I looked at the front gates of students lined with their parents, hugging, kissing, and wishing them a good day. Then I looked toward the negative space before me—what should be there but wasn’t. I went home to nothing—an abandoned apartment, a claustrophobic cot people would call home—but it was far from it. With Mami and Babi at work, the solitude had become filling. In those moments, it felt like I was taking up unnecessary space. But there was one place I felt comfortable filling: the living room couch on Thursday nights. It was the only school night Mami would let me stay up past eight. On Thursday nights, the living room lights were off, the only glow coming from our old TV. I was small enough to sink into the worn couch wedged awkwardly between Mami and Babi. “Irefe—*Stop,” Mami hissed when my elbow pressed too hard against her side. I remember the scent of her Irish Spring soap as we settled in for Betoch, an Amharic sitcom about a dysfunctional Ethiopian family we watched religiously every Thursday night. I didn’t understand the jokes even when Babi laughed—a deep, rare cackle that startled me each time. But Betoch somehow spoke to our family’s imperfection and deep love hidden beneath our gritty jokes. I looked less at the screen and more at their faces, watching how the story unfolded for them. Betoch reminded them of the laughter home once brought—the laughter they sacrificed so I could have a better life. While nestled between them, I felt warm, safe, and wanted. If a simple story could bring my family together like that, I wanted to create stories that could do the same for others. That night, I dreamt of giving warmth to a little girl who only felt the chill of solitude. That dream became my love for filmmaking. My art is rooted in connection—in giving people the comfort I once found in flickering light and shared laughter. Through my films, I explore family, culture, and the small, quiet spaces where love hides. This scholarship would give me the freedom to keep creating, to study film more deeply, and to continue exploring how stories can heal, unify, and reveal the beauty within imperfection. It would allow me to work on projects that spotlight immigrant families and voices often left unheard, to make the kind of art that bridges cultures rather than separates them. More than financial aid, this scholarship represents a chance to honor the people who raised me through sacrifice and silence. It’s a way to take the laughter that once filled our small living room and share it with the world—to turn solitude into storytelling, and storytelling into connection.

Anidi … Huleti … Sositi … I can count the number of times I've seen Mami smile on two hands. When she wasn’t scowling at my math grades or frowning in frustration as I failed yet again to evenly spread the injera batter on the metad, her face held this cold, muteness of a statue. Ultimately, I can narrow it down to a few. Disapproval can be contradictory when Mami is involved. A chain shackled us both to this awful contention and as hard as it was to describe, we weren’t that complicated; we simply didn’t like each other. I've grown used to navigating the tension between me and my mother. Growing up, Mami clung tightly to our cultural traditions while I drifted further from them. Our relationship, strained by my desire for freedom and her commitment to culture, became one of disapproval, solidifying our paradoxical relationship. My academic achievement benefited from this struggle as I often used distractions, using academics as an escape. I joined clubs and numerous organizations, believing that distance would ease the conflict. But this avoidance came at a cost, shutting me off from the one woman who was a reminder of reality. However, everything changed when I documented my mother's process of baking injera for a class assignment. I dreaded doing so since I was used to her routine. Yet strangely, through a lens, I discovered her ire as she rolled the grill with tightened muscles. I asked myself how she felt, repeating that routine for years, just scraping by as she cooked her skin in the heat. I realized then that I was so caught up in my fantasy that I failed to realize why I'd rarely seen her smile. By understanding my mother's sacrifice, I've been able to appreciate the complications of my life. Embracing my indifference to my mother's ideals while appreciating her sacrifice led me to deeper self-awareness. I no longer view my academics as an escape but as a gateway to a better future. Through my academic pursuits, I keep these recurring thoughts in my head: that my mother's imperfections aren't faults that seek to destroy, but a part of her identity, and a part of her beauty I've come to admire. I found growth in Mami's flaws. Our disagreements continue over contrasting views, but our words don't hit like fists or leave scars in their post. Our differences aren't a curse. They never were.