At eighteen years old, I was locked in a jail cell, watching the last pieces of my future fall apart. I had been accepted into the Navy’s nuclear engineering program—a path that offered not just stability, but purpose. But that dream was stripped away with a single charge. That was the moment everything changed: not because I gave up, but because I decided I would fight for a life even bigger than the one I had planned. Being incarcerated as a young Black man was more than a setback—it was a sentence far beyond my release date. I returned home to closed doors, denied jobs, and constant reminders that society had already written me off. I was also navigating the compounded traumas of foster care, poverty, and undiagnosed mental illness. And yet, despite all of that, I built my own door. I earned vocational certifications and launched a tech business when no one would hire me. Eventually, I went back to school—not because I thought I’d be welcomed, but because I refused to let shame be the end of my story. Now, I’m a UC Berkeley undergraduate maintaining a 4.0 GPA while double majoring in Social Welfare and Sociology. I lead programs inside juvenile halls and San Quentin State Prison. I conduct research on empathy development. I mentor youth who have been told the same lie I once believed—that they’re only worthy of punishment. Everything I do is stitched with the lessons I learned in my darkest days: that failure is not the end, that systems can be changed, and that even the most broken-seeming stories can become a blueprint for someone else’s hope. The biggest lesson I’ve learned is that healing and leadership are not separate journeys. The wound didn’t disqualify me—it qualified me to serve others. I am not ashamed of my past. I wear it as proof that transformation is possible. And I share that truth with every young person I teach, mentor, or speak to behind the walls—because I know the power of being seen, heard, and believed in when you feel invisible. This scholarship would not just ease financial burdens—it would be a symbol of what’s possible when someone refuses to quit. My life’s mission is to turn obstacles into stepping stones—for myself and for the next generation. I am not just pursuing a degree. I am reclaiming a life, and helping others do the same.

I have lived through what many people study in textbooks: poverty, incarceration, foster care, and mental illness. These are not abstract ideas to me—they are lived realities that once tried to swallow my future whole. But instead of breaking me, those experiences became the foundation for my life’s purpose: to help others survive what I survived and to reshape the systems that failed me and so many others. Today, I’m a UC Berkeley undergraduate double majoring in Social Welfare and Sociology. I hold a 4.0 GPA. I’m a Firebaugh and Haas Research Fellow, a student-parent, and the President of Underground Scholars. But I didn’t get here on a straight path. At 18, I was incarcerated. That one moment derailed my enlistment in the Navy’s nuclear engineering program and labeled me with a felony—effectively barring me from employment, housing, and opportunity. I had to build my own door when every other one was closed. Now, I use my education and experience to build opportunities for others. I mentor incarcerated youth through the Incarceration to College program and teach college-readiness classes in juvenile halls. I also facilitate the Teach in Prison DeCal at UC Berkeley, training students to tutor at San Quentin while guiding deep reflection on the ethics and emotional weight of working in carceral spaces. These are not just acts of service—they are seeds of change. My career goal is to become a licensed clinical social worker and eventually earn a Ph.D. in Sociology. With that foundation, I plan to design and implement alternative sentencing academies—programs that replace incarceration with education, therapy, mentorship, and economic support. These academies would serve the very youth who are most vulnerable to being lost in a system that punishes pain instead of treating it. I want to help build a world where we address root causes—poverty, trauma, abandonment—instead of locking people away and pretending they don’t exist. What motivates me isn’t just justice—it’s love. The kind of love I received from the one social worker in my youth who saw beyond my case file and listened. The kind of love I extend now to students in juvenile hall who have never had a teacher tell them, “You are not your worst mistake.” Receiving this scholarship would help me continue that work—not just by reducing the financial burden I carry, but by affirming that there is value in the path I’m walking. A career in social work doesn’t promise wealth, but it offers something deeper: the chance to help others rewrite their story. Robert F. Lawson dedicated his life to helping those in need. I strive to do the same, grounded in a belief that education, empathy, and community are the tools we need to repair what systems have broken. I’m not just pursuing a degree. I’m pursuing a calling—to care, to serve, and to transform.

Resilience, for me, isn’t a catchphrase. It’s the air I breathe. It’s how I survived foster care, incarceration, and the weight of a society that told me I would never amount to anything. And yet, here I stand—double majoring in Social Welfare and Sociology at UC Berkeley, holding a 4.0 GPA, leading statewide advocacy efforts, and mentoring incarcerated youth who remind me every day why I refuse to give up. At 18, I was unjustly incarcerated, which disqualified me from my enlistment in the Navy’s nuclear engineering program. That was the first dream I watched get buried. When I came home, doors stayed closed: no jobs, no housing, no second chances. So I built my own. I taught myself IT skills, earned certifications, and launched a tech business—911 Tech Alert—because no one would hire someone with my record. I wasn’t just trying to make money; I was fighting for dignity. But survival wasn’t enough. I knew I needed education—not just for a better life, but to create a better world. Now, I’m thriving at one of the top public universities in the country, not despite my past, but because I’ve transformed it into purpose. I’ve been selected for both the Firebaugh and Haas Research Fellowships, leading an original study on empathy development in carceral education volunteers. My research, rooted in my own lived experience, explores how proximity to incarceration changes hearts—and hopefully, policies. More than just a student, I am a servant leader. As President of Underground Scholars at UC Berkeley, I grew our membership by 400% and secured new funding to support students impacted by incarceration. I also facilitate the Teach in Prison DeCal, where I train Berkeley students to tutor inside San Quentin. Back on campus, I lead weekly reflections that push students to confront the political, ethical, and emotional implications of justice work. Through Incarceration to College, I mentor youth in juvenile hall—many of whom have never had a teacher who believed in them until I showed up. Success in adversity isn’t just about what I’ve endured—it’s about what I’ve built. I’ve taken the worst moments of my life and used them as raw material to create hope for others. Every student I tutor, every young person I guide, every volunteer I train—that’s a seed I’m planting. I’m not here to boast for the sake of ego. I boast because every achievement I’ve earned is proof that people like me are not broken. We are powerful. We are necessary. Winning this scholarship would be a recognition of that truth—and an investment in the next chapter of impact I intend to write. My goal is to become a licensed clinical social worker and design alternative sentencing academies: community-based, trauma-informed spaces that offer therapy, education, and mentorship instead of punishment. It’s bold. It’s ambitious. But so am I. I’ve seen how far belief and opportunity can go. The Algers gave that gift to their goddaughter. If chosen, I’ll carry their legacy forward by continuing to show up for those who’ve been overlooked—and proving that resilience, when nurtured, doesn’t just survive. It changes everything.

There are moments in life when the world demands you become something more than what your circumstances would predict. For me, that moment came after incarceration, when I realized healing wasn’t just something I had to do for myself, but something I wanted to help others do as well. I returned to education later in life, not as a second chance, but as a first real one. I now attend UC Berkeley as a double major in Social Welfare and Sociology, and every step I take is toward building the kind of world I once needed: one that understands mental health not as weakness or disorder, but as pain responding to something real, something systemic, something human. My own diagnoses—paranoid schizophrenia, manic depression, and insomnia—did not emerge in isolation. They were cultivated in the conditions that Black men are too often forced to survive: foster care, unjust incarceration, systemic neglect, and the psychological toll of constantly needing to prove your worth in a world designed to doubt it. I didn't come to this understanding through textbooks—I came to it by surviving what nearly broke me. That survival reshaped my entire purpose. I don’t want to pathologize pain—I want to understand it, name it, and use that understanding to build support systems that offer more than judgment and jail cells. My vision as a mental health professional is rooted in that lived reality. I don’t see myself simply as someone who will “help clients”—I see myself as someone who will help systems evolve. I want to work with at-risk youth, particularly those in carceral or foster settings, to ensure that therapy and care are not treated as luxuries or punishments, but as rights. I want to design alternative sentencing programs that integrate healing, education, family & community support, and restorative justice—models that treat the root, not just the surface, of social harm. I already do some of this work now. As a mentor in the Incarceration to College program, I teach college readiness courses in juvenile hall. As facilitator of UC Berkeley’s Teach in Prison Program, I train students to become GED tutors inside San Quentin and lead weekly debriefs on the emotional and political realities of doing education in a carceral space. I’ve also launched a research project measuring empathy development among these tutors, using the Interpersonal Reactivity Index as a lens for understanding what draws people to this work and how it changes them. These efforts are not theoretical for me. They are deeply personal. They are how I repay the investments made in me. They are how I honor the one social worker I had as a child who didn’t just fill out forms—he asked how I was doing and waited for the truth. That kind of presence changed everything. I want to be that for someone else. Receiving the Arnetha V. Bishop Memorial Scholarship would allow me to keep doing this work with greater focus and less financial strain. It would affirm that there is a place in the mental health field for people like me—people who’ve endured the system and now want to help redesign it. My life has taught me that healing isn’t linear, that progress isn’t always visible, and that love often shows up in the form of sustained attention. That’s the kind of mental health professional I’m becoming—not just someone who treats symptoms, but someone who holds space for humanity, in all its complexity.

There was no dramatic speech, no single defining gesture. Just a man—my social worker—who looked me in the eyes when I was a scared, hurting foster kid and said, “You matter.” At a time when most people saw me as someone to monitor, contain, or forget, he showed me what care looked like. That quiet act of belief changed the course of my life. It stitched something back into me that the world had tried to tear out: dignity. Since then, I’ve dedicated my life to sewing seeds into others the way he did for me. But the road here wasn’t smooth. At eighteen, I was incarcerated—a moment that stole years, silenced opportunities, and nearly broke me. When I got out, I faced a system designed to keep me from standing up again. I couldn’t get jobs. I couldn’t find housing. I was still being punished long after I had paid my debt. So I built what I couldn’t find. I started my own tech business. I got certified. I hustled. And eventually, I returned to school—not because I thought I’d fit in, but because I was ready to grow beyond survival. Today, I’m a 4.0 student at UC Berkeley, double majoring in Sociology and Social Welfare. I lead the Teach in Prison Program, mentoring UC students who tutor incarcerated men at San Quentin. I also mentor justice-impacted youth through Incarceration to College, helping them believe in themselves again—just like someone once did for me. As President of Black Underground Scholars, I advocate for formerly incarcerated students and fight to make our campus a place where people like us can not only attend, but thrive. I carry my past with me—not as baggage, but as a blueprint. I know what it feels like to be abandoned by systems and lifted by individuals. I know that a single conversation, a moment of genuine presence, can alter someone’s trajectory. That’s the kind of teacher, mentor, and social worker I’m becoming. My ultimate goal is to design alternative sentencing academies—community-based programs that offer therapy, education, and mentorship in place of incarceration. I want to help build a justice system rooted in healing, not punishment. And every day, I work toward that future by pouring into others what was once poured into me: attention, compassion, and unwavering belief. This scholarship honors the same quiet power that changed my life—small moments that leave lasting marks. And if I’m chosen, I’ll carry Lena B. Davis’s legacy with me in every classroom I teach, every youth I mentor, and every life I help restitch.

I didn’t choose teaching because it looked easy. I chose it because I know what it feels like to be forgotten by systems and saved by education. My journey into teaching began not in a classroom, but in a foster home. I was a child learning to navigate trauma and instability, and while much of that time was painful, one person—a social worker who truly listened—left a mark on me. He didn’t just help me through a system. He made me feel human. That moment planted a seed in me: I wanted to be that person for someone else. Years later, I was incarcerated at eighteen. It derailed everything. My plan to join the Navy’s nuclear engineering program fell apart. When I was released, I faced closed doors everywhere I turned. Rejected from job after job because of my record, I eventually started my own IT business just to survive. But it wasn’t until I returned to school that my calling became clear. Now, I’m studying Social Welfare and Sociology at UC Berkeley, holding a 4.0 GPA while facilitating programs that empower others the way I once needed to be empowered. I lead the Teach in Prison Program, training college students to tutor incarcerated individuals. I also mentor youth through Incarceration to College, guiding young people who, like me, grew up with few options and even fewer advocates. Teaching, for me, is not just about content—it’s about transformation. I don’t just want to teach students how to read or calculate equations. I want to teach them that they matter. That they are more than their circumstances. That their voice belongs in every room they walk into. I’m especially drawn to working with students who are overlooked—those in juvenile halls, foster care, or special education classrooms where patience is rare and empathy is even rarer. I want to become a teacher who sees students fully, especially the ones who show up carrying stories too heavy for their age. Eventually, I plan to build alternative sentencing academies—programs that offer young people a path forward through education, mental health care, and mentorship instead of incarceration. This scholarship would be a critical support as I continue that work. Like Jeanne Kramme Fouke, I believe deeply in the lifelong impact of passionate teaching. Her legacy reminds me that showing up for students is one of the most powerful forms of justice we can offer. I am committed to carrying that legacy forward—into every classroom, every prison, every community that others have abandoned. Teaching saved my life. And now, I’m building a life where I can return the favor.

There are moments in life when the world decides who you are before you’ve had a chance to speak for yourself. For me, that moment came at eighteen, when I was unjustly incarcerated. Before that, I was a foster kid with dreams of joining the Navy to study nuclear engineering. I wanted to serve, to escape poverty, to carve out a life with honor. But all of that was stolen in an instant—replaced by a cell, a number, and a new identity I didn’t choose. When I came home, I wasn’t welcomed back—I was watched, labeled, and denied. Employers shut doors. Landlords looked the other way. And yet, I found ways to survive. I earned a CompTIA IT certification and started my own tech business because nobody would hire me. I did yard work, repaired computers, and made just enough to stay afloat. But I wanted more than survival—I wanted to rebuild my life with purpose. Returning to school felt like crossing back into a world that had long moved on without me. I was older than many of my peers, carrying trauma and diagnoses—paranoid schizophrenia, manic depression, and insomnia—that manifested after incarceration. But education became my anchor. I started in community college, unsure if I belonged. Now, I’m at UC Berkeley, double majoring in Social Welfare and Sociology, holding a 4.0 GPA, and leading programs that center justice, healing, and second chances. I now facilitate the Teach in Prison Program, where I train undergraduates to tutor incarcerated men at San Quentin. I lead the Incarceration to College program, mentoring system-impacted youth as they navigate community college and transfer to four-year universities. As President of Black Underground Scholars, I’ve expanded membership by 400%, secured new funding, and helped reshape policy at the university level to better support formerly incarcerated students. But none of this work is abstract to me. I do it because I know what it’s like to be seen as disposable. I know the silence of solitary. The weight of shame in a parole office. The feeling of being invisible in a classroom. And I also know what it feels like to be believed in—for someone to say, “You still matter.” That’s what my education gave me, and now it’s what I give to others. My long-term goal is to become a licensed social worker and earn a Ph.D. so I can design alternative sentencing academies—spaces that replace incarceration with therapy, education, mentorship, and support. These academies would be built from lived experience and rooted in compassion. They would be the bridge I never had. This scholarship would be more than financial help. It would be a gesture of trust in someone who was once written off by society. It would support the work I’ve already begun in classrooms, prisons, and policy spaces. And it would carry forward the spirit of Francis E. Moore and Prime Time Ministries—reminding people that redemption is not only possible, but powerful. I’m not here in spite of my incarceration. I’m here because of what I learned through it. Because I refused to let that chapter be the end of my story. And now, every step I take is a testament to what’s still possible—for me, and for everyone who’s been told they don’t deserve another chance.

My journey back to higher education came not from a moment of ease, but from a moment of reckoning. After navigating the foster care system, incarceration, and years of being shut out of opportunity due to the stigma of my past, I realized that if I wanted to change my life—and help change the lives of others—I needed to return to the classroom. Education, for me, became more than a credential. It became a tool of redemption, a strategy for justice, and a commitment to serve. The road here wasn’t easy. After my release from prison, I faced barrier after barrier: jobs that wouldn’t hire me, housing that wouldn’t accept me, and a society that viewed me only through my record. So I built from scratch. I earned a CompTIA certification, started my own IT business, and slowly rebuilt my life. But it wasn’t until I began my studies in social work and sociology that I understood the deeper "why" behind my drive: I wanted to dismantle the very systems that once tried to erase me. Today, I’m a 4.0 GPA student at UC Berkeley, double majoring in Sociology and Social Welfare. I facilitate the Teach in Prison Program, where I guide students who tutor incarcerated individuals at San Quentin. I also mentor youth through the Incarceration to College program, helping young people impacted by the justice system navigate higher education and reimagine their futures. As President of the Black Underground Scholars, I support formerly incarcerated students, lead outreach, and advocate for equity at every level of education. These roles reflect the values my journey has taught me: integrity, resilience, empathy, and service. They’ve also clarified my career vision. I plan to become a licensed social worker and pursue a Ph.D., with the goal of creating alternative sentencing academies—community-rooted programs that offer education, therapy, and mentorship instead of incarceration. These academies will support youth and adults who’ve been failed by traditional systems, particularly those from marginalized backgrounds. This scholarship would allow me to focus more fully on that mission. As a reentry student, the financial demands of tuition, travel, and housing often compete with my academic and community obligations. Support from this fund would help relieve that pressure—allowing me to pour more into the work I already do and expand it even further. Debra S. Jackson’s story resonates deeply with me because it reflects a truth I’ve come to live by: transformation doesn’t have an age limit, and second chances can lead to first victories. I carry that truth into every classroom I enter and every life I touch—and I hope to honor her legacy by continuing to uplift others who are still searching for their way forward.

My decision to pursue social work started in foster care. I was placed there as a child, confused and angry, trying to understand why the people I was supposed to trust were no longer around. In that chaos, there was one person who changed everything—a single social worker who didn’t treat me like a case number. He listened, he showed up, and he reminded me that my life still had value. That one relationship planted a seed. I didn’t have the words for it back then, but I knew I wanted to be for others what he was for me. That calling never left me, even as my life took difficult turns. At eighteen, I was unjustly incarcerated, which shattered my plans to join the Navy’s nuclear engineering program. I came home to a world that saw my record instead of my humanity. I faced rejection, surveillance, and instability. But I also remembered that moment in foster care—the power of someone believing in you when the system doesn’t. I chose to fight back through education. Today, I’m a 4.0 student at UC Berkeley, double majoring in Social Welfare and Sociology. I serve as the facilitator of the Teach in Prison Program, where I train undergraduates to tutor incarcerated men at San Quentin. I also mentor system-impacted youth through the Incarceration to College program, supporting students as they apply to universities, complete community college courses, and rebuild their sense of self-worth. I lead as President of the Black Underground Scholars, advocating for formerly incarcerated students and creating institutional pathways for others like me to succeed. Since starting my formal training in social work, my understanding of the field has evolved. I now see social work not just as support, but as a tool for systemic transformation. My goal is to become a licensed clinical social worker and later earn a Ph.D. to design alternative sentencing academies—community-based programs that offer therapy, mentorship, education, and structure in place of incarceration. These academies would be rooted in dignity, not punishment, and would be trauma-informed and tailored for youth and adults who are often criminalized for surviving systems that failed them. The people I want to serve are the same ones I’ve stood beside in cells, shelters, and classrooms—young people with immense potential who were written off before they were ever understood. I want to reach foster youth, justice-impacted individuals, and communities of color who carry the weight of generational trauma but are rarely offered tools for healing. Through my work, I hope to give them what I was given—a chance to be seen, supported, and reminded of their worth. As a first-generation college student from an underrepresented background, I’ve had to navigate this journey without a roadmap. But that’s exactly why I’m here—so I can help redraw the map for others. This scholarship would allow me to continue my education and expand the work I’ve already begun in prisons, classrooms, and communities. More than anything, it would help me continue living out the promise I made to myself years ago: to never forget where I came from, and to always go back to help someone else find the way forward.

My name is Charles Long, and I am a double major in Social Welfare and Sociology at UC Berkeley. My path to social work began with personal survival—navigating life after incarceration, poverty, and the onset of serious mental health challenges. But what began as a fight to rebuild my own life has evolved into a mission to transform the systems that harmed me, and that continue to fail so many others. I am currently the facilitator for UC Berkeley’s Teach in Prison Program, where I train and support undergraduates who tutor incarcerated men at San Quentin. I also mentor students through the Incarceration to College program, which helps system-impacted youth apply to college, complete coursework, and build new futures through education. I bring to this work not only academic knowledge but lived experience. I’ve faced the kinds of barriers I now help others navigate. After being incarcerated, I began experiencing symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia, manic depression, and chronic insomnia. At first, I didn’t have the language to describe what I was going through—I just knew that things didn’t feel right. The world became harder to trust. Sleep became rare. Emotions felt like extremes. And even when I began to succeed academically, I carried these silent battles with me every day. What I learned is that the systems meant to help people often do more harm when they fail to recognize or accommodate mental illness. Too often, people are punished or pathologized instead of being understood. My lived experience with disability drives me to build systems that treat mental health challenges with care—not criminalization. I want to create support structures that recognize how trauma, illness, and neurodivergence shape people’s lives, and respond with healing rather than punishment. That vision guides my long-term goal: to become a licensed social worker and later pursue a Ph.D., with the aim of developing alternative sentencing academies. These would be community-based programs that replace incarceration with education, therapy, life skills, and mentorship—especially for youth. They would be trauma-informed and disability-aware from the ground up, designed to meet people where they are rather than force them to fit into systems that were never meant for them. I am currently conducting research through the Firebaugh and Haas Research Fellowships, studying how empathy develops in college students who volunteer in prison education programs. I believe that empathy is teachable, and that it’s the foundation for social work that truly uplifts people with disabilities and mental health challenges. My work inside and outside the classroom aims to prove that our experiences—when understood and supported—can become tools for both personal growth and systemic transformation. This scholarship would relieve financial strain and allow me to keep investing my energy into the communities I serve. More importantly, it would affirm what I try to model in every role I hold: that those of us living with mental illness are not defined by our diagnoses. We are leaders, educators, and changemakers. We carry not just challenges—but solutions the world desperately needs.

My life and career are dedicated to one mission: to uplift and serve communities that are too often forgotten. As a Black man who was once incarcerated and is now thriving at UC Berkeley, I’ve seen both sides of the system. That perspective fuels the humanitarian work I do every day. I currently serve as the facilitator for UC Berkeley’s Teach in Prison Program, where I train and lead undergraduate students who tutor incarcerated individuals at San Quentin State Prison. Each week, we bring education behind bars—supporting GED completion and breaking through the isolation that the prison system imposes. I lead debrief sessions and contextualize the work with lectures that unpack the historical and political roots of mass incarceration. I also help our volunteers process what it means to show up for others with empathy and consistency. The program is not just about academics—it’s about building relationships and restoring dignity where it’s been stripped away. In addition, I mentor youth through the Incarceration to College program. I work directly with system-impacted young people—many of whom are still justice-involved—as they complete community college coursework, apply to four-year universities, and begin to see themselves not as statistics, but as scholars. I’ve helped students navigate transfer applications, revise personal statements, and envision futures rooted in purpose. One of our students is now attending UC Berkeley. Watching his journey unfold has been one of the proudest moments of my life. What makes this work so personal to me is that I’ve walked a similar path. At eighteen, I was unjustly incarcerated, which ended my plans to join the Navy as a nuclear engineer. After my release, I faced rejection from countless jobs due to my record. I did hard labor jobs to survive, eventually became a certified IT technician, and started my own business. But what gave my life new meaning was returning to education. It led me to community college, then to UC Berkeley, where I now double major in Sociology and Social Welfare with a 4.0 GPA. My educational goal is to become a social worker and eventually earn a Ph.D. I want to design and lead alternative sentencing programs for youth—places where healing, education, and accountability coexist. I envision building residential programs that feel more like boarding schools than prisons. These will include therapy, academic tutoring, mentorship, and life skills—all grounded in love and respect. Too often, our response to harm is more harm. I want to help shift that paradigm. Humanitarian service, for me, isn’t a side activity. It is my life’s purpose. I serve because someone once believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. I serve because I know the power of being seen, heard, and supported—especially as a Black man navigating systems that were never built for us. Like Michael Pride, Jr., I believe in giving time, in listening deeply, and in carrying others forward even when I’m still climbing myself. This scholarship would help me continue my studies and expand the work I’m already doing in the classroom and in the community. I’m not just trying to succeed—I’m trying to bring people with me.

I didn’t always know I wanted to become a teacher. In fact, there was a point in my life when I thought education had left me behind entirely. At eighteen, I was unjustly incarcerated, and the life I had envisioned for myself—serving in the Navy’s nuclear engineering program—was gone. After my release, I found myself trapped by a system that labeled me an ex-felon and denied me meaningful work, stability, and even dignity. But I was raised by a father who taught me something I carry with me to this day: When all the doors close around you, you build your own. So that’s what I did. I studied computer technology, became a certified IT technician, and launched my own business. That was my first act of resistance—turning rejection into opportunity. But it wasn’t until I returned to school that I began to understand what education could truly mean, not just for me, but for those around me. I am now a double major in Sociology and Social Welfare at UC Berkeley, maintaining a 4.0 GPA while actively working to create educational opportunities for others. I serve as the facilitator for UC Berkeley’s Teach in Prison Program, where I lead a team of students who tutor incarcerated men at San Quentin. I organize weekly debriefs, contextualize the carceral system through lectures, and work to transform the way students understand mass incarceration—not just as a topic of study, but as a system they can help dismantle through service, empathy, and learning. I also mentor students through Incarceration to College, a program that guides incarcerated and system-impacted youth into higher education. I help students complete community college coursework, write personal statements, and believe in their academic potential. One of the students we mentored is now enrolled at Berkeley. That moment—watching him arrive on campus with pride—felt like the clearest confirmation of my path: I want to dedicate my life to teaching, mentoring, and reshaping educational systems so they serve those most often left behind. I aspire to become a social worker and eventually earn a Ph.D. to design alternative sentencing academies—programs that offer education, mentorship, and structure in place of incarceration. But at the heart of all my future plans is teaching. I want to stand in front of students who were told they wouldn’t make it, and not only tell them they can—but show them how I did. My story, once seen as a disqualification, is now my greatest qualification. It gives me the empathy and credibility to reach those who need more than a lecture—they need a lifeline. What inspired me to become a teacher wasn’t a single person—it was every person who looked at me and didn’t give up. It was the professor who told me my past gave me perspective. It was the student who said, “I didn’t think people like us got into schools like this.” It was my daughter, who watches everything I do and deserves to know that redemption is real, and success is possible. Dr. Reece’s story resonates with me. Like her, I’ve balanced work, school, and parenthood. Like her, I believe that education is not just a profession—it’s a form of service. If awarded this scholarship, I will continue my journey as a teacher, mentor, and advocate, using every lesson I’ve lived to light the way for someone else.

Growing up in a single-parent household shaped nearly every part of who I am—my goals, my values, and the lens through which I see the world. My mother raised us while my father was incarcerated, and when she lost custody of her children due to drug addiction, I was placed into the foster care system. That period of my life—watching a household unravel, seeing a parent struggle, and living through instability—could have broken me. Instead, it gave me a kind of clarity I wouldn’t trade for anything. It gave me the will to fight for a different future—not just for myself, but for others who are walking the same path. Living with only one parent, when that parent is battling addiction, taught me what survival looks like. But it also taught me about resilience. I watched my mother climb out of addiction, reunite with my father after his release, and work toward building a stable life for our family. That journey—hers and mine—ingrained in me the value of second chances and the belief that people are more than their worst moment. That belief has become the core of everything I do. Today, I’m a double major in Sociology and Social Welfare at UC Berkeley, maintaining a 4.0 GPA. I am also a Firebaugh and Haas Research Fellow studying empathy development in students who tutor in carceral education settings. But I don’t just study these things—I live them. I facilitate the Teach in Prison Program, training UC Berkeley students to tutor incarcerated individuals at San Quentin. I also mentor youth through the Incarceration to College program, working with students in juvenile hall to complete community college courses and apply to four-year universities. These programs are personal for me—not just because of where I’ve been, but because I know how easy it is for a child growing up in a fractured household to fall through the cracks. My ultimate goal is to become a social worker and eventually earn a Ph.D. to develop and implement alternative sentencing academies for at-risk youth. I envision homes that don’t just house, but heal—places where young people can receive education, therapy, mentorship, and structure. The kind of place I needed when I was younger. A place that sees potential instead of problems. My work is driven by the belief that children from single-parent households shouldn’t have to beat the odds just to survive—they should be supported so they can thrive. Growing up the way I did instilled values that cannot be taught in a textbook: empathy, patience, and a deep understanding of how systems impact people. It gave me the hunger to serve—not out of pity, but out of purpose. It made me ambitious not for wealth or status, but for impact. And it taught me that education isn’t just about personal advancement; it’s about breaking generational cycles and building bridges for others. This scholarship would not only support my education—it would affirm the very path I’ve chosen: one where my background is not a barrier, but the very reason I am the person I am today.

If I could change one thing in education, it would be this: who gets access to it, when, and under what conditions. Education is often presented as an open door, but in reality, that door is locked for many, especially those who are poor, incarcerated, or system-impacted. I know because I’ve lived on the outside of that door. I was unjustly incarcerated at eighteen years old. That moment derailed my entire life trajectory—my enlistment in the Navy’s nuclear engineering program was gone, my record was stained, and the opportunities that once seemed limitless suddenly vanished. After serving my time, I faced constant rejection due to my status as a parolee. I worked any job I could—telemarketing, warehouse labor, shoveling manure—until I made my own way by becoming a certified IT technician and starting my own business. But even then, the dream I kept returning to was education: not just receiving it, but creating access to it for others who’ve been locked out like I was. Today, I’m a full-time student at UC Berkeley, double majoring in Sociology and Social Welfare with a 4.0 GPA. I also serve as a mentor and educator for the Incarceration to College program, helping incarcerated youth in juvenile halls access academic counseling, community college classes, and transfer pathways. Many of these students never had a chance to see college as a possibility. Now, they not only attend our sessions—they’re applying to schools like UC Berkeley, and one of our students is already enrolled. I also facilitate the Teach in Prison program, where UC Berkeley students tutor incarcerated men at San Quentin working toward their GED. I lead weekly lectures and debriefs, creating a space to reflect, build empathy, and confront the myths we hold about people behind bars. My honors thesis and Firebaugh Scholars research are based on this work. But the one thing I keep seeing—and the thing I would change—is that access to education in carceral settings is still treated like a privilege rather than a right. It's selective, inconsistent, and limited to those deemed “well-behaved,” rather than those who may need it most. If I could redesign education, I would start by embedding equity of access into every layer—from how we support foster youth, to how we approach juvenile justice, to how we define who is “ready” or “deserving” of school. Education should be a stabilizer, not a reward. I would fund programs that meet people where they are—behind walls, in halfway homes, in poverty—and give them the tools to heal, learn, and grow without shame. I come from a low-income household and experienced life in foster care. My first role model was my social worker. He saw potential in me when no one else did, and I carry that forward now in my work with youth. I want to become a social worker, and eventually a Ph.D. researcher, focused on alternative sentencing programs that reimagine what intervention and education can look like. I want to build something that says: you matter, you are capable, and you belong here—especially for those who have never heard that before. If awarded this scholarship, I will continue to serve in education spaces that others overlook. I will continue building bridges for the students and youth I serve. And I will carry forward the values Sierra Argumedo believed in—kindness, connection, and the transformational power of truly seeing every student.

My name is Charles Long, and I am a formerly incarcerated, first-generation college student currently pursuing a double major in Sociology and Social Welfare at UC Berkeley. I maintain a 4.0 GPA, but more importantly, I carry a mission. My life’s work is rooted in transforming systems that have historically failed communities like mine—especially young Black men. I believe public policy is one of the most powerful tools we have to confront injustice, and my academic journey and community service reflect that belief in action. The first way I plan to make a positive impact is by creating alternative sentencing academies for at-risk youth—programs that replace incarceration with education, mentorship, and healing. These academies would serve as community-rooted institutions focused on rehabilitation rather than punishment. They’d offer academic tutoring, emotional support, and life skills training, helping youth see possibility instead of punishment. My goal is to build a model that can be scaled and implemented in counties across the country. Second, I intend to shape policy through research. As a Firebaugh and Haas Research Fellow, my current honors thesis explores empathy development in UC Berkeley students volunteering in prison education programs. This study helps show the power of carceral education not just for incarcerated students, but for those who tutor them—proving the mutual benefits of community-based rehabilitation. Long term, I plan to use my research to advocate for policies that fund prison education programs, restorative justice initiatives, and community-based alternatives to incarceration. Third, I want to become a social worker turned policymaker—someone who knows the ground-level realities of underserved communities and can translate that into actionable legislation. From my own experiences in foster care and prison, I’ve seen how disconnected policy can be from lived reality. I plan to bridge that gap. After earning my master's in social work, I hope to earn a Ph.D. and eventually hold a position where I can advise state or federal agencies on justice and education reform. My ultimate goal is to make sure that the voices of system-impacted people are not only heard—but centered. In the meantime, I am already working to address social issues through direct service and leadership. I facilitate the Teach in Prison program at UC Berkeley, training over 40 student volunteers who tutor incarcerated men at San Quentin State Prison. I also mentor youth in juvenile hall through Incarceration to College, helping them apply to universities, succeed in community college courses, and even sit in on lectures taught by Berkeley professors inside the hall. As president of the Black Underground Scholars, I’ve grown our membership by 400% and worked on campus-wide initiatives to support formerly incarcerated students. What I bring to this work is not just academic knowledge, but lived experience, deep empathy, and an unwavering drive to leave the system better than I found it. Public policy is not an abstract concept for me—it’s personal. It’s about building a future where children born into poverty, like I was, aren’t funneled into prisons but lifted into purpose. Receiving this scholarship would affirm the very work I’ve committed my life to. And like Larry Joe Gardner, whose legacy lives through public service and perseverance, I hope to honor that legacy with every step I take toward justice.

My name is Charles Long, and I’ve built my life around a simple belief: that hardship can be a foundation, not a finish line. I am a formerly incarcerated, first-generation college student who, despite being derailed early in life, has fought to reclaim my future through service, scholarship, and resilience. Today, I am a double major in Sociology and Social Welfare at UC Berkeley with a 4.0 GPA, and my mission is to use my education to uplift the very communities I once came from. At eighteen, I was unjustly incarcerated and lost the chance to pursue a Navy career in nuclear engineering. The criminal justice system labeled me a felon, but I refused to let it define me. With few doors open, I created my own—I trained in computer technology, became a certified IT technician, and started my own business. Eventually, I returned to school, fueled by a desire not just to improve my life, but to be of service to others. That sense of service is not theoretical. I’ve volunteered hundreds of hours in prisons and juvenile halls across the Bay Area. I mentor incarcerated youth through the Incarceration to College program, helping them earn college credits, apply to four-year universities, and build a vision for life beyond the walls. I also facilitate the Teach in Prison program at UC Berkeley, training students to tutor men at San Quentin State Prison preparing for their GEDs. I lead weekly debriefs, deliver lectures, and conduct research on the development of empathy in volunteers. I do this work not for recognition, but because I know someone is always watching—someone who, like me years ago, is wondering if they’re worth saving. I am honored to be part of the legacy that this scholarship represents. Mark Green’s life and LaTonya’s vision echo my own values: education as empowerment, service as duty, and perseverance as purpose. I am not here because life was easy—I am here because I refused to give up. I’m a father, a mentor, a scholar, and a bridge for others to cross. I’ve lived in a crack house and sat in honors classes. I’ve shoveled manure for minimum wage and now write sociological research cited in policy spaces. My life has been a full circle—and I want to help others complete theirs. If awarded this scholarship, the funds will help me continue my education, finish my honors thesis on empathy development in prison education programs, and pursue graduate school, where I aim to earn a Master’s in Social Work and eventually a Ph.D. My ultimate goal is to create alternative sentencing academies for at-risk youth—spaces of learning, healing, and hope. I want to be part of building a legacy—one that, like Mark Green’s, doesn’t end with individual success but radiates out to change families, communities, and systems. That is the impact I intend to make, and I would be honored to carry that torch forward in his name.

What makes me different isn’t just my story—it’s my refusal to let it define or limit me. I am a Black man who was unjustly incarcerated at 18, who later became a single father, and who now studies at UC Berkeley, double majoring in Sociology and Social Welfare with a 4.0 GPA. But beyond the degrees and accolades, I am someone who walks into every room carrying the lessons of the streets, the silence of a prison cell, and the healing of a second chance. What sets me apart is how I use that journey—not to draw pity, but to spark possibility. I am unapologetically myself, because I know what it feels like to have your identity stripped from you by a system that sees you as disposable. That’s why I show up to every classroom, every juvenile hall, every prison—not with shame, but with purpose. I’ve mentored incarcerated youth, taught in San Quentin, helped students in juvenile detention apply to college, and even helped bring UC Berkeley professors into juvenile halls to teach credit-bearing courses. I do it because I know someone is always watching. And I do it as my full self—tattoos, trauma, truth, and all. In one of the juvenile halls where I tutor, there’s a young man who never says much. He barely speaks up in our sessions, never makes eye contact, and seems to carry a storm behind his silence. But week after week, he shows up. And after one of our classes, he slipped me a note. All it said was: “Thank you for showing me I can be smart and still be me.” That’s it. That’s what makes me different. I don’t put on a mask to teach. I bring my whole self into the room. And that authenticity gives others permission to do the same. You never know who’s watching—sometimes it’s the quietest one in the back who needed your presence the most. My community service isn’t just a checklist—it’s a lifestyle. I’m a leader in UC Berkeley’s Underground Scholars Initiative, a cohort of formerly incarcerated students working on legislative reform. I mentor students from marginalized communities, advocate for alternatives to incarceration, and facilitate the Teach in Prison Program—training college students to tutor inside prisons. I use my past to build bridges. I make sure my scars serve a purpose. I’m different because I live in the tension of two worlds. I’ve seen the worst in people and still choose to believe in the best. I’ve sat in solitary confinement and now lead research studies on empathy. I’m not just a first-generation college student—I’m the first in my family to believe that education could be more than survival. It could be liberation. This scholarship would help me continue to serve those who don’t yet see themselves as worthy of transformation. It would affirm what I try to teach every day: that being different is not a deficit—it’s a superpower. And when you own that power, you become someone else’s possibility. Even if they never say a word.

My name is Charles Long, and I believe that the classroom is one of the most powerful tools for dismantling systemic injustice. As a Black man who was unjustly incarcerated at 18 and later became a re-entry student, I know firsthand what it feels like to be left out of the lesson plans, erased from the history books, and treated as a statistic rather than a student. That experience didn’t just shape me—it gave me purpose. Today, I am a double major in Sociology and Social Welfare at UC Berkeley, maintaining a 4.0 GPA and dedicating my work to building educational opportunities for incarcerated and system-impacted youth. I mentor students in juvenile hall through the Incarceration to College program and facilitate the Teach in Prison Program, where I help UC Berkeley students tutor incarcerated individuals at San Quentin. My honors thesis and research as a Firebaugh and Haas Research Fellow focus on empathy development in volunteers who work in carceral education settings. My work is grounded in this truth: education is not just about individual advancement—it’s a tool for transformation. I plan to become a social worker and eventually a professor, focusing my career on building alternative sentencing academies for at-risk youth. These academies would serve as sanctuaries that provide education, healing, and opportunity—far beyond what traditional punishment-based systems offer. I envision creating learning spaces that are culturally responsive, therapeutic, and rooted in abolitionist values. In these spaces, young people—especially young Black boys—can see educators who look like them, understand them, and believe in their potential, even when the world does not. Representation matters. When only 2% of teachers are Black men, too many students never see themselves reflected in positions of intellectual authority. Too often, young Black boys meet their first Black male role model in a courtroom or on a sports field—but rarely in a classroom. I want to change that. I want to be the person I needed when I was young: someone who affirms their worth, challenges their thinking, and reminds them that their past does not define their future. I am not just an aspiring educator—I am a bridge. A bridge that was built by my father, who told me to make my own door when every other one was closed. A bridge supported by my foster care social worker, who showed me what true guidance looks like. And a bridge extended now to the next generation of learners, who deserve classrooms that heal, uplift, and liberate. Receiving the Mark A. Jefferson Teaching Scholarship would not only provide critical financial support—it would affirm that my dream of becoming an educator is not just valid but necessary. I am committed to making education more equitable, more inclusive, and more just. This is not just my career path—it is my calling.