Music has always been a large part of my life. I have participated in symphony orchestras and wind ensembles since I was nine years old, and played in my high school’s marching band for all four years. Right now, I perform and compete in an ensemble called POW Percussion, where we combine elements of percussion, dance, marching, and theater to create a transformative performance. I also enjoy listening to music—sometimes I’ll save up money to go to concerts performed by my favorite artists. However, I do recognize the ever-growing inequality that exists within music and music education. Fortunately, I can partake in music programs because my school has adequate funding for the music department. Low-income students at underfunded schools cannot afford music lessons, despite the immense talent and musical aptitude they possess. Furthermore, those who cannot afford to pay for concert tickets do not get to experience the joy that is live music. My passion for music equality has led me to become an Education and Community Programs intern at an organization called MUSE/IQUE. On stage, MUSE/IQUE is a member-supported non-profit that curates live music experiences for audiences to enjoy. Off stage, MUSE/IQUE connects artists with underserved populations to make music accessible for all. As an intern, I create and maintain relationships with community partners such as local homeless shelters, sites that care for adults with disabilities, high schools with underfunded arts and music programs, and youth foster homes. Once a month, the Education and Community team visits these sites with different artists ranging from jazz singers to saxophone players. It has always been a great pleasure to see our artists use music to brighten the days of those who have faced tremendous hardships throughout their lives. Their songs and tunes can connect to folks on a deeper, more personal level. Sometimes these folks get to share their own talent and perform alongside the artists; these moments prove that social or economic status has no place in music. In addition, I am developing a project called the Meal and Transportation Fund where members from our community will be given meals and transported to our mainstage shows— all free of charge. It is a great opportunity for these populations to experience high-quality live music, and not have to worry about the ticket cost or finding a ride to the venues. I have been setting up meetings with our partners to learn more about the exact needs of our community, and I have been preparing research about its cost to present to the MUSE/IQUE Board and CEO. Interning at MUSE/IQUE has allowed me to be exposed to people whose life paths are vastly different from mine. I’ve grown to appreciate music’s ability to bring individuals from various populations together, and I am glad to be a part of an organization that actively works to build communities one song at a time.

As I played the last crash of our show, a prideful scream erupted from the bottom of my lungs. I was finally on the floor, performing as a POW Percussion cymbal player at our annual preview show. My arms burned and felt heavy from giving 110% of my energy into the performance, but the crowd’s standing ovation told me it was worth it. However, unbeknownst to the audience, the road to the preview show was anything but smooth. At the beginning of the season when the cymbal line first played together, it dawned on me that I was already falling behind. The other members could play tighter presses, flip their cymbals faster, and hold for a significantly longer amount of time than I could. During full ensemble rehearsals, I constantly got comments to fix my basic marching technique and give more performance energy. I felt like an imposter, as if I was infiltrating the line and acting the part of a cymbal player rather than being one. At first, my emotions got the worst of me. I wallowed in the grogginess of my self-pity, not wanting to practice because the mere sight of the cymbals made me feel defeated. My favorite activity had now become something I dreaded doing. One morning, I reluctantly picked up my cymbals after a week of not touching them. While I was doing a holding exercise, the unfamiliar feelings of discomfort spread throughout my upper body. Instead of dropping the cymbals like I normally do, I kept them up to the point where my arm muscles reached failure. It was then that I realized something pivotal that would fundamentally change my mindset: If I wanted to grow, I had to be comfortable with being uncomfortable. I figured that I had to suffer to become stronger. I came back to the weekend rehearsal with a hungry mind. Instead of sulking, I told myself to embrace the anxieties that came with the criticisms. I focused on the comments of my marching and cymbal flips so much that they soon became my strengths. Over time, other things like holding and playing good sounds came easy to me, and I did not have to think about giving so much energy to improving them. The cycle of improvement never ends, but with each iteration, it becomes easier to turn criticisms into corrected consistency. Since then, being uncomfortable has proved to be a driving force in my academic life. In my philosophy class, it feels natural to speak my mind because I've made a point to share my ideas rather than keep them to myself. I joined my school’s lobby committee to push city council members, as well as members of Congress for student-friendly legislation. I also joined and became president of a feminist club at my school where we discuss our opinions on controversial topics. Past me would’ve never considered partaking in these activities. I’ve almost always chosen complacency over change. Now, I recognize the value of going against the grain to progress. After all, muscles need to tear before they regrow and become stronger. Thanks to the lessons I’ve learned from POW Percussion, I’m tearing down little parts of my life so that I can rebuild them to create the strongest, most formidable version of myself.

To me, music is the easiest and most effective way for me to care for my mental health. After a particularly strenuous day, the first thing I do when I get home is play my favorite album on Spotify (right now, it happens to be Bewitched by Laufey). Music can be exceptionally powerful because it speaks to everyone in completely different ways. Piano-based lyrical songs make me feel like my somber emotions are justified, while upbeat jazz arrangements make me want to get up and move my body. If I were to make mental health care affordable and accessible, I would provide everyone with a music streaming subscription account so that they can listen to songs as they please. It would open people up to a realm of mental health care treatments -- listeners could dance alongside hip-hop songs as a form of therapy, write down lyrics and reflect on how they relate to them, or release their stress with instrumental music. The possibilities are endless when it comes to music. As long as I have my Spotify account and Laufey, I know that I will be able to not only survive the day, but thrive through it.

I lead a club made up of advocates, storytellers, and educators who all reside in Pasadena City College’s intersectional feminist club: The Third Wave. Every other week, we meet and discuss a certain social issue that proves to be a prevalent and damaging problem to communities across the globe. Each issue is brought in by a different member of the club, and as a result, we hear a variety of stories that range from Iranian women and their fight for gender equality to transgender people and their experiences with workplace discrimination. Third Wave has become a sanctuary for many, and a place where healthy discussions take place. People come to the club to learn, teach, and help each other understand a perspective that is not strictly their own. As of November 2022, I have acted as President of Third Wave. Some of my responsibilities include planning the bi-weekly meeting agendas and delegating tasks to the rest of the club’s board members. For outreach purposes, I am the main point of contact for non-profit organizations, such as Planned Parenthood and Women’s March Foundation, who want to spread their mission to the PCC student body. Through our partners, our members have volunteered at several women’s marches, pro-abortion rallies, and protests at Los Angeles and Pasadena City Hall. Through Third Wave, I've explored the meaning of "leadership," and its role within a group. A leader is not just simply a person who organizes meeting agendas, or who acts as a liaison between other organizations. To me, leaders are supposed to listen, empathize, and guide their people to the best versions of themselves. I believe that I've exhibited these leadership traits through Third Wave. My non-administrative role as President is to facilitate community discussions and promote feelings of solidarity within the club. I take the time to listen to the stories of others and assist in empowering their voice. Many tend to underestimate the power of simply taking the time to let others know that they are being heard. Leaders also have the inexorable power to unite seemingly divided parts into one. In Third Wave, for example, if club members are in contention with one another over a controversial topic, I essentially act as an arbitrator to encourage open thinking. It is crucial to me that no one’s voice is drowned out because of fear or intimidation. Those in leadership positions tend to be the example; they set the vision of the group and inspire others. That is exactly why leaders are important in our world. Leaders break through the barriers to ensure that everyone can follow suit.