I clutched a library book copy of Parrotfish at 15 so tightly the cover creased over—afraid to smile too widely with the awareness that the main character was a trans man, someone might question why. That fleeting instant of recognition ignited a lifetime of questions about justice: Why must anyone be afraid to see themselves reflected in books? Why do the systems designed to protect us so often fail LGBTQ+ people? And now, as a student of criminology navigating my own path with gender and sexuality, I've found my answer—by working in a career where I can investigate crimes and re-write the script for how queer lives are valued. The statistics haunt me - 58% of LGBTQ+ assault survivors never report their attacks, often due to fear of police bias. In my criminal law courses, I've analyzed case after case where officers misgendered victims or dismissed same-sex domestic violence as "drama." These aren't just academic exercises. When I read about a trans woman's murder investigation being botched because detectives focused on her deadname rather than leads, I see my younger self in that library chair - invisible, misunderstood, and vulnerable. This personal connection drives my academic focus on victim advocacy and forensic psychology. I'm currently researching how trauma-informed interviewing techniques could improve outcomes for LGBTQ+ crime victims, working under Dr. Elena Martinez, whose groundbreaking work on hate crime documentation has changed NYPD protocols. Next semester, I'll intern with the NYC Anti-Violence Project, helping track bias incidents that often fall through legal cracks. My goal is to bridge the gap between queer communities and law enforcement - not just through better policies, but through human connection. I have volunteered with the youth on many occasions, and when many express to me their frustrations that they "don't feel like themselves," I tell them that it's normal to feel that way. What matters is how they express themselves. In the end, it's not just about LGBTQ+ recognition, but to allow the youth to be able to feel free without the stigma that acting in a certain way makes them "gay." Financial barriers threaten this crucial work. Between tuition, essential certifications in crisis intervention, and gender-affirming healthcare not covered by insurance, I'm constantly forced to choose which parts of my future to delay. This scholarship would allow me to attend the National LGBTQ Task Force's Creating Change conference, purchase forensic software for my research, and finally begin testosterone therapy - all of which would make me better equipped to serve my community. My vision is a justice system where no queer person fears reporting crimes, where officers understand that respecting pronouns isn't political correctness - it's basic human dignity. With this support, I can become the kind of investigator who spots the patterns in hate crimes others miss, who ensures cold cases get reopened with proper pronouns, and who shows the next generation that our identities make us invaluable problem-solvers, not problems to be solved.

My grandfather, Richard Gallo, was a man who had the rare balance of warmth and authority—a man who could make you heard with one conversation but command a room when necessary. His natural empathy made people want to trust him instantly, yet he was never scared to make the tough decisions when situations demanded it. This duality—warm and approachable yet uncompromising in his beliefs—framed my notion of leadership, particularly in careers like law enforcement, where compassion and toughness must coexist. If a family member was going through a difficult time or if a stranger was in need of advice, he listened carefully, never rushing to judgment. He believed that approaching to look at things from someone's perspective was the solution to any problem. That is something I took with me. As a one-day police detective, I understand that investigations are not just filling in the dots of evidence—they're about individuals. Victims, witnesses, even offenders have their tales, and the time and empathy to listen to them can be the difference between a case being solved and a truth being overlooked. But what truly set him apart was that even with his empathy, he knew how to change gears when firmness was needed. He was not controlling for the sake of control—he led when leadership was necessary. I remember one instance where a fight in our family business was about to get out of control. While others vacillated, he stepped in, established some firm boundaries, and made the difficult decision that prevented everything from collapsing. That lesson showed me that real strength doesn't lie in aggression—it lies in the bravery to act when others will not. Policing, and especially being a detective, means there will be times that demand decisiveness: heated interrogations, split-second decisions, or situations where hesitation can be fatal. My grandfather, for all the years I knew him, showed me that authority is best used when it is thoughtful, not as a bludgeon but as a tool of last resort. His example is my guide. I strive to carry his empathy into each interaction, knowing that trust is built in the silent moments—listening to a victim's tale, calming a nervous witness, or diffusing a tense situation. Yet I also carry his wisdom into strength—that when circumstances call for it, leadership demands acting with resolve. In policing, the best detectives are not just smart or tough; they are the ones who know when to lend a hand and when to be firm. My grandfather had found that balance in life, and it is the same balance I will bring to my community with the badge.