The strongest leaders are the ones who know that they can rely on others. The ability to say, “I can’t do this,” and “I need help,” is one that most people don’t have. And I used to be part of that large group. While I didn’t start off with this ability, I learned to acquire it, because really, I had no choice if I wanted to survive as a leader, and as a person. In my marching band, I’ve been a section leader of the entire clarinet section for two years now. During this time, I’ve realized I can’t do it all alone. It's just not possible, no matter how much authority, experience, or knowledge I have. I’ve learned that groups work together, even if they have a leader, and that's the only way they can succeed without a huge cost. My section helped me realize that my greatest weakness is my pride. I thought I was good enough to figure everything out on my own, to learn everything myself without help, and to spend my time correcting others and not letting them correct me. I just assumed that since I was the leader, I would practically never be making a mistake. Quickly, I learned that was wrong. I couldn’t live that way. I failed at what I tried to do, which is taking on the responsibilities of section leader all by myself. I have a section of 22 members, it was illogical to think I could handle it. I also wasn't letting anyone else grow or learn anything in their playing or any ability, as I was doing it all myself before I even let them think of a solution. I let myself ask for help, but I started small. I asked my co-section leader to help me out with things such as ensuring everyone was paying attention. To me, that was a big step. Now, I can ask another leadership member in my section to have some member play part of the music for them to see if anyone needs help, and I know in my heart that the old me would laugh at the thought of doing that. I was prideful and arrogant. I know I can use this past flaw and new skill to incorporate myself into existing communities, be of help to anyone who needs it, and allow myself to be helped, especially beginning as a freshman.

It's all in your head. That's what everyone says to someone who's mentally ill. My favorite scientific discovery is the one that proves that it's not just all in my head. That it's all real. That mental illness comes with symptoms like headaches, fatigue, digestive issues, insomnia, and/or difficult concentration, as the Mental Health Foundation says. They also say that our bodies and minds are not separate. This brings me relief, and allows me to be easier on myself. I find comfort in the way this shows me that being exhausted after a day of doing nothing isn't my fault, it's my illness' fault. That having a hard time sleeping after nodding off all day isn't my fault. That feeling like everything around me is unreal, like I'm dreaming while I'm awake, isn't my fault. So my favorite scientific discovery is the one that lets me know I shouldn't berate myself or be angry with myself, because like any physical illness, my mental illness comes with symptoms that prevent from behaving and moving like a healthy individual would.

Texas is nothing without its women. Nothing but shambles. Women are always seen as something to walk over, too emotional, too sensitive. But a women's sensitivity is a strength, not a weakness. Women's sensitivity and instinctual emotions save lives, including their own. It prevents events such as doctors ignoring a woman's pain and blaming in on their period or their uterus. It prevents children from jumping off somewhere too high. It prevents men from pushing themselves too hard, having a woman they can rely on to let them know when it's time to stop. But women are underappreciated for this. Their emotions are safe. A woman exhales confidence and the young girls around her feels comfortable, knowing she can be like her. A woman cries and the people around her cry, because they feel her pain. They feel what she's been through. Poetry and stories of women's pains spreads the word of what women go through daily, blue dripping tears running down one's face as they read. Written words are more powerful than those spoken, and my hope is to tell the world what the average Texan woman suffers through her life in my stories. What the average little Texan girl suffers. What the average teenage Texan girl suffers. No one bothers listening to their words, when they beg for their abuse and strength to be addressed, so with my writing, I will force the world to listen.

I'm angry. I've been angry my entire life. Everything's been unfair, and I feel I can never speak out. Because when I do, I'm wrong. I'm delusional. I'm insane. So I write. I write until my wrists hurt so bad I can't play my instrument the next day. Until I'm sunk by the words and drowning in them. I write horror stories of my revenge, I write the things I could never say to anyone without sobbing, without getting so angry I have to breathe. I've been hurt. Hurt so many times I could never muster up the words to explain how hurt I've been, how heart-broken I've been. So I write. Put myself into my characters and let them feel the pain I've felt. I let my readers feel the absolute shattering emotions I have, and remind the ones who've hurt me, that they'll never hurt me enough to shatter me entirely. I breathe my grief into every written word, into every sentence and period, into every detail of every story. And as I read it back to myself, it breathes out relief, it breathes out someone healed and someone grown. I've never been able to speak without stuttering. In any language. I've never been able to speak English, Spanish, or even French, without stuttering. My presentations are always jumbled, because I can't get the words out of my mouth as fast as they're running through my head. I can never care enough to properly explain, because I already know all the information. Even as leader of my instrument section, I struggle to teach. Because I can't get the right words out. They stay in my head, get stuck down my throat, between my teeth, under my tongue. Spoken words have never been easy for me, preferring to text rather than call, preferring to write essays than make videos. So I write. My career in writing is my voice. Without the written word, I have no voice at all.

In the most twisted way, my mother had always supported and helped me reach my educational goals. I've never been enough for her. From the time I was elementary, all I could remember was her saying she's proud of me for being one of the top students, but her actions never reflected that. I was also second best to my brother, who could barely pass his classes, was somewhere in the middle. Never attended an award ceremony. Never got an award for "Best Student" "Most Improved" Never measured up to me. And I hate to be the sour older sister, the one holed up in her room, angry, mean. But it's who I am. My mother always told me she was proud of me, that I was enough, that I was great, but she never showed me. So I pushed harder. Got better grades. Attended more ceremonies. Received more awards. Because if I had no love to show from my mother at least I had spite fueling me. I missed 2 weeks of school for an emergency pertaining my brother, and still I had perfect grades. Received even more awards. So many I forgot I had done things to receive them. And still, I feel subpar to my brother, not enough for my mother. She helps me everyday. When she ridicules me, tells me I'm complicated. I have to prove her wrong. I have to be better, smarter, learn more than I've ever known before. She supported me by praising my brother for his B's, C's, F's. Let him stay home and do nothing while I cleaned, helped her write emails, took care of the dog. Angie, the one with all A's. Angie, who plays an instrument and helps anyone who needs it. Angie, who's never given up on anything she's done unless she absolutely has to. My mother is my biggest motivator, because she fills me with jealousy, with anger, with spite. I thank her for pushing me to be the top of my class, the best clarinet player, and helping me reach all my goals throughout my education.

I want to write. Since I was young, all I've wanted to do is write. My experiences as a woman have shaped me. My experiences as a girl have shaped. I want to write in such a way that when people read my work, they feel the pain I felt writing those words. I write to show the pain I felt in my time as a woman. The pain of other women's experiences. I want to spread awareness and concern for the way I got in trouble for the time a 'troublemaker' boy was annoyed that I was uncomfortable with him staring at me. I want teachers, counselors, principals to stop letting boys be boys, and to let girls live comfortably. I want to write to show the way my mother raised my brother but not me. Waking me up at 6 in the morning to play with the dog, then asking me to give the dog her medicine at 8, then again at 9. All while her son slept the day away. Getting angry at me when I ask, "What will my brother do?" after I mop or sweep or wash my dishes, or do all of those. Telling me I'm complicated when it comes to food, when all my life she's only talked about diets, food that makes you gain weight, how much she wishes her body were like mine. I want to write to show the pain I've felt the past 17 years next to my mother, as she praised my brother for passing his classes, while I helped him with assignments, and I had gotten straight A's since I was 4. While she attended to him and remained absent for 2 of my awards ceremonies. While she argued with me so violently over text that I missed my name being called for an award. While she currently chooses to give me the silent treatment after I finally snapped and asked her to be a better mother. I want to write to show the world the pain women feel during abuse, the anger they feel, the revenge they want to take. Quiet revenge, loud, painful revenge. Any revenge. Small scale revenge. Large scale, life-ruining revenge. Because if no one will listen to my spoken word, then I desperately beg for the world to read my written words, to see the ways women are being hurt, and the ways they can all help fix it.

Abuse. That's the memory I have of my Salvadoran mother and her family. I remember playing in a room with my cousins, happy. Delighted. Young. Maybe younger than 7, maybe 6. And my mother comes in the room, suddenly, throwing the door open, her lips pursed, tight. She says "Qué están haciendo?" In a tone so angry I could feel my heart drop into my intestines, swirling, bubbling, trembling. My younger brother stammers, starting to explain that we're playing. Like children. Innocently playing with toys, boardgames, blocks. And my mother laughs. Laughs. Laughs at the way fear had settled into our eyes, at the tears dripping down my younger brother's face. The woman who I expected to comfort me, make me laugh, keep me safe, is the one playing this sort of joke on me. This is the memory I choose, because this is when I realized I do not have a mother. I have a woman who should've stopped after her first child, a woman who doesn't realize children take in everything, remember everything. She did not raise me. I read about periods in 3rd grade, and she 'taught' me about periods in 5th. I pretended I didn't know about them, so she would feel useful. Said phrases like "I'll be like you and my older sister, now" so she would be happy. She did not raise me. This memory shaped me. Taught me I could not rely on the people I thought were family. And as I grew older, this proved to be true. The grandmother who called my sister a whore after her engagement. The grandmother who called me her enemy for choosing not to speak to her after she threatened to throw hot oil at my sister's face. The uncle who took my mother's car and kicked us from our home. The aunt who called me lazy for forgetting to wash the dishes and not having a job. The cousin who took my blankets out the washer to wash her own, who called me dirty. The brother who called me worthless and fucked up. The mother who never bothered to raise. As people say, Hispanic mothers have daughters, but they raise their sons. I wanted to be raised. I wanted to be a child. I wanted to be held when I was sad, to be told things would be okay, that I could rest now, because I had done so well. But that didn't get told those things. Didn't have those things done for me. I did and said those things, for my mother. I believe in having children only when you've healed. In having relationships only when you've healed. I'll never forgive my mother. But I'll raise my own child with all the things my mother did not give me. Love. Reassurance. Rest. Fairness. I won't date a man and let myself get carried away like she has. I believe in thinking before I speak. I believe in it being okay that I'm wrong, in admitting that I'm wrong. Abuse. This is the memory I choose, because it's one of my earliest. Because since then, I have never been able to trust, shaping me into someone cold and defensive, leaving me to believe no one is on my side.

In a utopia, I would go to school with no debt. It's strange to think of that as a utopia, as a real utopia would mean free education. But I'm a realist. I apply for scholarships daily. And I can count at least 40 so far. I won't rely on my parents. They won't help. They won't be able to help, that is. My grades are perfect. All A's, advanced classes, top 2%, countless awards, countless talents. I play an instrument, write stories. So many things that let me apply for scholarship, that hopefully, desperately, I win. But I'm a realist. So I know scholarships won't put me entirely through college. I don't have the time for a job now. I have extra-curriculars, I'll apply in December. For the 2nd semester. For my last semester of high school. I'll work, maybe sell my stories online. But I'm hard to read. Writing the way my thoughts flow, fast, quick, one thing after the next, and you've yet to process what I've just said. Do I have your attention yet? But I'm a realist. And no entry-level job will pay for college entirely. Student loan debt. Face it. I have to face it. I'll keep working. Keep applying for scholarships. Audition for a good orchestra, practice, practice practice during high school and do something crazy, something never done before by anyone who's ever played clarinet in the history of my school. Make all-state. I'll write. Write so much my brain doesn't stop, and I'll sell my work. I'll take year off of school to save money if I have to. Because I won't be my teachers, who have debt decades after the graduated. I won't be my mother, with no debt because she never finished high school, or my father, who never even started high school. I'm a realist.

I wish to see a world where people don't die for the things they can't change. A world where my cousin never had a gun pointed to his face by a cop after being stopped. A world in which I could tell everyone I don't feel like a girl, but I don't feel like a boy. But I don't feel like neither. A world where children don't die for the gun laws legislators don't change. A world where I don't tremble like spring leaves in the wind when my school's intruder alarm goes off. A world where my friends and I don't laugh, because it's a routine thing at this point, even though we're all terrified. Guns are normal. Death is normal. Hatred is normal. I was taught by a teacher who told me that we don't have to be happy with things, but the cost of living in a country with rights is tolerance. Tolerance of the people around us. Their differences. Their lives. I wish to see a world where every parent teaches their child tolerance. You don't have to love everyone. But you don't have to kill them either. You have to tolerate them. And tolerance will reduce the deaths of people, who couldn't change what they believe in, who they love, what they look like, or their difficulties. A world in which I don't need to argue that a hairbrush looks nothing like a gun. And that the color of one's skin doesn't look like a crime. I wish to see a world where young girls don't die over the fact that they are pregnant. Because now, they can't change it. If I have no power to change these things, why must I die for them? Why must my people die in cages, leaving a country that was destroyed by another stronger, larger, wealthier one? But the concept of a world is subjective to each person. My world is my life. The world is everyone's life. So I wish to see a world where people don't just think "my." I wish to see a world where people think "the." Because we are dying for things we cannot change. We are willing to die for change. We are dying for the things others want to change about us. We are dying for the things authorities don't want to change. What is the points of our deaths, if no change comes after them? Change will bring peace. Peace in schools, homes, places of worships, grocery stores, malls, bars, clubs. Peace in lives. And I hope to live to see the day the world does not let me join the death count for things I could not change.

My life is surrounded by money. Or, better-said, the lack of money. Everyday, I think about money. How I'm going to get it, how I'm going to secure it. How I'm going to pay for the shirts I need to buy, the gifts I want to get. The classes I want to take. I always hear, money doesn't buy happiness. It does. It does buy happiness. Because happiness is being able to afford my college education. So my life needs to change. I need to be able to make enough money to save it, to afford what I need, and to buy what I need. I save the extra money from my birthdays. I bake almost everyday and give the goodies to my mom to sell at work, take the cookies with me to school or events to sell to my friends. I make the money myself, I never ask for it. This scholarship will help me change the way my brain has been wired. I won't have money at the back of my mind, creeping forward when I see a bill, a cost, a need. I'll be reborn the day I don't worry about me. I'll pay for my younger brother's education, help my sister pay for her master's degree. I'll buy my mom a massage session, and take her to get her nails done. I'll get my family all the things we've never been able to enjoy without uncomfortably thinking about the cost of everything.

Music is everything to me. When I first started learning clarinet, I didn't know who I was. I was 11. I was starting 6th grade, the summer after an apartment fire that took everything I owned. I had nothing to my name. No books, no qualities, no good memories. I didn't even plan to learn an instrument. But the clarinet forced itself into my life. And it brought back a quality I thought I lost; my competitiveness. I pretended like I didn't care about the instrument, but I was a natural. The best. And I had to be the best, because my pride wouldn't allow anything else. Before clarinet, I was stuck. I felt myself stagnant and stuck in mud. But as I played, as I learned and failed, tried again and failed, and failed, failed, failed again and again, something bloomed in me. Persistence. Competitiveness. A fear of failure. I couldn't do one thing, so I had to be really good at another. I couldn't read a rhythm correctly, so I had to reach that super high note. It brought me confidence. An acceptance of failure. A lesson on taking things slow, then speeding up. Then, I was no longer Angie, the one who watched her apartment burn. I was Angie, first chair, section leader, determined, hard-working, confident. I had built who I was. I knew who I was. And the clarinet was intertwined with all my memories, good or bad, happy or heart-breaking. Even failures became a positive thing to me. Learning clarinet, failing, and then trying again was new to me. I had never been bad at something the first time I tried it my whole life. I was always automatically good at it, almost the best or sometimes even the best. It humbled me. Taught me that I'm not going to be great at everything. I applied what I learned with clarinet to AP Chemistry, the hardest course I had ever taken. I realized that I wasn't going to be great at it on my first try, and forgave myself for not always understanding. I took it step by step, studied, and slow, very, very slowly, learned and understood the material. Music is everything to me. It's been the biggest goals in my life for the past 6, almost 7 years now. Without music, I wouldn't be Angie. I wouldn't have gotten over the trauma of the fire, I wouldn't have gotten over the trauma of my brother's suicide attempt, or my own depression, or the feeling of loneliness I felt somedays. Music saved me.

My most valued quality is perseverance. It's trudged me through bad days, difficult days, and impossible days. It pushed me through the day my brother attempted suicide, through the days I had to make up assignments for being absent frequently from school. I won't always have good days. It's not everyday that I'll be productive and efficient. Perseverance is what will keep me from staying stuck on those days, from laying in bed all day with no goals, from being the one thing I never want to be; a failure. I've persevered difficult things through my life. An apartment fire turning everything I own to ash, leaving me with nothing but the clothes on my back, rumors spread about me, people hating me for any one of my actions, family arguments. Perseverance has always been near me, like my shadow, reminding me that this is temporary, that I'm strong enough to fight these bad thoughts and events. This quality is with me throughout my daily, from learning how to drive, to learning how to do my makeup, and even completing assignment after assignment when all I want to do is set my head down and sleep. Right now perseverance is carrying me through my audition music, pushing me to practice daily and improve every single skill I have. It's been with me my whole life, and will follow me from here on out. It'll be with me the first day of senior year, the first day of college, the day I take my driver's license test. It'll show me that I have the strength and capability to do anything I want, even small things, like learning to properly cook, or big things, like graduating college, or making all-state, or writing my first book. The most valuable part of me is my perseverance, and nothing will ever take that from me.

My volunteering experiences have all been surrounding music. My most prominent one? Showing rising 6th graders what it's like to play clarinet for the very first time. I remember putting the mouthpiece in their mouths, and holding the rest of the clarinet in my hands, looking them in the eyes, and saying, "Blow as hard as you can." Most kids struggled, blowing so hard their faces turned red. And then they got the hang of it. Suddenly, noise flew through the instrument, and the look of pure joy on their face was unforgettable. I'd move my fingers, knowingly maneuvering them to create different notes while the child continued to blow air through the instrument, and nothing can beat their shocked faces when the noise goes from loud and screechy, to melodic and understandable. To learn to play an instrument is an unmatchable experience, but being the one to help a child find their passion in music is a close contender. With this money, I do plan to further my musical education, to one day perform in groups that create memories for their audiences, and to become the girl who showed a child that music is love and music is life.

Selflessness is best shown in a range of situations. A simple example from my own experience is when I took my shoes off so someone else could wear them. During marching band rehearsal, it's best to wear tennis shoes, but a girl in my section had forgotten her shoes, and was stuck in sandals. I would be fine marching without them, seeing as I had more experience, but she would struggle in her sandals. I gave her my shoes. An emotional example is when I chose to put my academic responsibilities to the side to help a friend. He had missed nearly a month of school to care for his sister as she suffered from heart issues, showing selflessness himself. But his compassion needed to be shared, and he needed someone to put him first. I knew I had tons of assignments, but instead, I sat in his room and helped him go through the dozens of paper assignments, online essays, and projects. It was tiring, but I knew he couldn't have done it alone, and he shouldn't have had to do it alone. A deeply painful example is when I chose to put my fear and sadness aside to help my mother fill out papers to admit my brother into inpatient after he attempted suicide. Honestly, all I wanted to do was lay in my bed and rot, to cry and cry and cry every tear out of myself. But I knew my mom was fragile, and she couldn't take much more than she already had. I set myself aside, and put my family first.

Creativity in my life is making ends meet. It's wearing an old shirt a different way than before so it lasts longer, so I don't have to ask my mom to buy me another one. It's wrapping tape around the exposed wires of my charger, instead of buying a new one. When part of my clarinet broke, I used tape to replace it, molding the tape into the shape of the piece that had fallen off. Instead of going to the doctor for a cold, my mom makes tea, and I feel better. Creativity goes beyond art and music and drama. Beyond architecture and teamwork and manufacturing. It's embedded into what I do on the daily, to save money and spend the least amount possible.

This year, my mental health deterred my musical experiences. I'd sit in the midst of rehearsal, my mind going slow and sluggish. My tone was ugly. My tuning was sharp. My articulation was wrong. I was disappointing everyone around me, and all I could do was stare at the music in front of me, nothing running through my head. The most I could get myself to do was count the breaths I was taking, and even then, I could barely breathe. My depression had run its dark tendrils around my throat, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, until I felt my lungs collapse inside me. My mental health stopped me feeling. I'd been offered love and companionship, and all I could do was stare, sigh, ask them "don't be like this." I wouldn't answer my phone, and suddenly 1 unread text became 56, 1 missed call became 7 voicemails, and one absence became too many to count. I go on a date, I can't understand why anyone would take me on a date knowing the state I'm in, can't understand why I accepted. He looks at me, takes my hands, says, "Angie, what's wrong?" I don't answer. My mental health kept a tight fist on my lungs. Never did I feel like I had enough air in my body, always breathing in more and more and more until my throat burned and my head was light. All I wanted to do was breathe. I wanted to crack my body open down the middle and cut down my lungs, letting air finally reach them, and still I knew it would not be enough. My mental health made me give up on my SAT. I sat for 15 minutes before I started. Sat and watched and the ink on the book swirl and swirl around my vision. What was I doing? What was I thinking? I get a worse score on the test than I thought I would. My mental health drove me to stand in the cold for hours. I go to a concert alone in February, my feet and toes and fingers so chilled I can't feel them. I record the concert, I don't say a single word. I don't sing along, I don't cheer. I attend my favorite artist's concert, and I act like I have no idea who is singing. I spend the money for tickets, and cry on the ride home. I don't breathe. My mental health had me showing no reactions. I sit on my friend's bed, he borrows me laptop. He says, "Angie, I think I broke your laptop." I don't look. I can't take it if I look. I tell him, "Oh." I feel nothing. My mental health changes me. I spend 4 months in a state of disassociation. I don't know who I am, I lose my sense of self. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in. Count your fingers. Breathe out. Stare at the people in front of you, they're looking at you, but you're not really there. I'm not there, and I don't know who I am. Your name is Angie, I remind myself. You're 17, you have a dog, actually you have 2 dogs. You play the clarinet. You don't have a boyfriend, but you have a boy friend. You have a brother, a sister, and a mother. You're not real. You're not real. You are real, but it doesn't feel that way. My mental health was set on the back burner when my brother tried to kill himself. I start to feel unreal when I sit in his hospital room and the fluorescent lights bounce off the white floors, into my eyes. For two weeks I don't exist. For two weeks I speak to no one but my family. My mental health causes me to lose my sense of self. I forget what I believe in. I lose touch with my friends, I cut off relationships. I forget what I want to do with myself. My career aspirations are nowhere to be found. Suddenly, Im not Angie Novoa, top clarinet player. Angie Novoa, National Recognition Program Award Winner. Angie Novoa, musician. Angie Novoa, aspiring author. Angie Novoa, straight A student. I'm not Angie Novoa. I'm not myself and I can't find the time or the motivation to figure out who I am. My mental health ruined me and my only choice is to rebuild.

Financial stability. My main goal is financial stability. To be able to make rent without thinking about it, to have enough to buy groceries without food stamps. To one day be off food stamps. Financial stability is the key to happiness, in my beliefs. The key to a happy, calm home, family, and relationship. My goal is to buy juice without asking if a different juice is cheaper, or if a different store carries that juice at a cheaper price. Without wondering if I can even afford juice without food stamps. Financial stability means dental care isn't optional, because, as my mother says, "Dentists in this country make money" each time she sees insurance won't cover the pain in her molar, and she doesn't have the money to spend on something so 'unnecessary.' Everything in this life costs money, whether one has it or not, and I'd like to be one that has money. Enough of it to cover the necessities, and to cover the unnecessary. It's my goal to buy laundry detergent and then pay for an unnecessary painting class, just for fun, just because it'll make be happy. My goal is to be happy, and financial stability is happiness.

Academic success is often a two-edged sword. Much weight is placed on it, becoming both a burden and a relief. My study strategy has always been on rewarding the tiny victories. If I've answered 15 questions in a row correctly while studying for my SAT, I'll allow myself to watch part of an episode of a show I'm enjoying. If I completed 3 short assignments or 1 difficult one, I'd have a snack. Often, students with constant high achievements push themselves too hard, and I am not an exception. I place academic success too high on what I deem as self-worth, and this study strategy allows me to ease off the self-deprecation.

In January of 2022, I was disrespected by a teacher I thought respected me most. I've spent the past 2.5 years fighting to defend my spot as the highest player in my school's band. I thought I had earned it. Through all my auditions, solos, achievements, I thought I had earned to be respected as the top player. Yet with someone's another student's claims of them being better, my teacher handed me music for someone who isn't the top player. Nothing is worse than knowing how hard you worked, the early mornings and late nights, the overhearing conversations about how you're not good enough, and still being treated less than you are. But I chose to wipe my tears. I would not ask for pity. I would not ask for sympathy. I would persistently remind everyone who I was. I spent weeks perfecting my solos, fine tuning, kicking myself down if I got too arrogant. Because I would never again allow anyone to undermine me the way my teacher and my peer did. Even after I had COVID, a stomach virus, a broken wrist, a broken clarinet, family emergencies, academic responsibilities, excessive absences, and pure, overbearing exhaustion, my goal to remain at the top was evident. And I would never allow myself to lose. May comes around, auditions would reveal who was really the best. I miss a key detail of my audition music, and don't realize until moments before I have to play. And still, I fixed it as I played through, reminding myself that mistakes will not be noticed unless I made them obvious. Results come out, and I feel the same pit in my stomach I had felt in January. But then I see my name at the top. The top player — Angie Novoa.

Music is a universal language. To stay in music education, my mother has made sure the payments on my clarinet are made, working overtime each week and even taking the nightshift to get paid more. She's sacrificed her social life, her romantic life, and her free time to keep me happy and to keep me in school. On days she stays home, in her car, and when she cleans, she listens to music. She plays music, dances, sings, and laughs. Music a universal language. She uses music to tell us she loves being with us despite her exhaustion, despite the aches in her back. Music is a universal language. My father and my band director don't speak the same language. But when they stand in my room as I play a solo, they both understand everything I've worked through to play as emotionally and colorfully as I can. They can't speak to each other, spoken words never flowing between the two, but they know what each is thinking. Music is a universal language. Hate and love is written in the ink of music notes on a page. Schumann relieves his sorrows through my clarinet, his German thoughts. translating to my musical tones. Hazo tells the tale of a riveting car ride through his music, introducing twists and turns in music, going from common time to an insane time signature, going back and forth. Music is a universal language. It speaks to me in the way I've never been able to form words in my head and out of my mouth. It's allowed me to feel emotions I didn't know existed, releasing the tension in my shoulders like no other. Music is a universal language.

To women, education is the key to breaking through every barrier set before us. Countries with laws against women in education are developing countries, nations that set their own limits. Taking away those laws they've set on education always shows that women improve every area, as long as they are educated. My mother did not finish high school. My grandmother didn't even enroll into high school. The women before them dreamed of going to school. To me, gaining a higher education is honoring the sacrifices they were forced to make as women, as mothers, as daughters, and as victims of systems that did not respect them.