My journey into computer science began unexpectedly. Unlike many who grow up coding or taking apart electronics, I had no clear direction at first. The turning point came during a summer computer science course offered at my school before freshman year. I signed up out of curiosity, not knowing much about the subject. But as soon as I began working with basic programs, something clicked. The problem-solving process reminded me of math, a subject I had always enjoyed without fully understanding why. Coding gave that same satisfaction; each error was a challenge, and every fix was a reward. I remember the excitement I felt after writing my first loop: a simple program that added numbers incrementally. It was nothing fancy, but it worked. Watching the output change with each input, knowing I had built something from scratch with no prior experience, was empowering. That feeling stuck with me. From that moment on, I knew I wanted to pursue computer science not just as a class, but as a career. After earning my degree, I hope to specialize in cybersecurity. This interest was sparked by watching ethical hackers on YouTube take down scam networks to protect innocent victims. Their technical skill was impressive, but what moved me most was their purpose, using knowledge to defend people. That purpose became personal when members of my own family fell victim to online scams. Watching my elders experience fear and confusion over something they didn’t understand made me realize how much protection is needed in the digital world, especially for those who are most vulnerable. To me, cybersecurity is more than just fighting threats, it’s about ensuring that technology remains a safe space. I want to become an ethical hacker or threat analyst, working to prevent exploitation and give people peace of mind. I see it as a mission rooted in justice and empowerment. As a Black male from the South Side of Chicago, my path into STEM has not been typical. Where I’m from, attending college is not always expected, and pursuing a degree in a technical field is even more rare. Many students with potential are held back by limited access, systemic obstacles, or the weight of financial struggles. My own journey has not been easy. My mother, a single parent of four, took out loans in her name to help fund my education. Her sacrifices motivate me to keep pushing forward, even when things get hard. Attending an HBCU, where Black men are underrepresented even among our own, I carry a sense of responsibility. I want to be part of a generation that changes the face of STEM, not only by succeeding, but by reaching back to help others rise. I hope to use my career not just to solve problems, but to open doors for the next person who looks like me and wonders if they belong in tech. By investing in me, you are not just supporting a student—you are supporting a future leader determined to protect digital spaces, give back to his community, and prove that representation matters. I am not just earning a degree in STEM. I am building a legacy of impact and resilience that reflects where I come from and who I aim to uplift.

I am interested in the field of computer science because I see it as a way to build, solve, and empower. Technology shapes almost every aspect of modern life, from the way we communicate to how we learn, work, and connect. I have always been drawn to the idea of creating something meaningful out of logic and code. More than that, I want to use computer science to give back to communities like the one I came from, where access to resources and opportunities is often limited. Growing up on the South Side of Chicago, I witnessed the effects of poverty, violence, and instability. I knew people with talent and intelligence who never got the chance to fully show what they were capable of. From a young age, I understood that education could be a lifeline, not just a requirement. I did my best in school, even when my environment felt like it was working against me. I was a quiet kid who often felt overlooked, but I learned to keep pushing forward. That mindset helped me later when I faced even more difficult challenges. One of the most defining moments in my life happened during my first year at Tuskegee University. What started as an exciting homecoming celebration turned into a tragedy when an active shooter opened fire. In a matter of minutes, everything changed. One person died and several others were injured. I remember crawling on the floor with my classmates, texting my loved ones, and hoping my friends were safe. After that night, I could not sleep. I could not focus. I started to question if I even belonged there. I considered going back home, but my mother encouraged me to stay and seek therapy. At first, I resisted because I thought that asking for help made me weak. But through counseling, I began to understand how trauma works and how to manage the emotions that came with it. That decision to stay and heal changed everything. It not only helped me get through that moment, but it also showed me the importance of mental health and support systems in achieving long-term goals. When I took Calculus II that same semester, it felt like another mountain I could not climb. I failed two exams in a row and began to doubt my ability to succeed in college. But I remembered what my mother told me: "You’ve been through worse. This class will not break you." I started attending tutoring sessions, rewriting my notes every day, and studying with a purpose. I went from barely understanding the material to earning an A in the course. These experiences have shaped my goals. I want to use my knowledge of computer science to create tools that help others, especially in the areas of education and mental health. Whether it is building learning platforms for under-resourced schools or designing applications that make therapy more accessible, I want my work to make a difference. I believe the impact we make is not only about what we build, but also who we lift up along the way. My story is still being written, but I am proud of how far I have come—and I am determined to keep going.

Calculus plays a critical role in the STEM field because it provides the mathematical foundation for understanding and modeling change. At its core, calculus is the study of how things change over time and space. In science, technology, engineering, and mathematics, change is constant. Whether it is measuring the growth rate of a population, predicting the trajectory of a spacecraft, analyzing the flow of electricity, or designing algorithms in computer science, calculus is essential for solving real-world problems. In physics, for example, calculus is used to describe motion, forces, and energy. Concepts such as velocity and acceleration are grounded in derivatives, which measure how one quantity changes in relation to another. Without calculus, it would be nearly impossible to model how objects move through space or how energy is transferred between systems. Engineers rely on calculus to determine optimal designs, calculate structural loads, and assess system stability. Whether building bridges or designing engines, engineers use integrals and differential equations to make sure their structures are safe and efficient. In biology and medicine, calculus helps researchers understand complex systems such as the spread of diseases, the rate of drug absorption, and changes in ecosystems. For instance, models that predict how a virus will spread through a population depend on differential equations that describe infection and recovery rates. Calculus also plays a role in medical imaging techniques, like CT scans and MRIs, which rely on complex mathematical formulas to create accurate images of the human body. In computer science, calculus is often used in machine learning, graphics, simulations, and optimization. Algorithms that train artificial intelligence systems use derivatives to minimize error and improve accuracy. Calculus helps determine how a small change in input affects the outcome of a function, which is critical in developing predictive models and data analysis tools. Personally, my experience with Calculus II pushed me to understand the importance of these concepts beyond the classroom. At first, I saw calculus as a difficult subject filled with abstract symbols and complex formulas. But as I continued to study and apply the concepts through tutoring and consistent practice, I realized that calculus trains the mind to think logically and approach problems step-by-step. It builds critical thinking skills that are valuable in all STEM fields, not just in pure mathematics. Moreover, understanding calculus has influenced the way I approach my career aspirations in computer science. I now see how important mathematical reasoning is when designing efficient programs or solving computational problems. Calculus provides the tools to model, simulate, and predict outcomes—skills that are in high demand in today’s data-driven world. In conclusion, calculus is important in STEM because it is a universal language of change and precision. It connects theory to application and allows us to solve problems that would otherwise be too complex to manage. Mastering calculus opens the door to innovation, discovery, and meaningful contributions in any STEM-related career.

Mental health and suicide prevention are more than just topics, they’re urgent realities for my generation. We’ve grown up in a time where pressure is constant and support is inconsistent. Social media often makes it feel like everyone else has it together, while you’re silently falling apart. Expectations from school, family, and society can pile up fast, and many young people struggle with anxiety, depression, or identity issues while feeling like they have no one to talk to. That’s why suicide has become one of the leading causes of death among youth; it’s not just about sadness, it’s about isolation and feeling like your pain doesn’t matter. I’ve seen this up close—not just in friends who battled depression, but in myself. When I first left home for college, I thought the hardest part would be the schoolwork. But it wasn’t. The real challenge was dealing with trauma I hadn’t fully processed. During my freshman year at Tuskegee University, an active shooter opened fire during our homecoming celebration. One person died, and several others were injured. That night changed me. I remember laying on the floor, texting loved ones goodbye, praying my friends were still alive. Afterward, I couldn’t sleep. I was anxious all the time, jumpy at loud noises, and emotionally numb in class. The environment that once felt exciting now felt unsafe. At first, I tried to tough it out. I told myself it would pass. But it didn’t. That’s when I called my mom. She didn’t brush it off—she told me it was okay to talk to someone. That conversation was the start of my healing. I began seeing a therapist and slowly learned that asking for help isn’t weak. In fact, it’s brave. Therapy helped me understand how trauma affects the brain, and it gave me tools to manage my anxiety and rebuild my confidence. That experience reshaped how I think about mental health. I’ve learned that healing isn’t a straight line. Some days are harder than others. But I’ve also learned that mental health isn’t just a personal issue, it’s a community one. We need to make sure our peers know they’re not alone and that there’s no shame in needing help. It also changed how I think about my future. As a computer science major, I want to create technology that supports mental health, apps that connect people to resources, or platforms that provide a safe space to talk without judgment. I also want to speak out more in my community, especially for young Black men like me, who are often told to “man up” instead of opening up. Mental health matters because it affects everything: our relationships, our ability to succeed, and our sense of self-worth. Suicide prevention matters because nobody should feel like ending their life is their only option. I know what it’s like to feel lost, and I also know what it’s like to come back from that place, with the right help. That’s why I’ll keep talking about it, and more importantly, listening.

Charity, to me, means using what you’ve gained to uplift those still finding their way. Growing up on the South Side of Chicago, I saw firsthand how resources, whether financial, emotional, or educational, could mean the difference between survival and struggle. I was lucky to have a mother who poured her strength into me, and teachers who saw my potential even when I doubted it myself. That was charity in its purest form: people giving from their heart, not for recognition, but because they believed in someone’s future. In the future, I intend to give back by being that same kind of presence for others. As I pursue my career in computer science, I want to create opportunities for kids from neighborhoods like mine, whether through mentorship, free coding workshops, or scholarships. I also plan to return to schools in my community and speak to students who feel invisible or unsure of their path, because sometimes, just hearing “I was where you are” can spark a sense of possibility. Charity isn’t always about money, it’s about time, attention, and belief. I’ve been on the receiving end of all three, and I know how much it matters. Now it’s my turn to pay it forward.

Growing up on the South Side of Chicago, where gun violence punctuated daily life, I learned early that survival meant more than physical safety—it meant protecting my future. By high school, I began distancing myself from friends whose paths veered toward danger. I clung to education as my lifeline. When I enrolled at Tuskegee University, I believed I’d escaped the chaos. Instead, I encountered new battles that tested my resolve in ways I never imagined. Tuskegee’s campus initially felt alien. As a male student in a 60% female environment, I questioned whether I belonged. The gender imbalance amplified my insecurities, making me hyperaware of every interaction. I buried myself in coursework, hoping academics would ground me. But during my freshman year, a homecoming celebration turned traumatic: active shooters opened fire. In an instant, joy turned to terror. I remember everyone crawling on the ground, screaming, running, texting loved ones “I love you,” and calling friends to make sure they were okay. When someone didn’t answer, you prayed they hadn’t been shot. One person died that night, and several others were injured. Campus morale plummeted. Students moved out. Classrooms emptied. The vibrant community I’d admired dissolved into fear. I couldn’t sleep. I kept asking myself, “Why not retreat to Chicago, where at least the dangers were familiar?” That year didn’t get any easier. I faced an academic reckoning: Calculus II. The professor had a reputation for failing entire classes, and I quickly saw why. His lectures felt like riddles. My usual last-minute cramming didn’t work anymore. For the first time, I truly doubted my capabilities. Panic set in—I failed two tests in a row. My mother became my compass. When I called her after the shooting, voice trembling, she didn’t dismiss my fear. “Come home if you need to,” she said, “but don’t let fear steal your future.” She encouraged me to seek therapy—a step I’d long resisted, thinking it was a sign of weakness. Through counseling, I began to process the trauma and rebuild my focus. Academically, she pushed me to find new strategies: “Get a tutor. Skip the parties. Try everything until it clicks.” Her faith in me was unshakable. “You’ve survived worse,” she said. “This class won’t break you.” I took her advice. I went to tutoring sessions, rewrote notes daily, and turned my dorm into a study cave. While others went out, I drilled practice problems. Slowly, the formulas began to make sense. By finals week, I wasn’t just passing—I was thriving. Earning an A in Calculus II wasn’t just academic validation—it was proof that I could adapt, even when systems seemed designed to make me fail. These challenges taught me that resilience isn’t innate; it’s a choice. Leaving Chicago meant choosing ambition over comfort. Surviving the shooting taught me that seeking help isn’t shameful. Conquering Calculus II showed me the power of relentless effort. And my mother’s unwavering support reminded me that asking for guidance is not weakness, it’s a strategy. Today, I carry these lessons with me. Tuskegee’s campus has healed, and so have I. The friends I left behind in Chicago remind me why I can’t quit. My success isn’t just for me, it’s proof that breaking cycles is possible. Education isn’t just a path out of violence; it’s a tool to rebuild communities. And with mentors like my mother lighting the way, I’m ready for whatever comes next.

My journey into computer science began unexpectedly. Unlike many who grow up coding, I initially had no clear career direction. However, a pivotal moment came during a summer computer science course offered by my school before my freshman year. Though I enrolled out of curiosity, I quickly discovered a passion for problem-solving that mirrored my love for math, a subject I’d always enjoyed but never fully understood why. The logical structure of coding, where every challenge has a solution waiting to be uncovered, resonated deeply with me. I recall the exhilaration of writing my first loop, a simple program that added numbers incrementally. Building something functional from scratch, despite knowing nothing about coding initially, felt like solving a complex puzzle. The satisfaction of overcoming obstacles and applying newfound knowledge to broader problems cemented my decision: computer science was the field for me. After earning my degree, I aim to specialize in cybersecurity. This ambition stems from a blend of personal experience and a desire to make a meaningful impact. As a teenager, I watched YouTube videos of ethical hackers infiltrating scam operations to protect victims. While their technical prowess fascinated me, it was their moral compass—using skills to shield others from harm—that inspired me most. This inspiration became personal when elders in my family fell victim to online scams. Witnessing their distress ignited a determination to combat such exploitation. Cybersecurity, to me, is more than a career; it’s a responsibility to safeguard vulnerable individuals and uphold digital trust. I aspire to work in threat analysis or ethical hacking, ensuring technology remains a force for good. As a Black male from Chicago’s South Side, where systemic barriers make college enrollment an exception, my journey to an HBCU—a space where Black men are vastly underrepresented—reflects my determination to defy stereotypes and uplift my community. This scholarship would alleviate the financial burden on my mother, a single parent of four who took loans in her name to invest in my future, allowing me to focus on my cybersecurity studies and honor her sacrifices. Like Chris Jackson, I channel adversity into ambition—my resilience, forged in the fires of Chicago’s challenges, eventually would drive me to combat cyber scams that relentlessly target vulnerable communities, safeguarding those often overlooked. By investing in me, you invest in a leader committed to bridging representation gaps in tech, protecting marginalized populations, and proving that Black men belong at the forefront of innovation. I am not just pursuing a degree—I am building a legacy of impact, one that honors my family, my community, and pioneers like Chris who turned struggle into purpose.