Am I extinct? Do I not exist? These words echoed through my head as I sat and watched my 7th-grade history teacher instruct a fraudulent lesson plan painting Indigenous Americans as "savage" and "extinct." Still, as a 19-year-old college student, I find myself reflecting back on this moment of dehumanization. History was always my favorite subject in school. Learning about the building blocks of today was always so fascinating to me, but I always dreaded the moments that I knew we were going to enter an Indigenous history unit due to the degrading words that were bound to be spewed. Having grown up immersed in my culture, I viewed my heritage as a beautiful symbol of our resilience. I am the product of those they couldn’t kill, and my existence is my history’s persistence. So why not teach it that way? Why is history always mistaught? Why do all Natives share the universal experience of dehumanization and erasure in our history class? Why aren’t the people who are supposed to be most educated on history always miseducated on OUR history? These questions constantly ran through my head. But three years and a high school diploma later, I have a conclusion: we need history to be taught by the people. After landing myself a small tutoring job fresh out of high school, I discovered a few new passions—history and education. I sought out students who specifically needed tutoring in history and, for the first time, felt as if what I was doing mattered. It is rooted in us to be storytellers; it's our culture. From my mother's creation story that I heard growing up to my lesson of Indigenous resilience that my students will hear, storytelling is the heart of our culture. So, who better to teach the youth than the very people that history is built on? Who better to teach the youth our history, my history? Growing up as a historically underrepresented minority, I never found myself reflected in any of my teachers' curricula. Instead, I faced erasure. As an Indigenous person navigating spaces created to exclude me, I am inspired to take up space despite historical efforts to prevent it. As a future Indigenous educator, my heritage is integral to my life, and by teaching, I keep my heritage alive. Our traditions and customs were passed down orally. They were taught. If it weren’t for these teachings, our culture wouldn't have survived. Thanks to generational teaching, I have the privilege to be an educator, a dismissed yet sacred role. I am still here, and now it is my turn to educate our future. I plan to be an educator so that I can provide the safe space that I never got the opportunity to have. Teachers should make their students feel included, not excluded, and unfortunately, I know that feeling of exclusion all too well. It is my priority to ensure that there will never be a student in my classroom who feels the way I did. Contrary to what my 7th-grade history teacher said, I am not a scary savage Indian who only exists in textbooks; I am a strong Indigenous woman, and I will be a teacher to make sure that the history I experienced in my school years does not ever repeat in anyone else's.

My name is Ingrid-Amalfi Guandique Gonzalez, and I am a 19-year-old college student at the College of Southern Nevada majoring in secondary education. This is my last semester before I transfer, and will officially have the privilege to be able to call myself a university student, something I never believed was possible coming from where I am from. I am so proud to be able to say that I have recently been accepted into my dream university: The University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. It was one of the most magical moments of my life to open that decision in a class full of Las Vegas 6th graders and provide them with a new sense of encouragement by showing them the accomplishable. But growing up, I never had that moment that fueled me to pursue my own education. I never had anyone there to guide me down a path of success. My entire life, it had been instilled in me that going to university was important because it was the only way to a career— but they never provided any guidance on reaching that, just that it was important. No one in my community pursued higher education and simply got stuck in the system, contributing to the bad environment that surrounded us all. Without the guidance that I required, I drifted and made awful decisions that I still regret. I did nothing but watch my entire future crumble before my eyes, and I had no clue on how to stop it. But somehow, I graduated high school, and my counselor enrolled me in the local community college that was offering free tuition to recent graduates. While the rest of my peers were opening their university acceptance packages, my counselors were comforting me that there was nothing to be ashamed of by attending community college. But still, I was ashamed. I grew up in Las Vegas, Nevada, and attended one of the worst-ranked school districts in the entire country. Some of my most vivid memories are of playing around in school playgrounds littered with needles. I was so innocent then and had no idea of the reality that my educational experience was. Harm in a place of innocence, I watched the same kids that played with the playground needles grow into becoming users of them. And this perfectly represents exactly what our school system is like. Truthfully, I never really wanted to be a teacher. There was never really that teacher that had a large impact on me other than a select few. My entire life, I never had an actual educator but just someone trying to do their job, and I’ve realized that's a problem here in Las Vegas. No one has passion, no one wants to educate, and no one cares. But that’s the difference between me and them: I care. I was a product of my own environment and know that all these students need to succeed is for someone to believe in them. Through pursuing a path of education, I can be their encouragement and point them down a journey of success. Educators lead our future, and so much of our future is throwing their entire futures away. But maybe if our youth had someone there to believe in and encourage them, they could succeed and escape the cycle that follows so many Vegas kids. And that's the impact I plan to make on the world, and truthfully, I know I can succeed, because I too was once just a student who needed guidance, but now, I am the guidance.

Growing up as a young Indigenous and Hispanic girl from East Las Vegas, I constantly witnessed the deteriorating health of the people around me due to their increased consumption of meat. There is hardly any nourishing food accessible, and since it is a very low-income area, families are forced to sacrifice their health in exchange for the cheap, highly processed meat products available. Greasy street tacos and sugary milk drinks were staples, and I began to take notice of a troubling pattern: meals shared the same animal product ingredients, and the health of the people in our community was also shared. I started questioning if the food we ate played an important role in our unfortunate health conditions. And as I had suspected, I was right. Native Americans have one of the highest diabetic rates out of any other group, and unfortunately, my family is yet another addition to this statistic. In late 2020, my grandmother passed away due to complications with her diabetes after struggling with it for many years; it was devastating for us, and my family took it as a wake-up call. Due to our newfound fear for our health, my family and I made the tough decision to go vegan. This was very difficult, and we failed multiple times from just straight-up eating wakavaki, which is a deer or beef soup, to accidentally consuming products with gelatin included. So much of our modern diet revolved around meats loaded with fats that no human should be eating, but so much of our ancestral foods revolved around plants, and meat was never consumed in excess. As original caretakers of this land, we do not kill an animal unless it is absolutely necessary, and if it is done, we honor the animal's great sacrifice to provide for our community and use its entirety. Colonization disrupted this ancestral practice and forced us to rely on the meat industry, as it was the only food readily available on the reservation. Meat was never originally a staple, and we were always heavily plant-based; turning to veganism meant we were returning to tradition. Keeping this in mind, our journey to veganism became much easier. We began to have diets heavily revolved around tradition and introduced grains and corn to daily consumption, and the outcome was very successful. Having originally been on track to develop diabetes, my older sister was shocked when she learned that her cholesterol had returned to normal levels. Noticing the positive changes in my family upon going vegan, I thought it was time to address the community. Since I was on the committee for a local Earth Day Powwow, I knew that there would be many Native elders who were diabetic and needed nourishing food available, so I took it as an opportunity to make a difference and advocated for healthy plant-based foods. Classic powwow foods like Indian tacos slathered in greasy beef were instead replaced with rich corn stews and other traditional plant-based meals. No one complained, and I even had an elder, who was diabetic, thank me and tell me that we need more actual food available for our people. Recently, I spoke at an Urban Native Health event and brought up how, as Natives, there are preventive measures that can be taken to combat diabetes, and one of them is undoubtedly embracing veganism. An act of resistance against the poison we were forced on, veganism is not just a diet but a way of life, a way of tradition.

Throughout the past few years, I have made a tremendous impact in my community; but the most impactful would have to be my participation in the first ever UNLV Earth Day Youth Powwow. I grew up in Las Vegas, a city with one of the largest populations of Native Americans living outside tribally owned lands, so I always had the opportunity to connect with my people and be immersed in my culture. Since I had the privilege to be surrounded by other Natives, I always actively involved myself in community engagement, but in early 2022, I helped officially establish an Indigenous youth organization with the help of the CCSD Indian Education Opportunities Program. We would attend events, help organize community gatherings, and offer a safe space for fellow Indigenous youth. One day while attending a Native art gallery, we got the chance to introduce ourselves to local prominent Native matriarchs. They thought what we were doing in the community was amazing, and they wanted our participation in setting up a youth powwow at the University of Nevada Las Vegas. Right at the start, we were on board and were officially a part of the powwow committee. I attended every meeting, met with all possible donors, gathered volunteers, and even made the flyer that was posted everywhere, including the local news. The progress that my group made in such little time was immense and we were establishing a name for ourselves in our community. We had a project planned at the powwow to engage other Native youth and create an outlet for them to express themselves, thus creating the Live Earth Day Painting. We spent lots of money to be able to create this project and constantly practiced our live painting, but our hard work paid off. Finally the powwow day came and all the hours of powwow and painting planning paid off and we had an estimated attendance of over 2,000 people, with some attendees even having traveled from out of state! It was a huge success and I was incredibly proud of myself, especially for leading our live painting. Challenging, yet incredibly rewarding, I engaged with so many youth and got them to engage with each other. The youth group is still going, and still continues to foster safe spaces for community engagement. In fact, it is now evolving and in the process of becoming a non-profit organization for urban Indigenous youth. The annual UNLV powwow is also still going, and it’s expanded to a competition powwow set to attract even more out of state attendees. It has grown beyond what it started as, and I am so proud to be able to say I had a role in engaging so many urban youth together. Recently, I was admitted into the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign; my dream school. But unfortunately, I can not afford it without financial help. My ultimate dream is to create a safe space for Indigenous youth through the form of education and If I were to be awarded this scholarship, I will be able to be one step closer to my dreams.

Growing up, I was immersed in my culture despite living miles away from my homeland. Living in Vegas allowed me to grow up surrounded by other Natives even though I was so far away from the Yaqui rez. “City Indian” was what my family on the rez would call me whenever I visited. Poking fun at my urban upbringing, I knew it was out of love and never as an insult. I was a “City Indian,” and I was proud. Although I didn't grow up on the rez, I grew up in the next closest thing: Las Vegas. Not widely known, Las Vegas is home to one of the largest communities of Native Americans living outside of tribal land. More than 50,000 “City Indians”; we had a higher Native population than some of the largest reservations nationwide. Providing a rez away from rez, the urban Native community in Las Vegas had my heart. I loved being Native, and nothing could dim my pride. But as I started to grow up, I became exposed to a wide range of experiences I didn't expect: puberty, testing, and, unfortunately, dehumanization. At 12 years old, I was in my favorite class of the day: history. I loved this class and always came ready to learn and participate. I was one of the only Natives in my entire school and the only Native in my class. If someone ever had to speak up, it had to be me. But I didn’t know I was allowed to do that when I witnessed my 7th-grade history teacher falsely portray Native Americans as “nearly extinct animal-like savages who needed to be taught how to function in a society.” Was I extinct? Was I an animal? I didn’t know how to feel, and I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel. Looking back on this moment, I wish someone had been there to reassure my feelings of its validity. Following that moment, I began to learn of the challenges of a “City Indian": concerningly low graduation rates and placing lower than any other ethnicity in standardized testing scores. I began to fear for my future. Was I just another statistic? I started to work tirelessly for my education. It was tough, and constantly hearing about my potential failure heightened the difficulty. But eventually, I graduated, and I beat the statistic of 75% of Natives who don’t. I didn’t go to a fancy university or anything close, but I graduated, and I earned it. Subsequently, after my graduation, I began to think of my future. Reflecting on the child I was and the erasure I experienced, I realized I had an opportunity to make an impact: I could be an educator and teach the youth the truth, preventing dehumanization and fostering the safe space I wish I had in the process. I plan to be a history teacher, and my life as a "City Indian" is responsible for my decision. Since that decision, I have made multiple accomplishments. Personally chosen by my college to speak at the state legislature to advocate for increased funding for Native students, I've already begun to make a positive impact on Native education, and I hope to be able to continue. Maybe I’ll lose this scholarship to a non-native who only adjusted their profile to be able to apply. Maybe I’ll lose it to another Native who might also need it. Or maybe I’ll win this scholarship and be a step closer to my dreams. Whatever the outcome, I will continue to work tirelessly towards my ambitions because this “City Indian” can do it.

Growing up as a young Indigenous and Hispanic girl from East Las Vegas, I constantly witnessed the deteriorating health of the people around me due to their increased consumption of meat. There is hardly any nourishing food accessible, and since it is a very low-income area, families are forced to sacrifice their health in exchange for the cheap, highly processed meat products available. Greasy street tacos and sugary milk drinks were staples, and I began to take notice of a troubling pattern: meals shared the same animal product ingredients, and the health of the people in our community was also shared. I started questioning if the food we ate played an important role in our unfortunate health conditions. And as I had suspected, I was right. Native Americans have one of the highest diabetic rates out of any other group, and unfortunately, my family is yet another addition to this statistic. In late 2020, my grandmother passed away due to complications with her diabetes after struggling with it for many years; it was devastating for us, and my family took it as a wake-up call. Due to our newfound fear for our health, my family and I made the tough decision to go vegan. This was very difficult, and we failed multiple times from just straight-up eating wakavaki, which is a deer or beef soup, to accidentally consuming products with gelatin included. So much of our modern diet revolved around meats loaded with fats that no human should be eating, but so much of our ancestral foods revolved around plants, and meat was never consumed in excess. As original caretakers of this land, we do not kill an animal unless it is absolutely necessary, and if it is done, we honor the animal's great sacrifice to provide for our community and use its entirety. Colonization disrupted this ancestral practice and forced us to rely on the meat industry, as it was the only food readily available on the reservation. Meat was never originally a staple, and we were always heavily plant-based; turning to veganism meant we were returning to tradition. Keeping this in mind, our journey to veganism became much easier. We began to have diets heavily revolved around tradition and introduced grains and corn to daily consumption, and the outcome was very successful. Having originally been on track to develop diabetes, my older sister was shocked when she learned that her cholesterol had returned to normal levels. Noticing the positive changes in my family upon going vegan, I thought it was time to address the community. Since I was on the committee for a local Earth Day Powwow, I knew that there would be many Native elders who were diabetic and needed nourishing food available, so I took it as an opportunity to make a difference and advocated for healthy plant-based foods. Classic powwow foods like Indian tacos slathered in greasy beef were instead replaced with rich corn stews and other traditional plant-based meals. No one complained, and I even had an elder, who was diabetic, thank me and tell me that we need more actual food available for our people. Recently, I spoke at an Urban Native Health event and brought up how, as Natives, there are preventive measures that can be taken to combat diabetes, and one of them is undoubtedly embracing veganism. An act of resistance against the poison we were forced on, veganism is not just a diet but a way of life, a way of tradition.

Growing up as a historically underrepresented minority, I never found myself reflected in any of my teachers' curricula. Instead, I faced erasure. As an Indigenous person navigating spaces created to exclude me, I am inspired to take up space despite historical efforts to prevent it. Education is for all, and as educators, we should strive to enforce multiculturalism in principles of our teaching. As an Indigenous educator, my heritage is integral to my life, and the classroom is no different. By incorporating an Indigenous touch in my teaching, I keep my heritage alive. Our traditions and customs were passed down orally. They were taught. If it wasn’t for these teachings, our culture wouldn't have survived. Thanks to generational teaching, I have the privilege to be an educator, a dismissed yet sacred role. I am still here, and it's my turn to educate our future. I believe that the purpose of education is growth and capability. The brain is built to constantly learn, and that's its beauty. As educators, we are responsible to build students' confidence in their ability to evolve. Despite the importance of standardized testing, it's equally important to encourage your students' belief in themselves. Using my heritage as an example, Indigenous students have one of the lowest graduation rates. This statistic may pressure students into doubting themselves. However, if educators nurture student's potential, growth, and capability, students will believe in themselves and empower their flourishing potential. It is an educator's role to guide students into their capability. Reflecting on the environments my past teachers encouraged, the most effective classrooms always emphasized collaborative learning. Students were grouped together consistently and there was hardly independent work aside from tests and quizzes. It’s no coincidence that these classes had the highest attendance and passing rates. Keeping this in mind, I aim to integrate collaboration into my classroom environment. The utilization of social learning allows students to not fear engagement. Since humans are social beings, we are aware of our differences from a young age, shaping our learning, negatively and positively. Stereotyping may cause students to struggle with confidence in learning, but they can overcome this with collaborative learning. When students collaborate, they interact with the diversity within each other and gain differing perspectives. This allows for a culturally and linguistically responsive environment to nourish the learning of every student. I aim for all of my students to unlock their full potential. I want them to be aware that someone believes in them. Building appropriate relationships with your students is crucial, not just for their academic success, but for my own teaching process as well. When students are comfortable, you have the opportunity to shape them into capable learners. The comfortability you foster among students will allow them to reach not just the goals I set, but the ones they set for themselves. My goal is for all of my students to experience the purpose of education--growth and adaptability-- and I can reach this through the use of social learning and strong relationship-building. I am also committed to keep evolving my teaching. As I am fully committed to a bright future in education, I must also commit to growth and improvement. There will be the occasional stumble, but it will serve as an opportunity to learn. Education is about growth and adaptability, and without those traits, there's no title as an educator for me. I plan to continuously grow and adapt my teaching by reflecting on everything I do. This way I will fully meet the needs of my diverse array of students and will be capable of preparing the next generation.

“Inepo Yoeme” is how you say, “I am Yoeme,” in the language of my ancestors. “Yoemem,” is how you say “The People.” My name is Ingrid and I am proud to be apart of the people. But growing up as an Indigenous girl in a world that does not exist for me, being proud of who I was was not an easy task. I grew up in Las Vegas, famously not known for having the highest population of Native Americans. However, despite this small percentage of 1.1%, Las Vegas is home to one of the largest Native American communities outside of tribally owned land. Only 1.1% being considered anything large is always a grim feeling, especially when you take into consideration that it was once 100%. A tourist on my own land, I am not welcome. And my unwanted presence has always been blatantly stated to me, even without the use of words. 12 years old, history class, second period, September 2017. What happened when I was 12 years old in my second period history class in September of 2017? What had happened was the witnessing of someone who is supposed to provide me an education, instead belittle my people and say we were extinct and close to endangered, as if we were animals. What had happened was I had witnessed the dehumanizing of the people I belong to and did nothing about it. And why? Because I was ashamed and didn’t feel like the unfamiliar emotions that I was feeling for the first time were justifiable. I was confused and upset and I didn’t know how to react. Do I not exist? Does my family and the resilient history of our people not exist? I come from one of the most fearless tribes with a bloodline consisting of warriors who fought colonizers and their attempted genocides for me to be here. Growing up, my mother always told stories about my grandpa. My great grandparents could not speak English or Spanish, but they chose not to teach my grandpa our native language out of his own protection. I always felt confused whenever my mother would tell me that considering my mothers constant reminders to be proud of my native blood. But as I grew up and began to firsthand experience hardships due to my identity, I began to realize why some of the people before me were not so proud to be Yoeme. I began to hide my identity and any reminders of who I was. But, my attempt at ignoring my blood was not successful. You just can’t erase who you are. In high school I met a group of Indigenous students who I could relate to through our shared struggles. We realized we could convert our negativity into something positive and created an Indigenous youth group dedicated to uplifting Native kids who feel alone. I am now an unapologetically Native American Yoeme woman who will be minoring in American-Indian studies alongside my major in Secondary Education. As a future Native educator, it is my mission to make sure there is never a Native child in my classroom who feels alone like I once did. I am Ingrid and I am proud to be a part of the people.