In the past several years, I have become increasingly aware of my mental health, making large strides to lead a happier and healthier life. I have become more in touch and at peace with my mind, my body, and my sexuality, but have also delved into what traumas and pieces of my background have brought me the struggles I have had to deal with. I am a third-generation homosexual. My moms are New York lesbians from the 90s, and my grandmothers are fleece-vest retirees at an upstate senior living home with identical haircuts. On one hand, this is a great familial setup. It has diminished any fear of being rejected or judged for my sexuality, and my moms have gifted me the creativity I possess as an aspiring artist. It’s also given me a more nuanced view of the world. And, almost 100% of the time, the story prompts an “oh wow” from my peers. On the other hand however, the generational trauma I have inherited from it has badgered me with challenges. When I was seven years old, and my sisters three, my mom threw a toy truck across the apartment, breaking a window. When I was ten, my other mom checked herself in at a hospital for her acute depression. As a result of this and so much more, I eventually experienced mental health struggles of my own. My earliest memories are those of feeling shame. Shame about my body, my feminine tendencies, and showing any vulnerability. This followed me into my middle school and early high school years, when I was too self conscious to wear anything but an oversized gray hoodie to school that hid the lumpy belly and hips that I had. I feared that I would let my guard down and cross my legs, or say something “gay,” thinking that I would be subject to secret judgment from onlookers. I soon found myself unable to voice the words “I love you” to my moms, or look them in the eye. I was not yet aware of this feeling of insecurity, I thought I was doing the best thing for me, because I really did believe that the whole world was judging me, and I really did believe that I should suppress those “gay” behaviors, what I didn’t realize was that I was in a state of denial. I carried that denial for a long time, followed by anger, bargaining, and depression, wandering through the process of grief; mourning not a family member or loved one, but my own past self. Eventually, I came to a realization many people don’t have to deal with until they are middle aged: I had become my parents. I was the same age as one mom was when my grandma was divorcing and at the height of her alcoholism, and only a bit younger than my other mom when she was pulled out of school because of her mom’s discovery of love letters from another girl. I recognized that I had to make a change and redirect my life’s trajectory. I decided one evening that the power was in my hands to change what was going on in my mind. I picked up an old, barely used composition notebook from middle school and wrote the number one at the top of the page, marking it as my first entry, and wrote about my day. When I started, I had no access to therapy, and nobody to talk to in general, but I found the pages of that notebook as a refuge at the end of each day, as a place to voice my frustrations, anxieties, and shame, not a perfect solution, but far better than the skipping of meals, biting of fingernails, or suppression that I otherwise used as a tool. Today’s number at the top of the page will be 600, and I haven’t missed a day. My dream would be to start my own business making garments for drag artists. This would allow me to make a living while still supporting the drag community in an artistic way. The world of art and fashion can be an elite one, and celebrate immense wealth rather than the meaning behind the art. In starting a business of my own rather than working for fashion brands or art collectors of the highest class, I could maintain financial stability while simultaneously benefiting the working class community that I am cut from. In doing this I would have the ability to perform in Drag myself, and make art of all mediums without the incentive to sell out to those art collectors, or that harmful fashion industry. I was recently able to perform in my Metrocard dress (yes, a dress I designed and constructed entirely out of Metrocards, complete with Metrocard earrings and glasses) when I hosted a fundraiser for my school, bringing the art of drag to many students who had never seen something like that before. This was one of the most joyful experiences of my life, and I could feel my past self cheering me on from his oversized shame hoodie from middle school. I want to bring that joy to myself and others as much as I can in my future.

The relationship that I have with my Lithuanian heritage is undoubtedly a unique one. The best way to discuss such relationship is to tell this story: My mothers, when trying to have a child, did what many lesbian couples do, they chose a sperm donor from a sperm bank based on paperwork he filled out. My biological mom then had her eggs fertilized with his sperm. We have never met this donor, nor have we seen what he looks like, or even his name. The only information we have is his donor number, #244 and that paperwork he filled out, containing only two pages of information about him as a person. I have revisited these two pages countless times, in awe of the mystery of this person, and how their handwriting looked eerily similar to mine. From these two pages I learned the origin of many of my characteristics: “Athletic ability: poor” “Hair: Brown, thick, curly” “Eyes: Blue/Green” As well as many of my personality traits “Favorite pastime: alone time/time with cats” At the top of the form read “Ethnic background: Lithuanian jewish.” For much of my young years I did not know what either of those words meant, but as the years went on, and the scrutiny of the middle school experience took hold of me, I was embarrassed by this abnormality I held. I was less confident and more self conscious than ever, especially when discussing myself and my background. Not only did I have a miserable time at school, facing the cruelty of other pre-teen boys’ bullying, but my moms had separated, and I was splitting my time between their two households. I felt increasingly like I did not belong anywhere, not at home, not with my so-called friends, and my origin story as a human being was not existent, my father-figure and heritage made up only of a composition of responses on a couple of sheets of paperwork. Here, however, lies the turning point in this story. There were a set of twin boys in my school I had grown closer to over time. I shared many characteristics with both of them; we were all interested in politics, social justice, as well as theater and arts, and we both had single moms. We did things that would normally be considered out of the ordinary for middle schoolers like attending a phone bank together for a city council candidate. The three of us also shared physical qualities all having thick curly hair and brows, short fingers, and similar overall postures. In eighth grade I had become extremely hopeful for what would come next in the friendship that we had, and that self consciousness began to fade away. When the pandemic began and we were placed under lockdown however, those feelings and fears began to resurface, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to see the people who had now become my best friends. When we anticipated not being able to see each other for a while, we arranged a farewell with twins in the park. While the twins and I were, struggling to keep six feet of distance, our moms also talked, and discovered something shocking; that they had used the same sperm donor, #244, and that I was half brothers with these twins. After this was revealed to me, and after my period of shock, the twins and I had a new pastime: discovering our shared Lithuanian heritage, nerdily learning about the history of our region as well as embarking on many attempts to perfect a recipe of Cepelinai we found online. And that is my story.

If I was limited to watching a single film for the rest of my life, I would undoubtedly choose the 1990 documentary Paris is Burning, directed by Jennie Livingston. The film goes into the queer ballroom scene of the 1980s and early 90s, and talks to the gay and trans people of color who presented themselves through dance, fashion, and overall elegance in underground competitions across New York City. These balls popularized the style of dance known as Voguing, and was the inspiration for Madonna’s timeless hit song “Vogue.” The newest generation of Vogue dancers, and the new forms of music that go along with it inspired Beyonce’s impeccable 2022 “Renaissance” album. The film’s success inspired everyday queer people as well, and continues to, among them is myself. The film inspired me to explore doing Drag two years ago, and I have since taken off with this interest, and envision it to be a large part of my future. Although Paris is Burning is a documentary, there are many qualities to it that make it resonate like a fictional film, from the cinematic beauty of every shot, to the laugh-out-loud one-liners, such as the closing moment, where one trans-woman says to the camera, “I think all men are dogs, I really do, you know every man starts barking sooner or later.” There are moments that will bring you to tears though too. The greatest of these moments is voiced by the late, great drag queen Dorian Corey: the camera is on her as she slowly applies eyeshadow, and her cat naps in the background. She discusses her journey, her disappointments, but says how she had come to terms with life, and resolves her enlightened words by saying, “If you shoot an arrow and it goes real high, hooray for you.” The other moments that left an equally immense impact on me were the incredible spectacles fashion, from glamorized streetwear, to bikinis, to gorgeous gowns made by participants themselves. The most memorable of these has to be the gold gown worn by Pepper Labeija, with humongous sequined shoulder poofs, and ruffles that encircled her face. In this scene, everyone in the club was fanning her and shouting her on in the signature queer phrases like “You better work” or “yesss, serve,” phrases which are still used by the queer community today (perhaps with some more explicit language sprinkled in though). Moments like these are why I have, and why I could continue to watch the film again and again. The amount of inspiration and overall advice that I have drawn from Paris is Burning is unmeasurable. One project I have done based on inspiration from the film is a pantsuit I made out of covers of Vogue magazine, only the covers were images of the Vogue dancers that I photoshopped behind the Vogue lettering. It was meant to pay homage to the people who were deserving of being on the Vogue cover, but never saw mainstream fame, and many of whom died of AIDS soon after they were featured in the film. Another piece that I made was a dress consisting only of New York City Metrocards, with each card connected at each corner with elastic string to create a stretchy wearable textile, I made Metrocard classes and earrings to go with it, and I believe the design is something that would give me the praises of “You better work” if I were walking down the runway at a ball.

I am a third-generation homosexual. My moms are New York lesbians from the 90s, and my grandmothers are fleece-vest retirees at an upstate senior living home with identical haircuts. On one hand, this is a great familial setup. It has diminished any fear of being rejected or judged for my sexuality, and my moms have gifted me the creativity I possess as an aspiring artist, plus, almost always, the story prompts an “oh wow” from my peers. However, I have inherited much of the trauma that my mothers and grandmothers have garnered as queer people in America, with my grandmother facing addiction during the time of her divorce with her then husband, and my mother being hospitalized with depression when I was ten. My own earliest memories are those of shame. Shame about my body, my feminine tendencies, and general vulnerability, for long stretches of time losing interest in things I once was inseparable with, like art, or social justice. I went through what I believe was the stages of grief, as I mourned the loss of my past self, denial , followed by anger, bargaining, and depression; mourning not a family member or loved one, but the old me. Eventually I reached the stage of acceptance, where I am happy to be now. I have since become fascinated with the illustrious art form of Drag, enamored with queens like Sasha Velour, and Lypsinka, who convey concepts and storytelling through lip sync performances, be it campy comedy or illustrious drama. I have been doing Drag myself now for about a year, and have recently begun to plan an create tear away garments for a performance of “Back to Black” by Amy Winehouse, where I start as a bride, and then tear away into a widow’s gown, the message being that a wedding is really a funeral in disguise. My dream would be to run my own business commissioning garments, or as I like to think of them, pieces of wearable art, for drag queens, and performing at times myself. In starting a business of my own rather than working for fashion brands or art collectors of the highest class, I could maintain financial stability while simultaneously benefiting the working class community that I am cut from. I am an incoming freshman at Parsons school of design, majoring in fashion, and while I am incredibly grateful to be entering such a prestigious school, it comes with an incredibly heavy price tag, one that I will undoubtedly have to go into debt to cover, a fact that makes my dream of becoming a drag-queen-fashion-designer feel more like a fantasy than a legitimate aspiration. In being awarded this scholarship, I would have a significantly smaller amount of debt to worry about, and would have a more financially stable future. I have recently had my performance debut, where I hosted and performed at a school fundraiser event dressed in Drag, decked out in a dress I designed and constructed myself made entirely out of New York CIty Metrocards (complete with Metrocard earrings and glasses). This was a life changing experience, and one that I am incredibly proud of, especially looking back at the little me who was plagued with anxiety and self consciousness at every turn of life. While an opportunity like this scholarship is one that I would be grateful for in every way I also know that I need money to make amazing things and amazing art happen, and that my creativity and drive is something special, and something I can thank my queer heritage for.

I have been accepted to Parsons school of design at The New School for fashion design. Parsons is known as the number one fashion school in the world, and competitive to be accepted into. The program is based in creative thought process and the development of equitable, sustainable design solutions. The New School is also home to an expansive liberal arts program where I plan to minor in political science or journalism, something that I have also been passionate about my entire life. I have volunteered and been employed by a newspaper called IndyKids, written by and for young kids. When I was a kid reporter with Indykids, I interviewed Mayoral candidate Kathryn Garcia and my Congressman Jamaal Bowman. I also wrote an article about my own experience living in a rent-stabilized apartment in the winter, when my landlord refused to turn on the heat. Being a part of a volunteer run non profit organization like that was life changing, and launched my interest in politics; I was soon phone banking for campaigns I was passionate about all over the country, and canvassing for local races, all by the time I was thirteen years old. Since my time as a kid reporter, I have come back as a youth mentor and been able to come full circle, seeing myself in the new generation of kid reporters. One of my dreams would be to combine my passion for social justice and fashion by starting my own business making garments for drag artists. This would allow me to make a living while still supporting the drag community in an artistic way. The world of art and fashion can be an elite one, and celebrate immense wealth rather than the meaning behind the art. In starting a business of my own rather than working for fashion brands or art collectors of the highest class, I could maintain financial stability while simultaneously benefiting the working class community that I am cut from. In doing this I would have the ability to perform in Drag myself, and make art of all mediums without the incentive to sell out to those art collectors, or that harmful fashion industry. I was recently able to perform in my Metrocard dress (yes, a dress I designed and constructed entirely out of Metrocards, complete with Metrocard earrings and glasses) when I hosted a fundraiser for my school, bringing the art of drag to many students who had never seen something like that before. This was one of the most joyful experiences of my life, and I could feel my past self cheering me on from his oversized shame hoodie from middle school. I want to bring that joy to myself and others as much as I can in my future.

This scholarship will help me because it will allow me to attend my dream school without having to take out private loans. I have been accepted to Parsons school of design at The New School for fashion design. Parsons is known as the number one fashion school in the world, and competitive to be accepted into. The program is based in creative thought process and the development of equitable, sustainable design solutions. The New School is also home to an expansive liberal arts program where I plan to minor in political science or journalism, something that I have also been passionate about my entire life. I have volunteered and been employed by a newspaper called IndyKids, written by and for young kids. When I was a kid reporter with Indykids, I interviewed Mayoral candidate Kathryn Garcia and my Congressman Jamaal Bowman. I also wrote an article about my own experience living in a rent-stabilized apartment in the winter, when my landlord refused to turn on the heat. Being a part of a volunteer run non profit organization like that was life changing, and launched my interest in politics; I was soon phone banking for campaigns I was passionate about all over the country, and canvassing for local races, all by the time I was thirteen years old. Since my time as a kid reporter, I have come back as a youth mentor and been able to come full circle, seeing myself in the new generation of kid reporters. One of my dreams would be to combine my passion for social justice and fashion by starting my own business making garments for drag artists. This would allow me to make a living while still supporting the drag community in an artistic way. The world of art and fashion can be an elite one, and celebrate immense wealth rather than the meaning behind the art. In starting a business of my own rather than working for fashion brands or art collectors of the highest class, I could maintain financial stability while simultaneously benefiting the working class community that I am cut from. In doing this I would have the ability to perform in Drag myself, and make art of all mediums without the incentive to sell out to those art collectors, or that harmful fashion industry. I was recently able to perform in my Metrocard dress (yes, a dress I designed and constructed entirely out of Metrocards, complete with Metrocard earrings and glasses) when I hosted a fundraiser for my school, bringing the art of drag to many students who had never seen something like that before. This was one of the most joyful experiences of my life, and I could feel my past self cheering me on from his oversized shame hoodie from middle school. I want to bring that joy to myself and others as much as I can in my future. This interest of social justice oriented art is not a very profitable one however, and having to deal with the mountains of interest that would accrue from even a five thousand dollar private loan would hinder me from being able to achieve this dream.

Mental health battles as well as Queer issues have been a common theme in my life, and in my family history. I am a third-generation homosexual. My moms are New York lesbians from the 90s, and my grandmothers are fleece-vest retirees at an upstate senior living home with identical haircuts. On one hand, this is a great familial setup. It’s diminished any fear of being rejected or judged for my sexuality, and my moms have gifted me the creativity I possess as an aspiring artist. It’s also given me a more nuanced view of the world (plus it’s a great story to tell at a party). On the other hand however, the generational trauma I have inherited from it has badgered me with challenges. When I was seven years old, and my sisters three, my mom threw a toy truck across the apartment, breaking a window. When I was ten, my other mom checked herself in at a hospital for her acute depression. As a result of this and so much more, I eventually experienced mental health struggles of my own. My earliest memories are those of feeling shame. Shame about my body, my feminine tendencies, and showing any vulnerability. This followed me into my middle school and early high school years, when I was too self conscious to wear anything but an oversized gray hoodie to school that hid the lumpy belly and hips that I had. I feared that I would let my guard down and cross my legs, or say something “gay,” thinking that I would be subject to secret judgment from onlookers. I soon found myself unable to voice the words “I love you” to my moms, or look them in the eye. I was not yet aware of this feeling of insecurity, I thought I was doing the best thing for me, because I really did believe that the whole world was judging me, and I really did believe that I should suppress those “gay” behaviors, what I didn’t realize was that I was in a state of denial. I carried that denial for a long time, followed by anger, bargaining, and depression, wandering through the process of grief; mourning not a family member or loved one, but my own past self. Eventually, I came to a realization many people don’t have to deal with until they are middle aged: I had become my parents. I was the same age as one mom was when my grandma was divorcing and at the height of her alcoholism, and only a bit younger than my other mom when she was pulled out of school because of her mom’s discovery of love letters from another girl. I recognized that I had to make a change and redirect my life’s trajectory. I decided one evening that the power was in my hands to change what was going on in my mind. I picked up an old, barely used composition notebook from middle school and wrote the number one at the top of the page, marking it as my first entry, and wrote about my day. When I started, I had no access to therapy, and nobody to talk to in general, but I found the pages of that notebook as a refuge at the end of each day, as a place to voice my frustrations, anxieties, and shame, not a perfect solution, but far better than the skipping of meals, biting of fingernails, or suppression that I otherwise used as a tool. Today’s number at the top of the page will be 601, and I haven’t missed a day.

It is now crazy to me that on the first day of class, I was considering transferring to a different english class, intimidated by the popular kids who wore lululemon tights and way to much bronzer in one corner, and the cool artsy kids who wore baggy jeans and way to much eyeliner the the other corner, and me in the middle. It was African American Dramatic Literature, taught by Ms. Greene, who was the only black teacher in the entire English department of my large performing arts school. The name and description of the course drew me in, as I have had a large interest in political activism and history, and was a technical theatre major at this performing arts school, and loved plays. I bombed the first assignment in the class, as it was to write an “I come from…” poem, and despite having a fascinating family history that could have made a brilliant poem, I felt unable to open up about myself. As the year went on, I began gaining excitement for the class I had first dreaded, and while I hadn’t made friends yet with the cool artsy kids (who I had grown to admire) I began to fall in love with Ms. Greene and her original curriculum, as well as her attitude, her deadpan sarcastic sense of humor, and of course her brilliant fashion choices that were subject to my compliments on a daily basis. I began participating in class and presenting my point of view on a daily basis, and many of the points I made resonated with Ms. Greene and the class. I first began to feel supported by Ms. Greene in the private comment section of the assignments on google classroom, where she would give insight into my potential, and while the grade would not always be a one hundred, there were always words that spoke to the uniqueness she saw in me, words that often made my day as I dealt with an onslaught of family issues and social abandonments. As the end of the year approached, I had opened up immensely in the class and elsewhere in life, even hanging out with one of the cool artsy kids one weekend. The project Ms. Greene assigned us for the play “For Colored Girls Who Considered Suicide When the Rainbow was Not Enough” was to create a collection of performance poems modeled off that play. Mine was purely autobiographical, and focused on my coming to terms with my sexuality, I called it “For Gay Boys in Grief After Letting Their Past Selves Die.” The concept was to have the play be divided into the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. There was also an extra credit option, to perform one of the poems in front of the class. I decided to do this, not for extra credit, but to prove to myself that I had come so far from that first day. When it was my turn, last to go, my fingers were visibly shaking, and my mind began to race through a rolodex of nightmare scenarios that could take place. To make matters worse, my eyes began to become glassy. Through all of this, my head looked up and through the sea of my classmates looking at me, awaiting my performance I locked eyes with Ms. Greene and she nodded. I worked through the shakiness by the time I was done, and a rush of happiness washed over me, and as I looked over to her, Ms. Greene’s eyes were now the glassy ones.

My mental and physical wellness are important to me because of my complicated family history. I am a third-generation homosexual. My moms are New York lesbians from the 90s, and my grandmothers are fleece-vest retirees at an upstate senior living home with identical haircuts. On one hand, this is a great familial setup. It has diminished any fear of being rejected or judged for my sexuality, and my moms have gifted me the creativity I possess as an aspiring artist. It’s also given me a more nuanced view of the world. And, almost 100% of the time, the story prompts an “oh wow” from my peers. On the other hand however, the generational trauma I have inherited from it has badgered me with challenges. When I was seven years old, and my sisters three, my mom threw a toy truck across the apartment, breaking a window. When I was ten, my other mom checked herself in at a hospital for her acute depression. As a result of this and so much more, I eventually experienced mental health struggles of my own. My earliest memories are those of feeling shame. Shame about my body, my feminine tendencies, and showing any vulnerability. This followed me into my middle school and early high school years, when I was too self conscious to wear anything but an oversized gray hoodie to school that hid the lumpy belly and hips that I had. I feared that I would let my guard down and cross my legs, or say something “gay,” thinking that I would be subject to secret judgment from onlookers. I soon found myself unable to voice the words “I love you” to my moms, or look them in the eye. I was not yet aware of this feeling of insecurity, I thought I was doing the best thing for me, because I really did believe that the whole world was judging me, and I really did believe that I should suppress those “gay” behaviors, what I didn’t realize was that I was in a state of denial. I carried that denial for a long time, followed by anger, bargaining, and depression, wandering through the process of grief; mourning not a family member or loved one, but my own past self. Eventually, I came to a realization many people don’t have to deal with until they are middle aged: I had become my parents. I was the same age as one mom was when my grandma was divorcing and at the height of her alcoholism, and only a bit younger than my other mom when she was pulled out of school because of her mom’s discovery of love letters from another girl. I recognized that I had to make a change and redirect my life’s trajectory. I decided one evening that the power was in my hands to change what was going on in my mind. I picked up an old, barely used composition notebook from middle school and wrote the number one at the top of the page, marking it as my first entry, and wrote about my day. When I started, I had no access to therapy, and nobody to talk to in general, but I found the pages of that notebook as a refuge at the end of each day, as a place to voice my frustrations, anxieties, and shame, not a perfect solution, but far better than the skipping of meals, biting of fingernails, or suppression that I otherwise used as a tool. Today’s number at the top of the page will be 601, and I haven’t missed a day.

In the past several years, I have become increasingly aware of my mental health, making large strides to lead a happier and healthier life. I have become more in touch and at peace with my mind, my body, and my sexuality, but have also delved into what traumas and pieces of my background have brought me the struggles I have had to deal with. I am a third-generation homosexual. My moms are New York lesbians from the 90s, and my grandmothers are fleece-vest retirees at an upstate senior living home with identical haircuts. On one hand, this is a great familial setup. It has diminished any fear of being rejected or judged for my sexuality, and my moms have gifted me the creativity I possess as an aspiring artist. It’s also given me a more nuanced view of the world. And, almost 100% of the time, the story prompts an “oh wow” from my peers. On the other hand however, the generational trauma I have inherited from it has badgered me with challenges. When I was seven years old, and my sisters three, my mom threw a toy truck across the apartment, breaking a window. When I was ten, my other mom checked herself in at a hospital for her acute depression. As a result of this and so much more, I eventually experienced mental health struggles of my own. My earliest memories are those of feeling shame. Shame about my body, my feminine tendencies, and showing any vulnerability. This followed me into my middle school and early high school years, when I was too self conscious to wear anything but an oversized gray hoodie to school that hid the lumpy belly and hips that I had. I feared that I would let my guard down and cross my legs, or say something “gay,” thinking that I would be subject to secret judgment from onlookers. I soon found myself unable to voice the words “I love you” to my moms, or look them in the eye. I was not yet aware of this feeling of insecurity, I thought I was doing the best thing for me, because I really did believe that the whole world was judging me, and I really did believe that I should suppress those “gay” behaviors, what I didn’t realize was that I was in a state of denial. I carried that denial for a long time, followed by anger, bargaining, and depression, wandering through the process of grief; mourning not a family member or loved one, but my own past self. Eventually, I came to a realization many people don’t have to deal with until they are middle aged: I had become my parents. I was the same age as one mom was when my grandma was divorcing and at the height of her alcoholism, and only a bit younger than my other mom when she was pulled out of school because of her mom’s discovery of love letters from another girl. I recognized that I had to make a change and redirect my life’s trajectory. I decided one evening that the power was in my hands to change what was going on in my mind. I picked up an old, barely used composition notebook from middle school and wrote the number one at the top of the page, marking it as my first entry, and wrote about my day. When I started, I had no access to therapy, and nobody to talk to in general, but I found the pages of that notebook as a refuge at the end of each day, as a place to voice my frustrations, anxieties, and shame, not a perfect solution, but far better than the skipping of meals, biting of fingernails, or suppression that I otherwise used as a tool. Today’s number at the top of the page will be 600, and I haven’t missed a day. My dream would be to start my own business making garments for drag artists. This would allow me to make a living while still supporting the drag community in an artistic way. The world of art and fashion can be an elite one, and celebrate immense wealth rather than the meaning behind the art. In starting a business of my own rather than working for fashion brands or art collectors of the highest class, I could maintain financial stability while simultaneously benefiting the working class community that I am cut from. In doing this I would have the ability to perform in Drag myself, and make art of all mediums without the incentive to sell out to those art collectors, or that harmful fashion industry. I was recently able to perform in my Metrocard dress (yes, a dress I designed and constructed entirely out of Metrocards, complete with Metrocard earrings and glasses) when I hosted a fundraiser for my school, bringing the art of drag to many students who had never seen something like that before. This was one of the most joyful experiences of my life, and I could feel my past self cheering me on from his oversized shame hoodie from middle school. I want to bring that joy to myself and others as much as I can in my future.

There are many things that I hope to achieve through my art: providing a unique experience to its audience, finding peace with my inner self, and sending a message, whether that message is one relating to society and justice, or one with a deeper seated meaning about life and human nature. I have always been a creative person, but as a child my intense feelings of self consciousness and shame prevented me from letting loose and truly doing what I wanted to do with myself. Since coming out of that shell, and becoming more comfortable with myself, my body, and my sexuality, I have discovered the illustrious art form of Drag, and fallen in love with it. To me, Drag is something that goes far beyond cross dressing, it is an intersection between all art forms. Even a typical Drag lip sync performance combines the visual art seen in one's painting of their face, musicality, dance, and overall performance art. The pieces of fashion that I make, that I have attached in my portfolio, are all intended to be worn by myself in drag, with a performance aspect to them. I come from a family of activists and artists, many of whom are queer, in fact, I am a third generation homosexual. My moms are lesbians from the 90s, and my grandmothers are fleece-vest retirees at an upstate senior living home who share an identical short haircut. On the one hand, this familial setup makes me a far more interesting person, and has helped with my comfort with my sexuality, and has made me see the world in a grander, greater, more obscure way. On the other hand, there is immense trauma woven into the historical lesbian experience, and that has been passed down to me through the generations. My biological mom was raised in a broken household; her mom (my grandma) was a closeted alcoholic in a waning straight marriage. My other mom was raised in an all-too-put-together household in Arkansas, where she was pulled out of college after the love letters she had been exchanging with the preacher’s daughter were discovered by her mom, who was not a lesbian. In my art, I try to reflect this history that is literally in my blood, but I also want to serve the community that I come from and am a part of. My dream would be to start my own business making garments for drag artists. This would allow me to make a living while still supporting the drag community in an artistic way. The world of art and fashion can be an elite one, and celebrate immense wealth rather than the meaning behind the art. In starting a business of my own rather than working for fashion brands or art collectors of the highest class, I could maintain financial stability while simultaneously benefiting the working class community that I am cut from. In doing this I would have the ability to perform in Drag myself, and make art of all mediums without the incentive to sell out to those art collectors, or that harmful fashion industry. I was recently able to perform in my Metrocard dress (yes, a dress I designed and constructed entirely out of Metrocards, complete with Metrocard earrings and glasses) when I hosted a fundraiser for my school, bringing the art of drag to many students who had never seen something like that before. This was one of the most joyful experiences of my life, and I want to bring that joy to myself and others as much as I can in my artistic future.

These photos represent my interest and passion for the avantgarde, the obscure, the surreal, and a unique sense of humor. All of the garments depicted in the images are pieces I designed and constructed myself, and all speak to some kind of irony or absurdity that is very personal to me. They also combine my love of fashion with my love of photography, as the context that the photograph provides a story of the garment to an extent beyond what could be accomplished on a manikin. The metrocard dress is a piece that the idea for came to me while taking the train, it was my first piece of fashion that spoke to a narrative of campiness and irony, but the dress alone didn’t convey this narrative to the fullest extent, and I knew the best way to complete it would be to take it onto the subway itself. I recruited my friend as a model, and we set out onto the train together. In the second image, Modeled by my lesbian moms, the two garments in this piece are made out of a used American and Pride flag. The garments are meant to resemble nun habits. The American flag is an incredibly sacred thing to so many, as is christianity, but when these two sacred things are combined, they become something that appears very morbid. An opposite effect occurs with the pride flag, where the sacred religious symbol becomes a burst of color, and becomes less ominous. The third image focuses on my fascination and personal challenges with eye contact. It shows the beauty, but also the odd feeling that can come when locked in eye contact with another person, as any emotion can be conveyed between two individuals without a single word being spoken, from confusion, to rage, to annoyance, to love. The fourth image is meant to show the contrast but also unity between nature and fabricated materials, as the saran-wrapped figure doesn’t stand out from its natural background as much as one would think, it actually unifies it quite a lot. The final image is a study of surrealism, made possible by confusion of the limbs present in the garment. Although all the photographs are quite different from one another, in both composition and subject matter, in my opinion, they convey a similar message of mystique, and irony. *Note-all images are submitted together on single PDF

My intended field of study is fashion, however what I believe I will be able to accomplish with that degree is far different from the normal student. Although I’ve been prone to a creative spirit my whole life, fashion was the first thing that I found I had a high technical level of skill in, I had a naturally occurring understanding of it. Amidst my growing interest and skills in sewing, I discovered another art form that drew me in even more, it being Drag. My first eye-opening moment was watching the season nine finale of RuPaul’s drag race two years ago. One of the finalists in that season was Sasha Velour, who’s style of drag was artsy, and had a very intellectual, sophisticated perspective. She was to lip sync to “So Emotional” by Whitney Houston in competition with another queen. She began by entering the stage holding a single red rose in her hand, and a red wig of curls atop her head, as well as arm-length red gloves. When the music began, she started to pluck the rose of its petals, before whipping off the long gloves one by one to reveal more petals hiding inside. As Whitney’s vocal range crescendos , Sasha lays on the ground and plays with the fallen petals, her eyes closed and head arched back. At the precipice of the song, Sasha is back on her feet, belting out the lyrics “I get so emotional baby, every time I think of you…” As if the words were really coming from her lips, she shakily lifts her wig, and petals cascade down her face, her whole body quivering with emotion. As I watched this in the season nine finale of RuPaul’s Drag race, I felt not only moved by the sheer gag-worthiness of it all, but the incredible connection I felt to the at of a lip sync, I had seen many before, on and off of Drag Race, but never one that used intelligence and conceptualization in the same way. I knew drag was something that I wanted to do in the future before watching this performance, but after seeing it I knew that it was something I had to do. I began listening to music with an empty canvas in my mind that I filled with a fully orchestrated performance, down to the choreography, makeup stylings, emotional guise, and of course, costume. I would plan when each of the reveals would happen, be it a simple tearaway or wig snatch, or a more delicate reveal of a new facial expression or emotion. I have always felt that my interpretation of the world has always been unique. My young self interpreted this as a bad thing, as I connected it with my inability to socialize and play sports, and the overall feeling of abnormality compared to others, but Sasha’s performance, and the discovery of drag as a whole, taught me that my view of the world an advanced and glamorous one, and helped me come to realize that the feeling of abnormality I had experienced was not just a product of anxiety and existentialism, but the fact that I had an eye for camp, and a subconscious desire to glamourize my life, weather it be my interior design vision that I would nag my mom to adhere to during the Ikea family shopping trips, my hardly-used elementary school composition notebooks that I redecorate to convert journals, the many hours clocked behind the sewing machine, or the time spent prancing around the empty apartment with my headphones on, fantasizing that I was in the skin of Sasha Velour. Since that night, my idea of success has changed immensely, from having a vague idea of how I wanted to focus my idea in art and design, to having a clear knowledge of what my dream is. What I would hope to do with that fashion degree is start a business commissioning garments for drag artists. This is a very rare idea of success, which I believe is what makes me perfect for this scholarship. Through commissioning pieces of wearable art to drag artists I hope to serve the queer community, in heightening an art form that is the most wonderful thing in the world to me. Fashion can be incredibly exclusive to many, with fat-phobia, racism, and classism being consistent problems in the industry, however Drag is far more immune to such issues, as it is by definition an art form for those who are misunderstood and fit outside of the mainstream. This scholarship would help me achieve this dream because unfortunately the business of Drag is one that lacks the financial stability that the fast fashion industry holds a lot of, that being said, this is something I would love to redefine.

My family situation is a complex one, I have lesbian moms although my mothers were never married, and broke up when I was three. My moms conceived me the way that many lesbian couples do, through a sperm donor. An anonymous man donated sperm to a bank, which my moms and other prospective parents used to have their child, but we have no photos, no name, and no phone number to reach him by, only the form he completed when he made his donation, which ask questions about his height, weight, medical history, but also his interests and character. I know him as my “donor dad” One morning, when I was three, and my mothers were still together, my biological mom, Rebecca, lied to my other mom. She said she had a dentist appointment, when really she was going to her reproductive doctor to be inseminated with additional sperm from the same donor. My other mom, Paula, had told her repeatedly that she didn’t want to have any more children, since they could barely afford to house and take care of me. Rebecca soon announced that she was expecting twins, and with that Paula left the relationship. When my sisters were born, the financial instability only grew, as my mom now had to support thrice the number of children with half of the income. My memories from that era were ones of loneliness, and vying for my mom’s attention against my needy baby sisters. She would scream at us, occasionally throwing things, and my sisters and I would scurry to the corner with our equally fearful cats. I grew to have a shame of this nontraditional family structure, and didn’t like having to explain it all, and I wanted nothing more than to be able to be like everyone else, who had seemingly perfect, peaceful families, with no quarrels, no shame, no perpetual financial struggles, and no shame. Years later, in middle school, I met a set of twins who had moved from France. They had the same curly hair and wispy eyelashes as me, and we quickly became close friends, an interest in politics, and current events. They came from a single mother household too, and their mom used a sperm donor. We shared similar experiences of growing up in a cramped apartment with a single mom, vying for attention and getting little of it. Although at first we didn’t talk about it explicitly, I could feel the same energy coming from them as I felt in myself. When the pandemic was picking up, and schools were closing down, they were sadly planning to move back to France. We met in the park for a sort of last farewell, masked, and trying hard to obey the new six-feet rule. While we were together however, our moms were also talking, and they realized that they had used the same sperm donor, and that we were half brothers. Hearing the news, I was first in shock, but soon found so much joy from it, and let go of that shame that had built up over the years because of that nontraditional family structure that I had. The twins and I have since stayed in contact, and I don’t think we will ever say goodbye to each other. This sequence of events led me to see the greater beauty and wonders that coming from a difficult childhood can bring. Yes, I have a lot of trauma to work through, but I have also realized through my half brothers that we have a very unique perspective on life, and that is irreplaceable.

If I was limited to watching a single film for the rest of my life, I would undoubtedly choose the 1990 documentary Paris is Burning, directed by Jennie Livingston. The film goes into the queer ballroom scene of the 1980s and early 90s, and talks to the gay and trans people of color who presented themselves through dance, fashion, and overall elegance in underground competitions across New York City. These balls popularized the style of dance known as Voguing, and was the inspiration for Madonna’s timeless hit song “Vogue.” The newest generation of Vogue dancers, and the new forms of music that go along with it inspired Beyonce’s impeccable 2022 “Renaissance” album. The film’s success inspired everyday queer people as well, and continues to, among them is myself. The film inspired me to explore doing Drag two years ago, and I have since taken off with this interest, and envision it to be a large part of my future. Although Paris is Burning is a documentary, there are many qualities to it that make it resonate like a fictional film, from the cinematic beauty of every shot, to the laugh-out-loud one-liners, such as the closing moment, where one trans-woman says to the camera, “I think all men are dogs, I really do, you know every man starts barking sooner or later.” There are moments that will bring you to tears though too. The greatest of these moments is voiced by the late, great drag queen Dorian Corey: the camera is on her as she slowly applies eyeshadow, and her cat naps in the background. She discusses her journey, her disappointments, but says how she had come to terms with life, and resolves her enlightened words by saying, “If you shoot an arrow and it goes real high, hooray for you.” The other moments that left an equally immense impact on me were the incredible spectacles fashion, from glamorized streetwear, to bikinis, to gorgeous gowns made by participants themselves. The most memorable of these has to be the gold gown worn by Pepper Labeija, with humongous sequined shoulder poofs, and ruffles that encircled her face. In this scene, everyone in the club was fanning her and shouting her on in the signature queer phrases like “You better work” or “yesss, serve,” phrases which are still used by the queer community today (perhaps with some more explicit language sprinkled in though). Moments like these are why I have, and why I could continue to watch the film again and again. The amount of inspiration and overall advice that I have drawn from Paris is Burning is unmeasurable. One project I have done based on inspiration from the film is a pantsuit I made out of covers of Vogue magazine, only the covers were images of the Vogue dancers that I photoshopped behind the Vogue lettering. It was meant to pay homage to the people who were deserving of being on the Vogue cover, but never saw mainstream fame, and many of whom died of AIDS soon after they were featured in the film. Another piece that I made was a dress consisting only of New York City Metrocards, with each card connected at each corner with elastic string to create a stretchy wearable textile, I made Metrocard classes and earrings to go with it, and I believe the design is something that would give me the praises of “You better work” if I were walking down the runway at a ball.