“I knew that it was better to live out one’s absurdity than to die for that of others[.]” In Ralph Ellison's "Invisible Man", the protagonist spends his canonical life unnamed, representing his disposability in society - and yet, it's his eventual acceptance of this disposability that makes this the most powerful book I have ever read. In this book, his status as an African American functions as both an obstacle to his success and a social construct for others to abuse. Within institutions that are heralded for their opportunities for social mobility, he soon learns of how their leaders put up charitable facades of social justice for self-advancement. In addition, his encounters are often a constant reminder of expectations he has to climb the social ladder. For example, considering Rinehart, the protagonist's parallel: while both are African American men who have served in many roles, Rinehart is a pinnacle of versatile success, while the protagonist, by traditional metrics, is a failure in spite of his perseverance in succeeding. The book is about 570 pages long, and anticlimactically, he accidentally fell into a coal bin around page 565 (saving his life). He built his own subterranean room and started living there for an indefinite amount of time. Though it was one of the only parts of his life he'd never planned, it was the happiest he'd ever been. He was free. To me, this book revitalized freedom. It wasn't an ideology that focused on using revenge or status as a way of escaping society; rather, in a society never served him, he let go of the harm and selfish expectations. And while my circumstances have never been as horrifying, this book reminds me that when I need to, I can focus on freedom myself.

Fifteen years ago, my sister-in-law was killed in a tornado of grasshoppers - I was devastated. Grasshoppers also stole my girlfriend, which, if untreated, would lead to an imminent extinction of the Hans species and thus, the destruction of the local food web and life as we know it. With an education funded by this scholarship, I could restore world peace by reclaiming my righteous spot as food pyramid dictator. I'm hoping to earn my PhD in biology (obviously) and become the Chief Medical Advisor to the President. I would use that position of power to help small businesses thrive by outlawing grasshoppers, and then the growth of anything grasshoppers eat. I could also create and advocate for the use of grasshopper-gene specific siRNA pesticides, thinking ahead unlike some unnamed fellow applicants. Then I'd like to eat the president. I've overcome many obstacles, but one time I saw a grasshopper committing cannibalism in the middle of the road, which traumatized me until I killed it. Also, remember, my sister-in-law died. This 10-second episode set me back 10 years in neurological development, a study I did a paper on and presented at an international conference. I really grew from it by fighting against hypocrisy, and winning money.

In chemical terms, science and empathy are often regarded as immiscible: in literary terms, starkly juxtaposed. I see it in political analysis or ad hominem when rhetoric that is meant to appropriately favor pathos or logos is simply dismissed as 'naive' or 'heartless'. On a more tangible scale for the average college student, it's the negative stereotypes that accompany various hobbies and majors: it's the hysteria of theater geeks, the robotic idiosyncrasies of computer science majors, and the volatility of environmental zealots. For many people, I believe that this division serves on a larger scale as a defense mechanism to protect a core set of morals. It's a foundationally sound idea - after all, every person has a right to express and defend their unique values that make the world tick. However, I think people forget the value of both. Though I have been complimented on both my intelligence and unconditional kindness separately in the past, I would argue my most valuable quality is to be able to meld the two together and fit them in any endeavor I'd like to participate in. It would be easy for me to simply like science - from high school to college, I've shown a dedication to understanding various scientific principles from within the textbook, laboratory classes, and extracurriculars. I can display fascination in subjects that reach beyond the simple scope of my major, from consolidating online sources with UTSA professor Dr. Witt to learn more about neuroplasticity to pursuing biophysics research with Dr. Chen. Besides the potential knowledge and practical skills gained from participating in science initiatives, the inquisition and curiosity that developed throughout would be a great asset to any postgraduate program I choose, whether an MD or MD/PhD dual degree program. However, while neurology has gotten much more precise over the years, like every other medicine, it is not a set science. Sometimes all there is to do is comfort the person with your knowledge, tact, and undivided attention. I’ve been passionate about using science to help others; during high school, I applied my STEM skills to help tutor for math and chemistry. This drive will continue in college as I volunteer more with the Corazón Clinic - which aims to help provide medical care to the financially underprivileged - as well as continue to serve as a mentor for UTSA’s College of Sciences during the Spring 2022 semester, helping peers develop not only academically and professionally, but also as confident, fulfilled individuals. And whenever these strengths show up, they've reaped their benefits in the past: I've gotten to watch friends with a science-liberal arts split grow closer as I network them over similar values. Additionally, though I am a Science Mentor, I helped organize an event to celebrate Random Acts of Kindness Week that ended up a success among those who showed up. These different activities have helped bridge my compassion and curiosity, which I believe is a rewarding experience that truly embodies the spirit I want to develop not only throughout my career as a neurologist, but my lifetime.

When I wrote my cover letter for a Peer Mentorship position in UTSA's College of Sciences, I wrote that I wanted to help others "find their own path, and their own peace". My own emotional turbulence towards the new pressures of collegiate life should've foreshadowed the obvious - peace is a massive undertaking. Through my position, I've worked at (and, in the case of one, even hosted!) various outreach events and consistently sent e-mails to advertise opportunities in research and campus involvement, all in hopes of offering one-on-one meetings to other peers. And yet, frankly, I don't easily get through to people; over 2 months, I've amassed a total of approximately 5 (of a total 120) one-on-one meetings. I don't doubt that over the internet, my personality gets lost in translation, and rightfully, no freshman bombarded with new information needs another tabula rasa. And yet, of the five meetings, there isn't a single one I thought was useless - if not for the referrals to campus resources and advice on academics, making friendships, and even research program applications, then just to listen to my mentees' stories like a careful friend. As I planned and hosted a card-decoration event to celebrate Random Acts of Kindness Week, my worries that people would find my event naive and hopeless dissipated as people came to booth and talked about how sweet it was. I hadn't seen anyone so genuinely touched in a while. And for every event planned where one person arrived, that was one person I could focus on and make feel welcome, because appreciating someone's unique talents is the best gift you could give to somebody. So, peace is difficult. However, that won't stop me from helping friends develop academically and professionally, in the hopes of seeing them become fulfilled, self-satisfied individuals.

Ralph Ellison's "Invisible Man" takes place in the early twentieth century, centering around the unnamed protagonist's societal interactions in different environments as an African American. In this book, race functions as both an obstacle barrier to the character's success and a vehicle for another central theme in independent thought. Within institutions that are heralded for their opportunities for social mobility, he soon discovers the Machiavellian intentions of their leaders, who use the charitable facade of social justice for self-advancement. In addition, his encounters with people are a constant reminder of internal and external expectations for socioeconomic advancement. Consider Rinehart, a person who I consider the protagonist's parallel: while he and the protagonist are both African American men who have served in many roles, Rinehart is a pinnacle of versatile success, while the protagonist, by traditional metrics, is a failure in spite of his best attempts to rise. Interestingly, in the end, a final mistake causes him to live away from society in a hole. Narratively, it would've been easier to scratch the itch with revenge, which the protagonist has the opportunity to do by joining a gang who rebels against his oppressors. Instead, the protagonist narrates, “I knew that it was better to live out one’s absurdity than to die for that of others[.]” In life, I've always learned: whether it was to bring honor through a high class ranking, increased faith in God, or activism within a contemporary justice movement, I've always attempted to learn. There were times I realized that sometimes the integrity and, thus, results people wanted of me were implausible, and distractions from their own shortcomings. In order to see it, I had to leave my preconceived notions of success behind. "Invisible Man" taught me that sometimes, running away is the bravest thing you can do.

(*fictional events based on non-fictional experience*) The $64,000 question: does it matter what college you go to? As an infant, when I peered out of the apartment complex window for the first time, I immediately recognized the Pantheon-White House hybrid I know today as Columbia University. My mother subjected me to lullabies about how people went there when they died, but only if they were good. In interest of my innocence, she refused to divulge to me where all the bad people went posthumously when I asked her. It was only when I wandered into a pagan ritual that I saw occultists, some of whom I’d known for years, hold wallet-sized dictionaries to the slimy, cavernous holding cell of Yale. It was like just discovering Satan’s mirror of Eden; no longer could I call those my friends who lived so depravedly. By the grace of God, it was a short-lived trauma, and when I woke up again, a man draped in black told me I had lost so much oxygen that it interrupted the circadian rhythms of the heretics. One of them even experienced glorious hallucinations of bulldogs tearing out their skin. It brought my dad, a man who barely used his eyes for anything, to tears. Have times changed? Not for me, but it certainly has for one future generation. As part of a Good Times News experiment, we found current students whose friends made questionable college choices, and we asked each subject to make cards for those less and less-to-be educated. Their responses were generally much kinder than we had expected, some of the most benevolent ones transcribed below: “Congrats on getting into Harvard, Ken! I always knew you had it in you. I just wonder, if you were so smart, why didn’t you just attend UT? I thought the A- students were just planning on cheating off of each other there. You’re not really a disappointment to me, though.” “Elle, I’m sorry for punching you in the face at your birthday party. For the sake of us, it’s important for you to know that it’s hard for me to understand that in your culture, Louisiana State University is a perfectly acceptable college choice. I mean, I think your family’s full of super fascinating people, it’s just… I don’t understand how you’re legally allowed to put restraining orders on us.” “Courtney, even though you’re valedictorian and the rest of the ‘Wicked’ cast would rather exile you than buy foundation that comes within five shades of your skin tone, I think you’ll make the best Crusader. Let’s be honest, Harvard’s lowkey overrated and clearly our salutatorian is too. Oh my goodness, he’s so overrated. Can we just talk about that?” So, the answer to the $64,000 question: it does not matter what college you go to. Just don’t go to an affordable one. Or a community one. Or an Ivy League one. Et cetera.

Growing up in a third-world country, even the relative affluence of my mom's side of the family didn't make her life easy, and even less so for my dad. Still, through a focus on education and a motivation to improve their families' social and economic status, my future mother would eventually become an OB-GYN: my dad, a nurse. Then, I came along, covered in amniotic fluid and implications. My mom chose caretaking over a well-paying job that she spent nearly (if not over) a decade preparing for, which cost her money and, more hurtfully, respect. As the 'compensation' for her sacrifices, though I could never completely comprehend her decision, I would live out the consequences once we moved to America. Back in the Philippines, academia was prized in education above all else, evidenced by the increased emphasis on tuition and transcripts for college admissions - this meant that from an early age, I was cultivating a passion for academia and staying 'ahead of the curve'. An 5.0 was an expectation and, at times, a trivial request. I had some extracurricular events in high school, but I primarily joined organizations to prove my merits in leadership and academia, as well as a future interest in healthcare, leaving me little time to find others that I mainly enjoyed for their sake. However, this started changing in college with my increased freedoms and experience with the college application process. I realized that there was a compromise to be made between my way of thinking and my mom's: I needed to reconcile a pragmatism for my future with activities I truly loved and thus, was able to develop as a person from. It was about more than just impressing postgraduate program admissions panels - it was about leading a fulfilling life. Upon graduating college, I plan to pursue an MD or a MD/PhD dual degree, as well as residency to eventually become a researching neurologist. More than just that, however, I want to serve as a Filipino role model by example, as a symbol that hard work can get you anywhere. Anywhere: graduating near/at the top of your class, publishing a book, getting into a medical school of a college that rejected your undergraduate application. My parents were not immigrants simply for me to live, but to thrive, and the least I could do is inspire others to follow their dreams and potential legacies.

As a future medical student, my academic career is inevitably culminating into a profile where every decision I make will have a consequence; as such, I have to be deliberate with both the ways I can fit in and stand out. Currently, I want to graduate from UTSA with a major in Biology (and potentially a minor in Mathematics), pursue undergraduate research in various STEM-related fields (ex. neurology, biophysics, etc.), and attend either medical school or a dual MD/PhD program, as well as residency to eventually become a neurologist who works in patient care and/or research. However, this doesn't mean that my bucket list exclusively caters to medical accomplishments. On an interest-based level, I'd like to expand upon hobbies that have enhanced the quality of my life. In college, I'm currently writing (and hope to publish) a conceptual poetry book with the help of an English professor. Later in my life, I'd like to seek competitive outlets for games I've grown with, from chess to the official Pokemon series. Most importantly, though, I would like to reconcile a peaceful outlook on life with strong emotions and convictions about the world. I want mental security, where "I'm happy for you" isn't just generous words I say before crying myself to sleep, but a genuine sentiment untainted by envy. I would like to accept my own spiritual pathway without regards to the world's dynamic perspectives on how religion affects character, because I'll trust that my character is my possession alone. I hope that one day I'll forgive the world for its flaws because I refuse to reject humanity on arbitrary moral bases of who is 'right' and 'wrong', 'savior' or 'sinner': in that way, maybe I'll be able to turn inward and find humanity in - and compassion for - myself.

The most cultural backlash my parents received didn't originate from America. Rather, it came from our archipelago of old, of our extended family - the Philippines. Growing up in a third-world country, even the relative affluence of my mom's side of the family didn't make her life easy, and even less so for my dad. Still, a thorough focus on education and a motivation to improve their families' social and economic status, my future mother would go on to be come an OB-GYN: my dad, a nurse. Then, I came along, covered in amniotic fluid and problems. My mom chose caretaking over a well-paying job that she spent nearly (if not over) a decade preparing for, which earned her humiliation from her soon-to-be-former colleagues. As the compensation for her losses, there's no fathoming this sacrifice she had to make, but only an unraveling of the consequences to follow. The value of education in the Philippines would dictate the direction of my life in my years to come. Back in the Philippines, there were no college gatekeepers but tuition and transcripts - this meant that from an early age, I was cultivating a passion for academia and staying 'ahead of the curve'. I had some extracurricular events in my childhood, but they were always tailored to developing a missing piece of my enigma. In retrospect, I believe that this guidance was likely born out of a less forgiving Filipino education system, further emphasized by less technology (not necessarily due to economic hardship but because of the earlier times) and fewer resources to provide equitable resources to all students. The catastrophic sequiturs would then provide no mercy, either: don't do well in your education, and you'd be poor and almost as importantly, become the laughingstock of society as a blue-collar worker. Though I don't completely agree with this view, I understand the source of embarrassment; after all, had it not paralleled the things people said about my mom, a former OB-GYN? Were they not just as cruel? This started conflicting with my growing view of what a model student was in high school, which was when we confirmed that the next near-decade of my life would be dedicated to graduating from medical school. I often fought with my parents over participation in extracurriculars due to our deviations in what they should entail. While they commonly emphasized what my extracurriculars could do for me, I commonly emphasized that I didn't always need to have a vision behind my activities and volunteering. I became envious of my friends' independence as they burgeoned in youthful leadership as I was kept to focus on my studies, constrained to my comfort zone. My identity experienced a special torsion as I felt that I could not compromise either concept of American idealism or Filipino studiousness. Both had intertwined like vines into my personality, and I simply could not a cut one off without seriously tempting myself to harm the other. Luckily, I soon realized that I didn't have to. I am a Filipino raised in an American sauna currently attending UTSA. I'm currently in the Honors program, which encourages me to keep my academics as strong as ever - in high school, I graduated as salutatorian, and I was quick to learn that my future would offer little academic relaxation - but also develop my own interests and projects to make myself stand out. Fate has taken me through a long journey, and here I believe I can find a combination of studiousness, idealism, and the aspects of professional life needed to tie them all together.

"I don't want to beat Peter." [...] "I want him to love me." - Ender Wiggin, "Ender's Game" On the first day of high school, my bus was late. I quickly paced down the central hall and upstairs to first-period biology - upon opening the door, I was immediately met with twenty pairs of eyes. To me, these were the shark eyes of my competitors. Fourteen-year old me understood that in the spirit of equilibrium, someone's win came at someone else's expense: a missed championship, a missed scholarship, an impending deterioration of your reputation. Arriving late to pick up a syllabus only seemed to validate my conquests against their collective judgement. The summation of the events that followed constructed a parallel to Ender's lifestyle. Ender let competition consume him, feeding off the praise of his superiors and thus, letting their judgements of worth guide his conscience. Similarly, the clubs I joined encompassed a quest to make myself as marketable to the college scene as possible - AFJROTC, Student Council, and Class Officer Club sounded like the perfect leadership opportunities to balance out my academic triumphs. Though each club had a genuinely good influence on my character and sociability, at several points I developed a superiority complex based on my self-described proximity to the admissions process, which was only amplified by my exceptional impression on teachers and peers alike. In many ways, joining a new club or conquering a new feat was my win, which always converted into someone else's loss. However, reality hit my senior year when my college applications aged sourly into rejections - my only acceptances were automatic admissions from common Texas public colleges. Suddenly, I had lost. My ideology turned on me as quickly as jealousy made me turn on the closest friends I could've had. That became a turning point for me. In the midst of my hubris, I started picking up fragments of the legacy I had gifted to the people I cared about in my school. I was fortunate enough to have some kindness to my name. There were big things: the freshman flight in AFJROTC I helped adjust to a quickly-changing educational climate, the fundraising for one of the most symbolically unique proms in our school's history, and the time I spent with HOSA officers making and distributing necklaces and hot chocolate cups and Valentine's lollipops for our teachers. Most notably, in spite of my reclusive nature, I was voted "Most Friendly Boy" in our high school yearbook for our senior superlatives. I always managed to smile and greet my classmates while subduing relationship conflicts and insecurities - but I'd barely even valued that when the only competition I truly won was fueled by love. I realized then that while besting your opponents could impress others, being loved for your accomplishments was a far cry from being loved for your authentic self. To me, Ender's quote is about offering unconditional kindness to somebody, the same way unconditional love should be offered to us.

"The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than The Driver Of The Screw And Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do." For you, metaphor-laden Fiona Apple. Regarding the album title's first half, while a screwdriver exists simply to turn a machine's screws, an idler wheel, even through its own passivity, exists to help the machine, whether by providing tension for a stretch of deviating belt or reversing another gear's rotation. The idler wheel is said to be wiser because despite its titular idleness, it 'understands' its own significant role in the machine's efficacy. Meanwhile, the second half of the title, according to Fiona, originated from a nautical book's instructions on how to repair a ship's ropes with whipping cords in case the former frayed and broke. Just like whipping cords in a skilled sailor's hands easily replace worn ropes intra-voyage, adapting to new situations is crucial in the wake of wrecked plans. Before I went into high school, I believed that by far the most important legacy I'd have to leave was my own - a flavorful, consummate résumé. Even through COVID-19's presence, the idea of scholarly reputation persistently trumped altruism as an honorable statement. Only at senior year's end did I admit that my proudest moments were shared with the rest of my high school, Steele High School. Those moments weren't medaling in academic competitions, or necessarily even raising AFJROTC's H-flight or tutoring peers or making friends, but just being a good role model for them along the way. Though my legacy wasn't disappointing, I realized its perspectives were skewed. As I discovered this album around senior finality, I was enamored with its dedication to authenticity - appreciating my selflessness as an idler wheel and re-tethering myself to new realities would've enamored me with my own.

Human interaction is strange. In high school, my classmates once asked me if I knew what a 'freak between the sheets' was. A friendly acquaintance of mine apologized for cursing in my presence. One of my friends asked me if I knew what sarcasm was. Lack of ill intention acknowledged, I’ve always been fascinated by this perceived social distance. I’ve analyzed my reputation at several angles: academic genius with unusually placed perfectionism, a prude who winces at lowbrow jokes and dark humor, or even a daydreaming optimist whose naïvete is almost intimidating - because there’s no way this dude can be for real. The public intimacy of other relationships always seems to be reserved for mirrors and… well, intimates, of which I’m not and thus need protection from. Unfortunately, no excess of psychoanalysis can lead me to talking out a solution. That’s the problem that creative writing - more specifically, poetry - solves for me. While my pangs wait patiently until I’m showering at 11 on a school night, I always keep a pen and notebook bedside to document them. I write about joy in casual encounters that I fear my closest friends won’t understand, and parasocial relationships old friends and acquaintances have easily severed. I write about manipulation and who people let manipulate them. I write about the assumptions people make about me and how they shape my public profile. Writing itself has been an integral part of my self-composure since seventh grade. Yet, looking back, no emotional charge could prevent much of my catalogue from feeling jaded and inauthentic. Even as I polished my poetry with the same methodology I did my English essays - making it simple and concise, exploiting deep cuts of details - I struggled making pieces that felt like original statements. Four years and a life-changing experience later, when COVID-19 forced us into solitude, I felt my poetry hit the sweet spot between acuity and personal worldview more consistently. However, this feeling greatly amplified as I directly studied poetry for AP English IV in my senior year of high school, since I learned how to compress more meaning into the craft by refining its sound (I did attempt pentameter a few times), double meanings, and form (i.e. learning effective rhyming). It became proof that actively studying poetry made writing it more intuitive. By the end of the year, I had even created a relatively cohesive manuscript* of my poetry, a stark majority of its constituents written from Fall 2020 on. To be clear, I plan to be a biology major and enroll in medical school come post-collegiate life, as working in neurology can offer the intellectual stimulation and opportunities for social service I endeavor for. Nonetheless, poetry has infiltrated so much of my life; I find myself represented in both the poetry I write and digest. In a personal all-time favorite book, "Virgin", poet Analicia Sotelo portrays the same innocence that others have attributed to me, but also shows how shedding it can still be graceful. Similarly, my favorite songwriters - Fiona Apple, Lana Del Rey, Taylor Swift, et cetera - show a coexisting vulnerability and strength as they yearn to give limitless love, even through misinterpretation or manipulation. Thus, in college, I want to further refine my writing style and publish poetry that could validate others who experience similar feelings as mine, however they manifest. I believe the best authors help people understand that they are not alone in their feelings or internal fights. If nothing else, that’s what I want readers to learn from my poetry. *https://drive.google.com/file/d/1lfMO7Z53NmLdRyM0leXJbwTJ6cX3nbAv/view?usp=sharing