I am pursuing a career in film because I believe that it is one of the best ways a story can be told. It has the potential to touch the heart through the eyes and the ears. In the future, I hope to become an editor and a writer for television. For me, television has a greater potential to affect the audience because it is an ongoing process. For television series that have continued on for years, I've noticed that the characters eventually develop lives of their own and begin to feel like the audiences' family members friends. Having experienced this firsthand with Game of Thrones, I want to be a part of a series that can convey the experience I had to others. Growing up with a family that strongly discouraged pursuing the creative arts, I wrote, animated and drew in secret. In high school, I took film production classes as an elective while I studied health sciences. After school, I participated in local theater programs. In my first university, I focused more on local stories. I interviewed local farmers about their businesses, created a mini-documentary on my local Vietnamese band and created informative films for a local dentistry office. From these experiences, I realized that everyone has a story to tell and that they all have the potential to be amazing. After I transferred to the University of Southern California's film school, I continued expanded my pursuits to helping out on graduate thesis films and animating. I had scripts exploring the Asian-American identity produced and explored 1950s nostalgia with a music video. Despite this, I still hold fast onto my hometown in Oregon. During spring break, I interviewed my grandfather on his experiences of the Vietnam War. Next year, I hope to be just as productive!

Handprints on the Hollywood Walk of Fame—famous for directing Vietnamese-American horror films in spite of lifelong community discouragement, depression and countless rejections.

"You can't make a living from telling stories," warned my grandfather. I was only ten years old when I was told to put aside my dreams. Before that, I had loved writing and drawing, determined that one day I would be a writer. Telling stories was something that made the blood rush through my veins and colored my world in bright, vibrant lights. To be forced to bury it for the next eight years left scars that have yet to heal. After that warning, I became someone that I wasn't. I pretended to like the sciences, I pretended to be interested in the future my family created for me. Meanwhile, I continued to create in secret, ashamed that I couldn't be like my Vietnamese peers. Once college loomed over my future, I was forced to confront the truth. I couldn't ever imagine a future studying medicine. I despised the advanced chemistry and math classes I had forced myself to take in high school. I had to tell stories. I couldn't live without it. By confessing that I hadn't applied to any pre-pharmacy program, I faced the full brunt of my family's disappointment. Another part of me knew that I had made the correct choice. This was my life to live. Not theirs. I am not responsible for anyone's happiness but my own. Deciding to take the future into my own hands, I chose to study film. Throughout high school, I had taken film production classes as an elective. After school, I participated in theater. Stories were all around me and I realized that film was one of the best mediums to tell a story with. It brought the story to life through visual and auditory content. In high school, I filmed news broadcasts, skits and even learned how to animate. With my parents' grudging approval, I began to embark in studying film at university. Attending a university in the Portland area, I knew that our small-city charm could not equate to Los Angeles' big city glamor. Therefore, I decided to focus on local stories. In my classes, I filmed documentaries about local communities. There were farmers from the Latino community. My Vietnamese band that I had been a part of since middle school. Everyone had a story to tell, embodying Portland city's down-to-earth aura and casual uniqueness. Consuelo, the owner of the Veggie Box, expressed how all plants serve a purpose on earth. My music teacher, Miss Huong, told about growing up in Vietnam and finding her beloved instrument the dan tranh after being unable to afford piano lessons. I grew closer to my community from these experiences and was able to form connections with people who were different from me. After I transferred to the University of Southern California, I continued to work on local films. This time, I returned back to Oregon to interview my grandfather on his experiences during the Vietnam War. Then I animated a music video exploring 1950s nostalgia, featuring a housewife and her missing husband. I also decorated sets, wrote scripts that were produced and even edited a few films. Next year, I hope to be just as productive. I will be taking 22 credits next semester, which will result in extra tuition. This scholarship would not only be an affirmation of my dreams but also a major financial help. In the future, I want to become someone who can set an example for individuals who wish to pursue art. I want to tell them to embrace their joy and take the plunge because no one else will.

AAPI culture means the culture of my ancestors. Parts of it are my roots, stretching back thousands of years ago to the dynasties of the Le and Trung rulers. It is also a diaspora, stretching across continents and time. When I celebrate the Lunar New Year or read 'The Tale of Genji,' I am helping keep a part of this culture alive. Growing up in the United States, I was surrounded by eurocentric narratives. George Washington. Christopher Columbus. John D. Rockefeller. I was told to read the classics, which included works by Gustave Flaubert, Charles Dickens and Louisa May Alcott. After reading through a handful of these so-called classics and finding all of them incredibly dull, I realized that these classics, hailed by my White teachers as timeless works, were not my classics. My classics are 'The Rig Veda,' 'Journey to the West,' 'The Tale of Kieu' and countless oral histories. Like their western counterparts, these stories preserve AAPI culture and remind AAPI students of their heritage. Upon reading 'The Story of the Stone,' I felt immediately at home. The Confucian principles that I was raised on were woven throughout this book. Buddhist notions of reincarnation and karmic debt formed the main spine of the central romance. What was particularly evocative were the female characters. Compared to their wan and passive western counterparts, each woman in Cao Xueqin's novel felt fully formed and possessed her own convictions. My favorite character, Wang Xifeng, reminded me of my family's women. Despite the patriarchal systems of both Vietnam and China, the women of my family learned to work alongside the system and circumvent it. Xifeng's gentle facade disguising her ruthless and clever nature truly made me feel as if I was with a relative. Aside from the literature, AAPI culture means age-old traditions, clothes and songs. I have helped preserve these aspects of my culture by serving as a teacher at my local Vietnamese school and traveling across the West Coast as a traditional Vietnamese musician. For 4 years, I taught a traditional Vietnamese dance class. I worked with elementary school-aged children and coordinated performances for the end of every semester. Once, my group had the honor of performing at our local city's convention center. Throughout our lessons, I always told my students stories from our culture. This included our fairytales such as Tam Cam and the tale of the moon goddess. Tam Cam is a Vietnamese telling of Cinderella, where the story doesn't end after the royal wedding. Instead, Tam is brutally killed by her sister and reincarnates three times in order to reunite with her love. A storyteller at heart, there was nothing more satisfying than having a captivated audience. During my time in the Tieng Hoai Huong Vietnamese band, I played the dan tranh. It is a seventeen-stringed zither related to the Chinese guzheng. When I was offered the choice between piano lessons or the dan tranh, I immediately chose the latter. To me, it was not the instrument of our European colonizers. It was the instrument of my ancestors. Under my mentor's tutelage, I learned court songs of the Nguyen kings and classic Vietnamese opera staples. They sounded similar to the Vietnamese bolero that I had grown up with, which is a fusion of western and eastern instruments. One of the most rewarding performances for me was at the Portland Children's Museum. During our performance, we handed out percussion instruments to the audience and encouraged them to play alongside us. Afterward, children were allowed to come up and ask us questions. I clearly remember a young girl shyly approaching me and asking if she could play. I offered her my plectrums and taught her a little song. For a moment, despite our cultural differences, we were linked by the power of music. I take it upon myself to learn as much as I can about Vietnamese culture to pass it on to the next generation. If I don't, then a small piece of Vietnamese history and culture will fade away. By performing, celebrating and reading works from AAPI culture, I am honoring and remembering my ancestors.

A Dance With the Bone Smith Love-lies-bleeding weep out and over the fields, my dear. In a profusion of red strings, they blanket the greenery in boughs of blood. Each blossom is a tale of love lost, lovelorn and love betrayed. Do you hear them? Come, come, walk down this bloody path with me so that we may sup on the tears of the lost And dance under the moonless sky, red blossoms at our feet. So slender is your hand in mine, vivid flesh in bony hands. I love you, my dear, as long as my ivory horns gleam in the night. I love you my dear, as gently as your sockets cradle your beautiful amber eyes. I love you my dear, as sure as the bones in your body are married to your muscles. I await the day they pull away, scattering with the red blossoms at our feet. Your skull, shining bright under the moonlight, will make a fine guardian to watch over me as I run underneath the stars towards home Where we will remain until the next moonless night. But for now, dance with me under the love-lies-bleeding and listen to the tragedies these blossoms tell. As I am yours and you are mine.

Creativity means integrity. It is the ability to hold onto your vision and ideas without wavering in the face of discouragement and criticism. It is the ability to find inspiration from outside sources while remaining true to your own ideas. No matter what, creativity will anchor you to who you are. As an editor, artist and graphic designer, I find that my vision often contrasts with mainstream audiences. While more popular artists choose soft colors and simplistic visuals, I find myself attached to a baroque-inspired style. Curlicues, detailed flowers and dark, bold colors fill my moodboards. I want my work to be a feast for the eyes. As an artist, I create not for an audience, but for myself. This is why creativity means integrity to me. My creativity is my mind, communicated through images. It is one of the few ways I can genuinely express myself. If I betray my creativity by making work that follows a trend that I have no interest in, then my main method of communication has been compromised. The work then becomes warped, turning into a soulless amalgamation. A piece of art should be made with a clear conscience. I don't feel comfortable with the idea of following transient art trends and fads. If you follow trends to remain relevant, then you will be forced to follow trends forever, unable to find a stable vision for yourself. The work will lack meaning and depth, your creative muscles atrophying with this lack of thought. There is no creativity in blindly following the ideas of others. By creating with integrity, you are remaining steadfast in a constantly changing world. You are staying true to yourself and respecting your ability to create. Although it is more difficult to find a community of clients or admirers who appreciate your vision, it is far more rewarding than having a mass audience that will never truly understand your creativity. This genuine understanding between the creator and their small community will further boost their creativity, inspiring them to explore their boundaries while remaining steadfast. It was difficult, growing up in a household that discouraged me from creating. Despite my family's best efforts, my creativity begged to be expressed. It was a constant pounding, demanding to be seen. When my markers, pens and paper were taken away, I resorted to drawing on napkins with pencils. No matter what, I must obey my creativity and its demand to be released. When I evaluate myself during stressful periods, I realize that one of the reasons behind my stress is the fact that I haven't created for a stretch of time, my feelings trapped in my own body. My creativity is a loud beast that cannot be ignored, barging its horned head into every aspect of my life. If I were to try to cut its horns in an attempt to tame it to more "mainstream" and "palatable" tastes, it would no longer be my creativity. Because of how deeply linked I am to my creativity, I could not imagine a life without it. Every corner is filled with inspiration. Every moment is filled with thoughts for new stories and drawings. I think and dream in color, vivid curlicues making their way through my mind. This vision—this creativity—of mine cannot be truncated in the name of fame. I cling to my vision because I dream of the day when I can find a community that genuinely understands my work.

Despite its various controversies, I firmly believe that Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead" should be read. In this fast-moving society, we are often asked to give up pieces of ourselves to become more likable or noticeable. This has been exacerbated by the rise of social media. Constantly, we are inundated with trends and fads that pressure us to conform. As an artist on social media, the pressure to stay relevant by participating in trends led me to doubt my abilities as an artist. I refused to participate in trends and chose to draw my own things, often receiving no likes or comments on my pieces. This lack of engagement made me look at other trendy artists in envy, despite not enjoying their art. Their pieces felt soulless and disturbing, the art created just for likes and because it was "cute." Despite that, they were well-loved by the community. This frustration and self-doubt grew until my drama teacher recommended me Rand's book. In it, the protagonist Howard Roark struggled against a society bent on conforming. As an architect, he was expelled from his university for refusing to incorporate classical styles in his work. Coming to New York City, he found that the architecture industry believed in the same set of ideas as his university. Architects could create, but they could only create by borrowing from past architectural styles. No genuine creativity or unique style could be born from the major building firms. Like most popular art on social media, the buildings from these firms were regurgitated amalgamations. They were built on conformist principles that refused to be challenged. Lamenting the state of the industry, Roark expressed his own principles. "I don't have clients to build for. I build to have clients. Just like a man, a building has integrity." As an artist, Roark lives for himself. He knows what he truly loves and is confident in his abilities. His buildings are created with the idea of serving a purpose. By eschewing the pressures of the architectural industry and staying true to himself, Roark amassed a small yet dedicated group of clients and admirers. Compared to more popular architects surrounded by success and admirers that never truly understood who they were, Roark lived his life within a community that understood his own values. After reading this book, I realized that the age of principle of being yourself remains. Eventually, you'll find your community.