"Not only so, but we also glory in our suffering because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope." Romans 5:3-5 As a Nigerian-born, first-generation student, my family has had no shortage of life's pain. In our West African home, my mother resorted to street begging, carrying my sister on her back, while my father searched the desolate streets of Lagos for employment. Fortunately, he found work, and after we won the Diversity Visa Lottery, my family of five could afford to travel to America. America has its problems, but it is light-years better than Nigeria. That said, I have discovered that every place has its issues. In the land of the brave, issues perceive Americans as courageous enough to triumph in all battles. And even as my parents began to acquire jobs that allowed us to do things they could only dream about back home, the equalizing evils of sickness, sadness, and accidents brought hardship. Being a first-generation student is among those hardships. Only until my first year at Penn did I genuinely see the dramatic advantage people had when their parents went to undergraduate school. I didn't know or understand the importance of networking, getting on LinkedIn, or signing up for internships that were closing up before I even stepped on campus. It was a "duh" to everybody but me. Though learning this has been challenging, I gleaned from Duke coach Kara Lawson's words: "It will never get easier." What happens is you handle hard better." I am the first in my family to get a college degree. My parents were the first to immigrate to the United States. My grandparents were the first to travel to Lagos, and the line of precedence continues. Most of us come from a long line of family members who were the first to do things. To accomplish my "hard" when there was no example, no one in the community to support me, and no one to lend me a hand—as all those before me had experienced—is what it means to be a first-generation student. A sense of pride comes from achieving this milestone of education, not only because of how hard I will work but also because I am replicating the fevered passion of my ancestors, who seized their firsts as well. In every successive generation, it never gets easier, but I am proud to say I am handling my "hard" better. With college feeling less intimidating, my aspirations have grown exponentially. I plan to study chemistry and health policy to become an endodontist, offering quality dental care that is particularly needed in low-income communities. Additionally, I aim to influence health insurance and administration policies after witnessing the disparities both in my home country and in the U.S. Coming from a place where the doctor-to-patient ratio was alarming; I find it even more frustrating to witness deaths in America, despite the availability of resources, due to economic systems that prevent many from accessing the care. I am determined to spearhead research into healthcare solutions to address the crisis prevalent in America. By doing so, I hope to save lives and alleviate financial burdens for many.

My younger sister had a severe case of jaundice as a newborn. Despite noticing signs of illness, the doctors allowed my parents to leave the hospital after just one day due to the financial burden. However, a week later, they returned with my sister, who had higher levels of bilirubin. Fortunately, she received treatment before any brain damage occurred. In another case, another newborn was born with jaundice, which occurs in 6 out of 10 newborns at varying levels. Unfortunately, his jaundice went undetected initially, and many missed opportunities for a bilirubin test further delayed his diagnosis. After five days, consultations with a newborn nurse and pediatrician failed to address the newborn's worsening condition, leading to his admission to the pediatric unit of the hospital. The hospital recorded the child's bilirubin levels at 34.6 mg/dcl, which was among the highest recorded. By the sixth day, signs of kernicterus started to appear, ultimately leading to a definitive diagnosis at 18 months of age. Both cases involved newborns diagnosed with jaundice, a treatable condition that affects 6 out of 10 newborns. Yet one was caught and treated, while the other was missed and progressed aggressively. Now, one happened in Lagos, Nigeria, a third-world country, while the other happened in Boise, Indiana, in the US. While Americans groan about our country's health crisis, the horrors of Nigeria's healthcare system would silence most of us. In 2022, the Nigerian Medical Association reported that there was 1 doctor per 10,000 patients; the International Trade Administration reports that "product counterfeiting is rampant, and rights enforcement is weak." Though a night in the hospital in Nigeria costs less than $300, what may be considered cheap to Americans is expensive to the general Nigerian population, with Bloomberg reporting that nearly two-thirds of Nigerians live off $2 a day. Confidence is low in the medical system, and rightfully so. The desperate state of Nigeria's healthcare system would be unimaginable to Americans. The comparison makes it even more harrowing to know that the Cal Sheridan case, the latter incident, happened in the US. It was not due to a lack of materials, a lack of facilities, or a lack of doctors (at least not in this situation), but rather carelessness and wrongful diagnosis. This situation is just one symptom of the more significant epidemic health crisis preventing Americans from receiving the life-saving care that is available. While the healthcare administration in America is not as dire as in Nigeria, it is heartbreaking to hear people dying or becoming disabled when they didn't have to. When resources and facilities are available, it's not the same as when people die without any intervention. Yet, overcrowding, misdiagnosis, and health insurance issues cause unnecessary deaths. As Cal Sheridan's mother, Sue, said, "Cal's brain damage was totally preventable and is the result of a series of failures in our medical system." This realization of the state of health care solidified my determination to become an endodontist and pursue further education in health administration to enact meaningful reforms in our broken system. Additionally, while superior doctors are essential to diagnosis accurately, their impact diminishes when accessibility and affordability limit people's ability to seek care. By delivering exceptional medical care to my patients and actively contributing to transformative initiatives, I aspire to safeguard the health of a greater number of American lives. We cannot easily solve issues as significant as the American health crisis. They require a tremendous amount of dedication and education. This scholarship would assist me in funding the education necessary to tackle issues that are literally life-threatening.

My passion for healthcare has always been strong, pushing me towards both a desire to practice medicine and bring about public health reform. Over the years, I've come across various challenges like overcrowding, health insurance accessibility, and policy issues that plague the American healthcare system. Reading about these problems in books like "Sick" by Jonathan Cohn was one thing but experiencing them firsthand earlier this year shed a new light on the reality. At the close of last year, my father faced employment termination, leading to a shift to a different unit. Although unemployment wasn't the concern, the loss of benefits, including dental insurance, soon created complications. When a dental issue emerged with a filling breaking off my back molar post-insurance loss, the situation escalated. The unexpected loss of a piece of my tooth required immediate attention. Opting for a different dental office to address the issue, we soon discovered that bacteria had penetrated the root canal due to the tooth's exposure. What was initially thought to be a simple filling turned into a necessary root canal procedure. However, the absence of insurance amplified the monetary burden, with estimates exceeding a thousand dollars. Unfortunately, the dentist's inability to perform the procedure and the endodontist's limited availability on Fridays added to the challenge. However, I had to return to school, and thankfully, the pain subsided after I took the antibiotics. Yet, after a few weeks, the pain returned so intensely that I rushed to an emergency center near my campus. They prescribed medication again, which only alleviated the issue temporarily. Left with no choice, I frantically searched for an endodontist nearby, but all the appointments were over a month away. When the pain resurfaced once more, I could no longer bear it and swiftly traveled back home over the weekend to visit an endodontist. Unfortunately, the news was grim. Not only had the decay worsened, but my bone was also deteriorating, with no guarantee that a root canal could salvage the tooth. Tooth extraction loomed as a real possibility. After listening to my dentist's diagnosis, he initiated half of the root canal procedure, with the hopes of completing it if he observed bone growth in the next six weeks. This ordeal exposed me to numerous challenges: overcrowded appointments, incompetent doctors, a scarcity of specialist dentists, health insurance uncertainties, and more. In just a few months, I felt like a casualty of America’s flawed healthcare system. This experience served as a profound realization, solidifying my determination to become an endodontist and pursue further education in public health, aspiring to enact meaningful reforms in our broken system. While superior doctors are essential, their impact diminishes when accessibility and affordability limit people's ability to seek care. While acknowledging the prevailing flaws in our healthcare system, I am confident that my unwavering passion can drive positive change. By delivering exceptional medical care to my patients and actively contributing to transformative initiatives, I aspire to safeguard the health of a greater number of American lives.

My name is Chidinma Sharon Esielem. Or so I thought. One day, my father brought down the infamous Clear Bag, which stood in the dusky, dark upper corner of every African parent's closet and contained all the essential household documents. In fifth grade, my obsession—the only acceptable obsession—was dystopian novels. So, that day I wanted to be a rebel, like the Everdeens and Priors of the world. So, I looked for my Social Security number. But instead of finding out what nine numbers would dare represent my identity, I discovered another problem. The tiny card read: Sharon Chidinma Esielem. Sharon first. Chidinma second. Although I would later find out this mistake was due to a transfer error, this switcheroo landed me in the Armageddon of identity crises. After all, the name Chi-din-ma had never done anything good for me. Here are a few reasons why: 1. The evident ethnic tone of Chi-din-ma gave kids a reason to call me "African Booty Scratcher," a slight that was as shameful as having the "Cheese Touch." 2. I disrupted the roll call's flow. Shaniyah. Here. Kaniyah. Here. Janiyah. Here. Cha-di-muh? Chi-din-muh? Chi— Here. 3. My name sounded so ugly. It wasn't just butchered; it was mutilated. My Igbo name was degraded, like that of Myrtle Wilson in The Great Gatsby, devoid of its "tremendous vitality." So, in that moment, the mistake was okay. In fact, babycenter.com ranks Sharon at #1,975. Better than #16,412! It's also Hebrew and means "a fertile plain." And, gosh, the most important thing—people could say it! This incident itself was not a setback, but it allowed for years of perpetual disinheritance of my name. Every opportunity I had, I would explain to people that my first name was Sharon—Chi-din-ma isn't technically my first name, I would say. Only when I became a born-again Christian did I realize the great extent to which I sadly hated my name. The longing for the name Sharon no longer felt appropriate. I started to find beauty in the name that I owned—the one that God had given me. Chi-din-ma is the name I was given at birth. Chi-din-ma is the name my family calls me. Chi-din-ma is the name that reminds people that, despite the African American Vernacular English in my vocabulary, my native home is across the Atlantic Ocean in Igbo land. Chi-din-ma is the name that means "God is good." Although it may be hard for some to say, my name is an essential part of my identity, tied to my past and future. Simply saying my name is a reminder of the greatest gift of all: the goodness of God. Learning to love my name was difficult, but it gave me much joy and a new sense of contentment in my circumstances and present realities. When I struggle to draw tedious organic chemistry reaction mechanisms, I remind myself that such processes between these C, H, O, and N atoms produce most of the beauty we call life! While I stand in the lab for three hours performing various titrations, I am at least marveling at how the blood in my veins works in tandem, like the buffer I prepare before me! I've learned that what seems hard to digest in the present, when understood, produces a blossom of beauty. Yes, I still cringe when people mispronounce my name, but their innocent inability to mimic the beautiful swells and drops of the Niger-Congo language no longer disturbs me. Instead, I eagerly repeat it to them, stretching out all the vowels, attempting to capture a sound as beautiful as the meaning.

As a first-generation student in the “land of the free and the home of the brave,” where the American dream is established almost entirely on the condition of pursuing higher education and where the pursuit of scholarship is a right—not a privilege—I realize, with shame, that I have never fully grasped the extraordinary quality of my situation. Most people and institutions acknowledge the many factors that make being a first-generation student hard. However, I don't think most of us quite understand the bigger picture. According to the Daily Illini, only 6.7% of the world's population has completed a bachelor's degree. Now that’s a little over 500 million people, which seems like a lot until you realize this: In my graduation class, there were about 140 of us. If my graduating class represented the world, only 9 of us would get a bachelor's degree! To put it in more perspective, according to World Meters, there were over 700 million reported cases of COVID-19—and still counting—meaning 8.7% of the world contracted the virus. That means more people contracted COVID-19 over nearly four years than the number of living people, both young and old, who hold a bachelor's degree! Now the percentage of people who received a bachelor's is ridiculously small already, but compared to other realities, the opportunity seems even more exclusive. For my understanding, I present these statistics to emphasize that receiving any education is a privilege. And to that, I say receiving a higher education is a greater gift. But to receive all of that when no one before me has done it is nothing short of the grace of God. As I try to imagine my life, I see myself as someone in the sky searching for a specific grain of sand, which is education. Others on the ground are looking for this grain, yet I, despite my great distance, have been able to spot it. Now that I have discovered the grain, I continue with intensity and fervor, in constant and continuous pursuit of such treasure. Yes, there are many disadvantages—financially, emotionally, and more—that come with being a first-generation student in America. However, I chose to see the wonder of it all—that I, of all people, would find such a grain of sand! In my current institution, I now have the pleasure of being part of the Penn Epistle, a Christian journal dedicated to sharing the Good News on our campus through the pen, the same way God spoke to us. In addition to the immense technical and creative skills I have learned through being an editor, I have also found much value in this group through community and fellowship. Standing on the conviction of God is hard, especially on a secular campus. But through the testimonies, ponderings, and discussions from my brothers and sisters, I am glad to say that the strength of my heart has far exceeded any growth of my mind. Though my goal is to be a medical dentist, being able to explore my love for creative writing and journalism is a privilege I cherish, and I acknowledge that many people in difficult situations are not able to entertain. In total, education has given me much joy, experience, and knowledge most of all. So as I continue in my pursuit of that speck of sand, I am immensely grateful that there are people such as you guarding and protecting the treasure—so that wind would not blow it away, nor would the sea wash it ashore—as I press on towards the goal. Thank you.

As a first-generation student in the “land of the free and the home of the brave,” where the American dream is established almost entirely on the condition of pursuing higher education and where the pursuit of scholarship is a right—not a privilege—I realize, with shame, that I have never fully grasped the extraordinary quality of my situation. Most people and institutions acknowledge the many factors that make being a first-generation student hard. However, I don't think most of us quite understand the bigger picture. According to the Daily Illini, only 6.7% of the world's population has completed a bachelor's degree. Now that’s a little over 500 million people, which seems like a lot until you realize this: In my graduating class, there were about 140 of us. If my graduating class represented the world, only 9 of us would get a bachelor's degree! To put it in more perspective, according to World Meters, there were over 700 million reported cases of COVID-19—and still counting—meaning 8.7% of the world contracted the virus. That means more people contracted COVID-19 over nearly four years than the number of living people, both young and old, who hold a bachelor's degree! Now the percentage of people who received a bachelor's is ridiculously small already, but compared to other realities, the opportunity seems even more exclusive. For my understanding, I present these statistics to emphasize that receiving any education is a privilege. And to that I say receiving a higher education is a greater gift. But to receive all of that when no one before me has done it is nothing short of the grace of God. As I try to imagine my life, I see myself as someone in the sky searching for a specific grain of sand, which is education. Others on the ground are looking for this grain, yet I, despite my great distance, have been able to spot it. Now that I have discovered the grain, I continue with intensity and fervor, in constant and continuous pursuit of such treasure. Yes, there are many disadvantages—financially, emotionally, and more—that come with being a first-generation student in America. However, I choose to see the wonder of it all—that I, of all people, would find such a grain of sand! In my current institution, I now have the pleasure of being part of the Penn Epistle, a Christian journal dedicated to sharing the Good News on our campus through the pen, the same way God spoke to us. In addition to the immense technical and creative skills I have learned through being an editor, I have also found much value in this group through community and fellowship. Standing on the conviction of God is hard, especially on a secular campus. But through the testimonies, ponderings, and discussions from my brothers and sisters, I am glad to say that the strength of my heart has far exceeded any growth of my mind. Though my goal is to be a medical dentist, being able to explore my love for creative writing and journalism is a privilege I cherish, and I acknowledge that many people in difficult situations are not able to entertain. In all, education has given me much joy, experience, and knowledge most of all. So as I continue in my pursuit of that speck of sand, I am immensely grateful that there are people such as you guarding and protecting the treasure—so that wind would not blow it away, nor would the sea wash it ashore—as I press on towards the goal. Thank you.