“Branquinho”- little white one. “Foguinho”- little flame. Those were the nicknames I grew up with. As a fair-skinned, redheaded, biracial kid, I clearly took after my Irish mom. My dad’s side of the family is Afro-Brazilian, known as preto or black—and they loved to joke that in Brazil my pale skin and freckles made me rarer than a unicorn. Honestly, being mixed race wasn’t something I over thought as a kid. I adored my family, and the nicknames felt endearing, not insulting. Every summer we’d visit Brazil, and I’d secretly hope to tan just enough to earn a new title. When I did, I’d graduate from “branquinho” to “café com leite”, coffee with cream. That one always cracked me up. It felt like proof that I belonged to both sides of my family at the same time. And in the US, I skated through most of my young life unnoticed, looking like any other white kid. Teachers didn’t question it. Strangers didn’t question it. I didn’t question it. It wasn’t until I grew older that I realized my “branquinho” skin offered me something like a superpower. Because I blended in, I could stand quietly in the background and listen. And when people think you’re “one of them,” they show their true colors. That’s when things shifted for me. Not knowing that my family comes in every shade of brown, I saw and heard racism first hand. In the locker room after football games, on the bus heading to school, waiting in line at the fast food joint. The list is as infuriating as it is endless. I heard jokes, slurs, stereotypes—all said casually and confidently, like it was no big deal. They didn’t know that the punchlines they laughed at looked like my dad, my sisters, my cousins. And I would stand there complicit, as a passive bystander, feeling this mix of anger and disbelief. As I’ve gotten older, what scares me most is how much louder those voices have become. With the dismantling of diversity, equity, and inclusion programs, the expansion of immigration enforcement, and increasingly open hostility toward marginalized communities, racism no longer hides in whispers. It is now proudly being shouted from the rooftops. And this does not bode well. Already police brutality and profiling is excessive, with blacks and Latinos more likely to be stopped, searched and subjected to force over whites. Now, with the untrained, unchecked and unaccountable ICE agents taking over our streets, all people of color, any color, are in even more danger. My sisters, who are not “branquinho” like me, carry their passports with them everyday. My dad, who is a naturalized US citizen, and ironically in law enforcement, worries about the possibility of being questioned or targeted despite his status. Family members in Brazil refuse to visit, uncertain about how they will be received. And I’ve come to understand that I can’t hide behind my appearance forever. In the past, I could let people assume whatever they wanted and move through spaces without notice. But I’ve realized that blending in isn’t the same as belonging. And it definitely isn’t the same as standing up. Discrimination no longer stops at one shade. It spills over. It expands. It looks for new targets. That's why re-implementing the DEI programs once in place is crucial. Our country is being white washed, history is being lost, and those already marginalized are being forced back into a corner, they have fought so hard to get out of. Growing up between cultures, my identity felt lighthearted, a collection of funny nicknames, family teasing, and laughter around the table. Now it feels heavier, but also clearer. I see how quickly people dehumanize others when they think no one will push back. I also see the strength in my family—the resilience, the humor, the pride in who we are. Being biracial has taught me that I exist in the in-between. I’m the “little white one” in Brazil and something else entirely in the United States. But more than that, I’m connected to people who don’t have the luxury of stepping in and out of visibility the way I once did. That realization changed me. I know I can’t control how loud racism gets. But I can control whether I stay silent when I hear it. And I’ve learned that my real “superpower” isn’t blending in…it’s choosing not to.

“A good coach can change a game, but a great coach can change a life.” I’m not sure who first said that, but I know it’s true—because I’ve lived it. Growing up involved in football, I’ve had coaches who yelled and simply ran drills, and I’ve had coaches who made lasting impacts on my life. It’s the good ones—the ones who saw us not just as athletes but as young men—who left the biggest marks. Those are the mentors I aspire to be. Volunteering is something I do not feel I do enough of, but it is a meaningful part of my life, shaped in large part by the example set by football coach, Coach Lit. During my senior year, while my mom was battling cancer, he saw the emotional weight I was carrying. He didn’t just support me on the field—he helped cover gear fees and became someone I could turn to for guidance and strength. One of the greatest things he did for me was encouraging me to give back. He got me involved in volunteering with park cleanups and football camps and taught me something powerful: that helping others can be healing for you, too. That’s a lesson I’ve carried with me ever since. Even when I haven’t been able to coach formally due to school, work, and my moms sickness, I’ve tried my best to volunteer at youth football and wrestling camps in my hometown. I’ve learned that younger kids look up to the older athletes like we’re superheroes. That responsibility—to lead by example, to be someone they can look up to—means a lot to me. Volunteering in that way allows me to pass on the lessons I’ve learned from my coach while helping build confidence and character in the next generation. One of the greatest volunteer experiences I’ve had lately is with Ben A., a 19-year-old with Down syndrome who is nonverbal. His mom reached out to me through my aunt, saying she was looking for someone close to Ben’s age who could be a positive influence. Though she had only seen me through social media, she said she could tell I was the kind of person who could make a difference. That meant a lot to me. Since then, Ben and I have spent time together shooting hoops, bowling, and playing video games—just doing things that make him smile. Though Ben doesn’t speak, he’s taught me that leadership and connection don’t require words. His presence is powerful, and I have missed him sine moving away to college. Another passion of mine is classic car restoration. During my sophomore year, I bought a 1965 Ford Mustang that was more rust than muscle. Every night after football practice, I found myself in the garage working on bringing it back to life. My goal was to have it running by my senior year homecoming game, a goal I can proudly say I met. Restoring classic cars might seem like just a hobby, but I see it as another way to volunteer and give back. I love talking with kids about the restoration process and encouraging them to pursue their interests off the field. Volunteering has taught me that giving back isn’t just about doing good for others—it’s also about growing as a person. It builds character, strengthens communities, and creates connections that go beyond ourselves. For me, giving back isn’t just something I do—it’s who I strive to be. I want to be the kind of person—and one day, coach—who changes more than just a game. I want to change lives.

“Branquinho”- little white one. “Foguinho”- little flame. Those were the nicknames I grew up with. As a fair-skinned, redheaded, biracial kid, I clearly took after my Irish mom. My dad’s side of the family is Afro-Brazilian, known as preto, or black, and they loved to joke that in Brazil my pale skin and freckles made me rarer than a unicorn! Honestly, being mixed race wasn’t something I over thought as a kid. I adored my family, and the nicknames felt endearing, not insulting. Every summer we’d visit Brazil, and I’d secretly hope to tan just enough to earn a new title... “café com leite”, coffee with cream. That one always cracked me up. It felt like proof that I belonged to both sides of my family at the same time. And in the US, I skated through most of my young life unnoticed, looking like any other white kid. Teachers didn’t question it. Strangers didn’t question it. I didn’t question it. It wasn’t until I grew older that I realized my “branquinho” skin offered me something like a superpower. Because I blended in, I could stand quietly in the background and listen. And when people think you’re “one of them,” they show their true colors. That’s when things shifted for me. Not knowing that my family comes in every shade of brown, I saw and heard racism first hand. In the locker room after football games, on the bus heading to school, waiting in line at the fast food joint. The list is as infuriating as it is endless. I heard jokes, slurs, stereotypes—all said casually and confidently, like it was no big deal. They didn’t know that the punchlines they laughed at looked like my dad and sisters. And I would stand there complicit, as a passive bystander, feeling this mix of anger and disbelief. As I’ve gotten older, what scares me most is how much louder those voices have become. With the dismantling of diversity, equity, and inclusion programs, the expansion of immigration enforcement, and increasingly open hostility toward marginalized communities, racism no longer hides in whispers. It is now proudly being shouted from the rooftops. My sisters, who are not “branquinho” like me, carry their passports with them everyday. My dad, who is a naturalized US citizen, and ironically in law enforcement, worries about the possibility of being targeted despite his status. Family members in Brazil refuse to visit, uncertain about how they will be received. And I’ve come to understand that I can’t hide behind my appearance forever. In the past, I could let people assume whatever they wanted and move through spaces without notice. But I’ve realized that blending in isn’t the same as belonging. And it definitely isn’t the same as standing up. Discrimination no longer stops at one shade. It spills over and looks for new targets. Growing up between cultures, my identity felt lighthearted, a collection of funny nicknames and family teasing. Now it feels heavier, but also clearer. Being biracial has taught me that I exist in the in-between. I’m the “little white one” in Brazil and something else entirely in the United States. But more than that, I’m connected to people who don’t have the luxury of stepping in and out of visibility the way I once did. That realization changed me. I know I can’t control how loud racism gets. But I can control whether I stay silent when I hear it. And this “Branquinho” has learned that my real superpower isn’t blending in…it’s choosing not to.

My mom likes to joke that when she was pregnant with me, I didn’t just kick—I was shifting gears. For as long as I can remember, cars have felt like a part of my DNA. I was always that kid on the floor, “zoom-zooming” toy cars across the carpet, endlessly curious about how things worked. Even now, I can’t resist taking things apart to study the inner workings of an object or simple machine, figuring out what makes it tick. That curiosity reached its peak in high school when my mom bought a 1965 Mustang that was more rust than muscle. She wanted to see whether my tinkering was just a hobby or something more. Having never restored a car before, I learned as I went. I eagerly embraced the challenge—developing new skills, gaining knowledge I never had, and once again discovering how all the pieces worked together. Covered in grease in the garage, I felt completely at home, and my mom saw a spark in me that had been dormant for years. I was no longer a kid playing with Hot Wheels; I was a young man who had found his passion: restoring classic cars. Over three years, I taught myself how to strip parts, rewire electrical systems, and build a transmission. I researched carburetors, suspension systems, and interior restoration. I wasn’t just fixing a car—I was learning discipline, patience, problem-solving, and pride. For every step forward, there were often ten steps back, but my mom documented every high and low along the way. I even built a portfolio detailing the entire restoration process. That portfolio proved my passion for cars and my dedication to the automotive field were far more than a hobby. Ultimately, the restoration of the Mustang earned me a spot as one of only forty students accepted into McPherson College’s prestigious automotive restoration program. However, my road to McPherson wasn’t a straightaway. Life had other plans. As a student athlete, my senior year was supposed to be filled with pep rallies and Friday night lights. Yet things took a devastating turn when my mom was diagnosed with cancer for the second time, along with multiple sclerosis. Just weeks later, my dad filed for divorce. Overnight, everything changed, and I became the man of the house. Although attending college to study cars had always been my dream, I knew I needed to pause it. I took a gap year to support my mom through her long recovery, working multiple jobs, taking classes at a community college, and staying by her side throughout treatment. While my mom was proud of me and deeply grateful, I know that delaying college weighed heavily on her heart. During that dark time, when my mom could see the worry on my face, she encouraged me to work on the Mustang. At first I resisted, but being in the garage was my happy place during a very unhappy time. My mom assured me that like the Mustang, broken things could be restored and fixed...herself included. Thankfully, she was right and her cancer is now in remission. After my gap year, I enrolled at McPherson College in 2025 and just completed my first semester with a 4.0 GPA. My dream is to one day open a classic car restoration business that blends old-school craftsmanship with modern technology. I hope to teach others—especially young people like me—that passion and purpose can carry you through even the hardest times. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to continue my studies at McPherson and give my mom one less thing to worry about—something she wholeheartedly deserves.

Kids can be cruel. I can vividly remember standing in line in my third-grade classroom, when two boys standing behind me picked a piece of my curly red hair from my shirt and said, "Brady's hair is falling out, just like his mom's." Sadly, laughter erupted from the other boys in line. That was the first time that my mom's cancer diagnosis hit home for me. While my mom put on a brave face to shield me from her pain and suffering, I knew she was not herself. It wasn't until my senior year, when she had to battle cancer for a second time, that I truly was able to process how despicable of a disease cancer is and how remarkable of a woman my mom is. As a student-athlete, my senior year was supposed to be filled with pep rallies and Friday night lights. And, while I did make some amazing memories, those memories always had a slight black cloud lingering overhead. My mom, while struggling with a new multiple sclerosis diagnosis, was dealt with two more earth-shattering blows...she had cancer again, and my dad wanted a divorce. Like so many survivors, she put on a brave face for me so that I could enjoy my senior year, but there were several times I could hear her crying behind closed doors. I knew my mom was scared, sad, and worried about finances. Most importantly, she was worried about me. You see, with my dad gone, I found myself in uncharted territory…I was now the man of the house. At first, my mom resisted my new role, but the truth was, no matter how strong she was mentally, she needed help physically. The simplest of tasks, like getting out of a chair, was no longer so simple. Walking was nearly impossible. Standing long enough to cook was a challenge. So when the time came for me to go to college, it was an easy decision for me to take a year off and stay by my mom's side during her darkest time. Two years have passed and while her multiple sclerosis still presents challenges, her cancer is thankfully in remission. I know my mom carries guilt, thinking I sacrificed too much, but taking a year off from college was an easy decision for me—it was the right thing to do. Though she never wanted me to put my dreams on hold, I have no regrets. The experience matured me in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. I gained perspective. I gained grit. And I gained clarity on the type of man I want to be. The lessons I have learned from my mom and from being her caretaker the past few years are immeasurable. I have learned the importance of resiliency and empathy. I have learned that fear is fine. Embracing that fear is how you find the courage to move forward. Sadness is fine. Embracing that sadness is how you can find happiness again. And having a good long cry does not make you weak, it makes you human. Most importantly, my mom has taught me to be a fighter. That’s why this scholarship matters so much. Since my mom is now on permanent disability, it would not only ease the financial burden on her but also honor the journey we've taken to get here. It would allow me to continue my studies at McPherson College, where I just finished my first semester with a 4.0 GPA. And more than that, it would give my mom one less thing to worry about, which is something she absolutely deserves.

“A good coach can change a game, but a great coach can change a life.” I’m not sure who first said that, but I know it’s true—because I’ve lived it. Growing up involved in football, I’ve had coaches who yelled and simply ran drills, and I’ve had coaches who made lasting impacts on my life. It’s the good ones—the ones who saw us not just as athletes but as young men—who left the biggest marks. Those are the mentors I aspire to be. Volunteering is something I do not feel I do enough of, but it is a meaningful part of my life, shaped in large part by the example set by football coach, Coach Lit. During my senior year, while my mom was battling cancer, he saw the emotional weight I was carrying. He didn’t just support me on the field—he helped cover gear fees and became someone I could turn to for guidance and strength. One of the greatest things he did for me was encouraging me to give back. He got me involved in volunteering with park cleanups and football camps and taught me something powerful: that helping others can be healing for you, too. That’s a lesson I’ve carried with me ever since. Even when I haven’t been able to coach formally due to school, work, and my moms sickness, I’ve tried my best to volunteer at youth football and wrestling camps in my hometown. I’ve learned that younger kids look up to high school and college athletes like we’re superheroes. That responsibility—to lead by example, to be someone they can look up to—means a lot to me. Volunteering in that way allows me to pass on the lessons I’ve learned from my coach while helping build confidence and character in the next generation. One of the greatest volunteer experiences I’ve had lately is with Ben Albanese, a 19-year-old with Down syndrome who is nonverbal. His mom reached out to me through my aunt, saying she was looking for someone close to Ben’s age who could be a positive influence. Though she had only seen me through social media, she said she could tell I was the kind of person who could make a difference. That meant a lot to me. Since then, Ben and I have spent time together shooting hoops, bowling, and playing video games—just doing things that make him smile. Though Ben doesn’t speak, he’s taught me that leadership and connection don’t require words. His presence is powerful, and I will miss him deeply while I'm away at college. Another passion of mine is classic car restoration. During my sophomore year, I bought a 1965 Ford Mustang that was more rust than muscle. Every night after football practice, I found myself in the garage working on bringing it back to life. My goal was to have it running by my senior year homecoming game, a goal I can proudly say I met. Restoring classic cars might seem like just a hobby, but I see it as another way to volunteer and give back. I love talking with kids about the restoration process and encouraging them to pursue their interests off the field. Volunteering has taught me that giving back isn’t just about doing good for others—it’s also about growing as a person. It builds character, strengthens communities, and creates connections that go beyond ourselves. For me, giving back isn’t just something I do—it’s who I strive to be. I want to be the kind of person—and one day, coach—who changes more than justa game. I want to change lives.

VROOM! My name is Cristian Martins, but I go by my middle name, Brady. I was born and raised just outside of Denver, Colorado, and I am 19 years old. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with cars. My mom likes to joke that while she was pregnant, I wasn’t just kicking— I was shifting gears. That love for everything automotive has stayed with me and shaped the path I’m on today. In the fall of 2025, I began attending McPherson College in Kansas, where I currently have a 4.0 GPA. McPherson is the only college in the country that offers a four-year Bachelor of Science degree in Automotive Restoration Technology, and I was one of only 40 students accepted into their program this past fall. However, my road to McPherson wasn’t a straightaway. Life had other plans. As a student athlete, my senior year was supposed to be filled with pep rallies and Friday night lights. Yet things took a devastating turn when my mom was diagnosed with cancer for the second time, along with multiple sclerosis. Just weeks later, my dad filed for divorce. Overnight, everything changed, and I became the man of the house. Although attending college to study cars had always been my dream, I knew I needed to pause it. I took a gap year to support my mom through her long recovery, working multiple jobs, taking classes at a community college, and staying by her side throughout treatment. While my mom was proud of me and deeply grateful, I know that delaying college weighed heavily on her heart. During that dark time, when my mom could see the worry on my face, she encouraged me to work on my 1965 Mustang I had been restoring for 3 years. At first I resisted, but being in the garage was my happy place during a very unhappy time. My mom assured me that like the Mustang, broken things could be restored and fixed...herself included. Thankfully, she was right. Two years have passed and while her multiple sclerosis still presents challenges, her cancer is currently in remission. As a result, I was finally able to enroll at McPherson College this past fall, albeit a year later than planned. So, to answer your prompt, in a slightly unconventional and roundabout way, my gap year epitomized me doing what was expected, then doing more. My mom needed me, and I didn’t hesitate. Though she never wanted me to put my dreams on hold, I have no regrets. The experience matured me in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. I gained perspective. I gained grit. And I gained clarity on the type of man I want to be. As I mentioned before, the road of life is never a straightaway. It is full of twists and turns and detours along the way. It's how you deal with those bumps in the road that teach you how to be more and do more. I know my journey is just beginning, but I am excited to take the lessons I have learned over the past few years and hit the ground running. VROOM!

“A good coach can change a game, but a great coach can change a life.” I’m not sure who first said that, but I know it’s true—because I’ve lived it. Growing up involved in football, I’ve had coaches who yelled and simply ran drills, and I’ve had coaches who made lasting impacts on my life. It’s the good ones—the ones who saw us not just as athletes but as young men—who left the biggest marks. Those are the mentors I aspire to be. Volunteering is something I do not feel I do enough of, but it is a meaningful part of my life, shaped in large part by the example set by football coach, Coach Lit. During my senior year, while my mom was battling cancer, he saw the emotional weight I was carrying. He didn’t just support me on the field—he helped cover gear fees and became someone I could turn to for guidance and strength. One of the greatest things he did for me was encouraging me to give back. He got me involved in volunteering with park cleanups and football camps and taught me something powerful: that helping others can be healing for you, too. That’s a lesson I’ve carried with me ever since. Even when I haven’t been able to coach formally due to school, work, and my moms sickness, I’ve tried my best to volunteer at youth football and wrestling camps in my hometown. I’ve learned that younger kids look up to high school athletes like we’re superheroes. That responsibility—to lead by example, to be someone they can look up to—means a lot to me. Volunteering in that way allows me to pass on the lessons I’ve learned from my coach while helping build confidence and character in the next generation. One of the greatest volunteer experiences I’ve had lately is with Ben Albanese, a 19-year-old with Down syndrome who is nonverbal. His mom reached out to me through my aunt, saying she was looking for someone close to Ben’s age who could be a positive influence. Though she had only seen me through social media, she said she could tell I was the kind of person who could make a difference. That meant a lot to me. Since then, Ben and I have spent time together shooting hoops, bowling, and playing video games—just doing things that make him smile. Though Ben doesn’t speak, he’s taught me that leadership and connection don’t require words. His presence is powerful, and I will miss him deeply when I head off to college. Another passion of mine is classic car restoration. During my sophomore year, I bought a 1965 Ford Mustang that was more rust than muscle. Every night after football practice, I found myself in the garage working on bringing it back to life. My goal was to have it running by my senior year homecoming game, a goal I can proudly say I met. Restoring classic cars might seem like just a hobby, but I see it as another way to volunteer and give back. I love talking with kids about the restoration process and encouraging them to pursue their interests off the field. Volunteering has taught me that giving back isn’t just about doing good for others—it’s also about growing as a person. It builds character, strengthens communities, and creates connections that go beyond ourselves. For me, giving back isn’t just something I do—it’s who I strive to be. I want to be the kind of person—and one day, coach—who changes more than just a game. I want to change lives.

Vroom! My mom swears that is the first word I spoke as a child. My name is Cristian Martins, and I go by my middle name, Brady. For as long as I can remember, I have always had an obsessive interest in cars. From the cartoons I watched as an infant to the toys I played with, everything in my young world had to revolve around cars. One of the greatest stories my mom tells stems from when I was in preschool. I was just four years old and the teachers had concerns that I wasn’t engaged with most activities. They apologized to my mom for never having any finger paintings or macaroni art to send home to hang on the fridge because they simply couldn't pull me away from playing with cars. There was a young student teacher in the class, and she came up with the brilliant idea to let me use the cars as a means to make art. She squirted some paint on a paper plate and then allowed me to drag the wheels from the toy cars through the paints, making the coolest refrigerator art made of tire treads. My mom loved this teacher's kindness and innovation so much, that the art not only made it to our fridge but became framed artwork in our house. This just goes to show how much cars have meant to me and how supportive my family has been with my love of cars and my decision to seek this career path. As the years have ticked away, my love, passion, and thirst for automotive knowledge has grown exponentially, coming to a head at the end of my sophomore year when my mom and I bought a 1965 Wide Body Convertible Ford Mustang (that was originally being sold for parts) and I began the restoration process. Every night after football and wrestling practice, I found myself in our garage working on bringing the Mustang back to life. From rebuilding the engine and transmission to electrical, and everything in between, my goal was to have it up and running by my senior prom, a goal I can proudly say I met. It was through the restoration process of the Mustang, which I affectionately call "Mamala" in honor of my mustang-loving great-grandmother, that I was able to put together a portfolio of the transformation of the car. That portfolio, helped me be one of only 40 students accepted into the automotive restoration program at McPherson College, the country's only college to offer a 4-year bachelor of science degree in that field. I am so excited to have found my passion at such an early age and have already started my next project, a 1980 Ford F150 Stepside, in honor of my grandfather who drove one. As I venture into this next chapter of my life, I am so blessed to have my family's support with my career path, and can't wait to hit the ground running in the fall.