The truth was finally being told. When a screenshot of a student’s racially offensive text messages spread throughout my school, we all anticipated action, but were left disappointed. This lack of initiative brought together both people of color and white allies in my school. We collectively went to our school’s Instagram page and started respectively sharing instances of racist experiences that numerous people have dealt with, but they soon disabled the comment section and held a town hall meeting to address the prevalent racial issues. While this was a step forward, the students who were given a chance to speak were predetermined and others could not share their side of the story. As a result, a few friends and I created SOCA (Students of Color Alliance) to provide a platform for all students to share their experiences. We hosted our own town hall meetings, created merchandise where one-hundred percent of the proceeds went to organizations centered on racial issues, and tried to make our school more welcoming to those who constantly feel alienated. The responses we would get at the end of each meeting that demonstrated how people felt relieved to share what was on their minds was a gratifying feeling that made all of our efforts worth it. However, the issue goes beyond my school. Racial divides are present everywhere and are not confined to the boundaries of my school - rather, the boundaries of the world. These problems are often dismissed by most because they do not affect us directly, but the only way to incite change and eliminate these metaphorical boundaries is to take action. Without being aware of these issues in the first place, no further steps can be taken, so, around a year ago, I started Project Overlooked. Project Overlooked is a podcast that discusses prevalent issues that are not receiving the coverage they require to help countries get out of their predicaments. This is a project that would have a more significant impact the longer I worked on it, so I committed. I compiled research, recorded my findings, and slowly, but surely, watched it grow. At first, just the platforms it was available on grew but then, my audience grew as well. The demographic expanded as my views expanded, from just the United States to fourteen other countries and from two views a week to over 5000 cumulatively. Every new view is a person who is aware of something they previously were not, and although the impact from one person may be small at first, stopping early on would have limited any potential the podcast had, so I knew that I was in it for the long run. As months passed, not only did I learn about various humanitarian issues around the world, but I also learned how to share this information with others effectively. Through experimentation, I discovered the best times to post, the platforms better suited for marketing educational podcasts, and unique ways to appeal to an extensive demographic. I have already created what I want to create - a platform to discuss issues that those in jeopardy can not voice themselves. However, I want to create a platform that is even more expansive - one that reaches more people and can have a more significant impact. Having a more significant impact is vital to the world because it can bring countries out of issues that they have been dealing with. The word of mouth is incredibly powerful and through my creation, my podcast, I want people to understand the significance of their voice or lack thereof. Choosing to stay silent in times of crisis can be detrimental, but choosing to be proactive can have an impact no one thought they were capable of. I mean, that is exactly what happened to me with Project Overlooked, so why couldn’t it happen to anyone else?

I took a step outside the sliding, glass doors and a gust of warm, heavy air hit my glasses, immediately developing a layer of fog. I was no longer in the United States, I was in India. The humidity was not much of a surprise but the look on my relatives' faces was. After not being able to see them for six years, I, and my family, felt like we were meeting completely different people. I was now fourteen, not eight, my hair sat at my hip instead of my ears, and my face was unrecognizable. One thing stayed constant, however, and that was our inability to communicate freely. I was born in Santa Clara, California - the first of my family to be born anywhere but India - and without the language being regularly around me, I never fully grasped it. At my uncle's wedding, this was much more difficult to deal with than expected. As I roamed around the reception area, several stands of street food surrounded me and I felt an urgent need to go to every single one. With my mouth watering and pockets full of clinking spare change, I approached the vendor that appealed to me the most - the one with fried samosas and aromatic chutneys. Pleased that I chose his shop, the vendor spewed words out of his mouth that I assumed were about costs and menus, but they jumbled into a heap of confusion when they reached me. Trying to find a relative who could help me, I scanned each room hoping I came across someone I knew. Finally, I spotted a bright red and yellow sari, an Indian garment, from the corner of my eye and knew I found my grandmother. I tried to explain the situation I was in, but that required being able to speak the language. I was stuck. The vendors were about to close, my parents were nowhere to be seen, and my stomach was still craving samosas. Although I never got my samosas, I felt a void that went beyond my stomach. I knew that not being able to speak Hindi fluently would be a hindrance to my relationship with my family and I could not bear to watch us grow apart right before my eyes. I went through the sliding glass doors once more, but this time I was back in Virginia, now with the realization that in the United States, I was too Indian and while I was in India, I was not Indian enough. I was always in between, but instead of being complacent, I tried to learn Hindi and become closer to both cultures. Every time I passed by the living room and saw an Indian movie playing, I would watch it over and over again, trying to understand the grammar first and then enjoying the plot. Then came videos, Duolingo, and my parents' conversations. Whenever I would hear Hindi, I was interpreting it, and slowly but surely, I gained a much deeper fluency of the language. Calls with my relatives become more frequent and much more natural. Every time I got a response to a sentence I said in Hindi, I could not help but smile knowing that I helped break a barrier. I was getting closer to family even though, physically, we were half a globe apart. I will always be connected, yet somewhat disjointed from both cultures, but that is who I am. I am the person who celebrates Holi, a festival of colors, every year but will also celebrate Thanksgiving with friends and family. I am a combination of two cultures, and by neglecting one, I would be neglecting a part of me. That is exactly why learning Hindi was so important to me. I did not want to lose a part of me that could I be so easily connected to by putting in my best efforts.

Bandersnatch: The Sequel Accept. Decline. Stefan’s path was in my hands. As if my body had control over my mind, my hand lifted itself, pointed the remote directly at the television screen, and pressed the choice on the left. Accept. Stefan accepted the job that he believed would take off his video game career, however a combination of deadlines, stress, and negative reviews led to its demise. Another disappointing ending of Bandersnatch, an interactive movie where I was in control of the choices made, but I refused to end on a sour note. I tried again. Decline. Stefan rejected the offer this time, but I sat, dejected, as Stefan threw tea over his laptop in a rage. All of his progress vanished, his mental health spiraled, and my screen faded to black once more. In hopes of reaching a happy ending, I got stuck in a cycle - changing each decision, analyzing its impact on the next, and discovering every pathway. Exhausting ending after ending, perfection still slipped out of reach. I stopped trying to find the "correct" sequence of events and instead shifted my thoughts to my own life, wondering what it could have been if someone else was behind the screen, making decisions for me. Keep Walking. Knock. Keep walking. I walked home from school alone, head down but raised just enough to catch a glimpse of my neighbors walking in groups in front of me, talking and laughing in a conversation I wished I was a part of. After moving halfway across the country, I longed for a friendship like theirs but rather than initiate conversation, I strolled past their door every day, sinking into my solitude. Even though I desired to knock, I never did. I never got to know my neighbors, their personalities, their interests, and although we would acknowledge each other with a nod now and then, we diverged onto our separate ways every time. Knock. The maroon door across from our patio, with its doormat barely visible under the countless pairs of shoes, and the familiar smell of Indian food wafting through their windows all compelled me to get to know my neighbors. I knocked with the simple intention of making a new friend, unaware of how this fleeting decision would result in lasting outcomes. Suddenly, I was playing Just Dance in their living room, skateboarding after school, talking and laughing with my new friends. While our backpacks swayed from side to side with each step we took, I would listen to them discuss field hockey skills they learned from their practice the day before but I was not expecting to join them that Sunday. Before long, I was thrown into this sport alongside big-hearted players just like my neighbors, knowing it would not have been possible without walking up to their doorsteps. I pressed the choice on the right, and for that, I will forever be grateful. This mere knock introduced me to a constant in my life - a sport that has stuck with me from California to Virginia, from age seven to seventeen. Waking up at five a.m. to drive to various tournaments, losing track of time while diligently practicing for hours a day, and jumping with joy after winning the state championships are all scenes that will forever be locked in my version of Bandersnatch. When deciding Stefan’s next move, I had initially believed that I had control, but that was never the case. Bandersnatch was the controller of its story and I am the controller of mine. Bound to face major crossroads every step of my way, I will continue to face each decision head-on, without fear of reaching an incorrect path because the only correct path to my life is the one I create. Even if someone else is behind a screen, remote in hand, making decisions for me, I control my ending.