In April of 2024, I was out of hope. I was diagnosed with major depression and ADHD, and my grades had dropped from straight As down to Fs, with only a few weeks left in the school year to fix everything. The future I imagined for myself involved me getting a 4.0 GPA and going to an Ivy League school, but as I stared at my report card with more Fs than anything else, I felt that those dreams would never come true. I had been trying so hard to do my schoolwork despite sleeping 14 hours each day, despite entirely losing my social life, despite feeling numb and tired and unmotivated. But all that work I had done only made my 0% Fs turn into 20% Fs. I was ready to stop trying at all. I had no friends, no one to confide in except my notes app, in which I was writing out everything I wasn't telling anyone; every plan I thought of for how I could end it all. But I didn't end it all. It was really, really difficult, but I kept doing my schoolwork. With lots of support and generosity from my teachers, I was able to bring most of my grades up to As and Bs before my junior year of high school ended. In June, I looked back at the things I had written in my notes app. "it doesnt matter that i got straight As for the first two years of high school. i am getting straight Fs now and i have no more energy to try." "the physical pain of a knife would be nice compared to everything that is going on in my life right now." As I reread these messages to myself, I didn't feel pity, and I didnt feel regret. I felt understanding. I remembered how hard it was to keep going. I was still struggling, but I had hope now. And I was glad I didn't give up. I wrote back to myself: "even if this happens again later, even if you fail all your classes, even if you cant fix it. if you make it through your senior year alive, im proud of you. you are probably still all alone and thats hard, but you lived to look back on the experience even if you gave up and failed everything." I'm still struggling with my mental health, but I won't commit suicide. I will keep going even when things get hard. I will keep going even if nothing goes my way. I will keep going, and that will be enough.

To me, success can be something as simple as waking up in the morning. Success can be the relief of finishing an overdue homework assignment or the pride I feel as my AP Lang teacher compliments my essay. But success is also the satisfaction of smiling at the conductor at the end of a concert. It's the fast pace of my heart when I stand up to face the audience as they give the ensemble a standing ovation. It's the happy tears in my eyes as stage lights glint and sparkle above me, illuminating the silver keys of my clarinet. At the end of my Freshman year of high school, my school’s highest-level wind ensemble was invited to play at the Midwest Clinic. Being invited to play at the clinic was a big deal; in a span of nearly 80 years, this was only the second time that a high school band from Nevada was invited. But I wasn’t in the highest-level ensemble, and only they were going to the Midwest Clinic. I remember the giddy expression on my band director’s face as he announced, "Next school year, the top band is going to fly to Chicago to play at the largest band and orchestra conference in the world! If you want to be in that ensemble, you should try your hardest when you audition for chair placements." I worked diligently over the summer, practicing the audition music for hours so that I would have a chance at moving into the top band. When the results came back, I was ecstatic to see that I had been accepted. But this success was amplified as I saw that my band director trusted me to play the E flat clarinet — a smaller, higher-pitched clarinet that is usually played by only one person in an ensemble. I had only ever played B flat clarinet before, and I wasn't sure why my band director had chosen me over a more talented upperclassman. Still, I was excited and honored to take on the responsibility of being the sole E flat clarinetist in my band. The moment that school started, we began intense rehearsals. The process of preparing for our performance at the clinic was long and arduous. Each day, for the hour and a half that band class lasted, we dove into the music and slowly revealed melodies hidden within tangles of misread notes and rhythms. We rehearsed with talented musicians like Timothy McAllister and Mallory Thompson, we performed preview concerts and listened to recordings of ourselves to see how we could improve, and we spent hours rehearsing after school and practicing at home. Our combined efforts filled us with unyielding confidence. As we flew to Chicago to play at the clinic, the plane was filled with excitement. I walked to my chair in the front and center of the stage at the Midwest Clinic, and I was exhilarated, but also very nervous. This was everything I worked for — what if I messed up? I warmed up and quickly ran through my solos, preparing to play music for 45 minutes straight. I squinted past the glaring stage lights to gaze into the audience. Hundreds upon hundreds of people sat in front of me as even more piled in, fruitlessly searching for an empty seat. I looked at the people around me; at my bandmates. From the beginning of August to today, December 19th, we worked together to make this music sound beautiful. I sighed. I wasn’t scared anymore. I was surrounded by my friends, and after months of rehearsals, we all knew that our concert at the Midwest Clinic would be a success. The concert went by in a blur of sound and emotion. As the last note of our last piece resonated triumphantly, our conductor motioned for us to stand up. The audience began to stand too, clapping and cheering as loud as they could — giving us a standing ovation. When I finally sat back down to collect my music, I realized that I was crying. Almost everyone in the band was crying. It seems silly, and it sort of was, but we all worked so hard for a successful performance at the Midwest Clinic, and we had achieved that beyond our wildest dreams. As I’m writing this essay, it’s been almost a year since my performance at the Midwest Clinic. However, the experience of sharing beautiful music with hundreds of people is something I want to relive every day. Pursuing a career in the arts is undeniably difficult, but this opportunity will assist me immensely. Receiving this scholarship would help me afford a bachelor's degree in music, which will give me countless opportunities to feel the success of finishing a concert, and eventually the success of becoming a professional musician.

Stage lights glinted in my eyes as I stared out into the excited crowd. Hundreds upon hundreds of people sat in front of me as even more piled in, fruitlessly searching for an empty seat. But I wasn’t scared. I was surrounded by my friends and classmates, and after months of rehearsals, we all knew that our concert at the Midwest Clinic would be a success. I didn’t always feel the bond between myself and my bandmates, though. Connecting with other people has never been easy for me, and my introversion often makes talking to my peers a stressful experience. However, being part of a community that collaborates to make beautiful music has helped me break out of my shell and make friends. I'm a student at the Las Vegas Academy of the Arts, a magnet high school for the fine arts. Last year, I was invited to play at the Midwest Clinic as a member of my school’s highest-level wind ensemble. Being invited to play at the clinic was a big deal — in a span of nearly 80 years, this was only the second time that a high school band from Nevada was invited. The process of preparing for our performance at the clinic was long and arduous, but I loved the pieces we were playing. One of those pieces, Morton Gould's Ballad for Band, features a soli for the piccolo, oboe, and E flat clarinet. I was the E flat clarinetist, so I would often have to collaborate with the other players and practice that section with them. The music was fun and lighthearted, so as I swayed to the sound and smiled at the piccoloist, I realized something: playing music with my classmates was the same as playing with my friends in the other sense of the word. Music can act as a playground; a medium for having fun and making friends with other people. Collaboration is not only a necessary part of playing music as an ensemble, but also a way to spark meaningful connections without saying a word. After our wildly successful performance at the Midwest Clinic, we flew back to Nevada and began rehearsals for our next concert. We started by rehearsing Lincolnshire Posy by Percy Grainger. The piece is a transcription of various English folk songs. Folk music exists to bring people together, so playing an arrangement of them felt natural; like it was what we were made to do. At the end of movement three, there is another soli for piccolo, oboe, bassoon, and E flat clarinet. Instead of eating lunch, we would rehearse that section together in a practice room. Eventually, we were in sync with one another, and we didn't even need to be conducted. I like to think that it is impossible to make beautiful music with people you hate. We are only able to play well when we connect with each other on some level. Although our performance of Lincolnshire Posy took place at a low-pressure concert (unlike our performance at the Midwest Clinic), our unified passion for the music connected us to one another and allowed us to play at our very best, evoking the emotions we felt as we played. As a junior in high school, I still have my whole future ahead of me, but I know that I couldn't live a life free of music. Playing beautiful compositions in a band or orchestra is the thing I love most in the world. Being part of these ensembles has filled my life with countless collaborative experiences that inspire me to keep pursuing my dreams.

The world now is suffering from injustice, inequity, ignorance, and carelessness more than it has in a very long time. The healthcare system is leaving American citizens without the care they need to survive, funneling money into the pockets of the already rich. Unemployment rates are skyrocketing, and inflation is making it harder for working-class people to afford basic necessities. Essential laborers often live in incredibly uncomfortable situations, while people who inherit family wealth or get lucky have the privilege of living in luxury. The divide between those who are being exploited and the people exploiting them is, in many ways, a divide between generations. Baby Boomers were born into a world where a public school teacher could afford a lake-front house, where college was half as expensive, where economic possibilities were endless. Millennials and Gen Z have had to survive in a much different environment: our once stable world is beginning to crumble. Millennials and Gen Z are largely young, diverse, and poor, going up against a world controlled by old, white, rich men. But we are unafraid of facing the reality of our world, and we will fight to make it a better place for future generations. It is the job of the people to ensure that life on Earth continues to reach higher levels of quality, and even if the previous generation did not succeed in that job, every young person has their own ideas for how they can make the world a better place. Some people from Generation Z, including myself, recognize that many of the problems we face today are effects of late-stage capitalism, theorized centuries ago by people like Karl Marx. With activism, many Millennials and Gen Z have been trying to combat the injustices caused by the decline of capitalism. They advocate for modern solutions in the form of drastic changes to government or policy. I'm a very busy student and I spend a lot of time focusing on my academic success, but even I have taken time out of my day to participate in a protest with many other people from my school, advocating for higher pay for teachers in my school district. Young people all over the world are doing similar things, fighting for what they believe in by protesting, signing petitions, or even donating what little money they have to spare. The younger generations are having a rendezvous with destiny right now, but we are doing everything we can to ensure that our turbulent path is heading in the direction we want. If we continue on that path, maybe someday we will be remembered for our perseverance and optimism through the difficult times we live in, just like the Greatest Generation.

When sixth grade started, I started talking to the other kids at the bus stop. I became friends with them almost immediately. We started walking home from the bus stop together most days. Eventually, instead of going home right after school, I found myself sitting with my friends on a turn in the sidewalk and talking until the sun was almost hidden behind the mountains. When I was in seventh grade, the pandemic happened. It meant that I couldn’t see my friends in person anymore. After years of spending multiple hours together every day, suddenly being away from them so much was painful. I did all that I could to stay connected to my friends throughout the pandemic; I remember spending five hours talking to my friend Cianna on the phone. Still, I cried myself to sleep because I missed them so much. I was dependent on my few friends as a twelve-year-old, and sometimes I felt more connected to them than I did to my own family. When some of the restrictions were lifted and we felt more comfortable and safe, I met up with my friends outside while wearing masks. But so much time had passed since before the pandemic started, and before I knew it, high school was about to start. I chose to go to a different high school than my friends. With my future in mind, I decided to audition for a magnet high school for the arts: Las Vegas Academy (LVA). I got accepted, but my friends weren't interested in trying to go with me. They decided to go to the school that was closest to where they lived. Being in completely different schools, I felt even more distant from my friends. As months of my freshman year flew by, my bond with them became weaker and weaker. They made new friends at their high school and stopped spending time with me. Suddenly, my only friends were strangers to me. I didn’t make any new friends at my high school. I was jealous of not only my former friends but also potential new ones. I remember scrolling through Instagram posts made by other students at LVA: big friend groups went to concerts together, couples drank bubble tea at a trendy restaurant, and pairs of close friends shopped at thrift stores together. I wanted to do those things too, but I didn’t know how to talk to my classmates, let alone make friends with them. I was a confident and social middle schooler, but being stripped away from my friends had mutilated me into an insecure and quiet teenager. I didn’t want to make new friends just to swiftly lose them; I didn't want to be hurt all over again. I changed a lot because of the pandemic, and it became a challenge for me to trust people, say what I wanted to say, or be “myself.” Today, I still sometimes think of all the happy memories I have with my old friends and wonder if I’ll ever have friends like them again. I know that distance made us drift apart, but I can't help but ask myself if I could have done more to save our friendship. No matter what I feel and think, my friends from middle school aren't in my life anymore. Focusing on the present instead of dwelling on the past has helped me move on and make new friends. Three years have passed since 2020, and I'm a junior in high school now. I have a few friends and every day I'm becoming more sure of who I am.

I have been watching anime since I was two years old. I remember being a scared toddler as I watched Howl's giant, bird-footed castle clunk around the foggy hilltops. I remember the inexplicable sorrow I felt for Taro the Dragon Boy, as he drank from his cursed mother's eye. I remember tears welling up in my eyes as Edward and Alphonse recounted their attempt to resurrect their mother. As I've grown older, I still remember those animations with a veil of fond nostalgia. There is one anime that has left a major impact on me since I first watched it a year ago. That anime is Revolutionary Girl Utena, or RGU. The show, released in 1997, was very ahead of its time. It follows Utena Tenjou, a high school girl who dreams of becoming a prince. Yes, a prince, not a princess - she is canonically queer. Because of a special ring that Utena was given as a child, she gets looped into dueling against the student council to win the hand of the "Rose Bride," a bindi-wearing student named Anthy Himemiya, who "has the power to revolutionize the world." I was drawn to Revolutionary Girl Utena because of the way its characters were representative of me, with the two main characters (as well as many side characters) being queer. RGU broke ground with its positive representation of South Asian people through the character Anthy. I kept watching after being intrigued by the show's cryptic nature. Revolutionary Girl Utena was created around metaphors and symbolism that imbue the series with hidden meanings. I could watch it over and over, deciphering each and every little message concealed within a pink rose, a coffin, a pair of earrings, a red sweater, and almost everything else in the show. Revolutionary Girl Utena has affected many people all over the world. It even served as inspiration for many modern-day animes that I also enjoy, including Puella Magi Madoka Magica. I love Madoka Magica, and I literally bawled my eyes out at the end of the twelve-episode series. I can see obvious parallels between the two shows, especially the main characters and their undying love for one another. Despite my appreciation for other animes, Revolutionary Girl Utena has entirely captivated me, and it will forever be my favorite anime.