I began elementary school differently from the rest. My right index-finger was amputated the year prior and while everyone in the classroom was learning the great intricacies of writing, I sat in the corner struggling to hold the pencil that the rest of my peers had held with ease. My teachers recommended I use my “uncrippled” hand, but I was stubborn and day after day I continued to struggle in holding a damn pencil. As time went on, holding a pencil became much easier, and instead of being granted A's and B's purely out of my teacher's refusal to give a failing grade to the "crippled" child who couldn't quite write, I started receiving good grades on merit and not guilt. Coming into middle-school, my peers and teachers still failed to see past this disability, and because of my apparent struggle in completing mundane tasks, my teachers enforced that I stick to tasks that would not prove challenging to me. I was made to type instead of write, to hold drum sticks instead of playing a trumpet, to tell instead of draw. However, I had a profound passion for the arts, and whenever the tip of my pencil met the grip of paper, my "disability" ceased to exist. I continued to practice and practice until the likings of piano-playing and drawing became such a rudimentary-task that I was able to exceed my peers in them. Coming into high-school, no longer did my teachers question my ability to complete tasks for I showed no sign of struggle; and until the moment I told them, my severed hand went unnoticed. I have grown with the arts and the arts have grown with me; and I plan to continue diving deep into these disciplines for I know that struggle does not face me.

The alarm clock in my parents room rang an irksome tone as the time hit 4:00 A.M. My father, alongside the rest of the men in my neighborhood, arose from his deep slumber to head to the construction site just as the bright sun began to loom overhead. No man in my neighborhood was expected to seek the great invokings of education, nor were they expected to pursue a career outside of this given field. I was enrolled in public school not because there was a societal expectation to receive an adequate education, but because the state mandated it. Through middle school, grades and accolades served little importance to me for I knew that I was destined to assume my father’s role. However, during a middle school general science course, the captivating depictions of the human animal cell led me to fall under the great inquiries of science. At the age of 14, my scientific pursuits began with building a simple, make-shift laboratory in my backyard from scraps of metal. While my community was infatuated with the idea of my impending future in construction, I spent hours before and after school investigating the effectiveness of different stimuli in repelling local mosquitos to prevent the spread of the Zika virus. Recognizing my study was limited by a need for a more controlled environment, I finally received permission to work in my school’s laboratory on my next study where I tested the effects of alcohol on generations of Drosophila melanogaster. This past year, I have begun to explore the effects of conjugatory inhibitor agents on antibiotic-resistant bacteria by inducing less reproductive interactions through plant compounds: Silybum marianum & Serenoa repens. With a confidence level of 95% and a p-value of less than 1.0%, I am able to statistically prove this novel approach of permanently eradicating antibiotic-resistance. Throughout the origins of medical and scientific discoveries, the outlet for which one could participate in the science fields were limited to the stereotypical white male. We, as a Mexican community, were not meant to escape the fields of construction for there was a racial infliction set upon us by a racist past. Being raised in a Hispanic household that valued the ideas of manual labor more than education, I was taught the principles needed to become a hardworking individual. I was taught empathy, morals, and what it takes to be a compatible human being within my own community. My school was dedicated to helping those in need, but I noticed the injustices that were hidden by the staff. Those who were white were given easy grades for doing the bare minimum. I wanted to be that end. The end for which these racial biases died off and everyone had an equal opportunity to be successful, despite their physical appearances or circumstances. My science research and the field of molecular biochemistry will help me break the barriers for future aspiring scientists that come from underrepresented hispanic communities that do not value the splendid nature of education. In a field where only two hispanics have ever received the Nobel Prize in Chemistry throughout its 120 year history, I want to prove that it is not where you come from that determines the pathway to your future, but it is what you make of life’s resources like I did at the age of 14. I want to be the change. I need to be the change, because without change there is no order, and without order there will never be an equal field in the biological and chemical sciences.

A Hispanic household is not one that is usually accustomed to the ideologies that encompass change. We as a culture- or at least in my household- hold true to the ethics that things have to be done with respect to maintaining the integrity of one's family. For years prior to the “grand scheme”, I prepared myself emotionally for any mental discomfort or calamity that I may face upon breaking the unfortunate news to my parents. Although I had not envisioned for the integrity of my family to be compromised upon admitting the fact that I was gay, my parents saw the moral quite differently. I was heartbroken; growing up I was taught to love those who love us, and even though my family had not given up their love for me, it was diminished by the “abnormality” of the situation. Being gay, messed with the sociological structure of my home and in turn, morphed me to the ideal outcast of my family. Although this calamity had embedded a wall within my mindset, I used the situation as motivation to prove to my family that I was more than just a fragment of an impeachment within their usual family structure. School had commenced yet again and I put my focus entirely on the academic aspect of my life, rather than what was happening behind the scenes. My work ethic had increased drastically, and my ability to complete assignments had enhanced to a level I had failed to reach before. Not only did my academics receive much more attention than before, but my extracurricular activities had also been largely enhanced due the calamities aforementioned. My will to be at home during this time of great tension had decreased, and therefore I enrolled in far more extensive programs throughout the year. Activities such as music club, chemistry club, and many others, created a safe haven for the escape of my mental state throughout that time. I created a family within my friend group that provided the means for which to distract my thoughts away from the circumstances present at home. It was clear that I had put in the effort for which I was seeking approval off, but my parents still failed to see past the one aspect in me that made me different to them. In the years prior to my coming out, it did not take much to appease my parents, because even though I was not in the top of my class just yet, they noticed my potential to seek the opportunities that they did not have. I had lived life vicariously with respect to my parents, and I felt joyous over the circumstance. My motivation was entirely dedicated to completing assignments based on the pride of others and not myself. The most important aspect of achieving great achievements -or at least I thought- was to make others (my parents) pleased with the work you had done. It was a sense of belonging that I had craved, and although my achievements had benefited me, I looked passed that. Great work had no meaning to me if it was not helping others, and this mentality allowed me to stand back from the academic competition that was present at school. There was more to be done within my academics, but there was no drive that pushed me to do more than I had to. A constituent of easy-going behavior had embedded my system, and it was quite frankly impossible to fracture. The experiences I witnessed during my coming out, was the factor that cracked the easy-going behavior that I had been accustomed to. It enhanced my academics and motivated me to complete tasks not based on how it will help others, but more on how it will help me achieve my aspirations. Although I had faced a nonsensical sense of estrangement due to the calamity, it provoked a different side of me that worked tirelessly to achieve things for my benefit. This transcendence of childlike behavior influenced by my coming out, was morphed into more adultlike behaviors that aided my future desires. Poet Rainer Rilke expressed: “Let everything happen to you/ Beauty and terror/ Just keep going/ No feeling is final”, and this expression has been the epitome of how my transcendence occurred, the negative always promotes the positive in the end.

A Hispanic household is not one that is usually accustomed to the ideologies that encompass change. We as a culture- or at least in my household- hold true to the ethics that things have to be done with respect to maintaining the integrity of one's family. For years prior to my "grand scheme," I prepared myself emotionally for any mental discomfort or calamity that I may face upon breaking the unfortunate news to my parents. Although I had not envisioned for the integrity of my family to be compromised upon admitting the fact that I was gay, my parents saw the moral quite differently. I was heartbroken; growing up I was taught to love those who love us, and even though my family had not given up their love for me, it was diminished by this new "abnormality." Although this calamity situated a wall within my contemporary life, I used the situation as motivation to prove to my family that I was more than just a fragment of an impeachment within their usual family structure. School had commenced yet again and I put my focus entirely on the academic aspect of my life, rather than what was happening behind the scenes. My work ethic had increased drastically, and my ability to complete assignments had enhanced to a level I had failed to reach before. Not only did my academics prosper, but my extracurricular activities had also been largely enhanced as well. My will to be at home during this time of great tension had decreased, and therefore I enrolled in far more extensive programs throughout the year. Activities such as music club, chemistry club, and many others, created a safe haven for the escape of my mental state throughout that time. I created a family within my friend group that provided the means for which to distract my thoughts away from the circumstances present at home. It was clear that I had put in the effort for which I was seeking approval off, but my parents still failed to see past the one aspect in me that made me different to them. The experiences I witnessed during my coming out, was the factor that cracked the easy-going behavior that I had been accustomed to. It enhanced my academics and motivated me to complete tasks not based on how it will help others, but more on how it will help me achieve my aspirations. Although I had faced a nonsensical sense of estrangement, it provoked a different side of me that worked tirelessly to achieve things for my benefit. I am now looking forward to attending Harvard University in the Fall as an out and proud gay man, ending the stigmatization set by my family and social norms. Poet Rainer Rilke expressed: “Let everything happen to you/ Beauty and terror/ Just keep going/ No feeling is final”, and this expression has been the epitome of my journey from hatred, to self-love.

He lived in an old wooden house with his 10 other siblings; his fridge stocked with nothing but tortillas and manteca. With no shower or sink, him and his 10 siblings would use the hose to get clean before going to work. He dropped out of school in Cd. Juarez, Mexico to enroll in the Job Corps program in the United States, which took him in their hands regardless of his lack of citizenship. She lived in the same city as him, working at her family's ranch and forced to mature at a young age to take care of her 4 siblings while her parents worked at a local maquiladora. She followed her parents footsteps at the age of 15 where she herself began working throughout the early morning manufacturing shirts and pants for as little as 5 cents an hour. My parents came from nothing. Their story is not unique however, for the immigrants that compromise the population of El Paso have also left their own educational endeavors and dreams behind to provide more for their family’s futures, but even so, there is still a lack of emphasis for college success. With the average household income of El Paso falling below $50,000, and a poverty rate exceeding 20%, the availability of educational resources is significantly lower than that of more affluent communities. In co-founding CollegeHype, a website that aims to bridge the socioeconomic gap first-generation, low-income minority students face, we created a hub of resources students need to get started with college applications. Resume/college planning templates and scholarship newsletters are amongst the informative web pages offered by this initiative; preparing students for the grand complexities of college/scholarship applications. One-on-one sessions are also offered through CollegeHype, so that students can receive answers to all of the questions they have about the admissions process, while also being provided aid with scholarship and college essays. While the great curiosities of post-secondary education can feel limited by our geographical predispositions, through CollegeHype, we hope to end the disproportionate availability of college resources lingering amongst the low-income class of El Paso. The lack of education resources is not distinct to my community, therefore in the coming 20 years, I long to see these resources being shared amongst areas around the United States and the world that also face the injustices of a lack of college success.

The alarm clock in my parents room rang an irksome tone as the time hit 4:00 A.M. My father, alongside the rest of the men in my neighborhood, arose from his deep slumber to head to the construction site just as the bright sun began to loom overhead. No man in my neighborhood was expected to seek the great invoking's of education, nor were they expected to pursue a career outside of this given field. I was enrolled in public school not because there was a societal expectation to receive an adequate education, but because the state mandated it. Through middle school, grades and accolades served little importance to me for I knew that I was destined to assume my father’s role. However, during a middle school general science course, the captivating depictions of the human animal cell led me to fall under the great inquiries of science. At the age of 14, my scientific pursuits began with building a simple, make-shift laboratory in my backyard from scraps of metal. While my community was infatuated with the idea of my impending future in construction, I spent hours before and after school investigating the effectiveness of different stimuli in repelling local mosquitos to prevent the spread of the Zika virus. Recognizing my study was limited by a need for a more controlled environment, I finally received permission to work in my school’s laboratory on my next study where I tested the effects of alcohol on generations of Drosophila melanogaster. This past year, I have begun to explore the effects of conjugatory inhibitor agents on antibiotic-resistant bacteria by inducing less reproductive interactions through plant compounds: Silybum marianum & Serenoa repens. With a confidence level of 95% and a p-value of less than 1.0%, I am able to statistically prove this novel approach of permanently eradicating antibiotic-resistance. Throughout the origins of medical and scientific discoveries, the outlet for which one could participate in the science fields were limited to the stereotypical white male. We, as a Mexican community, were not meant to escape the fields of construction for there was a racial infliction set upon us by a racist past. Being raised in a Hispanic household that valued the ideas of manual labor more than education, I was taught the principles needed to become a hardworking individual. I was taught empathy, morals, and what it takes to be a compatible human being within my own community. My school was dedicated to helping those in need, but I noticed the injustices that were hidden by the staff. Those who were white were given easy grades for doing the bare minimum. I wanted to be that end. The end for which these racial biases died off and everyone had an equal opportunity to be successful, despite their physical appearances or circumstances. My science research and the field of molecular biochemistry will help me break the barriers for future aspiring scientists that come from underrepresented Hispanic communities that do not value the splendid nature of education. In a field where only two Hispanics have ever received the Nobel Prize in Chemistry throughout its 120 year history, I want to prove that it is not where you come from that determines the pathway to your future, but it is what you make of life’s resources like I did at the age of 14. I want to be the change. I need to be the change, because without change there is no order, and without order there will never be an equal field in the biological and chemical sciences.

Individuals constantly get lost in self-deprecating states due to an unfortunate relationship they might be having with a friend, family member, or significant other. I composed this song to explain those feelings directly to the individual that is causing them. It portrays one who has failed to see their self-worth, determined to seek love from outside sources rather than from within.

With a glistening sunset radiating the surface-level of the ocean, there is an obvious beauty within the colors and fluidity of the waters. As the serenity of the shallow waters of the coast entices any who gaze their eyes on it, the constant efforts for the conservation of the beautiful natures of the oceans are simply disregarded. Activists, environmentalists, and engineers work arduous hours to keep the waters clean all the while antagonists of the oceans attempt to dump trash and oil through its streams. On surface-level Jerry smiled. Like the oceans whose colors captivated most, his smile glistened through the school hallways as he enthusiastically exclaimed “Good morning!” to everyone he saw. He smiled as straight A’s lined his report card. He smiled as he asked collegiate-level questions in our U.S-History class and he smiled amongst his friends in the cafeteria day by day. However, like the oil underneath the ever-flowing oceans, Jerry smiled through antagonists of his own. Outside of school, he smiled when internet and cellular services became too much a luxury to afford. He smiled as he created two businesses of his own to support the amassing rent of his family home. He smiled as his ranch animals fed on the meal that was supposed to be his and he smiled as he saw the sun rise east of his window as he finished the school-work of the day for no time was better than the silent hours following midnight. Jerry simply smiled. Gerardo Mitre, or as most people call him, Jerry, has been my best-friend for the past 3 years. With heavy shoulders, he carries the weight of his friends, his family, and his academics while keeping a glistening smile that keeps the days from turning blue. When a homophobic, machistic mindset had been embedded within my family’s mind upon my coming out, Jerry taught me in times of darkness to always look for the ray of sunshine lingering amongst it. Whether it be the food on your plate, the bed you sleep on, or simply the mere act of living, Jerry reminded me that there is always something to be thankful for. He taught me to smile through life’s most treacherous moments, for there is always something positive of the negative. So as long as there is darkness, my best-friend's smile will remain in my mind again, again, and again.

The living room walls gave off an iridescent glow as the cathode ray tube television played its morning renditions of The Fairly Oddparents and Spongebob Squarepants. Sitting “criss cross applesauce” on the plush rug of the living room, my eyes were fixated not on the colors and wacky attributes of the cartoon characters, but on the unconventional extremities of the animations: their hands. While the natural, self indulging commodities of the characters' journeys seemed of keen interest to others, the unorthodox circumstances of their hands further encaptivated my young mind for I, like them, also only had four fingers. My right index finger was amputated when I was 3 years old at a party my family was attending. The mystifying rotations of an exercise bicycle’s back wheel were hypnotizing. Gravitating to the illuminating blades of the bike’s spokes, I felt like Hansel and Gretel, intrinsically pulled towards the dangerous, but captivating scenery of a candy house. Running enthusiastically to the back end of the bike, with an unsuppressing curiosity to touch the rotating mechanisms of the wheel, I jammed my finger within the spokes. Amputated upon impact and too filled with shock to register pain, the outcome of the incident did not register in my young mind. I saw myself in the eyes of the cartoon characters I had watched, and for the time being I felt I was part of a larger community of fictional animations. An orthopedic surgeon surgically removed the excess “stump” left in place of my finger moments after the accident. Three years later, my elementary school teachers began to advise that I write with my ‘normal’ hand, as the normal capabilities of the other hand had been fully compromised in the eyes of my superiors. Determined to defy such ideological states, I decided to take on the challenge of writing with my ‘deficit’ hand. Due to my inability to hold a pencil in the standard manner, my handwriting and illustrative abilities suffered greatly; however, my overwhelmingly competitive nature amplified my will to pursue this form of artistic expression. When assigned a creative project throughout my elementary school years, my teachers strictly enforced that I perform “show & tell presentations” rather than submit illustrations or creative writing pieces. Although these rules were strictly imposed for the sole purpose of making me feel secure within what my teacher thought I was capable of, I defied such norms purely to prove a point. As the next assignment came and all the students conjugated on the mat centered around the classroom in order to listen to yet another redundant “show & tell” presentation, from the grasps of my “deficit” hand I pulled out an illustration I had completed. From across the vicinity of the classroom, my teacher emitted a weary look as she examined the mix of lines and circles used to make my stick figures which I was so adamantly proud of. With what may be referred to as a “deviant and obdurate” spirit, I continued to pursue challenges that went against my physical limitations. From the first day of middle school, while other students explored the true extremities of instruments offered in our band class, I was predisposed to percussion since, according to my instructor, my hand deformity only allowed me to hold the simple construction of drumsticks. After practicing every single percussion instrument there was: snare, drums, piano, marimba, amongst various others, piano loomed in front of me as the instrument that I most wanted to master. Although the vast complexities of the instrument proved to be overwhelmingly difficult to get a grasp on, I decided to continue my practice, and eventually came to play well above my able-bodied peers. No longer focusing on the disparities of my hands, as high school proceeded, my academic and artistic abilities soared. The magical unfolding's of the cartoon animations gave my five year old self the undoubted dream of exploring the true capabilities of my four fingers, despite the overwhelming perceptual limitations set by my superiors and peers. While watching the animated curiosities of The Fairly Oddparents and Spongebob Squarepants, no longer am I entranced by the features of their hands; instead, the endless possibilities that they portray, play circles in my head again, again, and again.

The living room walls gave off an iridescent glow as the cathode ray tube television played its morning renditions of The Fairly Oddparents and Spongebob Squarepants. Sitting “criss cross applesauce” on the plush rug of the living room, my eyes were fixated not on the colors and wacky attributes of the cartoon characters, but on the unconventional extremities of the animations: their hands. While the natural, self indulging commodities of the characters' journeys seemed of keen interest to others, the unorthodox circumstances of their hands further encaptivated my young mind for I, like them, also only had four fingers. My right index finger was amputated when I was 3 years old at a party my family was attending. The mystifying rotations of an exercise bicycle’s back wheel were hypnotizing. Gravitating to the illuminating blades of the bike’s spokes, I felt like Hansel and Gretel, intrinsically pulled towards the dangerous, but captivating scenery of a candy house. Running enthusiastically to the back end of the bike, with an unsuppressing curiosity to touch the rotating mechanisms of the wheel, I jammed my finger within the spokes. Amputated upon impact and too filled with shock to register pain, the outcome of the incident did not register in my young mind. I saw myself in the eyes of the cartoon characters I had watched, and for the time being I felt I was part of a larger community of fictional animations. An orthopedic surgeon surgically removed the excess “stump” left in place of my finger moments after the accident. Three years later, my elementary school teachers began to advise that I write with my ‘normal’ hand, as the normal capabilities of the other hand had been fully compromised in the eyes of my superiors. Determined to defy such ideological states, I decided to take on the challenge of writing with my ‘deficit’ hand. Due to my inability to hold a pencil in the standard manner, my handwriting and illustrative abilities suffered greatly; however, my overwhelmingly competitive nature amplified my will to pursue this form of artistic expression. When assigned a creative project throughout my elementary school years, my teachers strictly enforced that I perform “show & tell presentations” rather than submit illustrations or creative writing pieces. Although these rules were strictly imposed for the sole purpose of making me feel secure within what my teacher thought I was capable of, I defied such norms purely to prove a point. As the next assignment came and all the students conjugated on the mat centered around the classroom in order to listen to yet another redundant “show & tell” presentation, from the grasps of my “deficit” hand I pulled out an illustration I had completed. From across the vicinity of the classroom, my teacher emitted a weary look as she examined the mix of lines and circles used to make my stick figures which I was so adamantly proud of. With what may be referred to as a “deviant and obdurate” spirit, I continued to pursue challenges that went against my physical limitations. From the first day of middle school, while other students explored the true extremities of instruments offered in our band class, I was predisposed to percussion since, according to my instructor, my hand deformity only allowed me to hold the simple construction of drumsticks. After practicing every single percussion instrument there was: snare, drums, piano, marimba, amongst various others, piano loomed in front of me as the instrument that I most wanted to master. Although the vast complexities of the instrument proved to be overwhelmingly difficult to get a grasp on, I decided to continue my practice, and eventually came to play well above my able-bodied peers. No longer focusing on the disparities of my hands, as high school proceeded, my academic and artistic abilities soared. The magical unfolding's of the cartoon animations gave my five year old self the undoubted dream of exploring the true capabilities of my four fingers, despite the overwhelming perceptual limitations set by my superiors and peers. While watching the animated curiosities of The Fairly Oddparents and Spongebob Squarepants, no longer am I entranced by the features of their hands; instead, the endless possibilities that they portray, play circles in my head again, again, and again.