Throughout high school, I have felt as though I'm immersed in the story of an explorer climbing a mountain which gets steeper and more uncertain the closer she comes to the summit. As I flip through the final pages of this part of my life, I come upon a new chapter: The Ledge. As the explorer finally summits the mountain she spent countless years of her life attempting to climb, she turns to look back at all that she has experienced. She takes in both the jagged peaks which she spent hours stumbling over, and the snow-capped surfaces on which she made snow angels, before turning and climbing the last few feet to the top. She looks out over the ledge she's reached and takes in a beautiful sunrise filled with all that's to come. Although the morning is misty, and clouds occasionally obscure the sun, she feels a sense of anticipation knowing that beauty, opportunity, and new adventures lay before her. The explorer standing on the ledge is me. As I reflect on my high school years, I am reminded of both snow-capped happy memories, and jagged struggles over which I was forced to perservere. I don't spend time dwelling, as the warm rays of a new part of my life warm my face and I turn to face the ledge on which I now stand. Although the future lays in front of me clouded with uncertainty, it captivates me with it's captivating beauty. As I approach my graduation, I look towards the sun rising over the ledge ledge of my coming college years with growing excitement, knowing that new memories filled with both joy and challenge are just beyond the horizon.

For every teacher who took attendance the first time each school year, a piece of my identity slowly crumbled away. There was always a pause as they tried their hardest to pronounce my name, but it never came out quite right. “Delilah?” “Delia?” "It's Dahlia," I would say. After a few reminders, many of them still forgot. I eventually stopped trying to correct them, slumping lower in my seat with each passing year. My name has perpetually been central to my confusion regarding my identity. As the American-born daughter of Lithuanian immigrants, I’ve always felt as though I were made of two puzzle pieces which didn’t fit together. In America my name, despite being an English word, is met with quizzical looks and awkward silences. Whenever it is presented to native Lithuanian speakers, they ask whether it was mistakenly spelled wrong. As a child with a background different from that of many of my peers, this confusion took a substantial toll on my self-understanding. In second grade I asked my mother if I was too old to change my name. “Why didn’t you name me something easy?” I cried. She told me my name was rooted in the Lithuanian language, meaning “destiny.” It didn’t feel beautiful to me, the syllables bulky and divergent. I felt I had to choose one half of myself: American or Lithuanian? As I entered high school, I saw my friends begin to transform themselves into the social norms of adolescents. I began to mold myself into what I thought was the cookie-cutter American identity, simultaneously erasing my Lithuanian background. I wrinkled my nose at our traditional dishes and dismissed my mother when she encouraged me to speak the language at home. With the desire that my identity become easier for others to understand, I began to dismiss my heritage as being simply genetics, rather than a crucial part of my character. This idea of identity first shifted when I became a member of the Lithuanian Scouting Association the summer of my sophomore year. As I attended meetings and participated in its two-week summer program, I found myself surrounded by all types of Lithuanians who bonded over their shared heritage. Speakers of the language helped non-speakers, and some had traveled from across the world to honor their culture. At the end of the first day, we gathered together and sang both the Lithuanian and American national anthems. It was during this gathering, as I found myself surrounded by Lithuanians of all different backgrounds, that I began to feel as though the puzzle pieces of my identity had finally come together. The following morning, we handcrafted name tags. Looking down at my assigned rectangle of paper, I thought back to the childhood moment I first learned the meaning of my name: destiny. I wrote down my traditional Lithuanian name: Dalia. My destiny. Had it not been for those two weeks of scouting, I would have continued to view my Lithuanian heritage as insignificant to my identity. I honor the hardships my parents faced in order to create a life in America without forgetting the rich heritage of the country they left behind. I hold a position of leadership within my scouting group, teaching other children the importance of their heritage. I attend Lithuanian Ethnic dance, through which I am able to express my love for Lithuanian tradition. A Lithuanian flag hangs proudly above my bed. As I begin my college education, I know that my destiny is to continue sharing my appreciation for the heritage that I developed during the summer of my sophomore year.