Hobbies and interests
Advocacy And Activism
CARINA REYES-ORTIZ
1x
FinalistCARINA REYES-ORTIZ
1x
FinalistBio
I am Carina Reyes Ortiz, a 17-year-old Puerto Rican determined to shatter ceilings in the legal world. I serve my community now through advocacy, translation, and supporting families in North Philadelphia who deserve to be heard. I will study law so that one day I can change systems from the inside, not wait for permission from the outside.
Education
Parkway Center City High School
High SchoolMiscellaneous
Desired degree level:
Bachelor's degree program
Majors of interest:
- Political Science and Government
- Criminology
- Criminal Justice and Corrections, General
- Journalism
- Communication, General
Career
Dream career field:
Law Practice
Dream career goals:
Attorney
Public services
Volunteering
City Council — Intern2022 – 2024
Future Interests
Advocacy
Politics
Volunteering
Philanthropy
Entrepreneurship
Sola Family Scholarship
Home is supposed to be a place where you feel safe. For my family, it became the place we needed to leave behind.
When I was young, my mother made the difficult decision to move my two sisters, my little brother, and me from Philadelphia to Montgomery County after leaving a DV situation. I was too young to understand everything that had happened, but I understood that we were starting over. Looking back, I realize she was giving us what every child deserves: the chance to grow up feeling safe. That decision changed the course of my life. It taught me that courage is choosing to move forward even when the future is uncertain.
For as long as I can remember, it has been my mom against the world. As a single mother raising four children on her own, she worked tirelessly to provide for our family while making sure we never lost sight of what mattered most. Money was often tight, and for a while all five of us shared a bedroom in a relative's home while my mom rebuilt our lives. Even then, she somehow made our home feel full of love.
One of my favorite memories is sitting at the kitchen table doing homework while my mom sat beside us. She was exhausted after work, but she still asked about our classes, quizzed us before tests, and reminded us that education was something no one could ever take away. She never expected perfection. She expected effort. She believed that where we started in life did not have to determine where we finished, and she made sure we believed it too.
Those lessons became the foundation for everything I pursued in high school. I earned my Associate of Arts degree from the Community College of Philadelphia before receiving my high school diploma because I wanted to honor the opportunities my mother fought so hard to give me. I also founded my school's Latino student advocacy organization, Voces Unidas, to create a space where students could celebrate their culture and advocate for social justice. My mom never asked me to succeed for her. She simply taught me to work hard, care about others, and never waste the opportunities I had been given.
This fall, I will attend West Chester University, where I plan to study Political Science on the pre-law track before attending law school. My goal is to pursue a career in civil rights or immigration law, advocating for individuals and families whose voices are too often overlooked. Through my internships, I have seen how overwhelming legal systems can be for vulnerable communities. I want to be someone who helps people navigate those systems with dignity, compassion, and hope.
While I am proud of everything I have accomplished, I know paying for college will be a challenge. I will rely on financial aid, student loans, and scholarships to help make my education possible. Receiving this scholarship would ease that burden and allow me to focus more fully on my education and my future.
More than anything, this scholarship would bring me one step closer to fulfilling a promise I have made to myself. My mother has spent my entire life carrying the weight of our family. She sacrificed her comfort, her time, and countless opportunities so her children could have a brighter future. Everything I accomplish will always be a reflection of what she made possible. My greatest hope is that one day I can give her the same sense of security, peace, and opportunity she spent my entire life giving to me.
The Concrete Rose Scholarship Foundation
People tend to underestimate kids from neighborhoods like mine until we become impossible to ignore.
As the daughter of a single mother, I learned early that nobody was coming to hand me success. My mom worked nonstop to provide for us, while my abuela somehow managed to hold our entire family together with strength and sacrifice. Some of my favorite memories are walking into her house after school to the smell of rice and beans, salsa music playing in the background, and strong Spanish coffee brewing. Watching both of them push through exhaustion without ever giving up taught me resilience before I even knew what resilience meant.
Still, it is hard to dream big when the world constantly expects you to dream smaller.
Growing up surrounded by financial struggles and stereotypes about neighborhoods like mine, I saw how quickly people placed limits on us before we even had the chance to define ourselves. For a while, I struggled with those limitations too.
Everything changed when I realized my neighborhood was not something I had to overcome. It was the reason I understood exactly who I wanted to fight for.
Throughout high school, I challenged myself in every way possible. I balanced dual enrollment college courses while working at a busy brunch restaurant, where I learned how to think fast and communicate under pressure during hectic Sunday morning rushes. I earned my associate degree cum laude before receiving my high school diploma, something I once never thought possible.
I also became president of *Voces Unidas*, a social justice club focused on conversations surrounding identity, equity, and representation, and mentored younger students in Philadelphia schools. One little girl I tutored whispered, “I can’t do it,” before attempting to read aloud. She was only eight years old, yet she had already convinced herself she was not capable.
What struck me was how familiar those words sounded. I had heard them before, including in my own head. That moment reminded me how powerful it can be when someone believes in you before you believe in yourself. It also reinforced the kind of person I want to become for others.
My internships with Quetcy Lozada and Danilo Burgos further shaped my perspective on leadership and advocacy. Watching Latino leaders fight for resources and support their communities showed me what meaningful public service looks like. It also helped me realize that while policy can create change, the law is often where people go when they need someone to stand beside them and fight for their rights. That realization strengthened my desire to become an attorney.
This fall, I will study political science on a pre-law track with the goal of becoming an attorney for underserved communities. I want to help people navigate systems that often feel overwhelming and inaccessible, especially communities often overlooked when decisions are made.
As a first-generation college student, I know that earning a degree will require both determination and financial support. My mother has spent my entire life carrying responsibilities that should have been shared, working tirelessly to create opportunities for my siblings and me. Receiving this scholarship would help me continue my education while easing the burden on the woman whose sacrifices made my opportunities possible. It would allow me to focus more fully on my studies and service while working toward a career helping others.
Being underestimated taught me resilience, but it also taught me something even more important: your ZIP code does not determine your destiny. Sometimes the people counted out the earliest become the ones most determined to open doors for everyone coming behind them.
Hazel Joy Memorial Scholarship
If grief had a sound, I think it would be a six-year-old girl trying to understand why her sister was not coming home.
I remember standing there, small and confused, while the world kept moving as if nothing had happened. I did not know the word “grief.” I just knew something had been taken from me, and I would spend years trying to name that empty space.
I was six years old when my sister, Celise, passed away from cerebral palsy on May 26, 2014. She had lived in a nursing home for as long as I could remember, and I was only able to visit her on birthdays and holidays. As a child, I did not understand why. I did not understand why other children got to grow up alongside their siblings while my memories of mine came in brief, scheduled visits. To me, it felt like I was missing pieces of a relationship everyone else seemed to have.
For a long time, I was angry. Angry that I did not get more time with her. Angry that I never got to be her little sister in the way I imagined. Angry at my father for not allowing me to visit more often. As I grew older, however, my perspective changed. I realized he was not trying to keep us apart. He was trying to protect me from a reality he did not know how to explain. Grief taught me that adults do not always have the answers either. Sometimes the choices they make out of love can look like distance.
I was able to see Celise the day before she passed away. I did not know it was goodbye, but somehow my heart did.
The day we buried her, my mother released white doves into the sky. I remember watching them rise higher and higher until they disappeared from sight. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Looking back, it felt as though those doves carried both my grief and my love at the same time. In that moment, I learned something I would spend years understanding: someone can be gone and still remain a part of you.
The loss of my sister shaped the person I am today. It taught me empathy before I knew the word for it. It taught me to notice when people are hurting, even when they say they are fine. It taught me how to sit beside someone in pain without rushing to fill the silence. Because I know what it feels like to carry grief, I have become the person who tries to make sure others do not carry theirs alone.
That lesson influences every part of my life. It is one of the reasons I want to become an attorney. I hope to advocate for families who are overwhelmed, vulnerable, or navigating some of the most difficult moments of their lives. I want to be the person who listens carefully, explains patiently, and reminds people that they are not alone. The compassion that guides me today was born from one of the hardest experiences of my childhood.
Celise did not get the life she deserved, but her life continues to shape mine. My grief did not break me. It redirected me. Every achievement I earn, every person I help, and every goal I pursue carries a piece of her with it. If this scholarship helps me continue my education, I will carry her forward with me—because while I may have lost my sister, I have never lost the impact she left on my heart.
Our Destiny Our Future Scholarship
Everyone says, “use your voice,” but no one talks about what it takes to be heard.
I learned the difference growing up in North Philadelphia, watching hardworking friends and family struggle to navigate systems that were never designed with them in mind. From families facing language barriers to community members who were often talked about rather than talked with, I realized that a voice is not simply the ability to speak. A voice is the ability to be heard, understood, and taken seriously. To me, leadership is not about speaking for others; it is about making sure they have the confidence and support to speak for themselves.
One of the most important lessons I learned about this came during my internship with Councilwoman Lozada. A constituent walked into the office carrying a stack of immigration paperwork, visibly frustrated after weeks of being passed from office to office. As she sat across from me, I realized she did not need someone to rescue her. She needed someone willing to slow down and listen.
Together, we went through each document line by line, clarifying confusing language. With each explanation, she grew more assured, not because her circumstances had changed, but because her understanding had. When she left, her situation hadn’t magically been solved, but her understanding of it had. She now knew what questions to ask and what steps to take next. I did not give her a voice that day, she already had one. My role was to help remove the barriers preventing her from using it.
I carried this lesson into my other internship with State Representative Danilo Burgos. Assisting constituents with housing and public resources, I noticed a common theme: people often felt unheard long before they felt unsupported. These experiences showed me that listening is not passive; it is an action that builds trust and creates belonging.
Outside of these internships, I put this belief into practice through mentorship. One student I worked with rarely spoke during group discussions out of fear of saying the wrong thing. By consistently encouraging her and celebrating her small steps outside her comfort zone, I watched her confidence soar. People are far more likely to use their voices when someone first shows them that they are worth hearing.
As a Latina, this mission is deeply personal. Representation is not simply about visibility; it is about possibility. Growing up, seeing women who looked like me in positions of leadership challenged the limits society sometimes places on young Latina women. They showed me that our perspectives belong in every room where decisions are made. Today, I hope to do the same for others.
This desire drives my plan to major in Political Science and pursue a career in law and public policy. I want to help create systems that are more accessible, practical, and responsive to the communities they serve, ensuring that the people most affected by decisions have a meaningful role in shaping them.
Every person deserves to be heard—not because they hold power or a title, but because their experiences matter. North Philadelphia taught me that communities are strongest when everyone has a seat at the table. Wherever my future takes me, I will continue using my voice to ensure that others never have to wonder whether theirs matters.
RonranGlee Literary Scholarship
What can we women know, but philosophies of the kitchen? Well, if Aristotle had cooked, he would have written much more.— Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz
When I first read this passage, I smiled. At first glance, it sounds like a joke. Sor Juana seems to be poking fun at the idea that women belong in kitchens while men belong in universities and positions of power. The more I sat with her words, however, the more I realized that she was doing something much deeper. Through a simple comment about cooking, Sor Juana challenges who society considers knowledgeable and worthy of being heard. Her underlying message is not simply that women are intelligent. It is that lived experience is itself a form of knowledge and that society often overlooks wisdom when it comes from people on the margins.
What makes this passage so powerful is that Sor Juana never directly argues that women deserve a place at the table. Instead, she questions who built the table in the first place. During the seventeenth century, women were largely excluded from formal education and intellectual spaces. Because they lacked access to universities, many people assumed they lacked intellectual ability. Sor Juana recognized that these were not the same thing. Access and intelligence are not interchangeable. By referring to the "philosophies of the kitchen," she exposes the flaw in a society that dismisses entire groups of people simply because their knowledge is developed in different spaces.
Her reference to Aristotle makes this argument even more striking. Aristotle represented the highest level of intellectual authority in the Western world. Rather than claiming that women could think like Aristotle, Sor Juana makes the bolder argument that Aristotle himself had something to learn. When she writes that he would have "written much more" if he had cooked, she suggests that even the most celebrated thinkers have blind spots. Knowledge is incomplete when it is disconnected from lived experience.
What resonates with me most is that Sor Juana refuses to separate intellectual understanding from everyday life. She sees value in observation, experimentation, and problem-solving wherever they occur. The kitchen becomes a symbol for all the spaces society overlooks. In her view, wisdom is not confined to libraries, universities, or positions of authority. It can emerge from the ordinary experiences of people whose voices are too often ignored.
I saw this idea come to life during my internship with a local elected official. One afternoon, a grandmother came into the office carrying housing paperwork that she could not understand because every document was written in English. As she spread the papers across the desk, she apologized repeatedly and explained that she did not know what to do. I sat beside her and translated each page, helping her understand the process and her next steps.
As I worked through the documents, I found myself asking a simple question: Why wasn't this paperwork available in Spanish? What struck me most was that she wasn't confused because she lacked intelligence. She was confused because the system had failed to communicate in a language she understood. The burden had been placed on her to navigate a system that had never been designed with her in mind.
That moment changed the way I think about knowledge and power. The grandmother sitting across from me knew far more about perseverance, sacrifice, and resilience than many of the people who designed the forms she was struggling to complete. Yet because the system failed to communicate in her language, she was treated as though she lacked understanding. In that moment, I realized that society often confuses access with ability. Sor Juana was challenging the same misconception more than three centuries ago.
As a Latina student, this message feels remarkably relevant today. Growing up bilingual, I have watched people make assumptions about intelligence based on language, accent, or background. Yet some of the most knowledgeable people I know are those who have learned to navigate challenges that others never have to face. Sor Juana understood this centuries ago. The problem was never a lack of intelligence. The problem was a lack of recognition.
This lesson has also shaped my work as President of Voces Latinas. One of the most rewarding parts of that experience has been watching young women find confidence in their own voices. Too often, people underestimate themselves because they do not see their experiences reflected in positions of leadership. Yet once they are given the opportunity to speak, they reveal remarkable insight, creativity, and strength. Their experiences matter. Their perspectives matter. Their voices matter.
More than three hundred years after Sor Juana wrote about the "philosophies of the kitchen," her words continue to challenge us to reconsider whose knowledge we value and whose voices we choose to hear. What I admire most is that she never asked for permission to think. She refused to accept that her circumstances determined the value of her ideas. As a Latina student preparing for a future in law and public service, I carry that lesson with me. Sor Juana reminds us that wisdom is not reserved for those at the center of power. Often, it is the people standing at the margins who see the system most clearly. Their voices do not need validation to matter. They matter because they reveal truths that others are unwilling or unable to see.
Sloane Stephens Doc & Glo Scholarship
In Philadelphia, opportunity can change completely from one city block to the next. Growing up here, I saw how barriers like language, income, and legal status influence who gets ahead and who gets left behind. Yet I also saw a community full of resilience, talent, and untapped potential. My definition of impact is not achieving success for myself alone; it is helping remove the barriers that prevent others from reaching their potential. The reality is that talent is universal, but access is not.
Education has already changed my life. Through my dual enrollment program, I earned an associate degree while completing high school. For the first time, I saw possibilities that once felt out of reach and recognized that opportunities like these are not equally available to everyone. That realization fueled my passion for advocacy and inspired me to pursue a degree in Political Science and eventually attend law school. My goal is to become a civil rights and immigration attorney, advocating for individuals and families who often struggle to navigate complex systems.
The people who inspire me most are those who dedicate their lives to serving others. My mother, a public school educator, has spent her career advocating for students and families in one of Philadelphia's most underserved communities. Watching her taught me that leadership is about using your voice to create opportunities for others and having the courage to stand up for what is right.
One experience I will never forget happened during my internship with Councilwoman Lozada's office. A grandmother came into the office visibly frustrated and close to tears. She had received housing-related paperwork, but every document was in English. As she spread the papers across the desk, she repeatedly apologized and explained that she did not understand what she was supposed to do.
As I translated each page, I found myself asking a simple question: Why wasn't this paperwork available in Spanish? What struck me most was that she wasn't struggling because she lacked intelligence or capability. She simply spoke a different language. In that moment, I saw how easily people can be excluded from opportunities and resources, not because they are unqualified, but because systems are not designed with them in mind.
By the time we finished, her shoulders had relaxed and she finally felt confident about her next steps. More importantly, the experience changed me. It taught me that advocacy does not always begin in a courtroom. Sometimes it begins by recognizing an inequity that others overlook and ensuring someone else feels seen, heard, and understood.
As President of Voces Latinas, I have helped create a space where young Latina students can celebrate their identities and recognize the value of their voices. Too often, young women are told to shrink themselves to fit into spaces that were not built for them. Through this organization, I have watched young women gain confidence and step into leadership roles within our school and community. Those moments reinforced my belief that lasting change begins when people are empowered to advocate for themselves and others.
My goal is to help create a Philadelphia where opportunity is not determined by the block you live on, the language you speak, or the circumstances you were born into. If my education allows me to open doors for others the way so many people have opened doors for me, then my success will never belong to me alone. It will belong to every student, family, and future leader who walks through those doors after me. Because I believe that your ZIP code should never determine your destiny.
Joe Gilroy "Plan Your Work, Work Your Plan" Scholarship
Before I receive my high school diploma, I will walk across a stage and receive a college degree.
For many people, that achievement might seem impossible. For me, it represents years of intentional planning, long nights, sacrifice, and an unwavering belief that my future could be bigger than my circumstances. As a proud Latina from Philadelphia, I have never believed that your ZIP code determines your destiny. I believe that success comes from having a vision, creating a plan, and showing up every day to execute it—exactly the philosophy Joe Gilroy lived by when he carried his daily to-do list in his shirt pocket.
That mindset has guided every major decision I have made. Through a dual enrollment program at the Community College of Philadelphia, I earned my Associate Degree before graduating from Parkway Center City Middle College High School. Balancing college courses, high school responsibilities, leadership roles, internships, work, and family commitments required careful planning and discipline. Every semester, I set goals, mapped out deadlines, and held myself accountable. The experience taught me that success is not about talent alone—it is about consistency, preparation, and the willingness to keep moving forward even when challenges arise.
My ultimate goal is to become an attorney who advocates for underserved communities, particularly immigrant families and individuals who face barriers to accessing critical services. During an internship at a Philadelphia council office, I met a constituent who arrived carrying immigration paperwork she could not understand. She was overwhelmed and afraid, unsure of what the documents meant for her family. Watching her struggle reinforced something I had seen throughout my community: language and legal barriers often prevent people from accessing the help they need. In that moment, I realized I wanted to dedicate my career to ensuring that people have someone in their corner who can help them understand, navigate, and advocate for their rights.
This fall, I will attend West Chester University, where I will major in Political Science on a pre-law track. My plan is to maintain a strong GPA, pursue internships with law firms and public service organizations, develop my leadership skills, and prepare for the LSAT. After earning my bachelor’s degree, I plan to attend law school and specialize in immigration or civil rights law. Each step is part of a larger roadmap that brings me closer to my goal.
Achieving that goal requires resources as well as determination. I plan to utilize scholarships, federal aid, and employment opportunities to help finance my education while minimizing debt. As someone who has balanced academics, work, and service throughout high school, I understand that meaningful accomplishments require both effort and sacrifice.
My long-term vision extends beyond becoming an attorney. I hope to provide accessible legal services, host bilingual educational workshops, and advocate for policies that expand opportunities for historically underserved communities. I want to be the person who helps others navigate systems that often feel overwhelming and inaccessible.
Joe Gilroy believed in approaching each day with purpose and a plan. I carry that same philosophy with me as I pursue my education and future career. My dream is to make a meaningful difference in the lives of others, but dreams alone are not enough. Success comes from planning the work, working the plan, and staying committed to the journey, even when the path is difficult. That is exactly what I intend to do.
Patricia Lindsey Jackson Foundation - Eva Mae Jackson Scholarship of Education
Some of my favorite childhood memories are Saturday mornings at my grandmother’s house with old Spanish Christian music playing through the speakers while the smell of Pine-Sol and sofrito filled the house. Growing up in a Puerto Rican household in Philadelphia, faith was never something that only existed inside church walls. It was part of our conversations, our routines, and the way we treated people. No matter what was happening in life, one thing was certain in my grandmother’s house: we were going to Sunday Mass.
My grandmother’s faith shaped me deeply. She was the kind of woman who spoke about God naturally in everyday life, not in a forceful way, but in a comforting one. One thing she always told me was, “Mija, God sees how you treat people when nobody is watching. Honor Him in everything you do.” That stayed with me because she taught me that Christianity was not about pretending to be perfect. It was about living with kindness, humility, faith, and compassion even during difficult moments.
Growing up in a single mother household, there were many times where life felt stressful financially and emotionally. My mother raised four children while balancing work, responsibilities, and eventually returning to college herself. Some of my clearest memories are hearing her pray quietly at night after long exhausting days. Even when life felt uncertain, she never stopped trusting God. Watching both my mother and grandmother lean on faith during difficult seasons shaped my relationship with Christianity more than anything else ever could.
As I got older, my faith became more personal to me. It became the thing I leaned on when I felt overwhelmed, uncertain, or discouraged. Whenever I feel lost or unsure about an important decision, I pray for discernment and ask God to make His vision for my life clear to me. Sometimes faith means moving forward without fully understanding where God is taking you yet.
Throughout high school, my faith became closely connected to my sense of purpose. As a student at Parkway Center City Middle College, I balanced high school coursework while simultaneously earning my associate’s degree through the Community College of Philadelphia. Managing academics, internships, leadership opportunities, and family responsibilities often felt overwhelming. There were moments I felt exhausted trying to balance everything, but every time I prayed, I felt reminded that I was not doing it alone.
One of the biggest ways Christianity shaped me was through serving others. During internships with Quetcy Lozada and Danilo Burgos, I met families struggling with housing concerns, immigration issues, and financial hardships. I remember helping a mother understand immigration paperwork she feared misinterpreting because she worried it could affect her family’s future. I still remember how tightly she held those papers in her hands, like her entire life depended on them. Sitting with her reminded me of something my faith has always taught me: people deserve compassion, patience, dignity, and someone willing to stand beside them during difficult moments without judgment.
Because of these experiences, I plan to study Political Science on a pre law track before attending law school and pursuing a career focused on advocacy and public service. I hope to work in immigration and civil rights law so I can help underserved communities feel protected, informed, and heard. As a proud Puerto Rican young woman, I understand how important representation is, and I want to become someone who helps people navigate systems that often feel intimidating and inaccessible.
Receiving this scholarship would help support both my academic and professional goals by easing the financial burden of continuing my education while allowing me to stay focused on pursuing the career God has placed on my heart. More importantly, it would encourage me to continue using my faith, education, and experiences to serve others.
Christianity has taught me resilience, humility, compassion, and trust in God’s plan even during uncertain moments. Most importantly, it has taught me that success means very little if you are unwilling to use it to help other people. My faith continues to guide every part of my life, and I know it will continue shaping the kind of person I hope to become and the people I hope to help along the way.
Tawkify Meaningful Connections Scholarship
My mother used to leave handwritten notes on the kitchen table before work because she knew she would not see all four of us before school.
“Have a good day.”
“I love you.”
“Help your brother.”
“Te amo, mami.”
They were never long or elaborate, just small handwritten reminders from a tired single mother raising four children while carrying the weight of an entire household on her shoulders. But to me, those notes were everything. They were tangible. Something I could fold up, carry in my backpack, and hold close to my heart on hard days. Even during rushed mornings, financial stress, and exhaustion, my mother always found a way to make sure we felt loved, seen, and connected to one another.
Looking back now, I realize those little notes taught me more about human connection than technology ever could.
Growing up as the daughter of a single mother taught me that authentic connection is not built through convenience or constant communication. It is built through presence, sacrifice, consistency, and love shown in ordinary moments. In a world increasingly driven by technology, social media, and surface-level interaction, I believe preserving genuine human connection requires intentional effort. People want to feel understood. They want to feel valued beyond a screen, a username, or a quick response. Real connection happens when people feel truly seen.
As the oldest sibling in many situations, I naturally became someone my brothers and sisters leaned on for support, encouragement, and guidance. Whether helping with homework, listening during difficult moments, or trying to make my siblings laugh during stressful times, I learned early that relationships are often what carry people through life’s hardest seasons. Watching my mother navigate life with resilience, faith, and love while still prioritizing her children taught me that strong relationships truly can change lives.
That lesson has shaped every part of who I am.
Throughout high school, I intentionally pursued opportunities centered around mentorship, service, and leadership because I understand how meaningful human connection can be. Through tutoring younger students, mentoring peers, church involvement, and internships within local government offices in Philadelphia, I learned that people often remember how you made them feel long after they forget what you said. Sometimes the most impactful thing you can offer someone is your patience, encouragement, and belief in them.
One experience especially stayed with me while tutoring a first-grade student after school. After struggling through a reading passage, he quietly asked me, “Do you think God made me smart too?” That question broke my heart because no child should question their worth so early in life. I reminded him that struggling with something did not make him incapable and that God created him with purpose and potential. By the end of the session, he was smiling, reading louder, and finally beginning to believe in himself again. Moments like that remind me that authentic connection has the power to restore confidence, dignity, and hope.
Technology can help us communicate faster, but I do not believe speed automatically creates connection. In many ways, social media has made people more visible while simultaneously making genuine relationships harder to maintain. Too often, people present polished versions of themselves online while feeling isolated in real life. Real connection requires vulnerability, empathy, listening, and emotional presence, qualities no algorithm can replace.
Tawkify’s belief that strong relationships can change lives resonates deeply with me because I have lived that truth firsthand. The relationships within my family, church, school, and community shaped the person I am becoming. They taught me resilience, compassion, communication, and the importance of uplifting others. They showed me that leadership is not about recognition or status, but about making people feel valued, heard, and supported.
As I pursue a future career in law and public service, I hope to continue building meaningful relationships that help people feel empowered and understood. No matter how advanced technology becomes, humanity will always need connection. We will always need people willing to listen, encourage, and genuinely care for one another.
Because at the end of the day, the strongest communities are not built through technology alone. They are built through love, sacrifice, and people who choose to show up for each other again and again.
Forever90 Scholarship
“Do you think God made me smart too?”
A shy first-grade boy I tutored after school asked me that question while staring down at a book he was struggling to read. He apologized every time he missed a word, as though struggling meant he was failing not only the assignment, but himself. I remember sitting beside him completely heartbroken that a child so young could already question his worth so deeply. Without hesitation, I told him yes. I told him God created him with purpose, intelligence, and potential, and that one difficult moment would never define who he was capable of becoming. By the end of that session, he was reading louder, smiling bigger, and finally beginning to believe in himself again.
That moment has stayed with me because it reflects the kind of person and leader I strive to be. My faith has taught me that leadership is not about titles or recognition. It is about serving others with humility, compassion, and integrity even when nobody is watching.
Growing up, faith and service were always connected in my life. I was raised to believe that when God blesses you with opportunities, talents, or education, you are called to use those gifts to uplift others. That belief shaped the way I approached my academics, leadership roles, and community involvement throughout high school. Whether through church outreach, tutoring younger students, mentoring peers, or interning within local government offices in Philadelphia, I have consistently tried to lead with purpose and compassion.
My church community especially taught me the importance of servant leadership. Through volunteer opportunities and outreach programs, I learned that true leadership begins with humility and a willingness to help others without expecting recognition in return. Faith taught me to care deeply about people, especially those who feel discouraged, overlooked, or unsupported.
Those lessons guided me academically as well. As a student at Parkway Center City Middle College, I earned my associate degree from the Community College of Philadelphia while still completing high school, graduating cum laude before receiving my high school diploma. Balancing college coursework, leadership responsibilities, internships, and service commitments required discipline, perseverance, and sacrifice. However, every challenge strengthened my determination to continue creating opportunities not only for myself, but for others.
My internships within local government offices further deepened my commitment to service. I worked with families seeking guidance, resources, and support during difficult moments in their lives. Those experiences showed me how powerful compassion and advocacy can be when people feel unheard or overwhelmed. They also reinforced my desire to pursue a career in law and public service where I can continue helping others in meaningful ways.
The legacy of Mrs. Marion Makins resonates deeply with me because it reflects values I strive to embody every day: faith, leadership, academic excellence, and service to others. What stands out most about this scholarship is that it honors character just as much as achievement. Mrs. Makins’ legacy reminds students like me that true success is measured not only by personal accomplishments, but by how we uplift the people around us.
As I continue pursuing my education and future career goals, I hope to honor that legacy by living a life rooted in service, faith, and leadership. To me, service is not simply something you do. It is a responsibility, and one I intend to carry with me for the rest of my life.
Change of Heart Scholarship
When I first walked into Parkway Center City Middle College, I thought success was simply about surviving high school and making my family proud. I never expected that school would completely change the way I viewed myself, my future, and what I was capable of becoming.
As a young Latina raised in a single mother household, I learned about struggle early. My mom raised four children while balancing work, life, and even returning to college herself because she wanted us to believe anything was possible. Watching her sacrifice so much taught me resilience, but Parkway transformed that resilience into ambition. For the first time, I was surrounded by teachers, counselors, and peers who challenged me to think beyond the limits I had quietly placed on myself. I remember counselor Racca specifically telling me that I was not just “getting by,” but that I had leadership potential. Hearing someone else believe in me like that changed something in me. It made me start believing in myself too.
One of the biggest turning points in my life came through the opportunities Parkway encouraged me to pursue. Through the middle college program, I simultaneously earned my associate’s degree through the Community College of Philadelphia while still completing high school. At first, I questioned whether I belonged in college classrooms at seventeen years old. I remember walking into my first lecture surrounded by adults and feeling completely out of place. Balancing college coursework with high school responsibilities felt overwhelming. But instead of shrinking under pressure, I grew from it.
Another experience that transformed my perspective was interning with Quetcy Lozada and Danilo Burgos, two Puerto Rican leaders serving communities like mine. Through those internships, I met families navigating housing issues, immigration concerns, and financial hardships who simply needed someone willing to listen and guide them. I remember helping a mother understand immigration documents she feared misinterpreting because she worried one mistake could affect her family’s future. That moment made me realize I did not just want success for myself. I wanted to use my education to advocate for people who often feel unheard or overlooked.
High school changed my heart by teaching me that my voice, experiences, and background have value. It showed me that being a young Puerto Rican woman from North Philadelphia is not something I need to overcome. It is something I carry proudly into every room I enter.
Today, I will graduate high school with my associate’s degree earned with distinction, cum laude. More importantly, I am leaving with confidence in who I am and clarity about where I am headed. I plan to study Political Science on a pre law track before attending law school and becoming an attorney focused on advocating for underserved communities.
Parkway taught me that growth happens when people believe in you before you fully believe in yourself. Because of that, I now move through life knowing there is no dream too big for me to chase.
Cooper Congress Scholarship
Everyone says “use your voice,” but no one talks about what it takes to be heard. To me, ensuring that everyone has a voice means more than giving people the opportunity to speak. It means making sure they are actually listened to, understood, and respected, especially in spaces where they have historically been overlooked. Growing up in North Philadelphia, I have seen how often decisions are made about communities without ever including the people who live in them. That reality shaped how I show up in every space I enter.
During my internship at the office of Councilwoman Quetcy Lozada, I worked directly with community members who came in searching for answers. One moment that stayed with me was when a woman walked in holding immigration paperwork, clearly overwhelmed. She had gone from office to office and no one could explain what she needed to do next. She was not asking for anything extraordinary. She just wanted clarity. I sat with her and went through each document step by step, helping her understand what was being asked of her and what her next steps needed to be. By the time she left, she was no longer confused or stuck. That moment showed me that giving someone a voice is not about speaking for them. It is about making sure they are equipped, informed, and confident enough to speak for themselves.
I had a similar experience during my internship with State Representative Danilo Burgos, where I helped respond to constituent concerns, supported outreach efforts, and observed how policy decisions directly impact everyday lives. I saw how language barriers, lack of access, and limited representation can make people feel invisible. That is why I approach leadership differently. I listen first. I ask questions. I make sure people feel seen before anything else.
Outside of my internships, I have taken initiative in my community through volunteering and mentorship. I have participated in neighborhood clean ups and supported community efforts that bring people together. I also spend time mentoring younger students, especially those who need guidance or someone to believe in them. I understand that leadership is not about a title. It is about consistency, presence, and a willingness to show up for others in meaningful ways.
As a Latina, ensuring that everyone has a voice is deeply personal to me. Representation matters in ways that cannot always be measured. When people walk into a space and see someone who looks like them, who understands their experiences, it builds trust and connection. It reminds them that their voice belongs in that space too. I want to continue being that person in every room I enter.
In a world that often feels divided, I believe the strongest leaders are the ones who bring people together. The ones who choose to listen when it would be easier not to. The ones who create space instead of taking it. My goal is to major in Political Science and pursue a career in law and public policy so I can continue advocating for communities like mine, ensuring that they are not only included in conversations, but that their voices help shape the decisions being made.
Because making sure everyone has a voice is not just something I believe in. It is something I live every day.
Resilient Scholar Award
Strength, in my house, never sounded like a speech. It sounded like my mother whispering, “We’ll figure it out,” even when I knew she didn’t have all the answers yet. It smelled like café con leche at 5 A.M., and it looked like her coming home from work exhausted but still asking how my day was, as if listening were a responsibility she refused to set down. Strength, to me, has never been abstract. It has always had a face.
I was raised in a single-parent household in North Philadelphia, where survival and ambition had to learn to share the same space. Our apartment was small, but our culture was not. Spanish and English lived side by side – sometimes clashing, always coexisting – like a reminder that identity can hold more than one language at a time. Bills piled up. Transportation fell through. Some days the world felt heavier than it should for a child to carry. But there was pride, culture, music, and a kind of resilience that lived in the walls with us. I did not grow up surrounded by perfection. I grew up surrounded by perseverance.
There was a moment in tenth grade when I realized that the way I was raised had already taught me how to lead. A friend of mine, who had recently arrived from another country and spoke mostly Spanish, was told to move to the back of the lunch line simply because she didn’t understand the instructions. No one intervened. The room stayed loud. People looked away, and I understood in that instant how easy it is for harm to go unnoticed when silence makes it comfortable.
So I stepped forward. I translated. I asked, respectfully but directly, why language should determine someone’s place. My voice shook a little, but I did it anyway. And that was the moment I learned that courage is not the absence of fear — it is choosing what is right before you feel ready. That moment didn’t make the room cheer or erupt in applause. But it shifted something in me. I understood that advocacy is not always a headline. Sometimes it’s a hallway, a line in a cafeteria, a decision made quietly but with conviction.
That experience led me to internships with Councilwoman Kendra Lozada and Pennsylvania State Representative Danilo Burgos, where I helped families navigate language barriers, school systems, and questions many are too intimidated to ask. I learned that policy is not just written on paper; it echoes in real lives. I saw how representation can change the temperature of a room. I saw what it means to show up for people.
Growing up in a single-parent household did not limit me. It prepared me. It taught me discipline, responsibility, emotional literacy, and the ability to stand up even before I feel tall enough. It taught me to lead from where I am while preparing for where I’m going. I don’t want to leave my community behind; I want to come back to it with tools.
I am ready to work.
I am ready to learn.
I am ready to rise — without forgetting who raised me.
This scholarship would not just help me attend college — it would allow me to turn my lived experience into service, transforming what I’ve survived into the advocacy and leadership my community deserves.
Raise Me Up to DO GOOD Scholarship
If you want to know what strength looks like, do not look at a superhero. Look at a Boricua single mother packing up a life, leaving the home that hurt her, and starting over with nothing but her child and her faith. That is what I was born into. Soy hija de una madre soltera. I am the daughter of a single mother, and that fact has shaped every part of who I am.
My mom became a single parent when I was only two years old. She did not have a safety net. She had me. And still, she did not stop her life. She went to school while raising me alone. She earned her bachelor’s degree, then her master’s in education, and she recently completed her Letter of Superintendency. I remember her studying at the kitchen table, textbooks spread out next to bills, determination sitting right beside exhaustion. When I talk about resilience and the kind of woman I want to grow into, Lord Jesus knows it is her. My mother is a boss. She did not tell me to break cycles. She showed me how.
Growing up without my father in the home hurt, but my mother refused to let that be the end of our story. His absence taught me something important. Presence is not DNA. Presence is effort. It is choosing to show up for the people you love.
And then God did what God does. He made a way out of no way. My mom met a good man, someone who did not erase our past but helped us build a future. He helped us heal. He reminded us what a safe home could feel like. Then, a year ago, he passed away. Another goodbye we never asked for. Another chapter we had to survive. Our life has not been easy, but God never left us. He protected us. He provided for us. He made roads where the ground did not exist. And now I am applying to college. Look at God. Look at us. After everything that was meant to break us, we are still here.
Being raised in a single parent home made me grow up faster, but it also gave me a heart that pays attention. I learned to see people. I learned to notice hurt without judgment. I learned that some battles are fought in silence, and the least I can do is sit beside someone in theirs. That is why I know exactly what I want to do. I want to become a lawyer. I want to advocate for women, children, and communities. I want to protect families like mine who need someone to stand with them when the world feels heavy. I do not just want to make it out. I want to go back and hold the door open.
I am my mother’s daughter. Built by her courage. Lifted by her faith. Carried by God’s grace. I do not just want a better future. I want to build one. Not just for me, but for anyone still learning how to survive what they never should have had to endure.
Our story does not end in survival. Our story ends in victory.
And I am going to make sure of it.
LOVE like JJ Scholarship in Memory of Jonathan "JJ" Day
If grief had a sound, I think it would be a six-year-old girl trying to understand why her sister isn’t coming home. I remember standing there, small and confused, while the world kept moving like nothing had happened. I didn’t know the word “grief.” I just knew something had been taken from me, and I would spend years trying to name that empty space.
I was six years old when my sister, Celise, died from cerebral palsy on May 26, 2014. She lived in a nursing home from the time I was born, and I could only visit her on birthdays and holidays. I didn’t understand why. I didn’t understand why other kids’ siblings lived at home and mine didn’t. I didn’t understand why my memories of her were scheduled visits instead of everyday moments. To my child mind, it felt like love had rules I didn’t know how to follow.
A part of me was angry. Angry that I didn’t get more time. Angry that I couldn’t just be her little sister the way other kids got to be. Angry at my dad for not letting me see her more. As a kid, I thought he was keeping her from me. Growing up, I realized he was trying to protect me from a kind of pain he didn’t know how to explain. Adults don’t always know how to grieve either. Sometimes they make choices that look like distance but are really fear.
I did get to see her the day before she passed. I didn’t know it was goodbye, but my heart did. And the day we buried her, I remember my mom releasing white doves into the sky. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The doves flew up like they were carrying her with them, like grief and love rose at the same time, like heaven must have been waiting. I didn’t understand it then, but I understand now: she was gone, but she was never lost. She will never be lost to me.
Losing Celise didn’t just shape me,it built me. It made me softer with people and stronger for them. I can walk into a room and tell who is hurting without them saying a word. I’ve learned to sit with pain instead of running from it, to hold silence without trying to fix it. Grief taught me a language no classroom ever could.
This is why I want to become an attorney. Not for power, but for purpose. I want to stand beside families who are overwhelmed or grieving and say, “I’ve been where you are. You are not alone.” I want to be the voice I needed at six years old.
Celise didn’t get the life she deserved. So I am living for both of us. My grief didn’t break me. It redirected me. It gave me a future with her strength inside it. Every step I take is a step she never got to take, and that’s why I refuse to waste a single one. If this scholarship helps me rise, I will rise for the both of us and I will make sure I am not the last person lifted by her name.
Mema and Papa Scholarship
Throughout my life, I have always found joy in helping others, especially English language learners who sometimes feel unseen or unheard in school. I have noticed that students who are learning English often face extra challenges. They may struggle to understand lessons, complete assignments, or communicate with teachers and classmates. I try to be the kind of person who supports my classmates when they are struggling, whether that means helping translate for families, tutoring a friend who is still learning English, or simply reminding someone that they belong and that their voice matters. I believe that being helpful is not just about doing big things, but about showing kindness, being patient, and making sure others do not feel alone. I know that even small acts of support can make a difference in someone’s life, and I am always willing to lend a hand.
One example of persistence and perseverance that I am most proud of was when I helped start a club at my school to support English language learners. At first, it was difficult to get people involved. Some students did not think anyone would care, and a few worried that the club would not last. There were challenges with finding space, getting teachers to support us, and encouraging students to attend meetings. But I did not give up. Week after week, I kept inviting people, sharing ideas with teachers, and organizing small events to make the club meaningful. Slowly, students began to join and participate. I worked with classmates to plan activities where we could practice English together, share our cultures, and build confidence. We started tutoring sessions, cultural celebrations, and discussion groups that allowed students to improve their English skills while also feeling proud of their backgrounds.
Eventually, the club grew and became a safe space for students to ask questions, share experiences, and learn from one another. Seeing how proud everyone felt to share their cultures and improve their language skills made all the hard work worth it. I learned that helping others requires patience, determination, and the willingness to keep trying, even when things do not go as planned. This experience showed me that perseverance is not just about reaching a goal, but also about creating opportunities for others to succeed.
Helping English language learners has taught me the importance of empathy, leadership, and resilience. I have realized that when I support others, I also grow as a person. I am proud of the impact I have made on my classmates and the community, and I know that this is only the beginning. I will continue to advocate for students who may not always have a voice and to help them achieve their full potential. Helping others succeed, especially English language learners, is something I will always be passionate about.
Patrick Roberts Scholarship for Aspiring Criminal Justice Professionals
One major issue facing the criminal justice system today is the lack of representation and equity, particularly for Latinos and Latina women. While Latinos make up approximately 18.5 percent of the U.S. population, only 5.8 percent of lawyers identify as Hispanic or Latino, and women like me represent less than two percent of all attorneys. This disparity has profound consequences: it affects who is advocating for justice, whose perspectives are considered in legal decision-making, and how laws are interpreted and applied to communities that are often marginalized. Without greater representation, many voices especially those of underrepresented communities remain unheard. In my future career, I plan to pursue law, breaking barriers for Latinas and ensuring that communities like mine have advocates who understand their experiences, challenges, and unique perspectives.
My commitment to addressing this issue began with both personal motivation and real-world experience. Growing up in a Puerto Rican household, I learned the importance of persistence, determination, and lifting others as you climb. My abuela taught me that persistence is a recipe you never skip, my mamá showed me that determination stretches across long days and double shifts, and I learned from the strong women around me that resilience and resourcefulness are non-negotiable. These lessons instilled in me the belief that with effort, I can make a difference not only for myself but for others in my community. This belief has guided my educational choices and extracurricular engagements and has motivated me to seek opportunities where I could actively advocate for equity and justice.
I have taken concrete steps to prepare for a career in law and criminal justice through civic engagement and internships in public service. I interned in the office of Pennsylvania State Representative Danilo Burgos, where I contributed to legislative initiatives, supported community outreach efforts, and helped amplify the voices of underrepresented Latino families. In this role, I was able to analyze complex policy issues, communicate effectively in both English and Spanish, and participate in efforts to make education and public policy more equitable. I also interned with Councilwoman Quetcy M. Lozada in Philadelphia, assisting with constituent services, organizing community events, and contributing to projects that directly impacted residents. Both experiences taught me that advocacy is most effective when combined with empathy, cultural awareness, and practical problem-solving skills. They also gave me a firsthand view of how law and public policy intersect with real communities a perspective that will inform my work in the criminal justice system.
In addition to internships, I have pursued opportunities to mentor and support the next generation of Latino students. By tutoring younger students, especially those who share my cultural background, I help ensure that representation begins early. When a child sees someone who looks like them and shares their language advocating for their success, it reinforces their sense of belonging and possibility. These experiences have strengthened my skills in leadership, communication, and advocacy skills that are directly transferable to a legal career.
These combined opportunities have laid a strong foundation for my future in law and criminal justice. They have shown me how to navigate complex systems, advocate for equity, and approach challenges with both diligence and compassion. They have also confirmed my commitment to increasing representation within the field. I plan to leverage these experiences to pursue law school and eventually a career as a lawyer who fights for justice, equity, and inclusion. My goal is not only to succeed personally but also to open doors for others, ensuring that Latinas and other underrepresented groups see themselves reflected at every level of the legal system.
They say, “break the glass ceiling.” I say, “Point me to it, I’ll break it myself.” That is what it means to be Puerto Rican, determined, and unapologetic. By combining my cultural perspective, academic preparation, and hands-on advocacy experience, I am ready to address systemic inequities in the criminal justice system and to inspire the next generation of Latinas to do the same. With persistence, preparation, and a commitment to equity, I will not only climb for myself but hold the ladder steady for those who come after me.