Most people use their closets to hide what they do not want to be seen. Yet if you opened mine, you would see exactly who I am and to be quite honest… It is a mess! Shirts strewn across the floor and mounds of clothes filling the already cramped space. It is the textbook definition of a “teenage boys closet”. Despite this to me it is a place, where for the past 17 years, I have kept every version of who I was, who I am, and who I am becoming. My kindergarten cap & gown represent the lessons I have taken from life on what it means to be a true leader and to serve those around you. Hung neatly in my closet sits the oldest piece of clothing I own. My kindergarten cap & gown! And it may be hard to believe this but I still do remember the day when five-year-old me walked across a makeshift stage, searching for my parents in a sea of other people. And the moment I saw them cheering, smiling, proud, I understood even at that age I would never be walking alone. No matter where life took me, I would carry my parents' sacrifices, love, and their belief in me: Every. Single. Step. Of. The. Way. And to this very day at the age of 18, I still remember that fateful day: the one that changed everything for me. It taught me that my background not only as an immigrant but one of hispanic descent meant I could not let my parents' sacrifices be in vain. Honoring them through my success in life creating space for myself, in places that often did not include those of my color nor background. Spaces such as my schools student government, where I served not only as the first hispanic ASB President in nearly 20 years but as the first hispanic ASB President who was elected to office as a junior, the first time this ever happened since the founding of Richard Gahr High School but also the first student to hold the office for two consecutive terms. And throughout all my experiences in student government I took away one life lesson: I had the power to shape the world. Now, entering the first few chapters of adulthood, flying thousands of miles away from my home in California to live at Penn State. I see myself continuing to live a life built upon leadership. Creating opportunities for others like myself using my experiences to mentor first-generation students of all backgrounds, ensuring they feel seen in spaces that have not always included people like us. Guiding them as a leader to reach a point of self actualization where they can take charge and lead, carrying out my values of guiding each other. Looking toward the distant future, I see myself pursuing law ultimately serving at the highest levels of our judicial system in the United States. Not only changing the legislative landscape so that immigrants are no longer criminalized but rather recognized as the forebearers who have paved the way for our successes as a country. And continuing to carry the lessons my closet has taught me. Leadership isn't something worn like a simple t-shirt for recognition: It is rather a delicate practice sustained through service, responsibility, and a commitment for something greater than yourself.

If you were to take a look into my closet your immediate thought may be that it’s a resemblance of the stereotypical "teenage boy” disaster. Yet every item has stayed for some particular reason… Each shirt, pair of shoes, even my kindergarten cap and gown neatly tucked into the corner tells a story of who I was, who I am, and who I’m becoming. For the past twelve years my kindergarten cap and gown has been waiting patiently for the day it gets the opportunity to be worn once again. It once clothed the little boy who nearly started crying while walking across the stage because he didn’t see his parents in the crowd. Yet the second he saw them cheering, this served as a core memory one that taught me resilience and determination. These are the same core values I watched my immigrant parents use to navigate a world of challenges they never chose, but still endured for the sake of my future. I learned a valuable lesson: I could not let their sacrifices be in vain. For me, my education has never just been about grades or semester report cards. Instead, it has been the needle and thread weaving my parent’s sacrifices into my future success. Every evening spent with my father attempting to solve college level calculus equations and every AP test I've pulled all nighters for has woven stitch after stitch into a garment my parents began weaving long before I could understand. College isn’t just a dream; it's a promise that his parents' and grandparents' sacrifices will not be in vain. This sense of purpose extends beyond my own home and into my community. “Hello, I’m here for today’s Pen Pal activity!” To any stranger these are eight simple words. To me they symbolize an eleven month journey serving as a Memory Care Connections Executive Liaison between Gahr High and the Oakmont of Whittier Assisted Living and Memory Care Facility. Since April of my junior year, I have assisted in the facilitation of a pen pal program connecting eleven high school students with ten residents at Oakmont. Although I might not have a pen pal of my own, the service I’m able to provide to the residents and their families is something that will shine like gold in my memory. Serving as Gahr’s Executive Liaison I act as a mail man, but to me I’m doing more than delivering letters. I help foster intergenerational relationships through reading letters aloud and helping compose responses. Over time these simple interactions have truly shifted how I view the world and myself. I’ve talked to residents like Verna, a Japanese American woman who at seven years old was placed in an internment camp during World War II. Torn from her home and faced with an injustice that forever impacted her childhood, she never frowned. Instead she chose to smile, speaking not with bitterness but hope. These stories have reaffirmed what I plan to do in life. Giving back has shown me that my education is the tool I will use to honor stories like Verna’s and the sacrifices of my own family. Tucked neatly in the corner waits a different cap and gown waiting to be worn. One that doesn’t represent the transition from one grade to another but a crossing of worlds my parents once dreamed of. This new cap and gown is a garment woven from every sacrifice, every step taken with determination, and every dream my parents have given up, because once I wear it, it’ll belong to all of us.