaped my educational journey in ways that have deeply influenced my work ethic, ambition, and desire to give back to others. My father, a single parent who has juggled countless responsibilities to ensure I have access to every opportunity, instilled in me the value of perseverance and self-discipline. From a young age, I watched him work tirelessly, often putting his needs aside to prioritize mine. His sacrifices became my motivation to excel academically and personally. In middle school, I struggled to find my footing. I felt the pressure of living up to my potential, knowing that every success was not just mine—it was a shared victory for my family. However, as I grew older, I realized that my education was more than just a way to make my father proud; it was my ticket to creating a brighter future for both of us. I threw myself into my studies, earning a 4.26 GPA, excelling in leadership roles, and embracing creative passions like writing and theater. The challenges I faced—whether academic or personal—taught me resilience, a quality I will carry with me into higher education and beyond. Studying at New York University is my chance to take all that my father has given me and multiply it. As a dramatic writing major, I will hone my skills to tell stories that amplify the voices of those who feel unheard—just as I sometimes felt growing up. My dream is to write films and plays that highlight the struggles and triumphs of marginalized communities, including single-parent families like my own. These stories have the power to create empathy, foster understanding, and inspire change. In the future, I plan to give back by creating programs that provide artistic outlets for children from underserved communities. Growing up, I found my confidence and voice through creative expression, and I know firsthand how transformative that can be. I envision leading workshops and mentorship programs that teach young people how to channel their emotions into art, just as I have done. Additionally, I hope to support scholarships and initiatives that give single-parent households access to the educational opportunities they deserve. Being a single parent means making the impossible possible for your kids, one day I want to help make the impossible a little easier to achieve. My educational journey has been shaped by resilience, determination, and the unwavering support of my father. At NYU, I will build on the foundation he helped create, using my education not just to better my own life, but to uplift the lives of others in my community and beyond.

The Other day in class, a few of my friends and I were goofing off and taking silly videos of each other. Whenever we turned the phone around to review our recording, Gia, Someone whom anyone could tell is the most beautiful girl on the planet, Saw her face and recoiled, “ That’s what I look like? You guys tell me I’m beautiful all the time and that’s what you’re talking about?”. She It’s not the only young person I know who has this disconnect, It’s something that I still struggle with myself. Social media has encouraged Self criticism and low self-esteem in every one of my friends who has it, even those the world considers the most beautiful. My first exposure to social media came in the form of wanting to post my drawings and sketches for people to see. I would post every other day, And since I was 13 and far from a prodigy, These weren’t masterworks, But they made me happy. However, kids from my school quickly found the account. Within hours, everyone in my grade Had access to the art I had Poured my soul into, And they weren’t as enthusiastic about it as I was. Soon soon after the cyber bullying started up, I abandoned my art account and stopped drawing altogether. Hearing the negative criticisms of my peers coupled with the constant Comparisons I made between my art and professional artists led me to feel Like there was no point in creating art altogether. Stories like mine are not uncommon and like my experience lead many young children and adolescence into spirals of depression, anxiety, and low self-esteem. This negative online experience is coupled with a lack of regulation on what kids have access to. Inappropriate and explicit videos, not only slipped through the cracks of certain websites Algorithms, but are sometimes pushed towards young children. I believe that regulating the websites that kids have access to is not enough to protect young children or negate the common effects of excessive social media use. However, if access to the devices themselves is limited, then positive results will start showing up. This can already be seen in schools that require a “phone jail” or some sort of box students are required to submit their phone to at the beginning of class. By the end of the year, students are talking more, making real friends, and doing better in school. By cutting off access to devices, kids don’t have to employ self control to limit themselves in the first place and social media is less of an issue.

From the moment I could write my name, I’ve been drafting a story of ambition. My single father instilled in me the value of hard work from a young age. “Alex,” he sat me down at age five and said, “you get all A’s!” His belief in my potential made education fun and exciting. School was the best! Throughout high school, I have earned a 4.26 GPA, a 31 ACT score, several AP credits, and held leadership roles as president of multiple clubs. These achievements aren’t just numbers on paper—they’re the prologue of my story. This love of education coupled with being gay and trans (and being a generally strange kid) led to several years of ostrisization. Growing up as a trans guy in the Deep South was not exactly a cake walk. That all changed when I joined my school’s theater program as a freshman. Theater gave me my voice when the world convinced me I had none. My weirdness was embraced, and my peers’ kindness gave me the courage to embrace that weirdness too. From there, my love for the arts was reborn: music, painting, sketching, writing— crafts that have followed me since childhood-- became new horizons to explore. And through that exploration, I found my true calling: storytelling. Creative writing, particularly dramatic writing, became my lifeline. Stories have the power to make people feel seen, to elevate voices that are too often silenced. I want to tell those stories. Writing isn’t just my dream; it’s my purpose. That’s why getting accepted into NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts to study dramatic writing was a dream realized. At Tisch, I plan to pursue a BFA in dramatic writing, followed by an MFA, with a minor in psychology to deepen my understanding of human behavior. I want to not only craft compelling narratives but also create spaces where queer and marginalized communities see their experiences honored and valued. Achieving this goal isn’t easy—especially as a first-generation college student with financial hurdles. My dad works multiple jobs to support me, but scholarships like this one are essential to making my dream a reality. I have never been afraid of hard work, and I am prepared to bring the same determination to NYU. I have a dream to revolutionize the entertainment industry by creating stories that reflect the beautiful diversity of human experience. As a transgender writer from the Deep South, I understand the power of representation firsthand. I want to ensure that others like me—those who feel out of place or unseen—find hope and inspiration through the stories I tell. This scholarship would be more than financial aid; it would be an investment in a future where queer voices aren’t just included but celebrated. With your support, I will continue to write, create, and inspire. I will take what I’ve learned from my roots in Alabama and build a life in New York that helps others embrace their awesome weirdness, one story at a time.