White—a symbol of purity and simplicity—meant something else entirely to me in high school. It was the color of empty canvases, staring back like a dare. Blank space became both my greatest possibility and my greatest fear. Each first brushstroke felt like standing before a crowd, my lips trembling, hands shaking, already bracing for failure. By the time I entered college, that blankness had taken on a heavier form. Severe anxiety shadowed me, making attendance a daily battle despite how hard I worked on every assignment. The reasons piled up: my mental health, the lack of resources to treat it, the denial of accommodations, and the disorienting shift from a small, predominantly Black and brown high school to a buzzing, overwhelmingly white campus. As a queer Afro-Latina, I felt doubly isolated—nearly always the only Black woman in my classes, often unsure where or if I fit at all. Suddenly, “white” wasn’t just about the canvas—it was the faceless crowd streaming past me at BU, people who I felt could never understand me. That realization could have silenced me. But instead, I began to reframe it. Instead of seeing white space as emptiness or exclusion, I treated it as an invitation. Through art, I could fill it with my own voice, my own colors, my culture, and my queerness. My painting class became my refuge. My professor believed in me not just as an artist but as a person. He told me, “You will do great things with your art.” And when the world outside grew heavier—news of ICE raids, or genocide in Palestine—he checked in, making sure I had the support to keep creating. His belief gave me the courage to take up more space at the university. For my final project, I painted the largest canvas of anyone in my class: a self-portrait seated in a regal pose, clothed in velvet and lace, echoing how white elites were once immortalized in art history. This time, I claimed that visual language. The piece was celebrated, but more importantly, it was the first time I felt genuine pride in my work. That pride led me to a second self-portrait over the summer, a double portrait that forced me to face what I had long hidden. In that painting, two versions of myself sit on my bed—the place of both my deepest anxieties and my quietest healing. Both wear white lace corsets and ruffled shorts, but one kills the other. It is violent, raw, and necessary: a reckoning with trauma, queerness, spirituality, and shame. Margaret Atwood once wrote in Alias Grace, “Because you may think a bed is a peaceful thing, sir… but it isn’t so for everyone.” That tension—between danger and restoration—infused every brushstroke. Through this process, white transformed from paralysis into possibility. I learned that imperfection could be fertile ground. My art now embraces darkness not as pessimism but as truth: Black skin, Black hair, deep shadows, and untold stories. In contrast to white’s emptiness, black became fullness—an affirmation of identity, resilience, and honesty. What once felt like fear has become my way forward. White space no longer silences me. It asks: what will you create here? The paintings discussed here can be viewed in my portfolio: https://workbyelisha.cargo.site

Growing up, I rarely saw artists who looked like me — Black, queer, and from a working-class family. While I loved drawing and painting, access to structured programs, quality supplies, and mentorship always felt like something reserved for students from wealthier backgrounds. I taught myself techniques, found secondhand materials when I could, and leaned on my determination to keep creating. Because of this, I know firsthand how isolating it feels to have a passion for art but not the resources or guidance to nurture it. That is why my vision as a visual artist is not only to create work that speaks to identity, resilience, and truth, but also to ensure that young people from under-resourced communities have the opportunities I often lacked. One way I plan to do this is by building art workshops specifically for youth who have limited access to formal art education. These workshops would emphasize experimentation, self-portraiture, and storytelling through visual art. When I first began painting myself, it helped me process trauma, reclaim my identity, and see myself as worthy of celebration. I want to offer that same outlet to young people, giving them the chance to discover their voices in a safe, affirming space. Public art is another avenue I want to expand. During high school, I collaborated on Affirmations to my City, a mural honoring Black women leaders and memorializing a local boy whose life was cut short by violence. I also worked with Raw Art Works on a mural for a Salem food pantry. I saw how murals can transform public spaces into sites of pride, dialogue, and healing. In the future, I want to lead youth-centered mural projects that allow students to see their identities reflected on the walls of their neighborhoods. Representation matters deeply; when young people see themselves in public art, they begin to believe their stories and lives are valuable. Beyond workshops and murals, mentorship is another cornerstone of how I plan to give back. As a first-generation college student, I had to navigate the complex systems of higher education largely on my own. Many of my peers had parents or mentors guiding them, while I struggled to understand resources and opportunities. I want to fill that gap for others by mentoring youth who are considering careers in the arts. From helping with portfolio preparation to discussing pathways in art school, I want to demystify the process and show that a creative career is possible, regardless of socioeconomic background. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to work toward these goals sustainably. As someone from a working-class family, the cost of tuition, art supplies, and living expenses in Boston presents a real barrier. This scholarship would directly support my ability to focus on both my academic and creative growth without being burdened by constant financial strain. Most importantly, it would allow me to dedicate time and resources to building programs that extend beyond myself, ensuring that under-resourced youth have the tools, encouragement, and opportunities they deserve. My art began as a means of survival, but I want it to become a means of transformation for others. By creating accessible workshops, leading collaborative murals, and providing mentorship, I plan to give back to youth the opportunities I once needed: spaces where they can see themselves as artists, as worthy, and as capable of shaping the world around them. To see more of my projects and artworks, my portfolio is available at workbyelisha.cargo.site

1. Tell us about yourself. I am, before anything else, an artist. That word holds many layers for me. It means painting, designing clothes, making digital illustrations, and tackling the puzzles of math and physics with the same curiosity I bring to a canvas. It means creating, but also noticing, learning, and questioning. Contributing to a city mural, solving complex equations, or sketching garment patterns are all extensions of the same impulse: to explore the world and transform it. I study everything I can to make my work meaningful—politics, leftist theory, even Christianity as an atheist—because understanding different ways of thinking shapes both my art and my activism. My hope is to become a scientific illustrator who makes knowledge more accessible, opening doors for students who might otherwise be excluded. As an Afrolatina, I want to create pathways for Black and Hispanic students. As a queer person who has struggled with mental health, I want to show that we belong in academic spaces, and that our voices—often pushed aside—are not just valuable but foundational. 2. What’s a real-world issue you feel deeply connected to, and why? I feel a strong connection to activism against ableism. Living with anxiety and depression while pursuing an autism diagnosis has shown me how little our systems are designed with disabled people in mind. Even basic accommodations can feel impossible to secure, and too many students are left to navigate this on their own. In the United States, exhaustion and self-sacrifice are celebrated, while the needs of disabled people are dismissed as inconvenient. It is disheartening to see how much harder disabled students and workers must fight for dignity and survival in environments that should support them. 3. If you had the power to make change in that area, what would you do? True change would require moving beyond a capitalist system that thrives on overworked bodies. I imagine a society where healthcare and education are free, public spaces and transit are fully accessible, and support is guaranteed rather than rationed. These improvements would benefit everyone, but for disabled people they would mean the difference between isolation and participation. To get there, we need cultural change. Disability rights are often overlooked in broader movements for justice, yet they are central to building a world where work and education are sustainable for all. Teaching, organizing, and sparking hope are the first steps toward making that vision real. 4. How did you choose your area of study, and what do you hope to do with it? I chose visual art, math, and physics because they demand courage and invite discovery. Art allows me to confront the darkest aspects of humanity, not to dwell in despair but to make others sit with uncomfortable truths and imagine better. Math and physics challenge me in the same way: to take risks, to search for clarity, to innovate. For me, hope doesn’t always look bright or easy. It can be difficult and gradual. But through these studies, I practice holding onto it and sharing it with others. My goal is to use this blend of creativity and rigor to make knowledge more accessible, especially for students from marginalized backgrounds. 5. What’s one goal you’ve set for yourself in the next 5 years—and how do you plan to get there? Within the next five years, I plan to graduate with a BFA in Painting and a BA in Math & Physics. As a first-generation Afrolatina student, this goal is deeply personal. I navigate college without much family guidance, so I’ve had to rely on persistence, self-advocacy, and the willingness to ask for help. I plan to get there by staying consistent in my coursework, building meaningful relationships with mentors and peers, and continuing to request the accommodations I need to thrive. When I succeed, I want to use my experience to make the path easier for those who come after me. 6. How has education helped you better understand yourself and your purpose? Education has taught me that my purpose isn’t just to master data or theories, but to understand people. Reading God’s Monsters by Esther Hamori showed me how much of what we assume about religion comes from misinterpretation, reshaped by time and culture. As an atheist, studying Christianity might seem unexpected, but it reminded me that curiosity about others’ beliefs is as important as solving equations. Through these moments of learning, I realized that my mission is to connect how people think, believe, and create with how we research and innovate. Art, science, and culture are not separate threads—they weave together into meaning. 7. How has your identity as a woman influenced the way you move through the world? Being a woman, especially a Black woman, means entering both female-dominated and male-dominated spaces where my presence is often questioned. In high school, surrounded by other Black and brown students, I rarely felt out of place. In college, I became acutely aware of how different I was in classrooms that didn’t reflect my culture or experiences. Still, this difference has become a source of pride. I am the first in my family to attend college, and I speak openly about my identity through my art. Each assignment becomes an opportunity not only to express myself but to challenge others to broaden their perspectives. 8. What does leadership mean to you—and how have you embodied it? Leadership, to me, is grounded in care. Growing up, I helped raise my younger brother, and in that role I learned that real influence comes from love and responsibility, not from authority. In college, I carry that same approach. Whether it’s working on group projects or helping classmates with math, I think about how my choices affect others. Leadership is not about being the loudest voice but about building trust and acting with compassion. 9. Describe a time you had to be resourceful or resilient. What did you learn from it? My first year of college tested me more than I expected. Despite advocating for accommodations, I was denied support I knew I needed. Rather than giving up, I turned to my professors directly and arranged informal accommodations with their help. By the end of the year, I had earned all A’s. This experience showed me that I am capable, even when others doubt me. It also deepened my commitment to disability rights. Too many students are forced out of school because their needs are dismissed, when a small adjustment could have made the difference. 10. If awarded this scholarship, how would it help you pursue your dreams? As a first-generation student from a working-class family, the cost of higher education in Boston is a constant challenge. This scholarship would give me the space to focus on my studies and artwork without being overwhelmed by financial stress. More than that, it would support my vision of creating accessible, impactful work for communities that are too often excluded from education and representation. I don’t just want to move forward in my own career—I want to bring others with me. Portfolio: https://workbyelisha.cargo.site My fine art reflects how I merge creativity with critical thinking, a foundation for my future in scientific illustration and in making STEM more accessible to underrepresented communities.

My favorite piece is my most recent double self-portrait in oil, inspired by Judith Slaying Holofernes by Artemisia Gentileschi. I’ve always been drawn to biblical stories—their gore, contradictions, and dark morality—and this painting became a way to merge that fascination with my own life. My first self-portrait was the summer before sophomore year of high school. Since then, I’ve painted several, tracing a visual timeline of my identity. This latest work confronts the most intimate parts of me: trauma, sexuality, spirituality, and selfhood. I set the scene in my bedroom, specifically on my bed—the site of both deepest anxiety and quiet healing. Margaret Atwood captures this duality in Alias Grace: “Because you may think a bed is a peaceful thing, sir… but it isn’t so for everyone; and there are many dangerous things that may take place in a bed.” Both figures wear identical white lace corsets and ruffled shorts. The only difference is expression: my new self strikes, killing off the old. The act is violent, raw, and necessary—a confrontation with the most hidden parts of me. The biblical reference amplifies this sense of divine reckoning. This painting celebrates letting go of perfection and embracing my full humanity. It is messy and beautiful—the way growth always is. It marks the moment I claimed my right to happiness, despite shame.

Why do I keep coming back to the same face? I ask myself this whenever I see the stack of self-portraits on my desk. Painting myself — from new angles, in shifting light, with different expressions — has become my way of searching for something steady inside me. As a Black queer woman raised in a Christian household, identity has never been simple. There were years when I felt split apart, quieted by expectations, or hurt by people I trusted. Painting started as a way to put myself back together — inch by inch, stroke by stroke. Over time, it became more than survival. It became a declaration. My portraits show me not as a victim, but as whole and layered: sometimes bold, sometimes vulnerable, always real. That shift showed up in my style. I leaned into sharp contrasts, glowing highlights, and light cutting through shadow. It wasn’t just technique — it was how I started to see myself: someone who could shine even in dark places. One turning point came after my first year at a predominantly white university. I felt invisible and out of place, carrying not just personal struggles but also the weight of being a first-generation student. While others seemed to know how to navigate campus systems, I often felt like I was piecing it together on my own. That summer, I laid out all my self-portraits. In my eyes, I saw a timeline: pain, shame, resilience, pride. My newest painting was the loudest — bright hair, intricate lace, sharp light. For the first time, I painted myself unapologetically. That’s when I realized my art isn’t only for me. It can be a mirror for others. In high school, a local muralist invited me to join a public project near my school. Together, we created Affirmations to my City — a mural honoring three Black women leaders and memorializing a boy whose life was cut short by violence. The imagery of graduation caps floating into the clouds (which I designed) was both a celebration and a remembrance. Later, with Raw Art Works, I helped paint a mural for a food pantry in Salem, part of an effort to bring art into community spaces. Those projects taught me something essential: art can tell hard truths while also uniting people. It can comfort, challenge, and even make people uneasy — but that discomfort sparks attention, and attention opens the door to empathy and change. That, to me, is the power of being an artist. My work is deeply personal, born from confronting trauma and reclaiming identity. But it is also communal, meant to give voice and visibility to others who have felt unseen. Whether I am painting myself, honoring community leaders, or memorializing lives lost, I aim to create work that holds space for truth and healing. In a world where creative work can be dismissed in seconds online, I believe artists have a responsibility to keep creating anyway. Art slows people down. It asks them to witness. That is why I keep painting: to resist invisibility, to confront difficult truths, and to share a vision of resilience that others can hold onto. Looking ahead, I want to grow both technically and in reach — expanding into galleries, classrooms, and more community projects. My long-term goal is to merge studio practice with public art, creating pieces that document not just my own journey, but also the strength of those who are often overlooked. For me, art is a language when words fail. It carries resilience, self-love, and truth. Most importantly, it allows me to make an impact: helping others feel seen, heard, and reflected back with dignity. You can view more of my work here: workbyelisha.cargo.site

Why do I keep coming back to the same face? I often find myself wondering this as I look at my self-portraits stacked across my desk. Painting myself over and over — different angles, different lighting, different moods — it’s become a way to search for something that feels real and steady inside me. I am a Black queer woman raised in a Christian household, and identity has always been a complicated subject for me. There were times when I felt fractured, silenced by the expectations and contradictions around me. Painting started as a way to process emotions that felt too heavy for words, especially the pain and trauma I carried from abuse by family and even someone I considered a friend. I remember thinking, “This isn’t supposed to happen to me,” even as I was living it. Abuse has a way of eroding who you are, making your identity blur and fade. But through painting, I began to piece myself back together — inch by inch, stroke by stroke. My art became more than just an outlet; it became a form of resistance and reclamation. I painted myself not as a victim, but as whole and complex — sometimes confident, sometimes vulnerable, but always authentic. Over time, the way I painted light and shadow changed too. My style evolved to include sharper contrasts, fiery light sources cutting through cooler, darker backgrounds. This reflected how I was learning to see my own light shine even in the darkest moments. One moment that really stuck with me happened after my first year at a predominantly white university. I was exhausted, weighed down by the lingering pain from people I had trusted, and felt small and invisible in a place where I rarely saw faces like mine. That night, I gathered all my self-portraits from the past few years and studied them. I saw the way my eyes had carried pain, shame, and eventually pride. I picked up my latest painting. It was ambitious: my hair was the biggest it had ever been, the lace on my blouse was intricate, and the lighting was sharp and dramatic. Even though my voice is quiet in person, I made that image loud. It was the first time I depicted myself without apology. Not despite my past, but with it. Not defined by trauma, but by power. Looking at that painting, I realized I was stronger than I had thought. My art captured a hardness, a confrontation with pain that I hadn’t believed was inside me. I wasn’t just documenting suffering; I was documenting survival and growth. This realization made me laugh in response to my initial disappointment. I was and am proud. That’s what I want my work to offer: a kind of mirror. A place where others—especially those who’ve been made to feel othered, unwanted, or unseen—can find stillness, warmth, and recognition. I want them to feel held. To understand that their pain is real but not the whole story. That healing, in all its slowness and messiness, is still possible. Art has become my language when words fail. It is how I express resilience, hope, and self-love. As I continue to grow as a Visual Art major, I’m learning how to amplify these themes and reach more people. I want my paintings to make viewers pause and feel seen — to recognize the humanity in every story, especially those too often overlooked. Portfolio: workbyelisha.cargo.site

Before I ever said the words out loud, I prayed they’d still love me. I am a queer Black woman raised in a predominantly Black and Hispanic city and a devout Christian household—an identity that can feel isolating in itself. Black Christian families aren’t exactly known for embracing homosexuality, yet I held onto hope. I wanted to believe that love would stretch far enough to make room for me. Conversations with family and peers could be warm, sometimes too warm—cozy until they turned. One moment they’d compliment my outfit, and the next they’d make a joke about the LGBTQ+ community, unaware of the sting it carried. They’d misgender a trans student in passing, laughing like it meant nothing. Or I’d sit in church, where a preacher’s narrowed eyes found mine as he condemned people like me. Suddenly, I wasn’t a daughter, a friend, or a classmate. I wasn’t human. I became a sinner. Attention-seeking. Broken. This was my initiation into the LGBTQ+ community—not through a warm embrace, but through exile. I realized that people like me were seen as diseased, needing to be cured by shame and prayer. The community I thought I could lean on expected me to bear that weight alone. Art saved me. Painting became the language I turned to when words were too heavy. It gave me a place to breathe, to build figures and faces I understood—ones that reflected what I couldn’t yet say aloud. I made it my mission to represent queer people in my work, especially Black queer individuals whose stories are so often overlooked. In high school, I joined the art club and found others who understood the weight of difference. The queer art world became a refuge—one that offered me safety, reflection, kindness, and confidence. So I began painting myself. Over and over. Different angles, different outfits, always calm—always at peace. I needed to see myself whole. Through that, I developed a new painting style—one still grounded in realism, but defined by stark contrasts between light and dark, with a fiery, almost incandescent light source cutting through cooler atmospheres. When I posted one of those portraits online, my former art instructor commented, “I love seeing you see you.” That moment made my artistic purpose undeniable for me. I needed to strip away the people-pleasing, the silence, the carefulness—and meet myself. I am someone who is passionate and determined to make others feel loved and safe. My work will always reflect that. Now, as a Visual Art major at Boston University, I’m learning new ways to amplify that mission. I want my art to make viewers pause, to see the human in the queer individual, to feel something real. I want to be a part of the artistic lineage that changes how we’re seen. Receiving this scholarship would mean I can sustainably work toward this lifelong goal of queer representation in artwork and focus on my studies. As someone from a working-class family and a first-generation college student, the cost of tuition, supplies, and living expenses in Boston presents a real barrier. This scholarship would directly support my ability to focus on both my creative and academic growth without being burdened by constant financial strain. It would mean a great deal to have some ease in the financial aspect of attending a higher education to give back to my community. I see myself not just as someone in the LGBTQ+ community, but someone who creates for it—someone who gives back through representation, visibility, and care. This support would be a step toward making that vision sustainable.

Before I ever said the words out loud, I prayed they’d still love me. I am a queer Black woman raised in a predominantly Black and Hispanic city and a devout Christian household—an identity that can feel isolating in itself. Black Christian families aren’t exactly known for embracing homosexuality, yet I held onto hope. I wanted to believe that love would stretch far enough to make room for me. Conversations with family and peers could be warm, sometimes too warm—cozy until they turned. One moment they’d compliment my outfit, and the next they’d make a joke about the LGBTQ+ community, unaware of the sting it carried. They’d misgender a trans student in passing, laughing like it meant nothing. Or I’d sit in church, where a preacher’s narrowed eyes found mine as he condemned people like me. Suddenly, I wasn’t a daughter, a friend, or a classmate. I wasn’t human. I became a sinner. Attention-seeking. Broken. This was my initiation into the LGBTQ+ community—not through a warm embrace, but through exile. I realized that people like me were seen as diseased, needing to be cured by shame and prayer. The community I thought I could lean on expected me to bear that weight alone. Art saved me. Painting became the language I turned to when words were too heavy. It gave me a place to breathe, to build figures and faces I understood—ones that reflected what I couldn’t yet say aloud. I made it my mission to represent queer people in my work, especially Black queer individuals whose stories are so often overlooked. In high school, I joined the art club and found others who understood the weight of difference. The queer art world became a refuge—one that offered me safety, reflection, kindness, and confidence. So I began painting myself. Over and over. Different angles, different outfits, always calm—always at peace. I needed to see myself whole. Through that, I developed a new painting style—one still grounded in realism, but defined by stark contrasts between light and dark, with a fiery, almost incandescent light source cutting through cooler atmospheres. When I posted one of those portraits online, my former art instructor commented, “I love seeing you see you.” That moment made my artistic purpose undeniable for me. I needed to strip away the people-pleasing, the silence, the carefulness—and meet myself. I am someone who is passionate and determined to make others feel loved and safe. My work will always reflect that. Now, as a Visual Art major at Boston University, I’m learning new ways to amplify that mission. I want my art to make viewers pause, to see the human in the queer individual, to feel something real. I want to be a part of the artistic lineage that changes how we’re seen. Receiving this scholarship would mean I can sustainably work toward this lifelong goal of queer representation in artwork and focus on my studies. As someone from a working-class family and a first-generation college student, the cost of tuition, supplies, and living expenses in Boston presents a real barrier. This scholarship would directly support my ability to focus on both my creative and academic growth without being burdened by constant financial strain. It would mean a great deal to have some ease in the financial aspect of attending a higher education to give back to my community. I see myself not just as someone in the LGBTQ+ community, but someone who creates for it—someone who gives back through representation, visibility, and care. This support would be a step toward making that vision sustainable.