Does abuse always leave a bruise? I used to think so. I once believed abuse survivors were people with hospital-snapped pictures of black eyes and purple-yellow contusions. Over the years, I have learned that abuse is more subtle and survivors can look like me. When I was three, my father suffered a work-related knee injury. This seemingly minor accident negatively changed his and my family's life. My father never recovered from this injury because, we would later learn, he has a debilitating joint disorder. He has no cartilage between his joints. The pain that he suffered and continues to endure is unimaginable. Unfortunately, his doctors prescribed opiates to manage this pain. In the years following his accident, his dependency and overuse of these "pain-managing" drugs caused a metamorphosis. My active, involved dad became an angry, volatile abuser. Though he never physically harmed me, his self-despair led him to a place of darkness. He regularly blamed me for his memory loss and causticly accused me of lying about things I knew I had told him. On countless occasions, he blamed me for his inattentiveness. His pain medication robbed him of his memory and emboldened his irritability. I now know the pills were responsible for his screaming outbursts and venomous contempt. I also know that this was emotional abuse. As of today, my father is six months clean. He has learned to manage his pain through meditation, diet, natural supplements, and cognitive therapy. I am grateful for his return. His journey to overcome addiction was harrowing. My journey of life with an “addict” has been similarly gut-wrenching. While my father embodied instability, my mother manifested fortitude. She taught me to do so much more than muddle through the uncertainty. She encouraged me to find strength and inspiration in the positive aspects of my life: school, books, art, and community. Engaging in my classwork has always lifted my spirit. Science, history, math, and writing provided unique worlds for my curiosity to flourish and grow. I learned to crave academic challenges and to stretch the boundaries of skills and knowledge. Inside and outside of school, books were my closest friends. Their words gave me hope and direction. Stories about overcoming hardships and finding forgiveness gave me the words to name my reality. More importantly, they gave me alternative words to find an identity beyond the pain. Like books, art granted me a creative space for my emotions. For me, art formed the Band-Aid for my wounded mind. Drawing, painting, and sculpting absorbed my pain. My love of school, literature, and the arts inspired me to dedicate my life to a community of curiosity, creativity, and learning. I want to become a teacher for so many reasons. I hope to ignite a love of literature and a desire to understand the natural world. Through teaching, I aspire to help students obtain the necessary skills to realize their potential. Mostly, I want to be the trusted adult to whom a young person can turn for support and stability. As a teacher, I can mentor students with optimism, acceptance, and support. This scholarship would help me realize my commitment to myself, my mother, and those who have persevered through life's unfair trials. Becoming a teacher would go a long way to heal my soul.

People often ask me, "When did you know you were trans?" I used to answer, "in middle school," since that was when I started to accept my gender-expansive identity. However, in hindsight, I knew I was transgender when I was much younger. As a kid, I knew I was different. In fact, there was no word for me. In elementary school, you were either a boy or a girl, and to be both meant that you were neither. In grade school, I didn’t know I was transgender; however, I did know that I was painfully anxious. In elementary school, anxiety controlled me. I felt anxious because I felt hollow and amorphous. There were no gender-neutral bathrooms. I didn’t know where to go. Teachers did not read books with non-binary characters. I didn’t see myself. Nurses accepted my almost daily office visits after boys-against-girls activities. I didn’t connect. I missed so many days of school for being “sick.” The absence of a lexicon and a place for students like me led me to conclude that I was damaged and broken. By high school, anxiety coursed through my day and night. Knowing by now that I was transgender, I started to express my identity through my clothing and hairstyles. Being visibly gender-queer was inwardly empowering but outwardly contempt-provoking. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, I chose to take virtual classes. I thought I could protect myself physically and mentally. But instead of feeling more secure, I experienced depression on top of anxiety. The walls of my bedroom formed a prison cell. I felt like I had turned to the last page of my story and swallowed as many Tylenol capsules as possible to reach the back cover. Fortunately, my mother was nearby and rushed me to the hospital. “A cry for help,” the doctors called my actions. Yet “finding help” became a task unto itself. Immediately after my attempt, my pediatrician prescribed Prozac and visits to a teen-focused therapist. Neither the medication nor the counselor helped. Almost instantly, the pills made me feel agitated, confused, and paranoid. Compounding these distressing feelings, the therapist diagnosed my gender-expansive identity as a teenage “phase.” It still bewilders me that I, the one in crisis, had to self-advocate for a different healthcare plan. I knew I was not in a pill-fixable “phase.” I needed to talk to someone who understood how my mental health issues were complex and uniquely mine. With the help of a cognitive therapist and the support of my mother, I enrolled in a dual-enrollment degree program, simultaneously completing coursework for my high school diploma and an Associate of Arts degree. These strong women encouraged me to find strength and inspiration in the positive aspects of my life: school, books, and art. Engaging in my classwork, I learned to crave academic challenges. Books gave me hope and direction, offering me stories of self-compassion and forgiveness. They gave me words to find an identity beyond the pain. By drawing, painting, sculpting, and crocheting, I found creative outlets for my serpentine emotions. Art is a Band-Aid-covered wound; it recognizes the source of pain and the need to heal it. My faith in positive relationships and the mending power of education and art are the foundational reasons I want to become an elementary teacher. I want to be a trusted adult a young person can turn to for support, stability, and visibility. I want to offer a curriculum that reflects diverse students. Above all, as a teacher, I can be a role model and resource for students grappling with mental health issues.

“A suit.” Upon hearing these words, my mother withdrew in consternation. They were my answer to her question, “What do you want to wear to your bat mitzvah?” “A suit.” Even though this Jewish rite of passage was supposed to honor my independence and transition into adulthood, I folded at my mother’s unspoken disapproval. When I saw the discomfort in my mother’s eyes, I realized there was not yet a space for me. Wearing over-the-knee leggings and a sapphire top, I became a bat mitzvah. I chanted prayers, kindled Shabbat candles, and translated Hebrew texts. I gave and received references to my gender at birth without protest but with aching regret. When it came time for me to read from the Torah, I paused. At that moment, I saw my disguised self pretending to be someone I no longer was, feigning that my fractured self was whole enough. Intentionally, I willed the part of me that allowed others to speak on my behalf to step aside. When I found my voice again, it intoned, “Never again.” I did not want myself or others to experience milestones in hiding or shame. I knew I had to find ways to foster that voice of challenge and community concern. In the years following my coming-of-age ceremony, I steadfastly advocated for broadening identity norms in my community through service. Collaborating with concerned teachers, I helped launch the Gender and Sexuality Alliance at my former middle school. Cultivating a reassuring space for youth in the queer community was paramount for me. One afternoon each week, the GSA supports a group of diverse students in discussions and activities promoting unconditional acceptance. As a volunteer at the local public library, I regularly encouraged the circulation manager to acquire books with gender-non-conforming characters. For people like me, representation in books is empowering. For others, portrayal in literature allows for a human connection that otherwise might not be made. Also, as a creative arts camp teaching intern, I nurtured youth self-expression and identity awareness. In a resort community that bolsters extreme athleticism, it is often hard to be a child who chooses art over sport. Through my community service role, I intentionally helped children move beyond perceived expectations and develop their sense of self-worth. This past summer, my years of advocacy work culminated with my being a founding contributor to a pride-month community dinner. After months of fundraising, community outreach, and coalition building, an inaugural event promoting inclusivity and education about the local LQBTQIA2S+ community came to fruition. Beyond bringing people together for food and entertainment, the event recognized a multi-agency effort to create a resource center for queer youth. As a diverse group filled the seats of this first-ever event, a wave of hope and affirmation surged inside me. As a result of these service experiences, I have decided to pursue my Bachelor of Arts degree in Elementary Education with an emphasis on Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. I intend to shine a light on the harmful gender-normative practices that schools perpetuate. More importantly, I aspire to broaden students' perception of the expansive nature of gender through stories, media, and art. If I were fortunate enough to be awarded this scholarship, I would want its supporters to know that an investment in me is an investment in a voice for the underrepresented LGBTQ+ community and a gatekeeper of the systemic cracks that children sadly fall into. I want to become a teacher in order to demonstrate that schools can and should be a safe space for all people.

People often ask me, when did you know you were trans? I used to answer, in middle school or when I was twelve years old as that was when I started to outwardly project my gender-expansive identity and advocate for greater inclusion in educational spaces. However, in hindsight, I knew I was transgender when I was much younger. But what I knew then was only that I was different, very different, and that there was no word for me. In elementary school, you were either a boy or a girl, and to be both meant that you were neither. So while I didn’t yet know that I was transgender, really, I did know that I was invisible and painfully anxious. In elementary school, anxiety pervaded my days. I felt anxious because I felt hollow and amorphous. There were no gender-neutral bathrooms. I didn’t know where to go. Teachers did not read books with non-binary characters. I didn’t see myself. Counselors did not question my resistance to joining the girls' book club, even though I was an advanced and passionate reader. I didn’t engage. Nurses did not question my almost daily office visits after boys-against-girls activities in physical education and on the playground. I didn’t connect. Perhaps if my school was not so entrenched in hetero-normativity, I might have not missed so much school for being “sick”. The absence of a lexicon and a place for students like me led me to the conclusion that I was damaged and broken. Eventually, in middle school, I embarked on a journey of self-education. I found books, websites, and virtual communities that helped me realize and embrace my identity. Empowered to not let future students muddle through the same uncertainty and exclusion, I found my voice and steadfastly advocated for broadening identity norms. Collaborating with concerned teachers, I helped launch the Gender and Sexuality Alliance at my middle school, cultivating a reassuring space for queer youth. One afternoon each week, the GSA supported a group of diverse students in discussions and activities promoting unconditional acceptance. In high school, as an employee at the local public library, I regularly encouraged the circulation manager to acquire books with gender-non-confirming characters. For trans kids, representation in books is life-altering. For others, portrayal in literature allows for a human connection that otherwise might not be made. As a creative arts camp counselor, I nurtured self-expression and identity awareness. In a community that bolsters extreme athleticism, it is hard to be the kid who chooses art over sport. I intentionally helped children move beyond perceived expectations and develop their own sense of self-worth. As a result of these lived experiences, I have decided to pursue my Bachelor of Arts degree in Elementary Education with an emphasis on Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. I intend to shine a light on the harmful gender-normative practices that schools perpetuate. More importantly, I aspire to broaden students' perception of the expansive nature of gender through stories, media, and art. If I were fortunate enough to be awarded this scholarship, I would want its supporters to know that an investment in me is an investment in a voice for the underrepresented LGBTQ+ community and a gatekeeper of the systemic cracks that children sadly fall into. I want to become a teacher in order to demonstrate that schools can and should be a safe space for all people.

People often ask me, "When did you know you were trans?" I used to answer, "in middle school," since that was when I started to accept my gender-expansive identity. However, in hindsight, I knew I was transgender when I was much younger. As a kid, I knew I was different. In fact, there was no word for me. In elementary school, you were either a boy or a girl, and to be both meant that you were neither. In grade school, I didn’t know I was transgender; however, I did know that I was painfully anxious. In elementary school, anxiety controlled me. I felt anxious because I felt hollow and amorphous. There were no gender-neutral bathrooms. I didn’t know where to go. Teachers did not read books with non-binary characters. I didn’t see myself. Nurses accepted my almost daily office visits after boys-against-girls activities. I didn’t connect. I missed so many days of school for being “sick.” The absence of a lexicon and a place for students like me led me to conclude that I was damaged and broken. By high school, anxiety coursed through me, day and night. Knowing by now that I was transgender, I started to express my identity through my clothing and hairstyles. Being visibly gender-queer was inwardly empowering but outwardly contempt-provoking. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, I chose to take virtual classes. I thought I could protect myself physically and mentally. But instead of feeling more secure, I experienced depression on top of anxiety. The walls of my bedroom formed a prison cell. I felt like I had turned to the last page of my story and swallowed as many Tylenol capsules as possible to reach the back cover. Fortunately, my mother was nearby and rushed me to the hospital. “A cry for help,” the doctors called my actions. Yet “finding help” became a task unto itself. Immediately after my attempt, my pediatrician prescribed Prozac and visits to a teen-focused therapist. Neither the medication nor the counselor helped. Almost instantly, the pills made me feel agitated, confused, and paranoid. Compounding these distressing feelings, the therapist diagnosed my gender-expansive identity as a teenage “phase.” It still bewilders me that I, the one in crisis, had to self-advocate for a different healthcare plan. I knew I was not in a pill-fixable “phase.” I needed to talk to someone who understood how my mental health issues were complex and uniquely mine. With the help of a cognitive therapist and the support of my mother, I enrolled in a dual-enrollment degree program, simultaneously completing coursework for my high school diploma and an Associate of Arts degree. These strong women encouraged me to find strength and inspiration in the positive aspects of my life: school, books, and art. Engaging in my classwork, I learned to crave academic challenges. Books gave me hope and direction, offering me stories of self-compassion and forgiveness. They gave me words to find an identity beyond the pain. By drawing, painting, sculpting, and crocheting, I found creative outlets for my serpentine emotions. Art is a Band-Aid-covered wound; it recognizes the source of pain and the need to heal it. My faith in positive relationships and the mending power of education and art are the foundational reasons I want to become an elementary teacher. I want to be a trusted adult a young person can turn to for support, stability, and visibility. I want to offer a curriculum that reflects diverse students. Above all, as a teacher, I can be a role model and resource for students grappling with mental health issues.

People often ask me, "When did you know you were trans?" I used to answer, "in middle school," since that was when I started to accept my gender-expansive identity. However, in hindsight, I knew I was transgender when I was much younger. As a kid, I knew I was different. In fact, there was no word for me. In elementary school, you were either a boy or a girl, and to be both meant that you were neither. In grade school, I didn’t know I was transgender; however, I did know that I was painfully anxious. In elementary school, anxiety controlled me. I felt anxious because I felt hollow and amorphous. There were no gender-neutral bathrooms. I didn’t know where to go. Teachers did not read books with non-binary characters. I didn’t see myself. Nurses accepted my almost daily office visits after boys-against-girls activities. I didn’t connect. I missed so many days of school for being “sick.” The absence of a lexicon and a place for students like me led me to conclude that I was damaged and broken. By high school, anxiety coursed through me, day and night. Knowing by now that I was transgender, I started to express my identity through my clothing and hairstyles. Being visibly gender-queer was inwardly empowering but outwardly contempt-provoking. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, I chose to take virtual classes. I thought I could protect myself physically and mentally. But instead of feeling more secure, I experienced depression on top of anxiety. The walls of my bedroom formed a prison cell. I felt like I had turned to the last page of my story and swallowed as many Tylenol capsules as possible to reach the back cover. Fortunately, my mother was nearby and rushed me to the hospital. “A cry for help,” the doctors called my actions. Yet “finding help” became a task unto itself. Immediately after my attempt, my pediatrician prescribed Prozac and visits to a teen-focused therapist. Neither the medication nor the counselor helped. Almost instantly, the pills made me feel agitated, confused, and paranoid. Compounding these distressing feelings, the therapist diagnosed my gender-expansive identity as a teenage “phase.” It still bewilders me that I, the one in crisis, had to self-advocate for a different healthcare plan. I knew I was not in a pill-fixable “phase.” I needed to talk to someone who understood how my mental health issues were complex and uniquely mine. With the help of a cognitive therapist and the support of my mother, I enrolled in a dual-enrollment degree program, simultaneously completing coursework for my high school diploma and an Associate of Arts degree. These strong women encouraged me to find strength and inspiration in the positive aspects of my life: school, books, and art. Engaging in my classwork, I learned to crave academic challenges. Books gave me hope and direction, offering me stories of self-compassion and forgiveness. They gave me words to find an identity beyond the pain. By drawing, painting, sculpting, and crocheting, I found creative outlets for my serpentine emotions. Art is a Band-Aid-covered wound; it recognizes the source of pain and the need to heal it. My faith in positive relationships and the mending power of education and art are the foundational reasons I want to become an elementary teacher. I want to be a trusted adult a young person can turn to for support, stability, and visibility. I want to offer a curriculum that reflects diverse students. Above all, as a teacher, I can be a role model and resource for students grappling with mental health issues.

In the future, my skin will be healed from the sores and lesions cut from taunts; "fat", "trans", "anxious", "suicide-attempt-failure", yet the scars will remain, not to remind me of the pain, but to remind me that I am more than cells; I am a non-binary, neurodivergent, artist and teacher who will honor, support and create alongside all students, especially those whose skin stings raw from the barbs of ableism and xenophobia.

Does abuse always leave a bruise? I used to think so. I once believed abuse survivors were people with hospital-snapped pictures of black eyes and purple-yellow contusions. Over the years, I have learned that abuse is more subtle and survivors can look like me. When I was three, my father suffered a work-related knee injury. This seemingly minor accident changed the trajectory of his and my family's life. My father never recovered from this injury because, we would later learn, he has a debilitating joint disorder. He has no cartilage between his joints. The pain that he suffered and continues to endure is unimaginable. Unfortunately, he was prescribed opiates to manage this pain. In the years following his accident, his dependency and overuse of these "pain-managing" drugs caused a metamorphosis. My active, involved dad became an angry, volatile abuser. Though he never physically harmed me, his self-despair led him to the darkest of places. He regularly blamed me for his memory loss and causticly accused me of lying about things I knew I had told him. On countless occasions, he furiously berated me for moving household objects or leaving the stove or faucet on. All things that he did but had no memory of doing. I now know that the pills were responsible for his screaming outbursts and venomous contempt. I also know that this was emotional abuse. As of today, my father is six months clean. He has learned to manage his pain through meditation, diet, natural supplements, and cognitive therapy. I am grateful for his return. His journey to overcome addiction was harrowing. My journey as a child or an addict also has been gut-wrenching, but also healing. While my father embodied instability, my mother manifested fortitude. She taught me to do so much more than muddle through the uncertainty. She encouraged me to find strength and inspiration in the positive aspects of my life; school, books, art, and community. Engaging in my classwork has always lifted my spirit. Science, history, math, and writing, each provided a unique world for my curiosity to flourish and grow. I learned to crave academic challenges and to stretch the boundaries of skills and knowledge. Inside and outside of school, books became my closest friends; their words gave me hope and direction. Books offered me stories about overcoming hardships and finding forgiveness. They provided me with the words to name my own unfortunate experiences. More importantly, they gave me alternative words to find an identity beyond the pain. Through drawing, painting, sculpting, and crocheting, I found a creative space for my emotions. For me, art is a Band-Aid-covered wound. It lets me feel the pain and begin the healing process simultaneously. My love of school, literature, and art all contributed to my desire to dedicate my life to a community of curiosity, creativity, and learning. I want to become a teacher for so many reasons. I hope to ignite a love of literature and a desire to understand the natural world. Through teaching, I wish to guide students in obtaining the skills they'll need to realize their potential. Most of all, I want to be the trusted adult that a young person can turn to for support and stability. If I can show up each day for a child, like my mother did for me, then I will be content. This scholarship would help me realize my commitment to myself, my mother, and every woman who has persevered through life's trials. I believe becoming a teacher would heal my soul and the fractured souls I have yet to encounter.

At a 2015 TED Talk, Linda Sue Park asked the audience a straightforward yet compelling question, “Can a children’s book change the world, and is “A Long Walk to Water” the book to accomplish this?” On both counts, I believe the answer is yes. There is no book that elicits empathy more than “A Long Water to Water”. If I could have everyone in the world read just one book, it would be this one. Everyone should experience Salva and Nya’s impossible journey through the real and metaphorical deserts of South Sudan. Like thousands of children, “A Long Walk to Water” was read aloud to me by a teacher. Each day, I listened to the harrowing ordeal of eleven-year-old Salva’s terrifying separation from his family during the Sudanese Civil War. With my knees clutched to my chest, I imagined the sounds of war and the torment of hunger and thirst. Staring at my empty arms, I wondered at the weight of Nya’s twice-daily burden, carrying dirty water from a distant pond to her family’s dwelling. Through Park’s stark descriptions, I felt the heat of the sun and the split of parched lips. Looking back on this experience, I wondered why my peers and I weren’t overwhelmed by the violent subject matter. Why did we not push back against the painfulness of it all? I realize now that readers like me endured the discomfort of such a tragedy because Park’s narrative prompted feelings of empathy that we had never experienced before. For hundreds of miles over hundreds of days, Salva walked toward safety. Through our literary connection to Salva, through empathy, we readers also refused to stop “walking”. As one of those readers, I empathized with Salva’s unimaginable hardships and insuperable deterrents and agonized alongside Salva over his life and death decisions. I empathized with Nya’s steadfast resilience and family loyalty and celebrated the construction of the well that saved her life and community. Park gave readers the greatest gift. She let us feel both pain and joy so that we could return to that feeling when we needed it in later life. If the world’s population could read just one book, imagine if that book was “A Long Walk to Water”. Readers around the world would feel empathy, real empathy, and perhaps they would feel enough empathy to walk with others on their arduous journeys to a better life.

For me, books are daffodils and poison ivy, cotton candy and matzah-ball soup, hand-me-down jeans and first-day-of-school sneakers. I cherish books for their disruptive honesty and their snowflake-like wonderment. I believe that people are a curious amalgam of the books they have read over time. Unquestionably, books have forged my identity, framed my community, and formed my goals. When I was three years old, my father suffered a work-related knee injury. This seemingly minor accident was unfortunately a symptom of a much larger issue. My father was eventually diagnosed with undifferentiated spondyloarthropathies. This debilitating joint disorder bound him to a life of pain and immobility. Unable to ride bikes with me or push me on a swing, our time together revolved around books. The fantastical worlds of Roald Dahl, the absurd poetry of Jack Pruletsky, and the clever plots of Gertrude Chandler Warner and Mary Pope Osbourne, gave my father and I a way to experience the places that we could never travel to together. Through the works of Lois Lowry, Jaqueline Woodson, and Mildred Taylor, we grappled with society’s injustice and the personal courage required to act with integrity. Above all, through the tales of Malorie Blackman and Tae Keller, we recognized that illnesses are not identities and that families can reimagine themselves in response to hardship. In high school and during the COVID-19 pandemic, books and the public library specifically gave me purpose and a way to connect with people during a time of profound social isolation. Soon after I started an after-school job as a library materials handler, public health concerns forced the library to reimagine how to maintain public access and outreach. I became part of a team of staff members who creatively reconfigured protocols for promoting, distributing, and creating community around books. Once my colleagues and I began to notice the popularity of certain books: Matt Haig’s The Midnight Library, Brit Bennett’s The Vanishing Half, and Isabel Wilkerson’s Caste, we created virtual book groups for library patrons to discuss and connect over literature. I also helped orchestrate “walking book clubs'' for children. Though masked and socially distanced from one another, the kids reveled in the ability to walk and talk about Auggie from R.J. Palacio’s Wonder or Susan and Leo from Jerry Spinelli’s Stargirl. These books and the community created around them will forever remind me that reading in community is uplifting and empowering. In order to share my fervor and dedication to books, I intend to become an elementary school teacher specializing in literacy and the needs of neurodivergent learners. From “learning to read” to “reading to learn”, developmental literacy is the greatest indicator of future success in school. For students who do not come to reading naturally, targeted interventions are needed to ensure that all students can access the literary realm. I want to learn how to bring even the most reluctant students into the reading community. When a student thinks of themselves as a reader, they are more resilient, adaptable, and engaged. Readers feel a strong sense of self-worth and agency. Books are so much more than words on a page. They are family, community, potential, and opportunity. In my mind’s eye, books are the compass through which to navigate the world.

People often ask me, "When did you know you were trans?" I used to answer, "in middle school" or "when I was twelve," since that was when I started to outwardly project my gender-expansive identity and advocate for greater inclusion in educational spaces. However, in hindsight, I knew I was transgender when I was much younger. But what I knew then was only that I was different, very different, and that there was no word for me. In elementary school, you were either a boy or a girl, and to be both meant that you were neither. So while I didn’t yet know that I was transgender, really, I did know that I was invisible and painfully anxious. In elementary school, anxiety pervaded my days. I felt anxious because I felt hollow and amorphous. There were no gender-neutral bathrooms. I didn’t know where to go. Teachers did not read books with non-binary characters. I didn’t see myself. Counselors did not question my resistance to joining the girls' book club, even though I was an advanced and passionate reader. I didn’t engage. Nurses did not question my almost daily office visits after boys-against-girls activities in physical education and on the playground. I didn’t connect. Perhaps if my school was not so entrenched in hetero-normativity, I might have not missed so much school for being “sick”. The absence of a lexicon and a place for students like me led me to the conclusion that I was damaged and broken. Eventually, in middle school, I embarked on a journey of self-education. I found books, websites, and virtual communities that helped me realize and embrace my identity. Empowered to not let future students muddle through the same uncertainty and exclusion, I found my voice and steadfastly advocated for broadening identity norms. Collaborating with concerned teachers, I helped launch the Gender and Sexuality Alliance at my middle school, cultivating a reassuring space for queer youth. One afternoon each week, the GSA supported a group of diverse students in discussions and activities promoting unconditional acceptance. In high school, as an employee at the local public library, I regularly encouraged the circulation manager to acquire books with gender-non-confirming characters. For trans kids, representation in books is life-altering. For others, portrayal in literature allows for a human connection that otherwise might not be made. As a creative arts camp counselor, I nurtured self-expression and identity awareness. In a community that bolsters extreme athleticism, it is hard to be the kid who chooses art over sport. I intentionally helped children move beyond perceived expectations and develop their own sense of self-worth. As a result of these lived experiences, I have decided to pursue my Bachelor of Arts degree in Elementary Education with an emphasis on Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. I intend to shine a light on the harmful gender-normative practices that schools perpetuate. More importantly, I aspire to broaden students' perception of the expansive nature of gender through stories, media, and art. If I were fortunate enough to be awarded this scholarship, I would want its supporters to know that an investment in me is an investment in a voice for the underrepresented LGBTQ+ community and a gatekeeper of the systemic cracks that children sadly fall into. I want to become a teacher in order to demonstrate that schools can and should be a safe space for all people.

“A suit.” Upon hearing these words, my mother withdrew in consternation. They were my answer to her question, “What do you want to wear to your bat mitzvah?” “A suit.” Even though this Jewish rite of passage was supposed to honor my independence and transition into adulthood, I folded at my mother’s unspoken disapproval. By age thirteen, I knew that my gender identity was not binary. I even took the daunting step of sharing this truth with my parents. Still, it wasn’t until I saw the discomfort in my mother’s eyes that I realized there was not yet a space for me. Her silence implored me to “pass.” It begged, “Couldn’t I wait a little longer to be disruptive? Did I need to make this day about that?” Dutifully, I acquiesced. Wearing over-the-knee leggings and a sapphire top, I became a bat mitzvah. I chanted prayers, kindled Shabbat candles, and translated Hebrew texts. I gave and received references to my gender at birth without protest but with aching regret. When it came time for me to read from the Torah, I paused. At that moment, I saw my disguised self pretending to be someone I no longer was, feigning that my fractured self was whole enough. With difficulty yet instinctively, I willed the part of me that allowed others to speak on my behalf to step aside. When I found my voice again, it intoned, “Never again.” I did not want to experience any more milestones in hiding or shame. To be fully me, to be a leader, I knew I had to find ways to foster that voice of challenge to gender binary norms. In the years following my coming-of-age ceremony, I steadfastly advocated for broadening identity norms in my community. Collaborating with concerned teachers, I helped launch the Gender and Sexuality Alliance at my former middle school. Cultivating a reassuring space for youth in the queer community was paramount for me. One afternoon each week, the GSA supports a group of diverse students in discussions and activities promoting unconditional acceptance. As an employee at the local public library, I regularly encourage the circulation manager to acquire books with gender-non-confirming characters. For people like me, representation in books is empowering. For others, portrayal in literature allows for a human connection that otherwise might not be made. Also, as a creative arts camp teaching intern, I nurture youth self-expression and identity awareness. In a community that bolsters extreme athleticism, it is often hard to be a child who chooses art over sport. In my teaching role, I intentionally help children move beyond perceived expectations and develop their sense of self-worth. This past summer, my years of advocacy work culminated with my being a founding contributor to a pride-month community dinner. After months of fundraising, community outreach, and coalition building, an inaugural event promoting inclusivity and education about the local LQBTQIA2S+ community came to fruition. Beyond bringing people together for food and entertainment, the event recognized a multi-agency effort to create a resource center for queer youth. As a diverse group filled the seats of this first-ever event, a wave of hope and affirmation surged inside me. I exemplify leadership by acting with agency and living authentically. By making a space for my whole self, I widen the waters for others and not just for myself. Each day, by giving voice to those who feel silenced, I lead. Every day, through my work and community involvement, I aim to raise awareness and lead others to embrace diversity within communities.

Does abuse always leave a bruise? I used to think so. I once believed abuse survivors were people with hospital-snapped pictures of black eyes and purple-yellow contusions. Over the years, I have learned that abuse is more subtle and survivors can look like me. When I was three, my father suffered a work-related knee injury. This seemingly minor accident changed the trajectory of his and my family's life. My father never recovered from this injury because, we would later learn, he has a debilitating joint disorder. He has no cartilage between his joints. The pain that he suffered and continues to endure is unimaginable. Unfortunately, he was prescribed opiates to manage this pain. In the years following his accident, his dependency and overuse of these "pain-managing" drugs caused a metamorphosis. My active, involved dad became an angry, volatile abuser. Though he never physically harmed me, his self-despair led him to the darkest of places. He regularly blamed me for his memory loss and causticly accused me of lying about things I knew I had told him. On countless occasions, he furiously berated me for moving household objects or leaving the stove or faucet on. All things that he did but had no memory of doing. I now know that the pills were responsible for his screaming outbursts and venomous contempt. I also know that this was emotional abuse. As of today, my father is six months clean. He has learned to manage his pain through meditation, diet, natural supplements, and cognitive therapy. I am grateful for his return. His journey to overcome addiction was harrowing. My journey as a child or an addict also has been gut-wrenching, but also healing. While my father embodied instability, my mother manifested fortitude. She taught me to do so much more than muddle through the uncertainty. She encouraged me to find strength and inspiration in the positive aspects of my life; school, books, art, and community. Engaging in my classwork has always lifted my spirit. Science, history, math, and writing, each provided a unique world for my curiosity to flourish and grow. I learned to crave academic challenges and to stretch the boundaries of skills and knowledge. Inside and outside of school, books became my closest friends; their words gave me hope and direction. Books offered me stories about overcoming hardships and finding forgiveness. They provided me with the words to name my own unfortunate experiences. More importantly, they gave me alternative words to find an identity beyond the pain. Through drawing, painting, sculpting, and crocheting, I found a creative space for my emotions. For me, art is a Band-Aid-covered wound. It lets me feel the pain and begin the healing process simultaneously. My love of school, literature, and art all contributed to my desire to dedicate my life to a community of curiosity, creativity, and learning. I want to become a teacher for so many reasons. I hope to ignite a love of literature and a desire to understand the natural world. Through teaching, I wish to guide students in obtaining the skills they'll need to realize their potential. Most of all, I want to be the trusted adult that a young person can turn to for support and stability. If I can show up each day for a child, like my mother did for me, then I will be content. This scholarship would help me realize my commitment to myself, my mother, and every woman who has persevered through life's trials. I believe becoming a teacher would heal my soul and the fractured souls I have yet to encounter.

Does abuse always leave a bruise? I used to think so. I once believed abuse survivors were people with hospital-snapped pictures of black eyes and purple-yellow contusions. Over the years, I have learned that abuse is more subtle and survivors can look like me. When I was three, my father suffered a work-related knee injury. This seemingly minor accident changed the trajectory of his and my family's life. My father never recovered from this injury because, we would later learn, he has a debilitating joint disorder. He has no cartilage between his joints. The pain that he suffered and continues to endure is unimaginable. Unfortunately, he was prescribed opiates to manage this pain. In the years following his accident, his dependency and overuse of these "pain-managing" drugs caused a metamorphosis. My active, involved dad became an angry, volatile abuser. Though he never physically harmed me, his self-despair led him to the darkest of places. He regularly blamed me for his memory loss and causticly accused me of lying about things I knew I had told him. On countless occasions, he furiously berated me for moving household objects or leaving the stove or faucet on. All things that he did but had no memory of doing. I now know that the pills were responsible for his screaming outbursts and venomous contempt. I also know that this was emotional abuse. As of today, my father is six months clean. He has learned to manage his pain through meditation, diet, natural supplements, and cognitive therapy. I am grateful for his return. His journey to overcome addiction was harrowing. My journey as a child or an addict also has been gut-wrenching, but also healing. While my father embodied instability, my mother manifested fortitude. She taught me to do so much more than muddle through the uncertainty. She encouraged me to find strength and inspiration in the positive aspects of my life; school, books, art, and community. Engaging in my classwork has always lifted my spirit. Science, history, math, and writing, each provided a unique world for my curiosity to flourish and grow. I learned to crave academic challenges and to stretch the boundaries of skills and knowledge. Inside and outside of school, books became my closest friends; their words gave me hope and direction. Books offered me stories about overcoming hardships and finding forgiveness. They provided me with the words to name my own unfortunate experiences. More importantly, they gave me alternative words to find an identity beyond the pain. Through drawing, painting, sculpting, and crocheting, I found a creative space for my emotions. For me, art is a Band-Aid-covered wound. It lets me feel the pain and begin the healing process simultaneously. My love of school, literature, and art all contributed to my desire to dedicate my life to a community of curiosity, creativity, and learning. I want to become a teacher for so many reasons. I hope to ignite a love of literature and a desire to understand the natural world. Through teaching, I wish to guide students in obtaining the skills they'll need to realize their potential. Most of all, I want to be the trusted adult that a young person can turn to for support and stability. If I can show up each day for a child, like my mother did for me, then I will be content. This scholarship would help me realize my commitment to myself, my mother, and every woman who has persevered through life's trials. I believe becoming a teacher would heal my soul and the fractured souls I have yet to encounter.

Does abuse always leave a bruise? I used to think so. I once believed abuse survivors were people with hospital-snapped pictures of black eyes and purple-yellow contusions. Over the years, I have learned that abuse is more subtle and survivors can look like me. When I was three, my father suffered a work-related knee injury. This seemingly minor accident changed the trajectory of his and my family's life. My father never recovered from this injury because, we would later learn, he has a debilitating joint disorder. He has no cartilage between his joints. The pain that he suffered and continues to endure is unimaginable. Unfortunately, he was prescribed opiates to manage this pain. In the years following his accident, his dependency and overuse of these "pain-managing" drugs caused a metamorphosis. My active, involved dad became an angry, volatile abuser. Though he never physically harmed me, his self-despair led him to the darkest of places. He regularly blamed me for his memory loss and caustically accused me of lying about things I knew I had told him. On countless occasions, he furiously berated me for moving household objects or leaving the stove or faucet on. All things that he did but had no memory of doing. I now know that the pills were responsible for his screaming outbursts and venomous contempt. I also know that this was emotional abuse. As of today, my father is six months clean. He has learned to manage his pain through meditation, diet, natural supplements, and cognitive therapy. I am grateful for his return. His journey to overcome addiction was harrowing. My journey as a child or an addict also has been gut-wrenching, but also healing. While my father embodied instability, my mother manifested fortitude. She taught me to do so much more than muddle through the uncertainty. She encouraged me to find strength and inspiration in the positive aspects of my life; school, books, art, and community. Engaging in my classwork has always lifted my spirit. Science, history, math, and writing, each provided a unique world for my curiosity to flourish and grow. I learned to crave academic challenges and to stretch the boundaries of skills and knowledge. Inside and outside of school, books became my closest friends; their words gave me hope and direction. Books offered me stories about overcoming hardships and finding forgiveness. They provided me with the words to name my own unfortunate experiences. More importantly, they gave me alternative words to find an identity beyond the pain. Through drawing, painting, sculpting, and crocheting, I found a creative space for my emotions. For me, art is a Band-Aid-covered wound. It lets me feel the pain and begin the healing process simultaneously. My love of school, literature, and art all contributed to my desire to dedicate my life to a community of curiosity, creativity, and learning. I want to become a teacher for so many reasons. I hope to ignite a love of literature and a desire to understand the natural world. Through teaching, I wish to guide students in obtaining the skills they'll need to realize their potential. Most of all, I want to be the trusted adult that a young person can turn to for support and stability. If I can show up each day for a child, like my mother did for me, then I will be content. This scholarship would help me realize my commitment to myself, my mother, and every woman who has persevered through life's trials. I believe becoming a teacher would heal my soul and the fractured souls I have yet to encounter.