I knew my fears were justified when the police officer in my kitchen told me, “Never turn your back on that girl.” Halfway into the first semester of eighth grade, our history teacher had changed our assigned seating. Taking my seat, I noticed a new girl sitting behind me. I remember the cool blast of the air conditioner on me and the bright desert sun shining through the tinted windows. I remember her deep and soulful sighs, her frustration evident with every breath. I felt a yearning to help her. Turning to face her, I asked, "Are you OK?" She replied with a simple complaint, “I hate this stupid school." I laughed and smiled lightly, trying to commiserate with her. “Me too,” I said in an attempt at false conspiracy. “But we're almost done. Less than a year of Middle School to get through,” I added. Enraged by my response, her face changed. She saw every shade of red, and just like that, the hair-raising sentence that changed my life slipped her lips: “I'm going to shoot up this school…starting with you.” Sometimes when I think back to this moment I feel naive. School shouldn’t be a dangerous place. It should be a place to flourish and grow, and it had been for me until then. I had no clue that ten words could destroy my world so quickly. And so I found myself sitting in my kitchen with my parents and the all-too-real policeman telling me never to turn my back on her. Telling me to find hiding places around campus just in case. At that moment I was struck with the all-too-real and terrifying fears my family didn’t understand. The all-too-real terrors my friends laughed off because they didn’t have nightmares about them. Even though my parents promptly pulled me out of that school, I’m still surprised I managed to complete eighth grade. And as high school started, I became overwhelmed by fears. Where do I hide? How do I get out of here? Why won't my peers take safety drills seriously? A simple siren passing the school would send ripples of shock down my spine. I had sacrificed my adolescence to fear. With the support of my family, I’ve been in therapy for three and a half years. The work of therapy has taught me so much more than I could have gained from just their support alone. I learned my anxiety was not merely extreme, but a form of post-traumatic stress. I learned to recognize and begin to discard my unhealthy coping mechanisms, replacing them with healthy and functional ones. I learned to calm myself during panic attacks and to prevent them from starting in the first place. I learned I was not going to let my fears steal any more of my life. So when the intercom blared, “HARD LOCKDOWN…this is not a drill” almost exactly three years after that fateful day, I did not freeze. I had found myself on a stairwell, heading to class when the alarm went off. Running down the stairs, I grabbed my friend, dragging her with me. I didn’t pause as we exited into the hallway, ushering a group of frightened classmates into the nearest open door before it could be locked. Although I know these fears will live with me for the rest of my life, that day I found the confidence to stand up to them.

I knew my fears were justified when the police officer in my kitchen told me, “Never turn your back on that girl.” Halfway into the first semester of eighth grade, our history teacher had changed our assigned seating. Taking my seat, I noticed a new girl sitting behind me. I remember the cool blast of the air conditioner on me and the bright desert sun shining through the tinted windows. I remember her deep and soulful sighs, her frustration evident with every breath. I felt a yearning to help her. Turning to face her, I asked, "Are you OK?" She replied with a simple complaint, “I hate this stupid school." I laughed and smiled lightly, trying to commiserate with her. “Me too,” I said in an attempt at false conspiracy. “But we're almost done. Less than a year of Middle School to get through,” I added. Enraged by my response, her face changed. She saw every shade of red, and just like that, the hair-raising sentence that changed my life slipped her lips: “I'm going to shoot up this school…starting with you.” Sometimes when I think back to this moment I feel naive. School shouldn’t be a dangerous place. It should be a place to flourish and grow, and it had been for me until then. I had no clue that ten words could destroy my world so quickly. And so I found myself sitting in my kitchen with my parents and the all-too-real policeman telling me never to turn my back on her. Telling me to find hiding places around campus just in case. At that moment I was struck with the all-too-real and terrifying fears my family didn’t understand. The all-too-real terrors my friends laughed off because they didn’t have nightmares about them. Even though my parents promptly pulled me out of that school, I’m still surprised I managed to complete eighth grade. And as high school started, I became overwhelmed by fears. Where do I hide? How do I get out of here? Why won't my peers take safety drills seriously? A simple siren passing the school would send ripples of shock down my spine. I had sacrificed my adolescence to fear. With the support of my family, I’ve been in therapy for three and a half years. The work of therapy has taught me so much more than I could have gained from just their support alone. I learned my anxiety was not merely extreme, but a form of post-traumatic stress. I learned to recognize and begin to discard my unhealthy coping mechanisms, replacing them with healthy and functional ones. I learned to calm myself during panic attacks and to prevent them from starting in the first place. I learned I was not going to let my fears steal any more of my life. So when the intercom blared, “HARD LOCKDOWN…this is not a drill” almost exactly three years after that fateful day, I did not freeze. I had found myself on a stairwell, heading to class when the alarm went off. Running down the stairs, I grabbed my friend, dragging her with me. I didn’t pause as we exited into the hallway, ushering a group of frightened classmates into the nearest open door before it could be locked. Although I know these fears will live with me for the rest of my life, that day I found the confidence to stand up to them.

I knew my fears were justified when the police officer in my kitchen told me, “Never turn your back on that girl.” Halfway into the first semester of eighth grade, our history teacher had changed our assigned seating. Taking my seat, I noticed a new girl sitting behind me. I remember the cool blast of the air conditioner on me and the bright desert sun shining through the tinted windows. I remember her deep and soulful sighs, her frustration evident with every breath. I felt a yearning to help her. Turning to face her, I asked, "Are you OK?" She replied with a simple complaint, “I hate this stupid school." I laughed and smiled lightly, trying to commiserate with her. “Me too,” I said in an attempt at false conspiracy. “But we're almost done. Less than a year of Middle School to get through,” I added. Enraged by my response, her face changed. She saw every shade of red, and just like that, the hair-raising sentence that changed my life slipped her lips: “I'm going to shoot up this school…starting with you.” Sometimes when I think back to this moment I feel naive. School shouldn’t be a dangerous place. It should be a place to flourish and grow, and it had been for me until then. I had no clue that ten words could destroy my world so quickly. And so I found myself sitting in my kitchen with my parents and the all-too-real policeman telling me never to turn my back on her. Telling me to find hiding places around campus just in case. At that moment I was struck with the all-too-real and terrifying fears my family didn’t understand. The all-too-real terrors my friends laughed off because they didn’t have nightmares about them. Even though my parents promptly pulled me out of that school, I’m still surprised I managed to complete eighth grade. And as high school started, I became overwhelmed by fears. Where do I hide? How do I get out of here? Why won't my peers take safety drills seriously? A simple siren passing the school would send ripples of shock down my spine. I had sacrificed my adolescence to fear. With the support of my family, I’ve been in therapy for three and a half years. The work of therapy has taught me so much more than I could have gained from just their support alone. I learned my anxiety was not merely extreme, but a form of post-traumatic stress. I learned to recognize and begin to discard my unhealthy coping mechanisms, replacing them with healthy and functional ones. I learned to calm myself during panic attacks and to prevent them from starting in the first place. I learned I was not going to let my fears steal any more of my life. So when the intercom blared, “HARD LOCKDOWN…this is not a drill” almost exactly three years after that fateful day, I did not freeze. I had found myself on a stairwell, heading to class when the alarm went off. Running down the stairs, I grabbed my friend, dragging her with me. I didn’t pause as we exited into the hallway, ushering a group of frightened classmates into the nearest open door before it could be locked. Although I know these fears will live with me for the rest of my life, that day I found the confidence to stand up to them. As a queer woman, I will surely be confronted with threats and bullying again, but now I also know I have the strength to face and overcome anything.

I knew my fears were justified when the police officer in my kitchen told me, “Never turn your back on that girl.” Halfway into the first semester of eighth grade, our history teacher had changed our assigned seating. Taking my seat, I noticed a new girl sitting behind me. I remember the cool blast of the air conditioner on me and the bright desert sun shining through the tinted windows. I remember her deep and soulful sighs, her frustration evident with every breath. I felt a yearning to help her. Turning to face her, I asked, "Are you OK?" She replied with a simple complaint, “I hate this stupid school." I laughed and smiled lightly, trying to commiserate with her. “Me too,” I said in an attempt at false conspiracy. “But we're almost done. Less than a year of Middle School to get through,” I added. Enraged by my response, her face changed. She saw every shade of red, and just like that, the hair-raising sentence that changed my life slipped her lips: “I'm going to shoot up this school…starting with you.” Sometimes when I think back to this moment I feel naive. School shouldn’t be a dangerous place. It should be a place to flourish and grow, and it had been for me until then. I had no clue that ten words could destroy my world so quickly. And so I found myself sitting in my kitchen with my parents and the all-too-real policeman telling me never to turn my back on her. Telling me to find hiding places around campus just in case. At that moment I was struck with the all-too-real and terrifying fears my family didn’t understand. The all-too-real terrors my friends laughed off because they didn’t have nightmares about them. Even though my parents promptly pulled me out of that school, I’m still surprised I managed to complete eighth grade. And as high school started, I became overwhelmed by fears. Where do I hide? How do I get out of here? Why won't my peers take safety drills seriously? A simple siren passing the school would send ripples of shock down my spine. I had sacrificed my adolescence to fear. With the support of my family, I’ve been in therapy for three and a half years. The work of therapy has taught me so much more than I could have gained from just their support alone. I learned my anxiety was not merely extreme, but a form of post-traumatic stress. I learned to recognize and begin to discard my unhealthy coping mechanisms, replacing them with healthy and functional ones. I learned to calm myself during panic attacks and to prevent them from starting in the first place. I learned I was not going to let my fears steal any more of my life. So when the intercom blared, “HARD LOCKDOWN…this is not a drill” almost exactly three years after that fateful day, I did not freeze. I had found myself on a stairwell, heading to class when the alarm went off. Running down the stairs, I grabbed my friend, dragging her with me. I didn’t pause as we exited into the hallway, ushering a group of frightened classmates into the nearest open door before it could be locked. Although I know these fears will live with me for the rest of my life, that day I found the confidence to stand up to them.

I knew my fears were justified when the police officer in my kitchen told me, “Never turn your back on that girl.” Halfway into the first semester of eighth grade, our history teacher had changed our assigned seating. Taking my seat, I noticed a new girl sitting behind me. I remember the cool blast of the air conditioner on me and the bright desert sun shining through the tinted windows. I remember her deep and soulful sighs, her frustration evident with every breath. I felt a yearning to help her. Turning to face her, I asked, "Are you OK?" She replied with a simple complaint, “I hate this stupid school." I laughed and smiled lightly, trying to commiserate with her. “Me too,” I said in an attempt at false conspiracy. “But we're almost done. Less than a year of Middle School to get through,” I added. Enraged by my response, her face changed. She saw every shade of red, and just like that, the hair-raising sentence that changed my life slipped her lips: “I'm going to shoot up this school…starting with you.” Sometimes when I think back to this moment I feel naive. School shouldn’t be a dangerous place. It should be a place to flourish and grow, and it had been for me until then. I had no clue that ten words could destroy my world so quickly. And so I found myself sitting in my kitchen with my parents and the all-too-real policeman telling me never to turn my back on her. Telling me to find hiding places around campus just in case. At that moment I was struck with the all-too-real and terrifying fears my family didn’t understand. The all-too-real terrors my friends laughed off because they didn’t have nightmares about them. Even though my parents promptly pulled me out of that school, I’m still surprised I managed to complete eighth grade. And as high school started, I became overwhelmed by fears. Where do I hide? How do I get out of here? Why won't my peers take safety drills seriously? A simple siren passing the school would send ripples of shock down my spine. I had sacrificed my adolescence to fear. With the support of my family, I’ve been in therapy for three and a half years. The work of therapy has taught me so much more than I could have gained from just their support alone. I learned my anxiety was not merely extreme, but a form of post-traumatic stress. I learned to recognize and begin to discard my unhealthy coping mechanisms, replacing them with healthy and functional ones. I learned to calm myself during panic attacks and to prevent them from starting in the first place. I learned I was not going to let my fears steal any more of my life. So when the intercom blared, “HARD LOCKDOWN…this is not a drill” almost exactly three years after that fateful day, I did not freeze. I had found myself on a stairwell, heading to class when the alarm went off. Running down the stairs, I grabbed my friend, dragging her with me. I didn’t pause as we exited into the hallway, ushering a group of frightened classmates into the nearest open door before it could be locked. Although I know these fears will live with me for the rest of my life, that day I found the confidence to stand up to them.

I knew my fears were justified when the police officer in my kitchen told me, “Never turn your back on that girl.” Halfway into the first semester of eighth grade, our history teacher had changed our assigned seating. Taking my seat, I noticed a new girl sitting behind me. I remember the cool blast of the air conditioner on me and the bright desert sun shining through the tinted windows. I remember her deep and soulful sighs, her frustration evident with every breath. I felt a yearning to help her. Turning to face her, I asked, "Are you OK?" She replied with a simple complaint, “I hate this stupid school." I laughed and smiled lightly, trying to commiserate with her. “Me too,” I said in an attempt at false conspiracy. “But we're almost done. Less than a year of Middle School to get through,” I added. Enraged by my response, her face changed. She saw every shade of red, and just like that, the hair-raising sentence that changed my life slipped her lips: “I'm going to shoot up this school…starting with you.” Sometimes when I think back to this moment I feel naive. School shouldn’t be a dangerous place. It should be a place to flourish and grow, and it had been for me until then. I had no clue that ten words could destroy my world so quickly. And so I found myself sitting in my kitchen with my parents and the all-too-real policeman telling me never to turn my back on her. Telling me to find hiding places around campus just in case. At that moment I was struck with the all-too-real and terrifying fears my family didn’t understand. The all-too-real terrors my friends laughed off because they didn’t have nightmares about them. Even though my parents promptly pulled me out of that school, I’m still surprised I managed to complete eighth grade. And as high school started, I became overwhelmed by fears. Where do I hide? How do I get out of here? Why won't my peers take safety drills seriously? A simple siren passing the school would send ripples of shock down my spine. I had sacrificed my adolescence to fear. With the support of my family, I’ve been in therapy for three and a half years. The work of therapy has taught me so much more than I could have gained from just their support alone. I learned my anxiety was not merely extreme, but a form of post-traumatic stress. I learned to recognize and begin to discard my unhealthy coping mechanisms, replacing them with healthy and functional ones. I learned to calm myself during panic attacks and to prevent them from starting in the first place. I learned I was not going to let my fears steal any more of my life. So when the intercom blared, “HARD LOCKDOWN…this is not a drill” almost exactly three years after that fateful day, I did not freeze. I had found myself on a stairwell, heading to class when the alarm went off. Running down the stairs, I grabbed my friend, dragging her with me. I didn’t pause as we exited into the hallway, ushering a group of frightened classmates into the nearest open door before it could be locked. Although I know these fears will live with me for the rest of my life, that day I found the confidence to stand up to them. As a queer woman, I will surely be confronted with threats and bullying again, but now I also know I have the strength to face and overcome anything.

I knew my fears were justified when the police officer in my kitchen told me, “Never turn your back on that girl.” Halfway into the first semester of eighth grade, our history teacher had changed our assigned seating. Taking my seat, I noticed a new girl sitting behind me. I remember the cool blast of the air conditioner on me and the bright desert sun shining through the tinted windows. I remember her deep and soulful sighs, her frustration evident with every breath. I felt a yearning to help her. Turning to face her, I asked, "Are you OK?" She replied with a simple complaint, “I hate this stupid school." I laughed and smiled lightly, trying to commiserate with her. “Me too,” I said in an attempt at false conspiracy. “But we're almost done. Less than a year of Middle School to get through,” I added. Enraged by my response, her face changed. She saw every shade of red, and just like that, the hair-raising sentence that changed my life slipped her lips: “I'm going to shoot up this school…starting with you.” Sometimes when I think back to this moment I feel naive. School shouldn’t be a dangerous place. It should be a place to flourish and grow, and it had been for me until then. I had no clue that ten words could destroy my world so quickly. And so I found myself sitting in my kitchen with my parents and the all-too-real policeman telling me never to turn my back on her. Telling me to find hiding places around campus just in case. At that moment I was struck with the all-too-real and terrifying fears my family didn’t understand. The all-too-real terrors my friends laughed off because they didn’t have nightmares about them. Even though my parents promptly pulled me out of that school, I’m still surprised I managed to complete eighth grade. And as high school started, I became overwhelmed by fears. Where do I hide? How do I get out of here? Why won't my peers take safety drills seriously? A simple siren passing the school would send ripples of shock down my spine. I had sacrificed my adolescence to fear. With the support of my family, I’ve been in therapy for three and a half years. The work of therapy has taught me so much more than I could have gained from just their support alone. I learned my anxiety was not merely extreme, but a form of post-traumatic stress. I learned to recognize and begin to discard my unhealthy coping mechanisms, replacing them with healthy and functional ones. I learned to calm myself during panic attacks and to prevent them from starting in the first place. I learned I was not going to let my fears steal any more of my life. So when the intercom blared, “HARD LOCKDOWN…this is not a drill” almost exactly three years after that fateful day, I did not freeze. I had found myself on a stairwell, heading to class when the alarm went off. Running down the stairs, I grabbed my friend, dragging her with me. I didn’t pause as we exited into the hallway, ushering a group of frightened classmates into the nearest open door before it could be locked. Although I know these fears will live with me for the rest of my life, that day I found the confidence to stand up to them.

I knew my fears were justified when the police officer in my kitchen told me, “Never turn your back on that girl.” Halfway into the first semester of eighth grade, our history teacher had changed our assigned seating. Taking my seat, I noticed a new girl sitting behind me. I remember the cool blast of the air conditioner on me and the bright desert sun shining through the tinted windows. I remember her deep and soulful sighs, her frustration evident with every breath. I felt a yearning to help her. Turning to face her, I asked, "Are you OK?" She replied with a simple complaint, “I hate this stupid school." I laughed and smiled lightly, trying to commiserate with her. “Me too,” I said in an attempt at false conspiracy. “But we're almost done. Less than a year of Middle School to get through,” I added. Enraged by my response, her face changed. She saw every shade of red, and just like that, the hair-raising sentence that changed my life slipped her lips: “I'm going to shoot up this school…starting with you.” Sometimes when I think back to this moment I feel naive. School shouldn’t be a dangerous place. It should be a place to flourish and grow, and it had been for me until then. I had no clue that ten words could destroy my world so quickly. And so I found myself sitting in my kitchen with my parents and the all-too-real policeman telling me never to turn my back on her. Telling me to find hiding places around campus just in case. At that moment I was struck with the all-too-real and terrifying fears my family didn’t understand. The all-too-real terrors my friends laughed off because they didn’t have nightmares about them. Even though my parents promptly pulled me out of that school, I’m still surprised I managed to complete eighth grade. And as high school started, I became overwhelmed by fears. Where do I hide? How do I get out of here? Why won't my peers take safety drills seriously? A simple siren passing the school would send ripples of shock down my spine. I had sacrificed my adolescence to fear. With the support of my family, I’ve been in therapy for three and a half years. The work of therapy has taught me so much more than I could have gained from just their support alone. I learned my anxiety was not merely extreme, but a form of post-traumatic stress. I learned to recognize and begin to discard my unhealthy coping mechanisms, replacing them with healthy and functional ones. I learned to calm myself during panic attacks and to prevent them from starting in the first place. I learned I was not going to let my fears steal any more of my life. So when the intercom blared, “HARD LOCKDOWN…this is not a drill” almost exactly three years after that fateful day, I did not freeze. I had found myself on a stairwell, heading to class when the alarm went off. Running down the stairs, I grabbed my friend, dragging her with me. I didn’t pause as we exited into the hallway, ushering a group of frightened classmates into the nearest open door before it could be locked. Although I know these fears will live with me for the rest of my life, that day I found the confidence to stand up to them. As a queer woman, I will surely be confronted with threats and bullying again, but now I also know I have the strength to face and overcome anything.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” at the Brooklyn Museum. Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me, invisible to others, had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now that I am a senior in high school, I have begun working as a Teacher’s Assistant with preschoolers and kindergarteners at the same Montessori school I attended many years ago. I love when they find me in the old class photos hanging in the hallway and get to tell them that they can grow up to be anything they can dream. I am fortunate to have been accepted to pursue my BFA at some of the highest ranked fine arts programs in the country. Afterwards, I plan to pursue a Masters in arts education, with a focus on working with young children with disabilities and special needs. I know that the support of the Marjorie Moriole Early Childhood Education Scholarship would be pivotal to my future success.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” by Frida Kahlo at the Brooklyn Museum. Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me, invisible to others, had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now that I am a senior in high school, I have begun working as a Teacher’s Assistant with preschoolers and kindergarteners at the same Montessori school I attended many years ago. I love when they find me in the old class photos hanging in the hallway and get to tell them that they can grow up to be anything they can dream. I am fortunate to have been accepted to pursue my BFA at some of the highest ranked fine arts programs in the country, including the Rhode Island School of Design, Pratt Institute, and the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Afterwards, I plan to pursue a Masters in arts education, with a focus on working with children with disabilities and special needs. I know that the support of the Sacha Curry Warrior Scholarship would be pivotal to my future success.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” at the Brooklyn Museum’s 2019 exhibit, “Frida Kahlo: Appearances Can Be Deceiving.” Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me was invisible to others, but it had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. Recent research into the sensory neuroscience associated with Kahlo’s work by Turkheimer, et al. (2022) “revealed a very strong association of physical pain and emotional rage with” her color choices. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now, as a high school senior, I work after school at the same Montessori school I attended pre-school and kindergarten, assisting the teachers with young children in after school activities. Looking forward, I have yet to decide on the several amazing opportunities from which I have to choose. I have been accepted to Pratt Institute, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, School for Visual Arts, Maryland Institute College of Art, and I am waiting on a decision from the Rhode Island School of Design. I am fortunate to have benefited from the mentorship of my art teacher, Kelly Mabel, whose support and guidance made it possible for me to receive several merit-based scholarships, but the support of the Marie Humphries Memorial Scholarship would allow me to pursue my dream of becoming an art teacher for children with disabilities and special needs. As a fourth-generation Nevadan, it is my goal to return to Nevada after completing my education to teach art where my family has lived since 1936.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” at the Brooklyn Museum’s 2019 exhibit, “Frida Kahlo: Appearances Can Be Deceiving.” Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me was invisible to others, but it had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. Recent research into the sensory neuroscience associated with Kahlo’s work by Turkheimer, et al. (2022) “revealed a very strong association of physical pain and emotional rage with” her color choices. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now, as a high school senior, I work after school at the same Montessori school I attended pre-school and kindergarten, assisting the teachers with young children in after school activities. Looking forward, I have yet to decide on the several amazing opportunities from which I have to choose. I have been accepted to Pratt Institute, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, School for Visual Arts, Maryland Institute College of Art, and I am waiting on a decision from the Rhode Island School of Design. I am fortunate to have received merit-based scholarships at all of the schools that have accepted me, but the support of the Teaching Like Teri Scholarship would allow me to pursue my dream of becoming an art teacher for children with disabilities and special needs. As a fourth-generation Nevadan, it is my goal to return to Nevada after completing my education to teach art where my family has lived since 1936.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” at the Brooklyn Museum’s 2019 exhibit, “Frida Kahlo: Appearances Can Be Deceiving.” Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me was invisible to others, but it had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. Recent research into the sensory neuroscience associated with Kahlo’s work by Turkheimer, et al. (2022) “revealed a very strong association of physical pain and emotional rage with” her color choices. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now, as a high school senior, I work after school at the same Montessori school I attended pre-school and kindergarten, assisting the teachers with young children in after school activities. Looking forward, I have yet to decide on the several amazing opportunities from which I have to choose. I have been accepted to Pratt Institute, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, School for Visual Arts, Maryland Institute College of Art, and I am waiting on a decision from the Rhode Island School of Design. I am fortunate to have received merit-based scholarships at all of the schools that have accepted me, but the support of the Kerry Kennedy Life Is Good Scholarship would allow me to pursue my dream of becoming an art teacher for children with disabilities and special needs. As a fourth-generation Nevadan, it is my goal to return to Nevada after completing my education to teach art where my family has lived since 1936.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” at the Brooklyn Museum’s 2019 exhibit, “Frida Kahlo: Appearances Can Be Deceiving.” Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me was invisible to others, but it had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. Recent research into the sensory neuroscience associated with Kahlo’s work by Turkheimer, et al. (2022) “revealed a very strong association of physical pain and emotional rage with” her color choices. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now, as a high school senior, I work after school at the same Montessori school I attended pre-school and kindergarten, assisting the teachers with young children in after school activities. Looking forward, I have yet to decide on the several amazing opportunities from which I have to choose. I have been accepted to Pratt Institute, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, School for Visual Arts, Maryland Institute College of Art, and I am waiting on a decision from the Rhode Island School of Design. I am fortunate to have received merit-based scholarships at all of the schools that have accepted me, but the support of the Deborah Thomas Scholarship would allow me to pursue my dream of becoming an art teacher for children with disabilities and special needs. As a fourth-generation Nevadan, it is my goal to return to Nevada after completing my education to teach art where my family has lived since 1936.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” at the Brooklyn Museum’s 2019 exhibit, “Frida Kahlo: Appearances Can Be Deceiving.” Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me was invisible to others, but it had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. Recent research into the sensory neuroscience associated with Kahlo’s work by Turkheimer, et al. (2022) “revealed a very strong association of physical pain and emotional rage with” her color choices. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now, as a high school senior, I work after school at the same Montessori school I attended pre-school and kindergarten, assisting the teachers with young children in after school activities. Looking forward, I have yet to decide on the several amazing opportunities from which I have to choose. I have been accepted to Pratt Institute, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, School for Visual Arts, Maryland Institute College of Art, and I am waiting on a decision from the Rhode Island School of Design. I am fortunate to have received merit-based scholarships at all of the schools that have accepted me, but the support of the Sandy Jenkins Excellence in Early Childhood Education Scholarship would allow me to pursue my dream of becoming an art teacher for children with disabilities and special needs. As a fourth-generation Nevadan, it is my goal to return to Nevada after completing my education to teach art where my family has lived since 1936.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” at the Brooklyn Museum’s 2019 exhibit, “Frida Kahlo: Appearances Can Be Deceiving.” Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me was invisible to others, but it had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. Recent research into the sensory neuroscience associated with Kahlo’s work by Turkheimer, et al. (2022) “revealed a very strong association of physical pain and emotional rage with” her color choices. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now, as a high school senior, I work after school at the same Montessori school I attended pre-school and kindergarten, assisting the teachers with young children in after school activities. Looking forward, I have yet to decide on the several amazing opportunities from which I have to choose. I have been accepted to Pratt Institute, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, School for Visual Arts, Maryland Institute College of Art, and I am waiting on a decision from the Rhode Island School of Design. I am fortunate to have received merit-based scholarships at all of the schools that have accepted me, but the support of the Pamela Branchini Memorial Scholarship would allow me to pursue my dream of becoming an art teacher for children with disabilities and special needs. As a fourth-generation Nevadan, it is my goal to return to Nevada after completing my education to teach art where my family has lived since 1936.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” at the Brooklyn Museum’s 2019 exhibit, “Frida Kahlo: Appearances Can Be Deceiving.” Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me was invisible to others, but it had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. Recent research into the sensory neuroscience associated with Kahlo’s work by Turkheimer, et al. (2022) “revealed a very strong association of physical pain and emotional rage with” her color choices. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now, as a high school senior, I work after school at the same Montessori school I attended pre-school and kindergarten, assisting the teachers with young children in after school activities. Looking forward, I have yet to decide on the several amazing opportunities from which I have to choose. I have been accepted to Pratt Institute, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, School for Visual Arts, Maryland Institute College of Art, and I am waiting on a decision from the Rhode Island School of Design. I am fortunate to have received merit-based scholarships at all of the schools that have accepted me, but the support of the Reginald Kelley Scholarship would allow me to pursue my dream of becoming an art teacher for children with disabilities and special needs. As a fourth-generation Nevadan, it is my goal to return to Nevada after completing my education to teach art where my family has lived since 1936.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” at the Brooklyn Museum’s 2019 exhibit, “Frida Kahlo: Appearances Can Be Deceiving.” Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me was invisible to others, but it had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. Recent research into the sensory neuroscience associated with Kahlo’s work by Turkheimer, et al. (2022) “revealed a very strong association of physical pain and emotional rage with” her color choices. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now, as a high school senior, I work after school at the same Montessori school I attended pre-school and kindergarten, assisting the teachers with young children in after school activities. Looking forward, I have yet to decide on the several amazing opportunities from which I have to choose. I have been accepted to Pratt Institute, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, School for Visual Arts, Maryland Institute College of Art, and I am waiting on a decision from the Rhode Island School of Design. I am fortunate to have received merit-based scholarships at all of the schools that have accepted me, but the support of the Heather Rylie Memorial Scholarship would allow me to pursue my goal of becoming an art teacher for children with disabilities and special needs. As a fourth-generation Nevadan, it is my goal to return to Nevada after completing my education to teach art where my family has lived since 1936.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” at the Brooklyn Museum’s 2019 exhibit, “Frida Kahlo: Appearances Can Be Deceiving.” Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me was invisible to others, but it had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. Recent research into the sensory neuroscience associated with Kahlo’s work by Turkheimer, et al. (2022) “revealed a very strong association of physical pain and emotional rage with” her color choices. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now, as a high school senior, I work after school at the same Montessori school I attended pre-school and kindergarten, assisting the teachers with young children in after school activities. Looking forward, I have yet to decide on the several amazing opportunities from which I have to choose. I have been accepted to Pratt Institute, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, School for Visual Arts, Maryland Institute College of Art, and I am waiting on a decision from the Rhode Island School of Design. I am fortunate to have received merit-based scholarships at all of the schools that have accepted me, but support from the PRIDE in Education Award will allow me, as a queer artist and student, to fulfill my dream of ultimately becoming an art teacher for children with special needs. As a fourth-generation Nevadan, it is my goal to return to Nevada after completing my education to teach art where my family has lived since 1936.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” at the Brooklyn Museum’s 2019 exhibit, “Frida Kahlo: Appearances Can Be Deceiving.” Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me was invisible to others, but it had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. Recent research into the sensory neuroscience associated with Kahlo’s work by Turkheimer, et al. (2022) “revealed a very strong association of physical pain and emotional rage with” her color choices. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now, as a high school senior, I work after school at the same Montessori school I attended pre-school and kindergarten, assisting the teachers with young children in after school activities. Looking forward, I have yet to decide on the several amazing opportunities from which I have to choose. I have been accepted to Pratt Institute, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, School for Visual Arts, Maryland Institute College of Art, and I am waiting on a decision from the Rhode Island School of Design. I am fortunate to have received merit-based scholarships at all of the schools that have accepted me, but the support of the Lewis Hollins Memorial Art Scholarship will allow me to fulfill my dream of ultimately becoming an art teacher for children with special needs. As a fourth-generation Nevadan, it is my goal to return to Nevada after completing my education to teach art where my family has lived since 1936.

When I was 14, I saw “The Broken Column” at the Brooklyn Museum’s 2019 exhibit, “Frida Kahlo: Appearances Can Be Deceiving.” Known for her use of vibrant color, Kahlo frequently used self-portraiture to express her experiences, with an emphasis on representing her pain, both physical and emotional. “The Broken Column,” painted only three years before Kahlo’s death, has recently become an inspiration for my own art. Starkly depicting the suffering she had endured since her tragic, childhood bus accident, it contrasts perceptions of beauty, sexuality, and pain. Highlighting her crumbling spine, supported by the rough and primitive braces she was forced to wear following the accident, one feels the intense discomfort of her daily existence. Since Fifth grade, I have wanted to be an art teacher and create a welcoming space that I did not always find in my own schools. I was particularly motivated to work with children with special needs by the dismissiveness and outright bullying I observed towards my classmates with disabilities, both by other students and even some of our teachers. A few months after viewing the Kahlo exhibit I was the subject of a targeted threat of gun violence at school. The emotional pain this created in me was invisible to others, but it had a deep impact on my life and my art. For the next few years, I struggled to find a coherent voice or meaning to the pieces I was making. This past spring, however, I was assigned “The Broken Column” to research for my AP Drawing course. Abruptly, my perspective changed as I was returned to the galleries in the Brooklyn Museum surrounded by the rich greens, reds, and blues of Kahlo’s paintings. As I reacquainted myself with “The Broken Column,” my whole approach to my work changed. Although she was often labeled a surrealist, she rejected the association, claiming rather that she was painting her own reality. Recent research into the sensory neuroscience associated with Kahlo’s work by Turkheimer, et al. (2022) “revealed a very strong association of physical pain and emotional rage with” her color choices. As Kahlo had drawn on her own pain to create beauty and find her expressive voice, I am now creating works that reflect my reality, and I have found the inspiration to draw on that reality to choose colors and themes that express myself in my own art. My commitment to pursue an art degree and work with children with disabilities was further cemented this past summer during an internship with the Shirley Center for Special Needs at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center. Now, as a high school senior, I work after school at the same Montessori school I attended pre-school and kindergarten, assisting the teachers with young children in after school activities. Looking forward, I have yet to decide on the several amazing opportunities from which I have to choose. I have been accepted to Pratt Institute, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, School for Visual Arts, Maryland Institute College of Art, and I am waiting on a decision from the Rhode Island School of Design. I am fortunate to have received merit-based scholarships at all of the schools that have accepted me, but the support of the William A. Stuart Dream Scholarship would allow me to take less from my college savings and apply it to pursuing graduate studies in Arts Education, either an MFA or MA. As a fourth-generation Nevadan, it is my goal to return to Nevada after completing my education to teach art where my family has lived since 1936.