I had always believed that if you were quiet, it made you strong. That if you just gritted your teeth and pushed through it—regardless of whether you were stress-eating, anxious, or overwhelmed—you were doing your job. Mental illness wasn't openly discussed in my community, in my home. It was something you were to pray through, get over, or act like it didn't matter. I later learned that acting like it didn't matter almost killed me. Growing up as an immigrant son, I had felt so much pressure to succeed. My parents had come to America for a chance, and I felt obligated to repay them. Trying to run it in the background while managing school, extracurricular, and home duties made it all just too much. I was always the translator when getting down to work with my parents, the tutor when getting down to instructing my little sister, and the “strong one” when getting tough with others. I didn't know what I was suppressing about myself—mentally, emotionally, even physically. It finally overflowed when I was a freshman in high school. I had been working with late nights completing homework, worrying about grades, and always prioritizing other people's needs over mine. It just took its toll. I could vividly see myself sitting in my room one night, as if I were suffocating under everything that I never put into words but felt. I wasn't sleeping. I wasn't eating right. I had zero interest in activities that I once had fun doing. Worst of all, I felt disconnected even with other people and myself. It was one evening when something inside me cracked, but not in the destructive way, just in that it made me see that I needed help. It was intimidating and humble, breaking the silence. I had no idea what I could expect, but I knew I could not continue kidding myself that every little thing was okay. I started journaling—getting down my thoughts for me to see. I talked to a trusted teacher, and they sent me to talk to the school counselor. I employed little habits like morning walks and cut down on overcommitting. It was awkward at first. I was worried I would get judged, or I would no longer be "strong." But the more I shared, the more I noticed how many of the people around me were quietly hurting, too. It took this experience, but it altered me in ways I never thought possible, but beautiful. For the first time, it made sense to me that it wasn’t weak to prioritize my mental health; it was strong. It wasn’t selfish taking rest, it wasn’t selfish saying no, it wasn’t selfish setting limits—it was survival. But what has been remarkable in this process has been how it changed my relations with people. I began doing less emotion-involved endurance and merely being real with people, with myself. I was sweeter, empathetic, and present. People began trusting me because I was okay with vulnerability. My friends began opening up to me, and I began encouraging people around me to focus on their mental wellness as well. I understood that I didn’t need to be a therapist/counselor per se in causing waves—sometimes, it’s merely hearing the person, empathizing with their agony, and it's quite transformative. Mental illness, particularly among people of color, is dealt with in shame. We've had a tradition of labeling emotional pain as weaknesses, particularly among Black people and immigrant groups. We learn to survive, but few learn to heal. My experience with mental illness has given me the impetus to break this cycle. I've attempted every door available to normalize these conversations, whether school, volunteer, or merely hanging out with friends. Ideally, I'm over here with the movement, it's okay, you're not okay—you're still worth something when you're at your worst. To treat the ending of the stigma surrounding mental health like it begins with honesty, and that's what I've held myself accountable for making with example. It has also helped guide my goals. Although I have not settled on one path, this I do know: Whatever else I pursue, teaching, public health, counseling, non-profit, advocacy for mental health will always be in the foreground. I want to create spaces where kids feel safe, they can be themselves, reach out when they’re hurting, feel a sanctuary, receive mentoring while working with trauma/burnout, and receive training about emotional intelligence. Above all, I work to make sure that never again will anyone feel as alone as I once did. It's not straightforward. I still have off days. I still find myself overcommitting, overdoing, overdoing it all for others. But I do have support and I have the insight about myself to take a step back, take stock, and take care of myself before I reach my breaking point. And that insight? Game-changer. To be awarded the Ethel Hayes Destigmatization of Mental Health Scholarship would be significant tuition aid, but also recognition of how far I have come, and a device with which I could respond to this urging. Like Mrs. Hayes and so many others, I know the horrible power of silence and stigma. I also know the therapeutic power of visibility, vulnerability, and dialogue. I want to be one of the voices of change that makes mental health a priority—not second-string—in our homes, schools, and communities.

I can remember going to what I now know as therapy when I was a child, and more so, not having the context to describe who I am, or what I'm going through, or what I need, but somehow or another, I was able to figure it all out to music. From the gentle warmth of vintage soul records by which my grandmother filled Sunday mornings to the pounding bass of contemporary hip-hop thumping its way out of my headphones after a long afternoon, music permeated everything. That then meant more than something to feel, but something to make. I was first exposed to music tech when I downloaded a free digital audio workstation during seventh grade to see what it was all about. I had no idea what a DAW would be at this point — I just wanted to play with sounds. Hours passed as I placed beats over one another, experimented with effects, and tried to determine why one song sounded better than the other. That excitement quickly turned into a hobby. I knew I didn’t just want to exist around music; I had to create it from scratch. A watershed moment was when I assisted a classmate in putting a piece of spoken word on the floor. He'd composed something extremely personal, but wasn't sure whether or not it'd be accepted. I created some sensitive piano accompaniment, some subtle ambiance, and hacked levels until everything sounded good to me. When he heard it all combined, he went quiet, took a deep breath, and said, “You made me sound important.” That's when it clicked — this wasn't sound at all. This was power. I desired to continue creating that kind of influence. But this has not been an easy route. I come from a background where dream careers, to me, feel precarious or impossible. There were moments when I questioned my mind, whether I should compromise and have a more “stable” kind of job. But I kept going back to music, by right of a conviction in which it's not merely entertainment — it's therapy, communication, identification. I began to save to invest in improved equipment, teaching myself audio engineering from videos on YouTube and completing tutorials online, and even doing free mixes for local acts just to keep learning and improving. Resources have been a problem, too. Without a pro studio or decent instruction, I was stuck in catch-up all the time. But rather than being deterred, I made it a challenge. I worked within what I had – closet isolation booths, noise-canceling to save poor-sounding recordings, and doing it with people who subscribed to a similar ethos but not necessarily to similar gear. What motivates me is the passion to be a producer who introduces new voices, who makes room to clear space for other people to be heard just as I've been heard, even if I am an underrepresented minority. More than relieving the cost of pursuing this dream, winning the D. Cox Music Technology Scholarship would mean giving me the chance to realize that my actual passion can be pursued. I would be more than happy to continue doing what I am passionate about — and more importantly, I would be able to have others enjoy what they hear.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved combining unexpected things to see what happens — Lego towers with action figures as “construction workers,” science fair volcanoes powered by soda and sprinkles, even my infamous “PB&J tacos” in middle school (jury’s still out on that one). My curiosity has turned into a passion for creative writing and comedic storytelling, where I now mash together humor, heart, and absurdity to create something fresh. My dream career aspirations are being a cybersecurity analyst to protect networks and users from cyber threats, being a psychologist to help people with mental health, being a teacher that can motivate and nurture the next generation, and being a musician that even though we all may not speak the same language but be brought together with the language of music. Aside from that, I’m someone who makes people laugh while giving them a little hope in the process. I sometimes create books, scripts, or sketches that remind people that life doesn’t have to be taken so seriously — that silliness can be just as important as seriousness. I’ve been recognized for my creativity through scholarships at school, my merit, and I’ve gotten awards for short plays and skits for middle school talent nights that had the whole room laughing. I would apply a scholarship to my creative pursuits by using it to attend writing workshops, invest in comedy classes, and use it to continue pursuing my education so that I can share my work with a wider audience. I believe that if I can take risks, be a little ridiculous, and still make something beautiful, whether it’s spaghetti and ice cream, or words and laughter, the right mash-up can change the way people see the world.

From a very early age, I learned that school wasn't just about textbooks, tests, and grades — school was a lifeline. As a kid, school was something that you had to survive if you wanted to make it through another day, but as an adolescent, it was something to build from. It was something from which you could break cycles, create possibilities, find out what you might become, but I also saw something that disturbed me: none of my teachers looked like me. As a young Black man, I had very few teachers of my experience, of my background in the world. And that lack taught me just how powerful representation truly is, that it gave me a mandate to become the kind of teacher that I needed to see more of. I aspire to enter the teaching profession as a mission to create a classroom that carries equity, understanding, and possibilities for every one of my students. My focus isn't only on educating students' minds but also on empowering young minds to envision their future. In my perception, every student has a history, and every history should find confirmation as well as a voice, which should be heard. If my students are confident that voice matters, I am positive that they would internalize that they, too, do have the ability to dictate their future as well. Representation is tangible. It’s more than a number that only 2% of the instructional staff are Black men; it’s a challenge for me. I want my students, particularly young Black boys, to glance at me and understand that they, too, may accomplish their dreams, regardless of whatever struggles they may have had to overcome. I want them to understand that learning isn’t only about becoming part of the world as it already exists, but about developing how to alter it. As a teacher, my concern is to apply culturally responsive teaching that links learning to students' day-to-day lives. I wish to make history, literature, and science pertinent to their lives by whatever possible means: from linking class discussion to whatever issues of concern that students may have from their communities to setting projects that enable students to do some research on possible answers to questions about whatever issues concern them. My concern is to make learning relevant. Other than class, I wish to tutor students, observing them through actual struggles, aiding them in setting goals, and developing leadership skills. I acknowledge that for some students, the choice of whether or not to drop or remain might rest on one caring adult who hears them out. I wish to be that person. The Mark A. Jefferson Teaching Scholarship is about something more than scholarship prizes — it's about a bet on the future of a more inclusive, more equitable learning system. I am dedicated to placing my whole career on behalf of my students, seeing them in the curriculum, the leadership hall, as well as the future that opens before them. Through learning, I aspire to spark something that might alter one at the very core, but resonate through family, through community, and through future generations as well.

Misfortune can lay bare, simultaneously, our limitations, as well as our ability to overcome them. One of my chief struggles, for me, involved juggling schoolwork and serious familial obligations when my family migrated to America. As a child of African migrants, I immediately became the negotiator of two worlds--between cultures, my parents' translator, as well as broker of my parents' entrance into a system of which they spoke no language, as well as keeping up at school. Initially, the load of such activities had engulfed me. I used to spend endless evening hours on school work after I had helped my parents do paperwork, make calls, or accompany them on appointments. I had to skip some activities because my family required me to be at home. I had once felt lonely as I glanced at my peers, worrying only about school work and extracurricular activities, but there was so much that I juggled on the side. But eventually, I found that such obstacles strengthened me, disciplined me well, and made me compassionate as an individual. I got used to making effective use of time, concern for things that truly came first, as well as a feeling of responsibility that went beyond me. I got more resourceful too—in search of extra tutoring when I got behind, seeking mentors, as well as finding means of remaining engaged despite a hectic schedule. One of the things that had stood out most significantly to date was when I had volunteered at a food shelter, helping to serve meals as well as coordinate donations for the poor. It put everything into perspective: even though I had hardship, I still could make another human’s life just a little bit better. As my means of turning hardship into something positive, it reaffirmed my reasoning that contributing to one’s hardship is part of the process of overcoming hardship. This has enabled me to become an empathetic leader. Challenges are not met as fearful, but as growth options. I understand the struggles that people experience through the virtue of the extra burdens that they carry—either culture, economy, or one's lot—and strive to support people as similarly situated. If I had words of wisdom to pass on to somebody enduring the same struggles, it would sound something like the following: don’t view your obligations as a constriction, but as preparation. What you gain through experience will stay with you for the rest of your life. Ask for help when you need it, and don’t forget that every season of suffering becomes part of a page that may one day comfort another person.

Football has always been larger than a game to me; it's been a teacher, a mirror, and a motivator. Ever since I set foot on the field, football has made me re-examine myself and mold my character into something better. At first, I thought that football was just a simple sport, but when the practices continued and the season wore me down, I truly understood what it meant to be committed. I understood what it was to get out early, to stay after, and to grind through sore spots and setbacks. I eventually realized that the game does not hear excuses but will only reciprocate effort, and that lesson has now become an influence in my own daily life. The day that defined me was my second year. The team was good, and the early game hurt me—I had a deep bruise in the shoulder that stung whenever I moved, I wanted to sit, but I put my pads back on and got back out there—more out of respect than pride. On that day, it became clear that toughness isn’t so much how you battle through the injury, but how you put your team in front of yourself. The brotherhood that I've been a part of in football has also molded my character. The locker room is also where I've been taught empathy, leadership, and communication. We're all different people, different homes, but once we walk out onto that field, we're family. I've been instructed how to root for a teammate when he's down, how to take responsibility for my mistakes, and how to lead by example. Leadership isn't the guy standing and yelling out the plays, but the guy assisting in helping set the tone of respect, and that's the kind of man that I attempt to be on and off the field. Sports also taught me how to handle failure. You prepare, you prepare, but you're going to lose now and then. I've dropped balls, missed tackles, and had days when nothing's gone my way. In the early days, those days defined me. But the more time that went on, I learned how to make failure fuel. I made the recovery part of the job that's as important as the arrival. The mindset that's helped me in school, in my relationships, in life, is the mindset of being able to recover. In my experience, you’re not successful in the column, but in how you handle people, how you come back after you fall, and how you walk when nobody is around. The football won't last, but the football teaching will. Football has fashioned my character step for step—sweat, sacrifice, and team.

The music of Billie Eilish has been the soundtrack of my most real moments—moments of self-realization, of being broken-hearted, of inner strength. Her songs are as if they are ripped directly out of my diary; they hit the same emotions that I've never had the means of expressing. Of the thousand strong songs that she has, the three most close and dear to me are “idontwannabeyouanymore,” “everything I wanted,” and “Happier Than Ever." 1. “idontwannabeyouanymore" The song embraced the hope that I seared within me in my lowest teen years. Insecurities, worries, and the experience of being a failure that could not be put into words. When the song sings, “If teardrops could be bottled, there’d be swimming pools filled by models,” I recognized someone got me. It was the first time someone described the life of the face of joy, but rot slowly inside. In my headphones, this song would play when I would go to bed at night, wide-awake, and this song would engulf me. It made me less lonely. A hard, cold truth of the song made me start accepting the fact that suffering didn’t make me weak—far from weak, but made me human. 2. “Everything I Wanted” The song is a love letter to all that's ever experienced feeling lost in silence. The ominous song and the lyric “If I could change the way that you see yourself, you wouldn't wonder why you're here” reached me. There used to be a time when being in my own life made me inconspicuous in a group of people, but nowhere in sight. “Everything I Wanted” showed me how necessary being ok-checked-in is for those who are fine and how not to depreciate the value of being heard. The song also showed me quiet power—about not letting go, even when you're drifting away. It taught me to be my own better friend. 3. “Happier Than Ever I encountered this song in my life when life was standing in the doorway. After breaking up with a bad, not romantically bad, but bad for my emotional health, relationship, I felt free and guilty. When, in the song, Billie’s voice oscillates from delicate sensitivity to animal, raw ferocity in the second half, she made me justified in being furious. “You made me hate this city,” she yelps, and for the first time, I let myself go all the way through the pain. This song taught me that setting boundaries and bailing does not make you callous, but that you’re finally opting for yourself. “Happier Than Ever” gave me my voice back. These are all different versions of me: the lost, the healing, the empowered. The music of Billie Eilish is not songs to me, it is a mirror. Her courage to be raw in a world that so consistently requests perfection made me brave enough to be me in my own story. I don’t just appreciate the talent of Billie—I appreciate the courage in her. These songs helped me grow out of the hurt, look back in compassion, and grow out of them strengthened. And when I walk through life, her songs will always remind me that to feel is an expression of power and not of weakness.

Losing my grandmother to breast cancer was probably the most painful experience of my life. Not only was she my grandparent, my second mother, my guide, but my family's soul. Her gentleness was not only silent but strong, and witnessing her struggle with metastatic breast cancer made me redefine my definition of health, of family, and of my own life. I didn’t realize the gravity of her illness in the early days. But she went out of her way not to expose us to the worst of it, always smiling, always checking after us, even when she was hurt. But when the cancer would not stop spreading and the bones became havens for the disease, there was no disguising it. Her courage relegated me to the background day after day. But she tolerated the chemotherapy, the lethargy, and the daily rush to the hospital. On even the most difficult of days, she made us assure her that we loved her, that we saved our forms, and time. When she passed away, something within me shifted. I no longer took my health—or that of my family members for granted. Her death became instead the inspiration for me to become interested in the research of breast cancer and prevention. I inquired of our family members about our family's history, studied the genetics of the risk of breast cancer, and urged my mother and other family members to undergo screening regularly. Only now, after all of this, do I appreciate how critical early detection is. Routine mammograms, self-examinations, and genetic tests are the difference between curable disease and end-stage disease. Genetic testing has allowed many families to identify high-risk individuals, most of whom are those who carry the BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene mutations, and while my grandmother never received the chance for such testing, I’m conscious of how invaluable that would be for the rest of my family. To me, this scholarship is a reminder that I’ve turned my suffering into awareness, and I hope that I can continue spreading awareness and urging others, especially young people, to take serious notice of their health. This is a way to help me pay tribute to my grandmother, utilize her inspiration for spreading awareness, motivate others, and this scholarship would not only assist in lessening the cost of continuing my education but also assist me in maintaining her custom of being someone who makes a difference in the lives of others.

I thought I was stronger by pushing my way through stress and never taking care of my own needs. Just as with some students who work, live with their families, and go to school, I prioritized everyone else's needs over mine. I learned the hard way, though, that putting one's own mental, emotional, and physical health to neglect is a bad habit from which recovery never happens—and being stronger means knowing how to step back, press pause, and prioritize yourself. During my freshman year, I was dealing with homework, volunteer work, and my commitment to my family at home. I slept little to no sleep, ate gross food, and co-existed with tension daily. I rationalized to myself at first that that was par for the course. Everyone my age was stressed, wasn't that so? But sometimes, I became aware of what it was doing to my life. I could not focus, I was irritable, isolated, and even dreaded those things I once adored. It was an evening when I finally reached a breaking point. I was in my room, overwhelmed with everything that I never did get a chance to do, everything that I worried that I never was going to get a chance to do. That's when I recognized that things could no longer stay the same—I could no longer remain the same. I started small. I made a schedule where I claimed 30 minutes a day to myself. It was selfish to begin with, but it's where I also recognized it was a necessity. I started journaling to get things into perspective, taking a daily walk to get my head right, and setting boundaries with time. I spoke with my school counselor to get his input and learned to better cope with stress. I became more mindful with sleep, with water, and with food—not to seem better, but to have better clarity and energy. As wellness became a daily priority, I felt my world shift. I was present, focused, and better attuned to my feelings. I no longer feared asking or being kinder to those silently struggling. To my amazement, I recognized how my change affected those within my world. My teammates were asking to go for a walk with me, and others were talking about their mental health. It made me recognize just how strong it is to lead with action, even quietly. Out of that, I learned wellness is to be perfect, but to be aware. It's neither to get away from stress, but to establish a habit where stress is something to be dealt with. Thus, until my future and college life, wellness to me remains a default, but never a privilege. I schedule my days to be balanced, I advocate mental wellness among those I know, and I know no achievement could ever be worth it to my well-being. Self-care has enriched my life by making me a worthy student, a stronger person, and a strong leader. I want to keep growing, not only as a student, but as a person, someone who can help other people to be okay, and to be strong, by being well. The message reduces to one that is very simple but very strong: by being well ourselves, we are better able to care for the world.

My Christianity is my identity and my way to lead. It prescribes how I see people, how I make decisions, and how I act during better or bad times. Leadership, to me, never has anything to do with being bossy but everything to do with serving. Jesus commanded in Matthew 20:26, where He said, “Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant,” and I want to live that reality every time I get to lead. One of my better leadership experiences was to host a prayer and outreach evening with my church youth. In a challenging time in our city, where our district was going through economic collapse and emotional isolation, I felt a prompting to go to people with hope. Most teenagers my age were stressed, overwhelmed, and isolated from God. I did not view that as a time to do nothing, but a time to do something. I began by gathering a few students together to pray together once a week. We designated our small meeting our own personal "Faith Fridays," and then, to my utter amazement, it just exploded. The small meeting became a weekly meeting where we studied from the Bible, shared testimonies, worshipped together, and prayed over our city and our school. I was to be held accountable to get everyone together, to come up with messages, and to challenge everyone to rise to their gifts as well. It was a humble lesson in leading: it's less about being center stage and more about lifting those around you. I watched shy students come to the front to lead a prayer. Others were exposed to their struggles for the very first time and were healed by being part of a community. It wasn't about me—it was providing space where God could work. My faith provided a heart to lead with compassion, with humility, with patience. I’ve come to look to God first with every decision, and to look to my strength just a little less. In those seasons where I find myself tempted to be tested as a leader—toxic conflict, discouragement, or doubt—I look to Philippians 4:13: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” This type of leadership has influenced my future goals. I desire to further lead within religious environments, by ministry, serving, or by mentorship. Specifically, I desire to help enable additional youth to develop within their spirituality and to find their calling. In my future, I look to integrate my education with my religion to come up with programs to help equip youth with Biblical values-driven leadership. Simply, as a religious leader to people, it's to present them with God's reality, who is real, and who's still going strong despite poor times. It's being a light during poor times, providing hope, and lifting people with love. That's who I want to be a leader to—not flawless, but willing, devoted, and led by the Spirit.

Math was never a subject to me, but a language to understand things better. From a sense of beauty gleaned from studying equations to logic to problem solving, math has conditioned me to look with a critical eye and seek structure where none exists. My interest in mathematics formed during middle school while I was working on a problem from an extra credit review question. My teacher sat down silently next to me to work on it, then, with obvious pride, having seen my solution, she smiled and said, "You seek patterns that others don't." This moment did something to me. It stuck with me that mathematics wasn't so much finding the right solution but comprehending the “why” behind things. What's so enthralling to me is math's ubiquity. It's present here in music's cadence, nature's patterns, algorithms within our daily app interactions, and engineers doing math to construct their bridges. It connects things that are unrelated and provides tools to make better choices within life, science, and business. It was a personal anecdote, however, that cemented my affection for math even more, which was during a math competition within my high school. It was among freshmen and juniors, and I can still remember that I was awed by them. But since questions were being distributed to everyone, I was focused on logic and flow to be able to solve them. I did not finish first—but I did end up solving the hardest question, even beyond those who were missed by some of our talented students. This reassured that passion, and not age or grades, determines how far a person can go. Math attracts, challenges, and provides a sense of power and creativity to me. It's something bigger than a subject to me; it's a lifelong friend, and that's why I'm a math enthusiast.

It's a fan's life with Sabrina Carpenter, to be a part of a process—one that's characterized by evolution, by energy, and by relentless self-expression. Ever since I met her, as Maya Hart, Girl Meets World, I have been a fan. She infused that character with a certain snap, a certain vulnerability, a certain emotional richness that made Maya indelible. I was in my preteen identity crisis, and to have a character who would never be afraid to say their piece or to own vulnerability was a huge inspiration to be just as fearless. What's even better, though, is that Sabrina has redefined her career way beyond Disney. She's been a real musician, okay, but a fearless artist. The songs Espresso and Please, Please, Please are infectious, but they’re authentic, funny, and uplifting, as well. In songs, she experiments with a release from independence, from confidence, from emotional exposure. It's being able to have a conversation with a friend who just understands. She approaches life with seriousness, a wink, fun, and fierceness. What I love most is that she works to be authentic—to be herself regardless of any expectations. In a world where so very often young ladies are socialized to fit into predetermined roles, Sabrina defies expectations by being averse to being fitted into them. She's carved a path all her own, whether she's closing music fest concerts, fronting and leading film roles, or making headlines by being so boldly authentic. She promotes being strong to be unique, to be goal-focused, and to own your voice even though it doesn't quite fit into everyone's idea of what it should be. This influenced me because she offered a case where she did not end up becoming another person, but rather became more. Growing up, I want to work within a creative industry, so ending up where she did shows that by having talent, working hard, and remaining true to yourself, you end up where nobody thinks you are going to end up. I'm happy to be a superfan of shows and songs re-watched, but by way of how she continues to challenge me to be brave, be unique, and never limit myself to fit those who refuse to grow. That's influence extending long past song endings.

I’ve been a fan of LeBron James since time began, with what he's capable of doing on the basketball court, but with whom he is off it. He's a once-and-for-all basketball legend, no question, but where LeBron sets himself apart from every other player is that he moves with humble, motivated, and focused swagger. Out on the court, nobody touches LeBron's record. He's a four-time champ, a four-time MVP, and a record-holder for career league scoring. It's his longevity, his consistency, that makes a career genuinely remarkable—to have been dominating a sport, consistently, since his early twenties. This year, becoming teammates with his very own son, Bronny, and waving the American flag to Paris during his appearance in the Olympics showed just how wide his reach extends—not just as a player, but as a leader and standard-bearer. But my fandom with LeBron extends past box scores. I'm a fan of his narrative—the life he lived growing up in Akron, being raised by his mom, with any number of pitfalls that could’ve sidetracked his life. He, however, wielded his platform to be a force for good. The LeBron James Family Foundation and his I PROMISE School have given opportunities to hundreds of disadvantaged students. That's a kind of influence long beyond a highlight reel. Is LeBron an all-time great? That's a tricky question. All my respect to all-time greats such as Michael Jordan and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, but I think LeBron's got the most well-rounded game of any player all time. He could score, he could pass, he could guard, he could lead, he's developed over time, through eras, and still has a higher standard with age around 40. GOAT or no GOAT discussion is subjective, but in my eyes, LeBron's skillset, basketball smarts, and longevity make him number one. Above all, LeBron convinces me that being great has nothing to do with being talented—it has to do with hard work, character, and elevating those around you as you rise. That's what I carry with me into my own life and schooling: to remain focused, be persistent, and utilize any platform that life provides to help change things. That's why I'm happy to cheer for LeBron James. Not only is he a legend, but his enthusiasm motivates me to give it my all.

One of my largest battles was learning to speak up on my own in a world where I was more invisible than noticeable. Being black in a majority white school at times even made me feel like I didn't quite belong there. When it was in the classwork, group projects, or extracurriculars, I was silent out of fear of misinterpreting something I had said, being judged by the others, or even dismissed. First, I had attempted fitting in. I had figured if I kept my head down and my shoulders back and worked hard, I wouldn’t attract attention toward me, and I would steer clear of the awkward uneasiness of standing out. But months passed by and the silence was taking a toll on me. I felt invisible in the places where I had the right to exist and contribute my voice. That was a blow on the confidence level, and there were moments when I questioned being set up for life after high school. One such time was at a school-wide social justice panel. A teacher was getting students from my class up to speak about the lives they had led, and after a few students had been encouraged by speaking, I wanted to contribute mine. I spoke in response to the microaggressions I had faced, the struggle maintaining motivation where there weren’t very many students in my advanced classes who resembled me, and the consistency with which I felt the stress of “representing” my race. I was surprised by the fact that not only did my classmates listen attentively, but many went on afterwards to thank me for making them see things they had never comprehended before. That week unleashed the strength in my voice and the strength in my story. I learned that by remaining silent, you’re not held back—you’re disabled. From there on out, I spoke out more in class, joined the student groups for inclusivity, and began mentoring students from the years behind who had experienced the same deprivations. I wanted them to understand they never had to sell out in the name of fitting in. This was a teaching in leadership and in staying strong. I was taught that being different is where we are weakest—it is where we are strong in extended vision and in providing a sense of direction. It nudged me towards college education as well, not for me but for the people coming after me. I hope that when I am a college-educated individual, I will be able to show everybody that struggles in life—through doubts, discrimination, silence on my part—will only deter you if you will compromise. College is a bigger-than-life dream for me; it’s a vow to be someone who creates spaces for others. I keep this drive close daily, and I recognize that through assistance, willpower, and continued growth, I will convert my barriers into opportunities for making a difference in lives.

To me, selflessness means you put others' needs before your own, even when it’s inconvenient, overlooked, or too hard. Help is needed, so it is all about you stepping in at just where it is. Simply doing the right thing exists, though recognition does not. From volunteering at a nearby food/homeless shelter to helping out within my school community, I try to live this out in everything that I do. Helping those experiencing food insecurity coupled with homelessness has been my privilege within the shelter. I must always remind myself that this could be any of us, regardless of whether I prepare meals, hand out supplies, or just listen to someone who needs to be heard. I view “giving back” as solidarity, not charity. A cold winter afternoon remains one of the moments that I remember best. When exhausted and also hungry, a man came in. He claimed that he was hungry. He reported it had been two days since he last ate. I was not sure whether we would have enough of our meals, so we were running rather low. I skipped my lunch that day, making sure he got needs met without him having to draw back. I did it not just for praise, but rather because it simply felt right. I contribute too—everything from planning events, to coordinating supply drives, to staying after class in order to help out the teachers or my classmates. I may not necessarily be in the public eye at all times, but I’m there when there’s work to do at all times. I don’t think service has to be grand or spectacular in scope in order for it to make a difference. Sometimes the biggest difference is being made by the unspoken behind-the-scenes effort. During finals week, there was a classmate stressed out and considering dropping out. I stayed after every day during the week, helping them study and get caught up. Today they’re still in school and still going strong—and seeing them succeed makes every minute worthwhile. What drives me is something greater than the will to help, yes—the conviction we all share the responsibility, inextricably linked one from the other. I think we all deserve dignity, assistance, and circumstances in which we may thrive irrespective of where we’re from and against what we’re struggling with. Irrespective of whether I am worn out or juggling my tasks, I think about that and it inspires me. Service is won the hard way. The plan will at times fail, efforts will never be returned, or the need will be overwhelming. But I persist because I am convinced the smallest act of kindness produces ripples. The world needs more people who will show up even when it is hard. I will strive to follow this path for the rest of my life—at school and in my profession. I’m not even completely sure where the path will take me, but I’m sure I expect it will take me on to continue towards helping others in the process. That is the type of legacy I expect I will leave behind—one of purpose, kindness, and service. Just as Michael Rudometkin.

When my family migrated from Africa into America, we had willpower and hope. Our largest obstacle was the fact that we had to start from scratch—financially, mentally, and culturally. My parents gave up everything they were used to in the name of giving me a better life in the future, but the journey was by no means boring. Seeing them struggling and making sacrifices had a strong effect on the person I am today. One of the most troublesome aspects in my life was economic insecurity. At my home, my parents were educated and hardworking, but over there in the United States, the degrees did not quite open the doors into opportunity. My dad worked whatever he could—often manual labor—just filling the table, and my mother juggling stretched-out workdays with taking care of our home. Occasionally, we could not afford the small things, even school supplies or doctor visits. I recollect one winter where we had not had actual jackets and had to rely on donated clothing from our local church. But my parents never complained through the ordeal. They endured, and from them I learned strength. And on top of the economic struggles, the absence of culture and language was a barrier as well. My parents had to confront systems most American kids take for granted—the healthcare, the transportation, even the school rules. I was constantly the translator and the voice for my parents. I would sometimes make telephone calls, complete paperwork, and assist my sister in her school work. Even though this made me mature early, it gave me a sense of responsibility and purpose. I learned how to lead by being patient and adaptable in any setting. These have created within me the individual who will never compromise on anything. I work very hard from the will to win and the fact that I have the responsibility for the entire family on my back. I comprehend the struggles in having little and making the most out of whatever opportunities offered. Among the struggles we had been through, I was able to maintain a 3.9 GPA in class, participate in community service, and give back in the same manner others had given back to me. Having grown up as the product of African immigrants has taught me a great deal about the value of education on the individual level. My parents might have had a difficult childhood themselves, but they greatly valued learning, growth, and perseverance, and their sacrifices motivate me. I strive hard not just for my good but in order to honor the path my parents set me on—and ultimately give back to the other immigrant families like my own. We haven’t had a soft life by any means, but it has been worthwhile. All the struggles we had been through taught me strength, empathy, and leadership. They’ve provided me with a story I’m proud to share and a future I’m committed to making my own. Acceptance of this scholarship would facilitate not only my education—it would honor my parents’ strength and the many families which, as mine still does, work towards a better life.

Giving back to my community is something I consider both a responsibility and a privilege. I believe that each person has a role to play in making their environment better, no matter how big or small their contributions may be. I’ve found meaningful ways to contribute through volunteering at the Franciscan Center and helping with various school activities. These experiences have helped shape my understanding of service, compassion, and leadership. At the food shelter, I assist with preparing and serving meals to individuals experiencing homelessness and food insecurity. This work is close to my heart because it reminds me how easily anyone can fall into difficult circumstances—and how even a simple, warm meal can offer a sense of hope and dignity. Through helping out, I’ve learned the value of consistency, respect, and kindness. Volunteering there is more than just handing out food but rather it’s about creating a welcoming environment, listening to people’s stories when they want to share, and showing them that they matter. In addition to my work at the food shelter, I actively participate in school activities, whether it’s setting up for events, after school sports, or helping teachers and students during school functions. These responsibilities might seem small on the surface, but they build a sense of unity within the school community. They’ve also taught me valuable skills like communication, teamwork, and time management. Most importantly, they’ve shown me how small efforts add up to create something meaningful for the larger group. Giving back is important to me because it creates connections and builds a stronger, more compassionate community. I’ve realized that the time and effort I give are investments in the well-being of others—and in myself. I feel a deeper sense of purpose when I’m helping someone else, and it reminds me to stay grounded and grateful. Service challenges me to be more aware of others’ needs and to think about how I can use my time, talents, and energy to support them. Volunteering has also helped me grow personally. It has taught me patience, empathy, and leadership. I’ve learned to look beyond myself and understand the value of service not as charity, but as solidarity. I don’t help because I expect something in return—I do it because it’s the right thing to do, and because we all benefit when we support one another. Giving back has helped me see that community isn’t just something we’re part of; it’s something we actively create. Whether I’m serving meals or helping run a school event, I’m reminded that positive change often starts with small actions done with great care. And for me, there’s no better reward than knowing I’ve made even a small difference in someone’s day.