In 2016, a group of kids came to a non-profit for a bandage after one cut their hand exploring an abandoned building. They treated the wound but were also worried about why they were there. The kids said they had nowhere else to play after being told the street was dangerous. They thought it would be amazing to have a playground that would come to them, and the Fun-Riaser was born, a large yellow truck filled with toys where kids could have a safe space to go outside, an urban mobile playground. The non-profit wanted to make this happen, and they did, all while keeping it a space led by kids so they could have confidence in knowing that their voices were valued and that they could make change in their community. This is where I come in. At 10 years old, I was the perfect demographic with a love of creativity and an emerging sense of social justice as I learned about how challenges as kids affect people as adults. I was a founding member of their youth-led, adult-facilitated steering committee, which I christened The Never Bored Board. During the summer, I traveled with The Fun-Raiser through a cycle of neighborhoods. I met peers who didn’t even know they lived next to each other and saw everyone bond as not only kids played, but their families joined intergenerationally. I became interested in its psychology, learning about ACE scores and Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, and by 13, I was presenting at state conferences, highlighting the importance of youth input in program development. I was also able to serve as a youth representative, conveying the thoughts I had heard from the other members of The Never Bored Board and the kids at our stops to the city council and other change makers. Now, at 18, I serve as an AmeriCorps member at the parent non-profit, and during the school year, I teach free youth art classes utilizing the same research-based, trauma-informed methods and found my passion for arts management and working with others in a non-profit capacity. I am pursuing this in college, and I also look forward to learning more about psychology to strengthen all of the similar work I will do in the future in a way that will fit the needs of a community and also provide genuine improvement in the lives of as many people as possible.

Growing up in Appalachia, music related to my culture is engraved into everything from church hymns to banjos at a campfire. When something is so prevalent in life, it seems like an interest would develop from proximity. However, my musical interests have always been further away in post-punk and German electronic genres. These spaces are niche online, let alone accessible in West Virginia. My passion for music felt isolating despite those around me being just as invested in the same thing, only in different styles. I’m the type of person to cling to a passion completely, be it an influential band or a specific songwriting structure, and I can have a hard time branching out until I find something else that creates the same intensity of passion. This made me create a wall, not seeing the commonalities and instead choosing to separate myself from the artists in my community. This feeling of separation lingered in the back of every conversation until the thing that became my parenthetical muse was a musician called Momus. He’s a Scottish musician with an album called Folktronic, an “anthology of fake folk,” mostly Appalachian, combined with electronica. Musically, it’s nothing to write home about, a combination of synthetic fiddle and cheap 80s Casio beeps. Still, The combination of such unrelated genres opened up new possibilities for me, both in music and beyond. It showed me how the digital age I’ve grown up in and the music I’m constantly talking about could relate to the land I stand on, but more importantly, the people around me. This concept of finding ways to connect generally unrelated topics is how discovery in any field is made, and thinking about this has made me step out of my comfort zone and find joy in things that I wouldn’t have expected or has at least made me able to figure out why people like things based on their own experiences, even if it’s not for me. It also helped me discover my interest in ethnomusicology and how much I love to explore how music interacts with culture and vice versa.  I want to explore this in higher education, and the college I’m attending has a liberal arts program that is just as interdisciplinary as the album, which deeply excites me. I’ve learned the value of being multidimensional and how crucial cultural anthropology is to tie in with my other studies. Seeing the perspectives of others can help interpersonal relationships flourish both in the workplace and personally, especially through the universal language of music. Like the boundary-pushing adventurers mentioned in Folktronic, From Johnny Cash to those in Star Trek, I want to embrace how protean life is no matter where I end up.  No one fits perfectly into a set culture, and it’s funny how to understand and empathize with the one I grew up in but didn’t fully comprehend it took a musician from a different continent. I’ve been working on practicing combinations, from writing my own genre blends to helping combine a playground and truck to make a mobile play space where kids in my town can still have a safe place to be creative despite not being given the opportunity to anywhere else, and hopefully find a spot in the community that I felt detached from for so long. This journey of personal growth and self-expression has made me realize that being multifaceted is one of the greatest tools a person can have in the workplace, academia, and life, all because of music. I can’t wait to use every moment I spend learning to expand upon it.

Whenever I visit a museum, I can never make it through the building’s entirety. This started with my first childhood passion, all things natural history. Before I could read, I would ask my mom what was on every plaque. I was hungry for as much information about what was in front of me as possible, and getting it just made me want to learn more. As my interests shifted to where they lie now in the fine arts, I began to look beyond the paintings into a museum’s layout and function, how art is grouped together, and where it stands in relation to seating and pieces of other mediums. I began to think about how art is often behind barriers, and when many see it, there is a disregard for intention simply because information and education surrounding it aren’t accessible. This experience of feeling so passionate about the details relating to what I enjoy has cemented my desire to study arts management and focus on community education. Growing up in West Virginia, access to resources is limited, especially to art. I have been lucky enough to serve as an AmeriCorps member and a community art center while completing high school online, and having the opportunity to do things like lead a mime class at an after-school program for low-income elementary students to explore socio-emotional intelligence and feeling that kids might not have the words for through movement has been extremely rewarding. Being asked to create and execute curriculums as an 18-year-old was daunting at first, but I have learned so much, and having an environment where one day I’m writing a grant, and the next I’m facilitating a trauma-informed fiber arts class for a group foster home has made me want to do this for the rest of my life, combining mutual aid and advocacy with my other passions of art and psychology. Overall, I can’t wait to use college as an opportunity to not only learn myself but also learn to teach others in ways that create a space where they can express themselves and learn how they can process the difficulties in their lives.

When I was in elementary school, I became a part of an organization called the Fun-Raiser. Safe places to play in West Virginia can be hard to find, and it was started by kids, for kids, after a local community leader heard about children getting hurt playing in an abandoned building and offered the support of her non-profit. With the purchase of a big yellow truck, we created an urban mobile playground that would drive to local neighborhoods to give at-risk youth a place to build community through play. At first, I was in it for fun, naming the youth committee The Never Bored Board and ensuring that adults listened to what the kids in Wheeling wanted. However, as I grew up with this group and the non-profit guiding us, I was able to learn about the psychological effects of creativity on children with high ACE scores and how much trauma-informed education can reduce the harmful side effects of growing up with few resources. I’ve been lucky enough to have the opportunity to talk about this at several state conferences. Now, I serve as an AmeriCorps member at the same non-profit, The Mother Jones Center for Resilliant Community, completing high school online. Being surrounded by so many people helping others has shaped me to do the same, and through the Fun-Raiser, I’ve seen how it can shape other kids to grow into leaders filled with empathy who aren’t afraid to share their voices. I’ve had the opportunity to explore this in many ways through AmeriCorps, from teaching a mime class at an after-school program to explore socio-emotional intelligence that kids might not have the words for through movement to facilitating fiber art classes for group foster homes. Being trusted to build and execute research-based curriculum as an 18-year-old was a daunting responsibility at first, but it helped me realize that I want to do this for the rest of my life, finding ways to help others through my other interests in art and psychology. The Mother Jones Center very often deals with issues of homelessness and addiction, and through it, I’ve learned so much about the problems afflicting our state. Because of this, I’ve made it a goal of mine to study advocacy through politics as well, and I aim to show people outside of Appalachia that West Virginia isn’t just a place filled with rednecks stuck in their ways but instead how it is a historically underrepresented area that needs support and resources more than ever because of challenges often beyond an individual’s control. I feel this multidisciplinary approach, combining creativity, community, and advocacy, is the best way to move my community forward. I can’t wait to use higher education to branch out and explore these methods, helping me better understand how I can not only help my neighbors and make them want to do the same but also do it effectively.

Typically, works derivative of classics, like Phantom of the Opera, A Picture of Dorian Grey, and Faust, stick to the source materials and only have one or two twists to change the scenarios or dynamics. Brian De Palma’s 1974 flop Phantom of the Paradise, however, takes all of these bases and combines them into a glam rock musical. It takes classic film school essentials like The Cabinet of Dr. Calligari and Psycho and rips them off their pedestals, asking, “What’s the point of worshiping a creation if you can’t take anything from it?” in more ways than one. It was a massive commercial failure in most of the world, being advertised as a rock movie instead of the colorful, camp, and overall silly piece that it is, except for in Winnipeg and Paris where independent theaters made their own promotional material to reflect it properly, gaining a regional cult fan base in a way that is impossible today. This marketing flop served as a lesson to 20th Century Studios to present art how it is and paved the way for the more known Rocky Horror Picture show the following year. I’ve been in several “cult” fanbases, but this movie has the most dedicated fans I’ve ever seen. I speak for experience: After watching it for the first time, I was on my eighth viewing within the week, and when I went to a convention dressed as the main character, everyone who recognized me said it was their favorite movie, and half had tattoos based on it. It has plot holes and was made with an incredibly small budget, but it also has a shot list that makes it impossible to look away. The amateur nature helps with its deconstruction of professionalism deemed sacred, and it shows how something can be just as fun, colorful, and DIY as it is thought-provoking and open to analysis. Phantom of the Paradise has taught me to present both myself and my work as it is, knowing that by just putting something out there and showing it to the world, the right people will find it. Also, a critique or observation of something doesn’t have to be perfect to still have merit, and ideas are worth sharing even if they aren’t the most serious or original thing imaginable. Stressing about originally is something that most people who do anything creative face, but this film is a great reminder that anything done with passion, even if it takes points from things someone admires, will still be infused with that person’s spirit and individuality when they are the one putting their own perspective on display. Sometimes, I get trapped in a waiting room, thinking that I will do something when I have more time, resources, or money, but when my favorite movie was made without any of those things, I am inspired to take a shot at it anyways and put my best self to the world, being raw and do-it-yourself, making anything I present myself in even more authentic. Phantom of the Paradise is the type of movie that makes you want to create.

Growing up in a digital age has seemingly made finding community simple, when there are thousands of spaces to meet and discuss hyper-specific interests, but in reality, it has taken away from the community we are already in. I was lucky enough to find this immediate community early on when I became a part of a mobile playground called The Fun-Raiser, which travels to low-income neighborhoods without places to play to build local communities through trauma-informed, intergenerational fun. I still work with The Fun-Rasier today, and in its mission to uplift kids’ voices, I became a youth advocate, echoing children's perspectives in programming meetings with local non-profits and city leaders. I was able to present at the West Virginia Department of Arts, Culture & History’s annual conference at 13, which was an extraordinarily affirming and educational experience. The best part was that I wasn’t the only one. I was joined by several other kids across Wheeling, with whom I am still friends today. Having finished high school early, I have had the opportunity to serve as an AmeriCorps member for the organization that got me involved as a child, and I can now bring community to others further. This has taught me about state-level issues and how to combat them. For instance, a shocking number of people in West Virginia don't have IDs, not only making it hard to secure employment or housing for individuals but also contributing to West Virginia’s national representation in the Senate. Learning about issues like this and seeing people fight for justice has solidified that being West Virginian is, in many ways, a matter of empathy. I have seen neighbors helping neighbors, requesting birth certificates, and waiting in DMV lines to help community members get identification cards, pure hospitality and solidarity at its core. One of my favorite facts I learned in my West Virginia history class was that people used to say Andrew Carnegie could buy any place on earth except for Wheeling, West Virginia, because of workers' willingness to fight for one another. It has been inspiring to participate in the same fight 150 years later. Growing up in West Virginia has made me see that the world is a profoundly flawed palace with many issues that I might not have been aware of otherwise, like the opioid crisis and teen pregnancy rates as a result of a long history of poverty and collective struggle. Still, it has also made me more aware of the world as a whole, the passionate individuates fighting for justice, and allowed me to become one of them, finding a place outside of digital culture and with my kin. I love seeing other young people fighting for Appalachia and giving themselves to a cause many have ignored. I'm excited to use higher education to learn more about advocacy for where I came from and develop ways to help through the other things I love, like art and education. These topics will remain close to me when I move to college, so as I go off and make new connections, I want to encourage people to reevaluate their beliefs about Appalachia.

I have spent the past few months teaching a mime class for 22 low-income fourth and fifth graders at a local after-school program. It sounds silly, but I have always been impressed by how mimes can convey so much of something that no one else can see, but everyone can understand. This idea made me think of how emotions are something that we all feel but can have a hard time putting into words. It can be an even more significant challenge for children, and mime class has allowed this group of kids to express themselves and recognize their feelings through trauma-informed play and work together in a fun way, building relationships that last outside of class. One day after class, the program director came to me and told me how the kids talk about my class all week and that it has engaged kids who are never interested in other activities. She said that they have gotten better at cooperating and playing outside of our time slot and during other programming. I’ve seen firsthand the inspiring transformation of kids who didn’t want to engage, let alone perform in front of people, into active participants simply by being given a welcoming space to do so. This enthusiasm has culminated in a performance for the group's staff, parents, and community to see how well they perform when having fun. In addition to the regular scarves, berets, and fake mustaches they get for class, they donned makeup and matching shirts, ready to perform a show that may have originated from activities I had planned but completely transformed as myself and the other volunteers let the kids share their voices. They had a hospital scene where a boy in a pizza costume got a topping transplant, with someone making heart monitor sounds on a kazoo, and played out scenes with drama, heartbreak, and lots of laughs. This event reminded me how vital community service is for improving people's lives, that issues that happen in the process can be overcome, and that hard work will culminate in something great. I hope this event inspired kids to feel open and excited about sharing their ideas with the world and let them know that their voices matter despite times when they may be suppressed. I want the confidence I saw on stage to go into each of their futures in school and the workplace to pave successful careers and the cooperation I saw developed to help build healthy relationships. The organization I serve through my AmeriCorps membership deals with many more serious issues in homelessness and addiction recovery day-to-day. Still, I have learned that infusing fun is not just a luxury but a necessity in making serious issues approachable, especially for kids. Being trusted to create a curriculum and lead programming as a high school student was an intimidating responsibility, but watching it pay off has been extremely rewarding. I want to set the basis for many more successful and foundational childhood memories amid adversity for the rest of my schooling and career, and it is fantastic to think about how this goal was cemented by a group of students having a mime show.

My brother and I are very different people with very different interests. Everything in my life involves crafting a narrative and finding meaning in the obsolete. He is on the practical side and knows about computer science and binary theories. It has always been like this, so our options to spend quality time together, especially in elementary school, were limited. The one thing that made us inseparable despite our differences was Minecraft. We started watching children’s YouTubers like Stampy and DanTDM, and we were heavily invested from the start. I loved the creative and colorful buildings and plots to stop the nefarious villains and he liked the Redstone wiring and efficient farming techniques. Our parents saw how we could bond so much over a video game, even if they didn’t understand the point of a bunch of blocks and no definitive way to win, so for Christmas they got us tablets so that we could finally play for ourselves. We built castles and caves for hours, then often concluded our sessions by flooding them with sheep or seeing how many explosives we could fit into them. Once paid features were introduced like an elaborate holiday village or suburban town maps that you could buy for a few dollars, every few weeks we would spend one half of the day doing chores for quarters. We would then use the afternoon to play the pack that we earned, which made it extra rewarding. Although we have both grown up and changed as people, we still sometimes play Minecraft together and discuss our now much more complex lives. It grounds us, and I now find relaxation in watching the shenanigans of newer Minecraft YouTubers and streamers when I am stressed. Even while Minecraft has had a deep impact on my childhood, I don't feel nostalgia for it. It still brings me the same amount of creativity and wonder as when I was seven and inspires me to make things in the real world. Maybe my love of film and narrative came from the Minecraft stories uploaded onto YouTube, or maybe they just fit my interests perfectly. Either way, it has helped shape me even as I transition to higher education.