Too often in American society, we interlock the notion of progress with the theory of consensus–the idea that everyone in a group should agree in order to reach lasting solutions. In conversations that I’ve shared with policymakers, community leaders, and fellow agents of change, I’ve noticed that the phrase common goal is frequently echoed by my peers and mentors alike. Throughout my term with the California Association of Student Councils (CASC), my fellow student board members and I like to say that we’re united by a common goal: to amplify the diverse and vibrant perspectives of California’s nearly 6,000,000 students. But what I’ve learned from CASC is that it's important not to confuse a common goal with a common ideology. CASC is a non-partisan organization that gathers civically engaged change-makers from every crevice of California. Through the impactful platform that CASC provides, I’ve lobbied for Special Education legislation at the State Capitol, surrounded myself with driven peers, and forged lasting partnerships with mentors like Attorney General Rob Bonta–who sponsored my countywide proclamation for Filipino-American History Month. What makes CASC special is the fact that no two people think the same. As a privileged kid from a gated suburbia, the way that I view the world is fundamentally different from how my friend in rural Bakersfield sees the world. The way that Vanessa, a Valley girl from SoCal, understands the world is different from how Allison, a neurodivergent student from Mountain View, perceives it. Yet, in CASC, these differences don’t divide us–they challenge us to look beyond our narrow lenses and embrace the kaleidoscope of life. Directing CASC conferences in the past, I’ve watched delegates advocate for greater AI integration in classrooms. In my cohort, group members overwhelmingly supported the argument that AI should be harnessed to enhance education. But rising from the back of the room, a brave student from Bakersfield offered an entirely different angle–arguing that before we discuss integration, we must first address accessibility. In his community, most students don’t even own personal devices, making AI training an impossibility. Sometimes, it's easy to forget about the little guy–those forgotten communities on the margins. By channeling the courage to raise his voice, my friend didn’t just elevate himself, but also his entire community. Our disagreement and subsequent compromise resulted in a more holistic proposal, which earmarked funds for strategic technology distribution AND piloted AI training workshops in targeted school districts. With history as a touchstone and CASC as the backbone of my lived experiences, I’ve come to realize three fundamental truths; Different perspectives divide. Different perspectives disrupt. But more than anything, different perspectives drive progress. If Rosa Parks never stays seated, what happens to the movement in Montgomery? If Fred fails to fight for his freedoms, do Japanese-Americans ever get justice? If Itliong and Chavez never defy the dictators of Delano, do immigrant inequalities intensify? Learning from the past, I’ve noticed a pattern: people who make a lasting impression on society think differently than their contemporaries–without fear of repercussions, judgement, or transgression of the status quo. Not long ago, I once viewed a lack of dissent as evidence of satisfaction–if people aren’t complaining, then everything must be fine, right? But whether we interrogate our government, healthcare, or education systems, nothing in our society is perfect. In order to achieve meaningful progress, we must drift from echo-chambers, realizing that differences should be celebrated and not criticized. As an incoming Asian American Studies major at Stanford University, I will continue to use my platform to uplift invisible voices because, oftentimes, it's those voices that have the most to say.

“Stand out, get shot!” repeated Lolo, shaking his head in disapproval. Whenever I visit my grandparents, I can always count on good food, warm hugs, and that one mood-killing question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” For the past five years, my response hasn’t wavered: I want to be a politician. Predictably, chaos ensues. Fleeing from the Philippines during the oppressive Marcos regime, Lolo witnessed an abusive government. Eerily reminiscent of Palpatine’s Galactic Empire, the Philippines became a nation of sudden disappearances, high-profile assassinations, and public displays of torture. Defying martial law qualified as treason, and the currency for such disobedience was life. Like a stormtrooper, my grandfather had no choice but to fall in line. In America, I am determined to unleash the voice that was stolen from Lolo at birth. Whether I’m lobbying for affordable housing or hosting campus-wide social justice conferences, as a freshman at Stanford this upcoming fall, I can’t wait to brave a world where galaxies collide. International Relations (IR) paired with Asian American Studies—not quite your typical double major. Yet in my interstellar reality, this combination is precisely what I need to launch my diplomatic dreams into orbit. One galaxy charts the course of nations, institutions, and powerful individuals—the decision-makers in our world whose voices light the path to tomorrow; the other orbits around histories of resilience, activism, and the silent struggle of AAPI communities. Studying IR is like studying The Big Bang Theory. I get to explore the mysterious principles, systems, and phenomena that govern our existence—the destruction, chaos, and creation that can occur when powerful forces collide. But what’s the use in understanding the secrets of a broken universe? The story of a politician raised in internment, whose earliest memories are imbued with the pattern of barbed wire. The story of lovers who fled communist China, only to face “yellow peril” in America. The story of daring disruptors in Delano, who grew fed up with labor injustices. Double-majoring in Asian American Studies won’t just allow me to unlock forgotten stories–it’ll give me a platform to blast away flawed systems. Sauntering through the smooth sands of Olongapo, fishing along the coastal communities of Navotas, and experiencing the vibrant street life of Manila—from chatty buko vendors to colorful jeepneys—I feel at home. I want to give back to the country that my Lolo remembers affectionately—not the place of struggle and strife, but the place full of passion and life. As an aspiring U.S. ambassador to the Philippines, I want to revitalize a nation at a crossroads. Despite its ripples of progress, the Philippines still exists in a vacuum, consumed by black holes of poverty and instability. Merging my foundation in foreign affairs with my understanding of U.S.-Philippine relations, I'll draw from intergalactic teachings to promote government accountability, champion human rights, and bridge the gap between Filipinos and Americans. At Stanford this upcoming fall, whether I’m conducting summer research with Professor Jefferson about race politics or strolling through Oxford’s halls with the Bing Overseas Studies Program (BOSP), I intend to take full advantage of the school’s unparalleled resources, going to infinity and beyond to make my impact felt. Embarking upon the Stanford Space Odyssey of a lifetime, I’ve starred financial freedom as the key to my mission. Floating through outer space, untethered by the shackles of gravity, I want to fully experience the joys of exploration without the thought of money weighing me down. Money is the fuel that will power my rocket of opportunity—and the Alexander de Guia Memorial Scholarship is my launchpad to the stars.