When I was six months old my mother adopted me from Guatemala and brought me back to Alabama. It was such a proud moment for her, and I know I was meant to be a part of her family. Our household is made up of me, my mom, and our four dogs. Since it’s just the two of us and my mom works hard, long hours every day, I have responsibilities that my friends do not. I buy groceries, walk and feed our dogs, and care for my grandmother. I never resent these chores, because my mom’s work ethic inspires me. Growing up in a school where 81% of kids are white and only 4% are Hispanic has not always been easy. I remember one day sitting at lunch peacefully watching the birds play when suddenly I was interrupted by a loud voice. A girl in my class shouted, “Bella, tell us how it feels to be black?” My classmates turned expectantly. I felt so confused and called out. My whole life, I have felt different. I struggled to find people I could be myself around. I’ve witnessed my friends get ruthlessly bullied because of their religion and become so upset they converted. This is why I am extremely passionate about inclusion, equity, and social justice. I want to be a voice and a light in this world. Everyone has to actively pursue social justice, and I see myself as an active agent of change. Along with these core values, I also believe that music can be a powerful way to express individuality and to foster connection to others, despite differences. I found solace in the music community at my school and within the greater Birmingham community. One night during the very end of my sophomore year, my mother was talking about her own high school, which had a very small choral department without the funds to participate in competitions. She told me that some schools have absolutely no music funding. I was stunned. Upon further research, I found that in the state of Alabama some schools can’t afford to have a music program at all and many schools have been forced to shut down or cut back their music programs. I had to do something. I contacted the board of AMEA (Alabama Music Educators Association) where I met president-elect Dr. Rob Lyda. After two years of meetings to determine the scope of the project, we finally decided that AMEA would create a scholarship in my name to fund music enrichment for schools in underrepresented areas of Alabama. With the help of some very generous donors, I raised over $5,000 to help kids in Alabama, allowing them to have their own magical moment with music. I felt drawn to take action in hopes that a small change could create a domino effect of opportunity. I didn’t expect how empowering this process would become, as I now can proudly call myself a change-maker.

I've had a passion for music as long as I can remember. One night during the very end of my sophomore year, my mother was talking about her own high school, which had a very small choral department without the funds to participate in competitions. She told me that some schools have absolutely no music funding. I was stunned. Upon researching Alabama public schools, I found that in the state of Alabama some schools can’t afford to have a music program at all and many schools have been forced to shut down or cut back their music programs. What if there are students who feel like me, that music can be a safe haven? What if there are students out there who are in desperate need of something to hang onto? I had to do something. I contacted the board of Alabama Music Educators Association (AMEA) where I met president-elect Dr. Rob Lyda. After two years of meetings to determine the scope of the project, we finally decided that AMEA would create a scholarship in my name to fund music enrichment for schools in under-represented areas of Alabama. As luck would have it, the National Association for Music Education (NAfME) was holding a conference shortly after my fundraiser began. NAfME invited me and Dr. Lyda to speak at their national conference in April. With the help of some very generous donors, I raised over $5,000 to help kids in Alabama, allowing them to have their own magical moment with music. I will forever believe that music, beyond being a source of healing, is a beautiful and glorious gift that should be experienced and shared with everyone. This experience has made me feel even more passionate about helping others. My mother and I have always been for the underdog and I strongly believe in equity and inclusion. After I obtain my degree in music education, I would love to combine my passion for music, my love of travel and my dedication to help others. I want to spend a semester (maybe two) studying abroad to learn more about the availability of music education in other countries in hope of learning a couple of things: 1) is there something I can learn from other structures/programs that place more of an emphasis on the arts to take back with me to the United States; 2) is there a place where I feel like I can fit in and make a difference and have the support of an administration to make a change for the better and create an amazing, diverse music program. While I don't know where my studies and my life will take me, I do know that music along with diversity, inclusion and social justice will be a large part of my life in some way.

I began having panic attacks when I was in middle school. One night during volleyball practice, I felt my chest tighten and a burning sensation radiated from my chest up to my head. I started to sweat and my heart was pounding so hard I could hear the blood swirling. The room was spinning, as I tried to figure out what was happening. I thought I was dying. This was my first panic attack. I was only twelve years old. You can’t be prepared for something like that. I couldn’t think. I felt stuck, frozen in time. That night at home I called my grandmother, and she comforted me by singing. Her calm voice soothed me and her off-key singing made me laugh. As I began singing along with her, I felt the weight lift off of my shoulders; I felt like me again. I was no longer under the paralyzing grip of the panic attack. I realized right then that music is a powerful healer. As my middle school days went on, I became even more invested in music, and I finally started to feel free. I always looked forward to choir class because of my teacher. Her classroom became more than a music class, it became a safe haven. Walking into choral practice one day, everything was in its place – the giant black piano to my left and the stadium style seats towering above. After we warmed up, we started to sing a beautiful song in Latin. As we began to sing, I saw my teacher get really into the music. She started feeling the beat, conducting with passion, and I saw pure joy wash over her. It was truly magical to see the elation that came with sharing the song, and I knew then that I was meant to be a music teacher. In high school, my passion persisted. One night during the very end of my sophomore year, my mother was talking about her own high school, which had a very small choral department without the funds to participate in competitions. She told me that some schools have absolutely no music funding. I was stunned. Upon researching Alabama public schools, I found that in the state of Alabama some schools can’t afford to have a music program at all and many schools have been forced to shut down or cut back their music programs. What if there are students who need that same safe haven? What if there are students out there who are in desperate need of something to hang onto? I had to do something. I contacted the board of Alabama Music Educators Association (AMEA) where I met president-elect Dr. Rob Lyda. After two years of meetings to determine the scope of the project, we finally decided that AMEA would create a scholarship in my name to fund music enrichment for schools in under-represented areas of Alabama. As luck would have it, the National Association for Music Education (NAfME) was holding a conference shortly after my fundraiser began. NAfME invited me and Dr. Lyda to speak at their national conference in April. With the help of some very generous donors, I raised over $5,000 to help kids in Alabama, allowing them to have their own magical moment with music. I think that 12-year-old girl from the volleyball practice warehouse would be proud of the now 18-year-old’s accomplishments and dedication to help others. I will forever believe that music, beyond being a source of healing, is a beautiful and glorious gift that should be experienced and shared with everyone.

Growing up as an adopted only child of a single parent, my dogs were my siblings when I had none. We had Jag the Maltese and two West Highland terriers, Ian and Taz. Jag was tiny, weighing only six pounds. I never played much with dolls because I had Jag. I dressed him up and carried him around like a baby. I look back at photos with Jag and now can see the humiliation on his face while he’s dressed as a bumble bee or a bunny. I’m reminded to have patience with those I love and to do things that I might not want to simply because it brings them joy. My days with Ian and Taz weren't always smooth. Taz was a nervous dog, and he wasn’t used to being around small children since we inherited him from my uncle. One day he bit me when I accidentally stepped on his foot. Even though I cried and cried, my mother explained to me that he was different and that he had anxiety. It wasn’t long before I could relate to Taz as I faced my own struggles with mental health. Again, Taz helped me understand that people (and animals) aren’t all alike, and that is okay. He helped me become more sensitive and forgiving, and to show greater tenderness to those who may be hurting. Ian, on the other hand, was just a cute, fun-loving guy who loved everyone and loved to run and play and give kisses. Ian reinforced the importance of letting go and enjoying life. Though Jag, Ian, and Taz have all passed, witnessing their unconditional love and complete dependance on us humans helped me develop into a compassionate person who easily empathizes with others. Now that I am older, we have four dogs that I consider my own, each with their own unique personalities: Elsa the schnoodle, Lola the Aussiedoodle, Zeke the goldendoodle, and Leo the eighty-pound sheepadoodle. They’ve been with me through my pre-teen and teen years and have licked away more tears than I care to count. Elsa is our loner. The other dogs get on her nerves, but she tolerates them. You may think she sounds tough, but she’s not. Her little nub of a tail wags so fast when you pet her. From her, I’ve learned to balance independence with connection, and that the two are not mutually exclusive. Lola is a total diva who whole-heartedly believes she is human. She is a scene-stealer and princess all rolled into one tiny fur ball. Lola has taught me that it’s okay to put my needs first. Zeke suffers from anxiety and can get over-excited. He becomes very stressed if I’m not around. He is very intuitive and knows when I’m sad. Zeke has taught me to be empathetic and to show those you love how you feel. Last but certainly not least is Mr. Leo. I feel like Leo understands me the best. Leo thinks he’s a small dog like Lola so gets himself in the strangest positions. He’s the goofiest, clumsiest dog I’ve ever known. He’s so sensitive, both to our feelings and to his own. He’s taught me to love freely, to hug often, and to laugh if I trip or fall. He’s taught me that it’s okay to be me. If it weren’t for my dogs and my mom, my life would be empty. My dogs comfort me when I’m sad, they calm me down when I’m anxious, and they provide much needed comic relief, but most importantly they love me for who I am.