Art has been my salvation since the beginning of my existence. Since I was child, I was making portraits out of spilled ketchup and designs out of broken crayons. Growing up with less access to materials and education I learned to observe the beauty from the world around me. I saw the universe of details that could be contained within a single leaf and the history that lay in the marred concrete leading to my childhood home. I was enamored with the world and people around me, and that love would develop into a real passion for creation. I remember when I was younger house my mother's stress and anger used to bubble up into action, and after beating me or my sister, she would hide away in her room afraid of her own actions. To cheer myself up I would watch My Little Pony, it helped to soothe the pain of fresh wounds. I had always admired the roundness and clean lines that detailed the ponies and began to copy my favorite ones. Soon I was able to confidently copy each character but not able to make that of my own. As my talents and ambitions grew, I started to do the most selfishly human thing one could do, desire. I desired to create more, to inspire with that creation, and to make a change with it. My life became a matter of dedication, to the arts, sciences, and natural beauty that the world and people within it had to offer. I threw myself into anatomy and color theory and comic styles trying my best to emulate what I thought was, "good" art. To me good art was pain just as much as it was relief. Good art forced the viewer to endure a journey of discovering their own understanding of things, they had to put themselves in the piece to know what it truly meant. Books like Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neele Hurston and paintings like Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan by Ilya Repin are what I consider, "good" art. They challenged and guided the viewer through a specific complexity in life and let them discover the meanings behind those mysteries for themselves. I, till this day, aspire to be one of those good artists and change lives with something as simple as a mountain of brush strokes and stories that can only be told through paint and passion.

The intimacy between music and illustration has always been my main inspiration to create the types of art that I do. I want for the viewer to feel the same kind of animalistic passion that a yowling trombone brings at the height of a jazz song with just the stroke of my pen. I want for my art to create a sorrow that infests the souls of the audience as their eyes trace each brush stroke, I want for them to hear the low cry of a Cello as their eyes dance around the canvas. When you think of passion, I'm sure the first thing that comes to mind isn't comic books or children's media, but I'd like for you to allow me to challenge that thought for just a moment. Growing up in Jackson Mississippi where literacy rates sunk lower than the delta in a dry season, pictures were the best way to tell a story that everyone could understand. Children in my class struggled to read and write, but when I showed them my first shabby comic about a girl and her dog fighting witches, I saw the ways that they leaned closer and squinted for a better look. Art has always been the main source of inspiration for disenfranchised black children and my hope for my art is to implant a sense of passion into the lives of these children. I believe that both art and hope are human rights and deserve to be treated as such. With my art I will show children who were once like me and weren't taught how to even spell literacy the beauty that a story can hold. My dream is to become a children's comic author and inspire the youth to exercise their freedoms and passions to their fullest extent and I hope that you would help me on that journey.

I remember looking up to the stars when I was younger and wondering what other beauties the universe could offer. For a short time, I lived in a barn in the Mississippian wilderness. As a young black girl the beauties of nature in the Delta contrasted the stuffy violence of Jackson. I found myself often admiring the farm animals and making portraits of them so that when they passed their calves would be able to remember the curvature of their jaws and the faint reflections of stars in their eyes. When we move from the Delta to Jackson I found that nature was not just greenery and the low moans of bobcats. I found nature in the people, veins that trailed like vines and beautifully curled hair that flowed like the thrashing river in the wind. I found myself trying to capture this hidden beauty in every stroke of my pen. Today, I can't stop myself from exploring the complexities of life and human nature. The unusual parts of human nature and society find themselves reflected within my work and nature and its complexities continue to find a home in my art.

My goals for my education and future career can be described as an alive, contorting thing that takes on the forms of each of my hope and dreams throughout the years. When I was 10 years old I was dead set on becoming a wildlife veterinarian and saving those endangered animals that I felt went unseen. When I was in the 10th grade I became obsessed with the idea that I would one day become a quantum physicist or a chemist who would find or create particles that would rewrite the laws of the universe. Now obviously with that one I was a bit in over my head but I was in the right place with my ambitions and drive. Now, While my career wants vary from wanting to be a member of a legislative house in the government to and environmental scientist who creates wearable carbon sinks that take the main perpetrators of climate change out of the air. Though the through line in all of these desires and wants is to help and inspire people. From protecting children with legislation to giving the tiniest of creatures a chance to survive and thrive, the need to help and inspire is ultimately the goal of any career path that I choose to follow in the future. In my senior year of high school I discovered that my favorite little background hobby, art, could help me to achieve those goals much more effectively than I first thought. When I had first shown my art teacher my first draft of my first children's books, she pretended to be impressed. While my style is suited for children's book work, she pointed at poignantly that the details in my art and character designs were the real spectacle and pushed me to apply to the top art school in the country, Rhode Island School of Design. At first I was incredibly hesitant and doubtful, I had so many aspirations that far outweighed being a silly little artist. Though, disregarding my doubts, I applied anyways. Getting the acceptance letter felt unreal. Getting into the top art school in the country to create art that inspires people and motivates people to create a world of their own is a dream that came straight from my wildest imagination. The ability to be able to create and inspire now pushes me to go to college for illustration and hopefully one day become a children's book illustrator. Though, my dreams won't stop there. Plenty of authors are professors, activists, businessmen, and scientists. Nothing will stop me from being one of those people who experience their potential to their fullest. This scholarship will help me to realize my dreams through my education in both art and liberal arts, giving me the future that I so desperately long for.

Many people don't understand my thought process when I tell them that I am going to school for illustration and plan to work in law. I can't promise that the two will intertwine to create the perfect job that pays well and fulfills me completely, but I can promise that they will both help me reach my ultimate goal of protecting and inspiring people. In 2017, a 14-year-old girl named Alexandra Love was murdered by her boyfriend. I knew her through my older sister since they were friends at the time. Alexandra was a bold, bright, and utterly free spirit. She didn't let a single person discourage her from her ideals and did not know how to be anything but herself. I remember the one time we truly interacted was when she had gotten into an argument with her mother in front of us. Her mother, in fury, smacked her as hard as she could across the face. After falling to the ground, she rose again and stood with her chest puffed out and a challenge on her face. Sometimes, when I feel myself being knocked down and ostracized I find myself attempting to puff my chest out in that same brave way. In 2026, a 21-year-old man named Alexander Blinkenberg took his own life. I met Alexander during a short stay in-patient. We became fast friends. As I grew to learn more about him, I realized how strong he truly was. Alex was a beast of a man, standing at over 6 ft and bulky with a voice that made you think twice about crossing him. Despite his admittedly scary appearance, he was one of the kindest people I met. I remember once, while we were playing a game of Black Jack he had let me win the game and leaned in to tell me that, "Kindness is a choice you make every single day, and today I'm choosing to be kind to you." Except that wasn't the only day he decided to be kind. Once we both graduated from the psychiatric ward and into the real world, he taught me how to drive on the highway and parallel park. He even stayed on the phone with me as I made biscuits for the first time, scattering flour and laughs all across the kitchen. Often, I find that in situations where I anger too quickly, I choose to be kind. I choose to be like Alex. Every day with every obstacle that I face I must choose the kind of person I want to be. Whether to be bold or be kind. Not many people get that choice. I've known kids that were murdered before getting to make those choices due to the lack of gun restrictions and resources to succeed. I've known men born without hope, who lack the resources to find it. Illustration is a way to bring hope to the hopeless just like how law is a tool to stop violence before it happens. Illustration and law are much like the Alexes, neither make sense together, but both are needed to achieve a world worth living in.

My grandfather never went to college, yet he became a doctor. My mother only attended a two-year community college after having us and now she is starting her very own business in nursing All that is to say that by all measures, I should not be a success story. I knew many children like Jack Terry is Mississippi, didn't know how to read or write in the fourth grade or couldn't tell you how to multiply or divide properly. Education in black schools were lackluster at best and extremely poor at worst. Though, despite the lack of education those children still had hopes and dreams of how they would one day become police officers or lawyers or teachers. Each of them had constellations of the futures that awaited them in their eyes. For the longest time, as taught by books and movies, I thought that nothing was impossible and that each and every one of these children would succeed and go beyond even the goals that they set for themselves. But in 2018 I learned a valuable lesson, that a child cannot succeed without support. My older now younger friend, Alexandra, was murdered after sneaking out of her house which she shared with her mother and stepfather who were both drug addicts and snuck to a party with her boyfriend. At the party, she was murdered by her boyfriend who left her body for his mother to discover. I think often about who fault her death was. Was it her mother's who could not guide her to make better decisions, was it the boy's mother for not teaching him right for wrong, was it his for the way his finger methodically pulled the trigger? Over the course of years these questions have gone unanswered. But new ones arose that were within the realm of possibility to solve and conquer. What could I do for little girls like Alexandra? How do you put a stop to systemic violence that has been functioning since before you were even born? It starts with hope. My senior year I was diagnosed with severe depression and attended a partial hospitalization program and inpatient several times over the course of three months. One of the little girls that I had met at my PHP was a little girl had already begun drinking and smoking. The more time we spent together, her stealing portions of my lunch and me teaching her how to draw, the more I realized that I could make a difference in the lives of those like Alexandra. On her last day in the program, she hugged me and told me she wished I was her father. I remember vowing to myself that from then on, I would stop at nothing to help those in need. Later that semester I went to inpatient where I met people who I am still friends with till this day. One such person was a man names Alexander. He was by all means my brother in arms, and every day he taught me how to be a better person than the last. On March 30th, 2026, due to his severe depression my brother took his own life. Through the hot searing pain and wounds that I would never close I made a promise to myself. That no matter what I would succeed, and I would inspire hope in others who knew nothing of it and help them to the best of my abilities. With my studies I hope to be able to inspire people through the passage of laws and programs meant to help those in disadvantaged positions.

I did not know that when I first stepped into B323 that I would meet the man who would support me for the rest of my high school career and life. When I first moved to Pennsylvania, I was heartbroken. From my perspective, I had just left my home in Texas to come to this terrible and new place where there was nothing but bad food and trees going so far out that you couldn't tell if the forest line actually ended. So, when I first began high school and found out about the speech and debate club, I figured it was a way to take all of my aimlessness and anger and focus those big emotions into something more productive. When I first met my debate coach I knew from that moment on that we would be good friends. He was an old liberal white man who had clearly watched Dead Poets Society one too many times and now thought that he was the next John Keating. His enthusiasm and patience ignited a kind of wonder in me. Growing up with only my mother and sister, I didn't have many male role models and less that actually pushed me to be a better version of myself. Every time I wanted to give up it was "I know for a fact that you can do better." or "Just try it one more time.", he never lost hope in my abilities. Throughout the years he has pushed me not only to question my own morals and thoughts but to also grow from those feelings. Whenever I would wrongfully complain or aim my anger at the wrong people, he'd always gently redirect me to the topic at hand. With my coach I have been able to hone my skills of debate and understanding. Without him, I would not be the kind and empathetic person that I am today, and I certainly would not be able to hold my own in a scholarly setting. Though in my junior year when he had to step down from coaching problems started to arise. I felt like I was all alone and had no direction. Though I soon came to realize that even though I was on my own with debate I'd never truly be alone. My teacher made sure that I had the guidance to succeed and grow as a person. I will always pay thanks to my debate coach who taught me that I could and would be better.

My mother is finite. While I am her child and she loves me as much as she can, there is only so much she can do. Growing up in section 8 housing I remember how she used to slowly get on two knees with aching feet from 12-hour shifts at the ER and silently pray. She never told us what she prayed for, only when her prayers were answered. One such time was when I won my first spelling be. She cried, even though I didn't view it as such a big deal. Still, she clapped her hands together triumphantly and paraded me around our tiny apartment like I was the only person in the world. I remember how my pride swelled when my mother practically danced through the kitchen after finding out that I had become the president of my school's debate team. I did not tell her of the many losses that it took for me to gain this one victory, or the battle that took place for me to earn the title of the "best". Later in my senior year when my best friend took his own life just days after me getting into a top 10 school, my mother sat me down and told me that each prayer and victory had a cost. That's when I learned that unlike other kids who had grown up in two parent households with a support system to shield them from the natural shocks and pains that flesh is heir to, I had to swallow each blow and rise again like it didn't hurt an inch. To this day I am still clawing my way through this world with hopes and prayers, taking each blow as a lesson and honoring my mother with my outspoken voice and my powerful words.

A degree in illustration and law would not just change the lives of the future generations in my family, but also the lives of all the children who will read my stories and be represented by the laws I interpret or create. Growing up, I never stayed in one place for too long. I was always bouncing from one apartment to another with my small family of three. My mother was always told that poor kids like us from Jackson Mississippi could not succeed in higher education, she was told that we didn't even deserve the chance. Now that I've grown up and gotten into universities that I could only dream of, I can tell you that they were all wrong. I see myself reflected in each child that I meet who have yet to learn how to read, have behavioral disorders, or their parents just don't believe that they can succeed. These kids come together to make constellations that tell the stories of their parents' own failures and how they've stained their children's futures. If you look closer, you can see how their parents and grandparents and great grandparents are reflected within them too. My question to you is, how do you stop a generational curse so widespread that affects a majority of children? The answer starts with me. Illustration and debate were both things that I was constantly told that I wasn't good at and that I couldn't succeed in. People could not believe that a young black boy had ideas of his own and the means to share it, my own people believed this too at points. Succeeding in the black community is not guaranteed so most don't hold out hope for it. But as I grew up and met more people and saw more of the world, I realized how wrong my isolated Mississippian community was. Each kid that I met that didn't yet know how to read or write still had fantastical stories to tell. One such boy was named Issac, and at five years old his mother believed that he was manipulative, dumb, and ultimately undeserving of respect. But one thing about Issac was that when he wasn't hitting biting or screaming, he had the most fantastical stories to tell. Since we all lived together at the time, I would go to his room at night and sit on the floor while listening to him tell fantastical stories of dragons and bears fighting and princesses who drove Ferraris and kicked butt! He was a very talented storyteller but didn't know how to share them with the world. That is what inspired me to start the career path that I am embarking on. My plan is to illustrate books for children who don't yet know how to read so that they can be inspired to create stories and world of their own like Issac. After becoming an illustrator, I plan to pursue legal education so that I can uplift my small community in rural Mississippi financially as well as inspiring them to reach for higher and hope for more. I want for the generations after me to know that they are capable of all they dream of and more. I've already started working on my first children's book and am now applying to universities for illustration and political science. I can feel my future and its bright with the hope of others, including myself.

Ink is a rare opportunity to become intimate with your own skills and the actual subject of the illustration. While ink is unforgiving and final, it allows for the artist to become familiar with their own faults and how they can grow from them. When I first started drawing my art, like many beginners, was wobbly at best and completely shabby at worst. I couldn't draw a straight line (still can't) for the life of me and the page would often rip from my overuse of the eraser. Often, my drawing was more of my faded mistakes than actual art. Though, when I was in the fifth-grade things started to change for me. This change was primarily due to my introduction into anime and mange. The flashy styles of the shonen genre and the thick course lines of when a character was on the brink of panic or exploding with anger. The vividness and sleekness of ink in manga like Death Note and Naruto held my art captive even though I had no idea how to replicate that with pencil and paper. It actually took an embarrassingly long time to come to the realization that I actually need to use the same medium those authors used to make my art as good as theirs. It started with ball point pen and a lot of chicken scratch. Useless lines that added nothing of value to my compositions and irregular proportions that had no business in the illustrations that I was trying to create. With ink, my art was set back to ground zero. It took me an embarrassingly long time to get a grasp on it. Whole sketchbooks filled to the brim with anatomy and figure drawings done entirely in ink. I would not let myself rest until I had mastered the art of ink and told the stories that could only be told with its permanence. Finally, after a lot of practice and struggle I became better with ink than I was with pencil. I was finally able to capture those stories in my head of ballerinas jumping explosively onto the page or a sorrowful woman standing over her lover's body, lamenting over the permanence of death. Even the manga that I had been trying to replicate in the foolishness of my youth was not safe. My ideas were bold and deserved to be created with something just as permanent as they were. I believe that ink is a virtue. It allows people to put down their first thought without the chance to question themselves and their technique. Ink is the truest form of art, and it deserves to be treated as such by all. The mangakas that inspired me knew this truth and now I wish to share it with you all as well. I hope my love for ink inspires everyone to create something that cannot be erased or misinterpreted.

Growing up knowing that I wasn't a girl was a weird experience to say the least. In Jackson Mississippi there were only boys and girls, and their one job was to marry each other and have kids. For a long time, I thought that was everyone's normal, well everyone except for me. I knew in second grade when there was a girl, I admired so much that I would wish I was a man to marry her that my normal was different from everyone else's. I knew my normal was different when I would wear baggy clothes and light up when people mistook me for a boy. I knew my normal was different when I shared my first kiss with a girl on the playground and felt complete for the first time in my life. That different kind of normal is what inspired this illustration. The act of allowing yourself to be different from the grueling expectations of society, to allow yourself to be weird and unconventional is what pushed me to create this. The belief that someone must be one thing instead of many intertwined like a heavy quilt that expands across lifetimes is abhorrent and truly irregular. In fact, this illustration is meant to inspire that often-shunned irregularity. This illustration is a mirror for the underrepresented and often forgotten. "Jack the Ripper" is an exploration into grotesque forms of queer love. The serial killer Jack the Ripper is mostly known for their depraved murders in the late 1800's and mysterious identity, but some historians have theorized that he wasn't really a "he" at all. Transgenderism in history is not something that is often discussed, especially not in a more serious and darker setting. My interpretation of Jack the Ripper relies heavily on this idea of the Ripper being a cross dresser or transgender woman exploring her sexuality and sense of want in unhealthy ways that act as a double-edged sword. The figure on the bed lying in such a way that you can't tell if they were intimately tangled or murdered. Jack's curiosity spilling out of them in a cascade of eyes and fingers that wish to explore every crevice of a form they are not granted. The morning glories that surround jack like a tomb showing how this attraction will only end in misery and the double-edged sword that is accepting yourself and the shadows that you cast.

As the first president of my school's speech and debate team as well as the only African American member of the team itself, diversity in both numbers and thoughts has always been the goal with my team. My Junior year I held the first speaker event for the club where I had the first female African American third circuit court justice Tamika Reeves come speak to the kids at the club. The crowd was mostly filled with pale faces and disinterested eyes but for those few students of colors who were interested in debate but afraid of being labeled as weak for being recognized as intelligent, it changed their lives. during the even Mrs. Reeves and I lead conversations and debates about multiple eye-opening topics. Things like, "Does school attendance target marginalized communities?" and "Does Womanism have a right to exist?". Of course, highschoolers were never meant to answer these sorts of questions, but the very act of sharing their views and opinions brought something incredibly valuable to the table, voice. Many BIPOC highschoolers don't have the opportunity to use their voices without it being in the context of white supremacy. Those children who were supposed to be angry and violent and dumb, learnt how to prove that they were anything but. By introducing the possibility of truly being heard, considered, and then opposed in a meaningful way has made the experience foundational for them and educational for me. The very idea of getting to teach people how to be independent in their ideals and true to themselves is what pushed me to this club in the first place. Though, I believe that meaningful debate can happen anywhere at any time. My junior year when the conflict in Palestine first began, I had a white classmate say that "That's what they get for messing with us." It was one of the most impactful times that I saw how empathy fluctuated based on race, religion, and gender. As much as I try to keep an open mind I had to question, how could anyone deserve anything like that. There are still great grandchildren of holocaust survivors and grandchildren of slaves. Did they deserve their fates? I wonder, back in 2017 when my family first got news of my older now younger cousin's Alexandra Love's death, did she deserve it? How can a child deserve anything but hope and guidance? That single statement made me realize that the machinations of racism and white supremacy were not rational or concentrated in small groups. Racism is a general idea that some deserves something that no human being should be forced to endure. It's the idea that a human being lacks rights the moment they oppose that very foundation of racism and oppression. I spend the majority of my time learning and pushing myself to the limit just so one day, no one will deserve anything but to have their voice heard and valued by all.

My dream is to be able to sustain my self with my art and be able to inspire others to do the same. I grew up in a rundown neighborhood where people slipped through the cracks of Mississippi like Eurydice falling to the underworld. There was nothing but gangs, violence, and art around me at the time. Even when people were in pain, when they had no where to turn, they still turned to art. Tags decorated the sides of buildings, melodic jazz and angry rap crawled on the streets like starving dogs looking for a bone. As much as people destroyed in that dreadful place, they also created. In every piece of angry art I saw someone's soul swishing around like smooth wine. The beauty within the chaos is what pushed me to art. Now I plan to show my people that violence and art do not need to be entangled, and that creating is what we were made for. I have already begun work on my first children's book to inspire the youth of my community. A story about three witches who must fight against greed so that they can give their friend their magic back. That is not the only story that I wish to create. Others include a comic book about a series of tunnels, each lead to a different universe where you must complete one goal. An animated series about a young dragon slayer who meets his first half human-half hybrid dragon who he quickly befriends as they go on adventures to take on the King of the World. A comic about four young girls who gain powers during the apocalypse and must fight to keep reality from splitting in two. These are just a few examples of the ideas that I have that I would like to illustrate and create in the future. I plan to become a comic author to inspire those around me as well as later in my career becoming a creative director to help young minds reach their fullest potential and to create media that will inspire for generations. My creative process has always been inspired by those before me like Edgar Degas and his ballerinas or Monet's unique painterly style. I have also been inspired by more modern artist like Kei Urana, the creator of the manga Gachiakuta, or Oda the creator of One Piece who inspired to create a world of my own.

The future I envision is bright and not without turmoil; I want to usher in an age for hope and resilience in the world. When I was younger, my mother worked three jobs making minimum wage just to return home exhausted and defeated to our section eight housing. My goal is to make sure that women like my mother don't have to work as hard or be as hopeless about their situations. Once I graduate I plan to take the LSAT and continue with higher education to represent the underrepresented and to care for those who need it the most. I also plan to write and illustrate books to further help my community and inspire people to go above and beyond just like me. b) I did not know that when I first stepped into B323 that I would meet the man who would support me for the rest of my high school career. When I first began speech and debate I was aimless and angry, I did not know exactly what I wanted to do but I knew that I had energy that needed to be expelled. When I first met my debate coach I knew from that moment on that we would be good friends. Through out the years he has pushed me not only to question my own morals and thoughts but to also grow from those feelings. With my coach I have been able to hone my skills of debate and understanding. Without my coach I would not be the kind and empathetic person that I am today, and I certainly would not be able to hold my own in a scholarly setting. Though in my junior year when he had to step down from coaching problems started to arise. I felt like I was all alone and had no direction. Though I soon came to realize that even though I was on my own with Debate I'd never truly be alone. My teacher made sure that I had the guidance to succeed and grow as a person. I will always pay thanks to my debate coach who taught me that I could be better and that I would be better.

When I was around eight years old and lived in the heart of Jackson, Mississippi, I had gotten all A's on my report card. As proud as I was of myself my mother was prouder, and saw it fit to treat me and my sister to the rarest of treats, Wendy's. In downtown Jackson, seeing homeless people or those addicted to drugs was a common occurrence. Each person like a drop in a wide ocean of things. Even from such a young age, I wouldn't let anyone convince me that these people weren't like me, that they didn't deserve the same right to personhood as I did. These people deserved to feel hurt and to express it in unsightly ways, just like me. So when my small family arrived at the only Wendys in Jackson and saw an old copper colored man with no legs sitting on the sidewalk like the saddest ending note in jazz, all except for me paid no mind. As we walked inside, the man did not even beg as some homeless usually did, he had no sign and his eyes were down turned, fixed on the concrete at which he was glued to. My stomach churned seeing someone with such a lack of hope. Even at that age I recognized that something other than walking by and turning my eyes away needed to be done. When my mother ordered my food I did not ask for my usual frosty and fries; instead I asked for the adult meal with extra fries. I remember how my mother looked slightly confused and checked her wallet nervously before finally handing over the money hesitantly to the cashier. As soon as the food touched my hands I Marched outside to where the man still sat. "Excuse me sir, are you hungry?" He looked at me but gave no verbal response, I could only tell the answer by his slight nod. I presented the food quickly and waited for him to take it. I will always remember the way one tear slipped from his eye, no thank you, no praise, only one droplet that would make ripples throughout the rest of our lives. After he took the food I took the admonishment from my mother. "Why would you waste my money on the bum? What are you going to eat? This was for you not him!" She grumbled angrily. I let her words slide off me like warm rain and sat happily while her and my sister ate. I felt more satisfaction than any simple meal could grant me. Later in life when I was at my lowest during the first half of my senior year, I tried to take my own life. In the midst of angst and depression I found one through line to anchor myself with. One thing that could be solely mine was my college applications. I put what was left of my soul into my essay and sent it out like a lone blossom adrift in a storm. When I began to receive decisions back from each college I felt a sort of impending doom as I opened each email. The ver first college I heard back from I got deferred. I was ready to accept similar decisions from the rest, but as they poured in it was only acceptance after acceptance until finally I accepted into Rhode Island School of Design- my dream school. I was ecstatic, and my success felt like a warm blanket. From then on, success meant a lot more to me than just winning. It meant helping others, including myself.