My mom decided to become a full-time artist when I was about 8 years old. We were living in Chicago, Illinois at the time – one of the biggest art hubs in the midwest. My brother and I were dragged to every gallery opening, museum exhibition, and bustling gallery hop; I accompanied my mom to artists’ studio visits of established mosaic muralists and fiber artists and whined tirelessly when my kid brain (and stomach… and bladder) had enough of being patient. But I began to become enamored by the community that surrounded us. I would walk into spaces hand in hand with my mom where we were instantly encapsulated by the aroma of shea butter and red wine coming from the black folks towering over me to my left and my right. We would explore the space and discover gorgeous sculptures and canvases positioned right next to artists' labels that revealed the names of people who could conjure up the power to create magic through their work. And they were black. Blackety, Blickety, Black. I felt seen and loved. I was rich. A few years later we moved to my mom’s hometown of Louisville, Kentucky where she rose to become an education director at an art museum. It was like making a mayonnaise sandwich with white bread every time I walked into that museum and any art space in the city. These museums and galleries would feature black artists from time to time, but their patrons never reflected what was on its walls or featured on pedestals. So I yearned for Chicago; for the warmth of Black spaces where I had the privilege of feeling seen. So I dream big dreams of change. Dreams that are no longer fleeting, but are plans being put into action. I dream of providing an opportunity in Louisville where financial circumstances don’t hinder a young black kid from getting their hands on needed tools for art making. I dream of curating spaces where the black people walking in are thought of just as much as the black art hung on the wall; from the smell, to the music being played, and the black face greeting them at the door. I dream of a city where artists are known as pillars of community, and, therefore, have the agency to analyze and create an image of blackness for themselves without the pressure of the white gaze. The same white gaze that has thwarted the psyche of black people in a society whose foundations were built on the dehumanization of their being. I aspire to make young black kids feel seen, loved, and rich in an art world that is far too white. This scholarship will give me a “push forward” by helping me afford the cost of attending Temple University in Philadelphia – an out of state school for me. It is a more expensive decision but I believe it is the best decision considering the rich art culture and history that Philly holds. I want to be able to learn from established art institutions and innovative leaders that reside in the city and in surrounding areas such NYC, DC, and Boston and bring that expertise back to Louisville and smaller cities similar to it.

Recently, an artist told me that I need to be on my own personal “pleasure journey”. A journey that consists of me stepping into different spaces and seeing what feels best to me. See, I came to this artist spewing out ideas of what I thought the life I might want to lead looked like. I told her how I wanted to manage visual artists, how I wanted to help them think through their process, and provide invaluable resources… but she cut me off before I could even finish this statement I’d been formulating for a while. She wasn’t impressed by this checklist I’d made for myself, but was more concerned about the lack of exploration of the world and myself that could occur because of the boxes I had just created. No one had ever given me the permission to explore what I find joy in and encouraged me to live a life rooted in that. I’ve been surrounded by a tribe of fighters, visionaries, and revolutionaries, people who see their purpose as living a life working for the betterment of the communities they identify with but never for the betterment of themselves; comrades and family members who lead protests, organize youth, and break boundaries from the streets all the way to corporate and government offices. But I’ve also seen its detriment on their mental and physical health and have been a witness to the effects of death threats, lack of sleep, stress, and anguish because of their active resistance to state sanctioned violence upon minority communities. Finding joy in the midst of it all didn’t seem like a priority. It was always the cause before self. I started to mimick these patterns during the uprisings following the murder of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and Ahmaud Arbery and began to become taunted by nightmares. I had nights where the sound of the wind beating against my window sounded like a million mumbling voices reciting all of my worst fears and it would bring me to tears. One night, as I sat in my living room watching TV, I heard an eruption… I jumped up out of my seat and hid behind a chair only to find out that the sound was from kids across the street setting off a firework. Fear consumed me to the point where every little sound terrified me. I realized my peace of mind was gone – my joy stolen. So my “pleasure journey” attending Temple University looks like being a part of the Art History program through the Tyler School of Art and Architecture for its interdisciplinary approach that provides the flexibility needed to explore what brings me joy. I intend to push the institution to fully embody one of its founding ideals, to create a community of “faculty and staff who foster inclusion and encourage the aspirations of Temple students”, in a way that values humanity before anything else. I would advocate for a college community where the mental health of students is a priority over traditional, elitists, academic norms that feed into a capitalist society that forces people to live to work instead of working to live. I want to challenge the notion that you have to endure a certain level of discomfort to reap benefits and encourage the Temple community to embark on their own individual “pleasure journey’s” as well; because why can’t we all live a life full of pleasure and joy?

At 14 years old I presented a speech in verse where I stated: “(Art) Museums in America are seen as white spaces, With white walls And white faces. So minorities proceed with caution.” I spoke of black contemporary artists such as: Simone Lee, Lina Iris Viktor, and Frohawk Two Feathers; artists’ whose talents surpass the usage of traditional tools like a paint brush to canvas or pencil to paper. Their artistic practice includes performance and video – among other mediums – while being rooted in historical analysis, philosophy, and the complexities of “blackness”. I said: “But many aren’t introduced to this side of art. Much young black talent is going to waste. . . . And too many not seeing art as an option.. . . . Opportunity is key. But if there’s no access, how are we to receive?” My mom decided to become a full-time artist when I was about 8 years old. We were living in Chicago, Illinois at the time – one of the biggest art hubs in the midwest. My brother and I were dragged to every gallery opening, museum exhibition, and bustling gallery hop; I accompanied my mom to artists’ studio visits of established mosaic muralists and fiber artists and whined tirelessly when my kid brain (and stomach… and bladder) had enough of being patient. But I began to become enamored by the community that surrounded us. I would walk into spaces hand in hand with my mom where we were instantly encapsulated by the aroma of shea butter and red wine coming from the black folks towering over me to my left and my right. We would explore the space and discover gorgeous sculptures and canvases positioned right next to artists' labels that revealed the names of people who could conjure up the power to create magic through their work. And they were black. Blackety, Blickety, Black. I felt seen and loved. I was rich. A few years later we moved to my mom’s hometown of Louisville, Kentucky where she rose to become an education director at an art museum. It was like making a mayonnaise sandwich with white bread every time I walked into that museum and any art space in the city. These museums and galleries would feature black artists from time to time, but their patrons never reflected what was on its walls or featured on pedestals. I yearned for Chicago; for the warmth of Black spaces where I had the privilege of feeling seen. So I dream big dreams of change. Dreams that are no longer fleeting, but are plans being put into action. I dream of providing an opportunity in Louisville where financial circumstances don’t hinder a young black kid from getting their hands on needed tools for art making. I dream of curating spaces where the black people walking in are thought of just as much as the black art hung on the wall; from the smell, to the music being played, and the black face greeting them at the door. I dream of a city where artists are known as pillars of community, and, therefore, have the agency to analyze and create an image of blackness for themselves without the pressure of the white gaze. The same white gaze that has thwarted the psyche of black people in a society whose foundations were built on the dehumanization of their being. I aspire to make young black kids feel seen, loved, and rich in an art world that is far too white.

Recently, an artist told me that I need to be on my own personal “pleasure journey”. A journey that consists of me stepping into different spaces and seeing what feels best to me. See, I came to this artist spewing out ideas of what I thought the life I might want to lead looked like. I told her how I wanted to manage visual artists, how I wanted to help them think through their process, and provide invaluable resources… but she cut me off before I could even finish this statement I’d been formulating for a while. She wasn’t impressed by this checklist I’d made for myself, but was more concerned about the lack of exploration of the world and myself that could occur because of the boxes I had just created. No one had ever given me the permission to explore what I find joy in and encouraged me to live a life rooted in that. I’ve been surrounded by a tribe of fighters, visionaries, and revolutionaries, people who see their purpose as living a life working for the betterment of the communities they identify with but never for the betterment of themselves; comrades and family members who lead protests, organize youth, and break boundaries from the streets all the way to corporate and government offices. But I’ve also seen its detriment on their mental and physical health and have been a witness to the effects of death threats, lack of sleep, stress, and anguish because of their active resistance to state sanctioned violence upon minority communities. Finding joy in the midst of it all didn’t seem like a priority. It was always the cause before self. I started to mimick these patterns during the uprisings following the murder of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and Ahmaud Arbery and began to become taunted by nightmares. I had nights where the sound of the wind beating against my window sounded like a million mumbling voices reciting all of my worst fears and it would bring me to tears. One night, as I sat in my living room watching TV, I heard an eruption… I jumped up out of my seat and hid behind a chair only to find out that the sound was from kids across the street setting off a firework. Fear consumed me to the point where every little sound terrified me. I realized my peace of mind was gone – my joy stolen. So I intend to pursue my “pleasure journey” at Temple University by being a part of the Art History program through the Tyler School of Art and Architecture for its interdisciplinary approach that provides the flexibility needed to explore what brings me joy. I intend to push the institution to fully embody one of its founding ideals, to create a community of “faculty and staff who foster inclusion and encourage the aspirations of Temple students”, in a way that values humanity before anything else. I would advocate for a college community where the mental health of students is a priority over traditional, elitists, academic norms that feed into a capitalist society that forces people to live to work instead of working to live. I want to challenge the notion that you have to endure a certain level of discomfort to reap benefits and encourage the Temple community, and beyond, to embark on their own individual “pleasure journey’s” as well; because why can’t we all live a life full of pleasure and joy? My role models are revolutionaries, artists, creators, cultivators, and lovers of all people; but most of the time at the expense of their own well being. I plan on taking all of the

Recently, an artist told me that I need to be on my own personal “pleasure journey”. A journey that consists of me stepping into different spaces and seeing what feels best to me. See, I came to this artist spewing out ideas of what I thought the life I might want to lead looked like. I told her how I wanted to manage visual artists, how I wanted to help them think through their process, and provide invaluable resources… but she cut me off before I could even finish this statement I’d been formulating for a while. She wasn’t impressed by this checklist I’d made for myself, but was more concerned about the lack of exploration of the world and myself that could occur because of the boxes I had just created. No one had ever given me the permission to explore what I find joy in and encouraged me to live a life rooted in that. I’ve been surrounded by a tribe of fighters, visionaries, and revolutionaries, people who see their purpose as living a life working for the betterment of the communities they identify with but never for the betterment of themselves; comrades and family members who lead protests, organize youth, and break boundaries from the streets all the way to corporate and government offices. But I’ve also seen its detriment on their mental and physical health and have been a witness to the effects of death threats, lack of sleep, stress, and anguish because of their active resistance to state sanctioned violence upon minority communities. Finding joy in the midst of it all didn’t seem like a priority. It was always the cause before self. I started to mimick these patterns during the uprisings following the murder of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and Ahmaud Arbery and began to become taunted by nightmares. I had nights where the sound of the wind beating against my window sounded like a million mumbling voices reciting all of my worst fears and it would bring me to tears. One night, as I sat in my living room watching TV, I heard an eruption… I jumped up out of my seat and hid behind a chair only to find out that the sound was from kids across the street setting off a firework. Fear consumed me to the point where every little sound terrified me. I realized my peace of mind was gone – my joy stolen. So I intend to pursue my “pleasure journey” at Temple University by being a part of the Art History program through the Tyler School of Art and Architecture for its interdisciplinary approach that provides the flexibility needed to explore what brings me joy and what fosters my many passions. I intend to push the institution to fully embody one of its founding ideals, to create a community of “faculty and staff who foster inclusion and encourage the aspirations of Temple students”, in a way that values humanity before anything else. I would advocate for a college community where the mental health of students is a priority over traditional, elitists, academic norms that feed into a capitalist society that forces people to live to work instead of working to live. I want to challenge the notion that you have to endure a certain level of discomfort to reap benefits and encourage the Temple community to embark on their own individual “pleasure journey’s” as well; because why can’t we all live a life full of pleasure and joy?

In November of 2019 I was sitting in my AP Language class. We were at tables that sat 5 students, two students going along the length of each side of the table and one at the end facing the front of the classroom. This day a couple of my table mates weren’t present so I had no one directly opposite of me. I had no one to face the dead expressions of a usually expressive face, my stifled tears, or my unusual muteness. I couldn’t make sense of life, of why I was made to do the things I was being asked to do… like writing a 10 page rough draft in a week. So after a month of preparing materials to write a 25 page research paper I became paralyzed by my crippling anxiety and I began to fall behind. My head felt like a bag of bricks and my body was the anchor pulling me further and further down. It didn’t help that it was starting to get cold and seasonal depression was looming, so my bed became my best friend, my safe haven, and one of my worst vices. The vice that dug me into a hole that progressively made it harder and harder for me to see any light. That November morning sitting in AP Lang, I felt like all of my light ran out. Luckily for me, real life angels are always watching out for me, so as I grabbed my phone to rush to the door my teacher had already written a note for me to go to the counselors office. She said I hadn’t been acting like myself later. She saw me. I was grateful. When I exited her room I b-lined it to the nearest bathroom where I paced back and forth while sobbing to my mom on the phone. It was if every tear released me of a bit of fear, and there, and my mom convinced me to start trying to dig myself out of the deep, dark hole I was in. The following weeks I became close with my school counselor, therapists, teachers and myself. All people who were helping me fight to find my light. So we all came together to create a game plan. A plan consisting of an open door policy to any of their offices, a plan that accessed my capacity to complete large scale projects and adjustments made to meet that capacity, and therapy sessions nearly every week. They, along with others, were my accountability partners when I felt myself descending back into my hole and my cheerleaders whenever I started to find my stride. I leaned on them for support and they refused to let me fall. This is my thank you to them. Thank you for teaching me what resilience looks and feels like. Thank you for letting me know that my self agency is a strength, that if used correctly, can protect me from falling too deep again. Thank you for teaching me that reaching out for help will only make me stronger. And lastly, thank you for grabbing me by the hand and pulling me up. You all reintroduced me to the light and taught me what to do when it becomes hard to see it again.

At 14 years old I presented a speech in verse where I stated: “(Art) Museums in America are seen as white spaces, With white walls And white faces. So minorities proceed with caution. I spoke of black contemporary artists such as: Simone Lee, Lina Iris Viktor, and Frohawk Two Feathers; artists’ whose talents surpass the usage of traditional tools like a paint brush to canvas or pencil to paper. Their artistic practice includes performance and video – among other mediums – while being rooted in historical analysis, philosophy, and the complexities of “blackness”. I said: “But many aren’t introduced to this side of art. Much young black talent is going to waste. . . . And too many not seeing art as an option.. . . . Opportunity is key. But if there’s no access, how are we to receive?” My mom decided to become a full-time artist when I was about 8 years old. We were living in Chicago, Illinois at the time – one of the biggest art hubs in the midwest. My brother and I were dragged to every gallery opening, museum exhibition, and bustling gallery hop; I accompanied my mom to artists’ studio visits of established mosaic muralists and fiber artists and whined tirelessly when my kid brain (and stomach… and bladder) had enough of being patient. But I began to become enamored by the community that surrounded us. I would walk into spaces hand in hand with my mom where we were instantly encapsulated by the aroma of shea butter and red wine coming from the black folks towering over me to my left and my right. We would explore the space and discover gorgeous sculptures and canvases positioned right next to artists' labels that revealed the names of people who could conjure up the power to create magic through their work. And they were black. Blackety, Blickety, Black. I felt seen and loved. I was rich. A few years later we moved to my mom’s hometown of Louisville, Kentucky where she rose to become an education director at an art museum. It was like making a mayonnaise sandwich with white bread every time I walked into that museum and any art space in the city. These museums and galleries would feature black artists from time to time, but their patrons never reflected what was on its walls or featured on pedestals. I yearned for Chicago; for the warmth of Black spaces where I had the privilege of feeling seen. So I dream big dreams of change. Dreams that are no longer fleeting, but are plans being put into action. I dream of providing an opportunity in Louisville where financial circumstances don’t hinder a young black kid from getting their hands on needed tools for art making. I dream of curating spaces where the black people walking in are thought of just as much as the black art hung on the wall; from the smell, to the music being played, and the black face greeting them at the door. I dream of a city where artists are known as pillars of community, and, therefore, have the agency to analyze and create an image of blackness for themselves without the pressure of the white gaze. The same white gaze that has thwarted the psyche of black people in a society whose foundations were built on the dehumanization of their being. I aspire to make young black kids feel seen, loved, and rich in an art world that is far too white.

At 14 years old I presented a speech in verse where I stated: “(Art) Museums in America are seen as white spaces, With white walls And white faces. So minorities proceed with caution." I spoke of black contemporary artists such as: Simone Lee, Lina Iris Viktor, and Frohawk Two Feathers; artists’ whose talents surpass the usage of traditional tools like a paint brush to canvas or pencil to paper. Their artistic practice includes performance and video – among other mediums – while being rooted in historical analysis, philosophy, and the complexities of “blackness”. I said: “But many aren’t introduced to this side of art. Much young black talent is going to waste. . . . And too many not seeing art as an option.. . . . Opportunity is key. But if there’s no access, how are we to receive?” My mom decided to become a full-time artist when I was about 8 years old. We were living in Chicago, Illinois at the time – one of the biggest art hubs in the midwest. My brother and I were dragged to every gallery opening, museum exhibition, and bustling gallery hop; I accompanied my mom to artists’ studio visits of established mosaic muralists and fiber artists and whined tirelessly when my kid brain (and stomach… and bladder) had enough of being patient. But I began to become enamored by the community that surrounded us. I would walk into spaces hand in hand with my mom where we were instantly encapsulated by the aroma of shea butter and red wine coming from the black folks towering over me to my left and my right. We would explore the space and discover gorgeous sculptures and canvases positioned right next to artists' labels that revealed the names of people who could conjure up the power to create magic through their work. And they were black. Blackety, Blickety, Black. I felt seen and loved. I was rich. A few years later we moved to my mom’s hometown of Louisville, Kentucky where she rose to become an education director at an art museum. It was like making a mayonnaise sandwich with white bread every time I walked into that museum and any art space in the city. These museums and galleries would feature black artists from time to time, but their patrons never reflected what was on its walls or featured on pedestals. I yearned for Chicago; for the warmth of Black spaces where I had the privilege of feeling seen. So I dream big dreams of change. Dreams that are no longer fleeting, but are plans being put into action. I dream of providing an opportunity in Louisville where financial circumstances don’t hinder a young black kid from getting their hands on needed tools for art making. I dream of curating spaces where the black people walking in are thought of just as much as the black art hung on the wall; from the smell, to the music being played, and the black face greeting them at the door. I dream of a city where artists are known as pillars of community, and, therefore, have the agency to analyze and create an image of blackness for themselves without the pressure of the white gaze. The same white gaze that has thwarted the psyche of black people in a society whose foundations were built on the dehumanization of their being. I aspire to make young black kids feel seen, loved, and rich in an art world that is far too white.

My mom decided to become a full-time artist when I was about 8 years old. We were living in Chicago, Illinois at the time – one of the biggest art hubs in the midwest. My brother and I were dragged to every gallery opening, museum exhibition, and bustling gallery hop; I accompanied my mom to artists’ studio visits of established mosaic muralists and fiber artists and whined tirelessly when my kid brain (and stomach… and bladder) had enough of being patient. But I began to become enamored by the community that surrounded us. I would walk into spaces hand in hand with my mom where we were instantly encapsulated by the aroma of shea butter and red wine coming from the black folks towering over me to my left and my right. We would explore the space and discover gorgeous sculptures and canvases positioned right next to artists' labels that revealed the names of people who could conjure up the power to create magic through their work. And they were black. Blackety, Blickety, Black. I felt seen and loved. I was rich. A few years later we moved to my mom’s hometown of Louisville, Kentucky where she rose to become an education director at an art museum. It was like making a mayonnaise sandwich with white bread every time I walked into that museum and any art space in the city. These museums and galleries would feature black artists from time to time, but their patrons never reflected what was on its walls or featured on pedestals. So I yearned for Chicago; for the warmth of Black spaces where I had the privilege of feeling seen. So I dream big dreams of change. Dreams that are no longer fleeting, but are plans being put into action. I dream of providing an opportunity in Louisville where financial circumstances don’t hinder a young black kid from getting their hands on needed tools for art making. I dream of curating spaces where the black people walking in are thought of just as much as the black art hung on the wall; from the smell, to the music being played, and the black face greeting them at the door. I dream of a city where artists are known as pillars of community, and, therefore, have the agency to analyze and create an image of blackness for themselves without the pressure of the white gaze. The same white gaze that has thwarted the psyche of black people in a society whose foundations were built on the dehumanization of their being. I dream of making young black kids feel seen, loved, and rich in an art world that is far too white.