It was eight o’clock in the morning in my junior year of high school. I sat behind my desk, my head propped up by my hand as I desperately tried not to fall asleep in my English class. “Today, we are going to begin our experiential learning project.” I jolted to attention as my teacher began to speak. “Each of you will choose your own topic to research, and lead a service project on that topic.” Suddenly, I didn’t feel so drowsy anymore. The classroom hummed with excitement as my teacher continued to explain the project. We chatted eagerly amongst ourselves, each student contemplating which topic they would choose. As I skimmed over my teacher’s list of potential topics, one stuck out to me in particular: food insecurity. I had never learned much about it before, so I hoped to expand my knowledge on the topic. Over the following week, I delved into my research, tirelessly scouring over academic journals and articles to make sense of the issue. Outside of the classroom, I supplemented my research by volunteering at a local food pantry. For the next month, I spent most of my free time distributing fresh produce, pre-packaged salads, and instant meals to students and community members at the Normandale Community College food shelf. As I wrapped up my project, I found myself with a vast amount of newfound knowledge. I learned that in the state of Minnesota alone, over 1.6 million people lack easy access to healthy food. Within my own county, 10.5% of residents faced food insecurity in 2020. However, I found that my interactions with community members were much more impactful than any statistics. I listened as a young college student shared her personal difficulties with food insecurity. I watched as the line to the food shelf grew longer and longer each day. I noticed that the majority of people seeking out services were people of color, just like myself. I finally began to understand the true weight of the problem, which ignited my passion for improving food access in my community. In my senior year of high school, I decided to take action by organizing a school-wide donation drive to benefit local communities impacted by the coronavirus pandemic. As a leader of my school’s Human Rights Club, I chose to collaborate with my fellow leaders on this project. We started by designating tasks among the three leaders—Monica, Ryan, and myself. We agreed that I would research and contact local organizations, Monica would communicate our plan to the school administration, and Ryan would tackle the advertising plan. We had never worked towards a project on this scale before, and I left the virtual meeting with a renewed sense of excitement and purpose. We chose to host a donation drive for Keystone Community Services: an organization dedicated to improving food access in Minnesota. In order to reach a larger audience, we emailed other club leaders, local churches, and community members. We spread the word through social media, designing eye-catching flyers to bring attention to our donation drive. We were even able to get our donation drive highlighted in the school-wide weekly emails from our principal. At the end of the week, I opened an email from Keystone Community Services. My eyes widened as I skimmed over the text. Through our efforts, we had raised over one thousand dollars for Keystone Community Services—money that would provide food, support and stability to people in our community. I rushed to tell the other leaders, and we all cheered together over video call. This achievement was particularly meaningful to me, as I was able to rally others to come together and help alleviate the problem of food insecurity in our community. Although our donation drive was more successful than we ever imagined, the money we raised is still inadequate to solve the problem of food insecurity. As I transition to college, I will continue to advocate and spread awareness on this issue. I hope to volunteer at food shelves and organize donation drives on an even larger scale. However, I recognize that these are only temporary solutions. In order to alleviate the problem of food insecurity, we must first address the root causes of hunger through government policy, and consider the inequalities that disproportionately impact marginalized communities. My hope is that one day, we will be able to exist in a world free of hunger.

Like the character Zuko from my favorite childhood TV show, a former villain turned hero, I spent a lot of time grappling with my identity. Growing up in a predominantly white neighborhood, I never felt like I fit in. My father’s family fled Vietnam when he was seven, while my mother was adopted from Korea as an infant. The collision of these two worlds led to the creation of me: a Korean-Vietnamese American. Or rather, a weird “hybrid”, as my classmates jokingly called me. At the time, I would laugh alongside them, but I secretly felt insecure about my Asian-American identity. The key to unlocking my self-confidence was Camp Choson: a Korean culture camp geared towards Korean-American youth. The summer before seventh grade, I lugged my suitcase on the trail, sweat beading on my brow—and not just because of the heat. I was anxious to spend the week ahead with complete strangers. Despite my misgivings, my first day at camp was lighthearted and fun. However, the lively mood quickly became more serious with the setting sun. My counselor had us sit in a circle for an activity called “boundary breakers”. I sat knee to knee alongside my cabinmates as she read the first prompt. “Are you proud of being Korean?” When the question was met with silence, she offered to go first. “Growing up, I always rejected my Korean roots; I just wanted to fit in. But as I’ve become older, I’ve found pride in my identity. It makes me unique.” I gaped at her, wide-eyed. I had never thought of myself in that way before. We went around the circle, sharing our answers. I saw a lot of my own self-doubt mirrored in the words of my cabinmates. Once we finished, I felt a newfound bond glimmering between us. My first summer at camp kindled a period of self-discovery in which I came to embrace my Asian heritage. After connecting with fellow Asian-Americans, I no longer felt ashamed of my differences. Instead, I was able to recognize the beauty of individuality within myself and my peers. I began to display my Asian-American pride: I introduced my friends to a variety of Korean and Vietnamese dishes, studied traditional Korean dance, and even became a committee member of my school’s Asian Student Union. As a junior, I returned to Choson for my last year. While I joyfully reunited with my friends, I noticed the new campers standing off to one side. My heart twisted as I saw my younger self reflected in the hesitant looks on their faces. Throughout the week, I built connections with the new campers. I was paired with a few younger girls as their “big sister” for the week. We bonded as we learned to play traditional Korean games and ate delicious Korean snacks. While I learned of their personal struggles with identity, I offered my support as someone who had been in the same position. By the end of camp, I saw them inch past their insecurities and towards discovering their own confidence. On the last night, everyone gathered in front of a bonfire. We squeezed five people to a bench, all of us talking and laughing and roasting marshmallows. When the closing bonfire began, the atmosphere quieted but turned infinitely more tender. As we reflected on the week we spent together, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for the amazing community I had found. Just as the character Zuko changed his narrative from villain to hero, I too changed my story. As a young camper, I was unsure of my place in the world, believing that my background separated me from others. Now, as a counselor, I have found pride in my identity, and I hope to inspire future generations of Asian-American youth to do the same. Above all, I strive to spread the message that our differences should be celebrated.