Nearly my entire life, I have been told by teachers and family members alike that I should be a teacher. I heard it so much that I began to believe it, setting myself up to be an educator until I was 15 years-old. In the last couple of months of my sophomore year, I developed an independent study with a respected history teacher; it changed my life. I created a semester-long course in which I looked at four instances in American history where minorities were considered suspects and discriminated against. Upon entering my junior year and executing the class, I discovered where my true passion lies: telling the ignored stories. I began to struggle with abandoning my lifelong dream of teaching because I had firsthand experience with how much teachers change lives every day, and I wanted to have the kind of impact that many have had on me. However, I realized that by being a teacher, I had to enforce the altered narrative many American students subscribe to because that is what they learned from those they trust. I wanted to change the narrative to allow every story to be told. I want to ensure that no one walks into a history classroom and doesn’t see themselves by learning the same safe narrative created to be easy and comfortable to digest by the people benefiting from the system every day. I want it to be hard because history was hard. I want it to have an acceptable level of discomfort because if everyone is comfortable, the truth isn’t being told. And the only way I can make the changes that need to happen is if I am making the maps, not following the GPS. To be able to make the maps, I will go to college. I want every history class in America to remove their blinders, to see everything, no matter how distasteful it may be. To have a well-rounded perspective of American history, I plan on pursuing an interdisciplinary American Studies degree, which allows me to take courses in many diverse areas of study, humanizing the very cut-and-dry subject that history is often in execution. That is not going to be easy. I want to make these changes, and this scholarship will help me immensely. It will allow me to make the maps, and the effects will ripple for generations. It would allow a more complete narrative and encourage more connections between present and past, making the subject matter more accessible to students and allowing them to feel more empathy for the events that they are learning about, as opposed to feeling disconnected from some of the most formative moments in human history. I hope that, in my pursuit of an American Studies education over an American History major, I can gain a more well-rounded understanding of history as well as myself and pull the most seemingly confusing historical event down to a more accessible level, creating an understanding that will affect generations to come.

“21/22 History MVP. Don’t stop fighting and don’t stop believing. You can make the world a better place.” This note was a parting gift from someone who changed my life. Mr. Tom Sheppard, my 10th grade US history teacher, showed me how to combine my passions and talents in order to have an impactful future. Every year in school we learn about World War II, but somehow, after 11 years, I learned of something that no one had mentioned to me: Japanese incarceration camps. I starred that term in my notes and went up to Mr. Sheppard after class to understand why this wasn’t taught in any other history classroom, and why they were in his. He told me the Japanese incarceration camps aren't part of the history curriculum, but that was why he thought they were so important to teach. He believed that the parts of history that were omitted were just as important as the parts that are included. This conversation sat in the back of my mind for months, nagging. What other significant historical events are obscured, and why? And so I approached Mr. Sheppard with the idea for an independent study: I will go out and find times in American history that are hidden or censored and uncover them. The independent study form at my high school hadn’t been touched in so many years that my counselor had to dig through a dusty box to find it, but I was beyond grateful that I had access to an opportunity like this one. I talked with nearly every history teacher in school to see if they had any ideas, and I landed on four: the Salem witch trials, the Japanese incarceration camps, integration in the South, and the AIDS epidemic. Here I was: digging through books that hadn’t been checked out of the collegiate library in our town since the seventies, consuming every piece of information that I could get my hands on. In developing and carrying out the independent study, I learned two things. I learned that I can take my education into my own hands and that the stories of individuals are my passion. Because what is history if not a shattered mosaic of individuals, and how can it be complete if so many pieces are missing? Once I had this epiphany, I realized that I can be the one to make sure that pieces aren’t missing, and this led me to curriculum development. Education is our most powerful tool for a better future, so let’s make sure the next generation is getting the whole picture. Mr. Sheppard helped me fill a gap in that mosaic so that I can do it for others; to ensure equity in history classrooms around the country; to make sure everyone sees themselves in their lessons; to make sure every voice is heard. Ever since then, I have learned so much and connected with many people, and it all ties back to one morning when someone widened my perspective.

No one can say that leadership is easy; it is one of the scariest things someone can do, taking on the responsibility of so many people. Anyone can do it, but like with most things, practice is essential. My most rewarding leadership position was as Lead Intern at the APS Summer Learning Camp, a summer school for kids slightly lagging behind their peers, but we call it camp because we want it to be exciting for kids from 5 to 14 years old. One of the main components in making the kids excited for the day is our interns, who can be anywhere from 12 to 18 years old. If you have ever met teens, you know that asking them to go outside their comfort zone and embarrass themselves a little bit is no small task, especially when you are one yourself. Every day, we started our day off with campfires, where we would get together, and someone would talk about our “theme” for the week, and then the interns would stand in front of hundreds of kids, some being their peers, and sing and dance to a camp song. Even for someone comfortable in front of crowds, intentionally embarrassing yourself like this is not easy, but being a leader means you need to push down your discomfort to set an example. No matter how uncomfortable I was, I knew my enthusiasm was contagious not only to my interns but to my kids too. Many kids attending camp didn’t want to be there, and it felt like no matter how fun we made it, they weren’t fooled. They knew that this was school; that made my team’s enthusiasm all the more important. It was always easier to get the younger kids on their feet, but with the older kids, a lot were distant. There was this seventh grader, Jaz, who was always stony no matter the situation. She ignored snacks every day, wouldn’t even enter the Reading Bus, and overall, refused to participate. On the last day of camp, we had an activity where we would dance around the room (or at least walk with a bit of pizazz), and then when the music stopped, you would find a partner and tell them something you loved about camp. She was standing against the wall, as always, but I needed a partner, so I danced my way over as dramatically as possible and told her that I loved our campfires the most because I got to see everyone’s smiling faces. She looked confused and said her favorite part of the day was watching me lead the campfires because I was always so happy. This abrasive kid appreciated me, even as she scowled at me from the corner. Leadership not only impacts those whom you are directly leading but countless others that you never could have imagined. There have been so many kids from camp that come up to give me a running hug because they “remember me from camp,” and the excitement on their faces makes me forget that I might not even know their names. I made an impact; there is no better feeling than that. Even through the sleepless nights, stomach-turning embarrassment, and absurd levels of stress, these kids saw me as a harbor. And isn’t that what leadership is, being a sanctuary despite personal struggles?

“21/22 History MVP. Don’t stop fighting and don’t stop believing. You can make the world a better place.” This note was a parting gift from someone who changed my life. Mr. Tom Sheppard, my 10th grade US history teacher, showed me how to combine my passions and talents in order to have an impactful future. Every year in school we learn about World War II, but somehow, after 11 years, I learned of something that no one had mentioned to me: Japanese incarceration camps. I starred that term in my notes and went up to Mr. Sheppard after class to understand why this wasn’t taught in any other history classroom, and why they were in his. He told me the Japanese incarceration camps aren't part of the history curriculum, but that was why he thought they were so important to teach. He believed that the parts of history that were omitted were just as important as the parts that are included. This conversation sat in the back of my mind for months, nagging. What other significant historical events are obscured, and why? And so I approached Mr. Sheppard with the idea for an independent study: I will go out and find times in American history that are hidden or censored and uncover them. The independent study form at my high school hadn’t been touched in so many years that my counselor had to dig through a dusty box to find it, but I was beyond grateful that I had access to an opportunity like this one. I talked with nearly every history teacher in school to see if they had any ideas, and I landed on four: the Salem witch trials, the Japanese incarceration camps, integration in the South, and the AIDS epidemic. While many of my peers sought out every advanced class our high school offered, I was here: digging through books that hadn’t been checked out of the collegiate library in our town since the seventies, consuming every piece of information that I could get my hands on. In developing and carrying out the independent study, I learned two things. I learned that I can take my education into my own hands and that the stories of individuals are my passion. Because what is history if not a shattered mosaic of individuals, and how can it be complete if so many pieces are missing? Once I had this epiphany, I realized that I can be the one to make sure that pieces aren’t missing, and this led me to curriculum development. The only way to ensure that Japanese incarceration camps and the AIDS epidemic and the Salem Witch Trials and the Tuskegee study and so much more aren’t forgotten is to make sure they are taught to our kids. Education is our most powerful tool for a better future, so let’s make sure they are getting the whole picture. Mr. Sheppard helped me fill a gap in that mosaic so that I can do it for others; to ensure equity in history classrooms around the country; to make sure everyone sees themselves in their lessons; to make sure every voice is heard. Ever since then, I have learned so much and connected with so many people, and it all ties back to one winter morning when a man widened my perspective.

Nearly my entire life, I have been told by teachers and family members alike that I should be a teacher. I heard it so much that I began to believe it, setting myself up to be an educator until I was 15 years old. In the last couple of months of my sophomore year, I developed an independent study with a respected history teacher, and it changed my life. I created a semester-long course in which I looked at four instances in American history in which minorities were considered suspect and discriminated against. Upon entering my junior year and executing the class, I discovered where my true passion lies: telling the ignored stories. I began to struggle with abandoning my lifelong dream of teaching because I had firsthand experience with how much teachers change lives every day, and I wanted to have the kind of impact that many have had on me. However, I realized that by being a teacher, I had to enforce the altered narrative that many American students subscribe to because that is what they learned from those they trust. I realized I wanted to change the narrative to allow every story to be told. I want to ensure that no one walks into a history classroom and doesn’t see themselves by learning the same safe narrative created to be easy and comfortable to digest by the people benefiting from the system every day. I want it to be hard because history was hard. I want it to have an acceptable level of discomfort because if everyone is comfortable, the truth isn’t being told. And the only way I can make the changes that need to happen is if I am making the maps, not following the GPS. To be able to make the maps, I will develop curricula at the national level. I want every history class in America to remove their blinders, to see everything, no matter how distasteful it may be. To have a well-rounded perspective of American history, I plan on pursuing an interdisciplinary American Studies degree, which allows me to take courses in many diverse areas of study, humanizing the very cut-and-dry subject that history is often in execution. If more history classes included other areas of study, it would allow a complete narrative and encourage more connections between present and past, making the subject matter more accessible to students and allowing them to feel more empathy for the events that they are learning about, as opposed to feeling disconnected from some of the most formative moments in human history. I hope that, in my pursuit of an American Studies education over an American History major, I can gain a more well-rounded understanding of history as well as myself and pull the most seemingly confusing historical event down to a more accessible level, creating an understanding that will affect generations to come.

Nearly my entire life, I have been told by everyone I know that I was meant to be a teacher. I heard it so much that I began to believe it, setting myself up to be an educator up until I was 15 years old. In the last couple of months of my sophomore year, I developed an independent study with a history teacher, and it changed my life. I created a semester-long course in which I looked at 4 instances in American history that minorities were considered suspect and consequently were discriminated against. Upon entering my junior year and executing the class, I discovered where my true passion lies: telling the stories that are swept under the rug. I began to struggle with the idea of abandoning my lifelong dream of teaching, because I had firsthand experience with how much teachers change lives every day, and I wanted to have the kind of impact that many have had on me. However, I realized that by being a teacher, I had to enforce the altered narrative that many American students subscribe to because that is what they learned from those that they trust. I realized that I wanted to change the narrative, allowing every story to be told. I want to make sure that no one walks into a history classroom and doesn’t see themselves, learning the same safe narrative that was painted to be easy and comfortable to digest by the people that are benefiting from the system every day. I want it to be hard because history was hard. I want there to be an acceptable level of discomfort, because if everyone is comfortable, then the truth isn’t being told. And the only way that I can make the changes that need to be made is if I am making the maps, not following the GPS. To be able to make the maps, I will develop curricula at the national level. I want every history class in America to have their blinders removed, seeing everything, no matter how distasteful it is. To have a well-rounded perspective of American history, I plan on pursuing an interdisciplinary American Studies degree, which will allow me to take courses in many diverse areas of study, humanizing the very cut-and-dry subject that history is often in execution. If more history classes included other areas of study, it would allow a more complete narrative to be taught, and it would allow more connections between present and past, making the subject matter more accessible for students, and allowing them to feel more empathy for the events that they are learning about, as opposed to feeling disconnected from some of the most formative moments in human history. I hope that, in my pursuit of an American Studies education over an American History major, I can gain a more well-rounded understanding of history myself, and pull the most seemingly difficult historical event down to a more accessible level, creating an understanding that will affect generations to come.

Nearly my entire life, I have been told by teachers and family members alike that I was meant to be a teacher. I heard it so much that I began to believe it, setting myself up to be an educator up until I was 15 years old. In the last couple of months of my sophomore year, I developed an independent study with a respected history teacher, and it quite literally changed my life. I created a semester-long course in which I looked at 4 instances in American history that minorities were considered suspect and consequently were discriminated against. Upon entering my junior year and executing the class, I discovered where my true passion lies: telling the stories that are swept under the rug. I began to struggle with the idea of abandoning my lifelong dream of teaching, because I had firsthand experience with how much teachers change lives every day, and I wanted to have the kind of impact that many have had on me. However, I realized that by being a teacher, I had to enforce the altered narrative that many American students subscribe to because that is what they learned from those that they trust. I realized that I wanted to change the narrative, allowing every story to be told. I want to make sure that no one walks into a history classroom and doesn’t see themselves, learning the same safe narrative that was painted to be easy and comfortable to digest by the people that are benefiting from the system every day. I want it to be hard because history was hard. I want there to be an acceptable level of discomfort, because if everyone is comfortable, then the truth isn’t being told. And the only way that I can make the changes that need to be made is if I am making the maps, not following the GPS. To be able to make the maps, I will develop curricula, hopefully at the national level. I want every history class in America to have their blinders removed, seeing everything, no matter how distasteful it is. To have a well-rounded perspective of American history, I plan on pursuing an interdisciplinary American Studies degree, which will allow me to take courses in many diverse areas of study, humanizing the very cut-and-dry subject that history is often in execution. If more history classes included other areas of study, it would allow a more complete narrative to be taught, and it would allow more connections between present and past, making the subject matter more accessible for students, and allowing them to feel more empathy for the events that they are learning about, as opposed to feeling disconnected from some of the most formative moments in human history. I hope that, in my pursuit of an American Studies education over an American History major, I can gain a more well-rounded understanding of history myself, and pull the most seemingly difficult historical event down to a more accessible level, creating an understanding that will affect generations to come.