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 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.