I was maybe 11, sprawled on our lumpy couch in our Brooklyn apartment, sneaking my dad’s old anatomy book from the coffee table while he yelled at a soccer game on our staticky TV. The smell of my mom’s mole sauce was everywhere, and she’d nudge me, saying, “Mijo, you’re gonna fix brains one day.” I’m a first-generation bangladeshi who left their world behind for me and my sister. Now, as a biology major at Medgar Evers College, I’m dead set on becoming a neurologist. This scholarship would be like a rope pulling me up the mountain, keeping me from stressing about bills so I can focus on my dream. Growing up, our place was chaos—my sister blasting reggaeton, my parents arguing in Spanish about overtime shifts. Dad’s a janitor, Mom’s a cashier, and neither got past grade school in Mexico. College stuff? That was all on me. I’d hunker down at our chipped kitchen counter, my phone propped up with a cracked screen, trying to decode FAFSA or scholarship essays while texting my friend Eddie, “Yo, what’s an ‘unofficial transcript’?” We’d figure it out, laughing through the panic. Those moments, fumbling through forms, made me tough—like, if I can survive this, I can survive anything. I want to be a neurologist, digging into why brains do what they do—how they hold memories or short-circuit with stuff like Alzheimer’s. I dream of working with patients in places like my neighborhood, where folks don’t always have doctors who get them. After college, I’m gunning for med school, and down the line, I want to open a clinic where Spanish-speaking families don’t feel like outsiders. I’ve been shadowing a doctor at a local hospital, and every time I see him explain a diagnosis in simple words, I’m like, “That’s who I’m gonna be.” This scholarship would take a huge weight off. College is a money pit, and my parents are already scraping by to cover our rent. I sling burgers at a diner on weekends, but it’s not enough for textbooks, let alone tuition. This money would mean fewer shifts, more time for bio labs, maybe even a shot at a summer research program on brain injuries. It’d help me save for med school apps without feeling like I’m letting my family down. It’s a chance to keep my head in the game. I’m just a dude who used to sketch brains on napkins, but my parents’ guts to start over in a new country fuel me. They gave up everything for me, and I’m not stopping until I’m a doctor helping communities like ours. This scholarship would be like them saying, “Keep going, mijo.” It’s not just money—it’s a push to make their sacrifice mean something.

I was 15 when I realized college was a puzzle my parents couldn’t help me solve. We were crammed in our tiny apartment, the kind where the walls smell like old paint and my mom’s arroz con pollo. She was hovering over me, her hands twisting a dish towel, saying, “You’ll go to college, mijo, you have to.” But when I asked her what a “major” was, she just smiled and shrugged. As a first-generation American, born to Guatemalan immigrants, I’m heading into higher education with a heart full of dreams and a stomach full of nerves. My family’s journey has shaped every step I’ve taken and every goal I’m chasing. School was always my thing, but not the way it was for kids whose parents had college degrees. My dad, who drives a delivery truck, and my mom, who cleans houses, didn’t know about SATs or deadlines. I’d sit at our scratched-up coffee table, scrolling through college websites on a glitchy laptop, feeling like I was decoding a secret language. I’d text my friend Maria, who’s also first-gen, like, “Yo, what’s an early decision?” We’d laugh, but it was scary. I leaned on teachers, stayed late at school, and watched YouTube videos on scholarships until my eyes burned. Every form I filled out felt like a win, like I was proving I could do this. Still, I’m freaked out about college. I picture myself in some huge lecture hall, surrounded by kids who grew up with college fairs and prep courses, while I’m over here Googling “how to talk to professors.” Money’s the big one, though. My parents already skip dinners out to pay our rent, and the idea of loans makes me feel like I’m betraying them. But their struggle pushes me. My dad’s calloused hands, my mom’s tired smiles—they remind me I’m not just doing this for me. I’m carrying their hopes, too. Being a second-generation immigrant is why I want to study education. I’ve seen my parents get stuck because they didn’t know the system—language barriers, forms they couldn’t read. I want to be a high school counselor, someone who can sit with kids like me and say, “I get it, let’s figure this out together.” I dream of starting a program for first-gen students, a place where we can get help with applications, find mentors, or just talk about how weird it feels to be the first in your family doing this. I want to make the path easier for the next kid. College feels like a giant leap, and I’m not gonna lie—I’m scared I’ll trip. But my parents crossed a border with nothing but faith, and that’s in my blood. Higher education is my shot to turn their sacrifices into something real: a degree, a career, a way to give back. I’m ready to mess up, learn, and keep going, because that’s what we do.