From an early age, I knew I was the black sheep of my family. Two of my older sisters were the only kids in the house who had a TV in their room. With nine kids under one roof, that was a big deal. Most days, they would watch Supernatural or binge-watch the Twilight series. They welcomed my little sister into their room to share popcorn and watch their favorite series with them. I wanted to join, but they never let me enter their room. I would have to sit outside the door frame with my necked crooked to the side, trying to glimpse the tv. It was never the same as being allowed in. Physically, I was in the same space as my family, but I knew that proximity and blood weren't enough to feel connected. When my mom began to abuse me starting as early as 3rd grade, the exclusion grew deeper. As middle school approached, I excelled in school, participating in every sport and club I could to avoid being at home. Quickly, the school became my home, a refuge. I began to cope with the isolation from my family, the abuse, and the hardships of poverty by overworking myself. My survival mechanism was being a 16-year-old workaholic. Changing my home environment was unachievable; instead, resilience helped me grow into a strong individual. I worked three jobs in high school, was a dual varsity athlete, sat on the Minneapolis School Board, frequently met with state representatives, was a full-time PSEO student, and ran a campaign. I was a familiar face in my community, yet I felt like a stranger when I walked into my house. I deserved to be loved and understood. My mother held resentment toward me for her relationship with my father. My siblings labeled me as annoying for simply seeking the attention and validation my mother never gave me. Fortunately, I found purpose in working hard at school and being validated for my successes in and outside of the classroom. In front of my teachers, I felt seen for once. It's no question that Education is my greatest passion. School saved me from the suicidal ideations that I faced from being a victim of isolation and physical abuse. The walls of my schools held me closer than my own family. I didn't, and still don't, belong in my family, but I know I deserve to become a golden gopher. I was heavily involved in the University campus as a prospective student. On weekends, I wore my University of Minnesota gear, and when asked if I was a student, I would respond by saying, “Not yet.” I no longer want to sit in the door frame of the school I am confident that I belong. This acceptance would help me feel part of a family I never had. To be a future educator helping students who might share those experiences. The passion I embody is contagious and I cannot wait to demonstrate just how important higher education means to me by becoming a future educator myself. Higher education will support me and I can confidently contribute to the world of academia. Through education, we as a society can break generational cycles of poverty and advance in our communities. If more people had access to equitable and affordable education, we would live in more peace. This is what education means to me, and I will continue to learn and one day teach to future generations and be the educator that every student needs.

People Change and Names Can Too With a microphone in my hand, I looked out into a school divided. This site council meeting would determine the future of my high school. Currently called Patrick Henry, today’s vote would either pass, reject, or table the name change., I trembled while cameras of local news stations and newspapers captured the moment. To my left a crowd of people wearing #ChangeTheName! shirts cheered me on. On the right sat the alumni and community members who disagreed with the movement. In the back of the room, two older women stood with their hands on their ears as I spoke. It was their time to listen but they refused. The campaign to change my high school’s name started when students researched the true history of Patrick Henry. Though Henry, a founding father, is famously known for his quote, “Give me liberty or give me death,” was also a slave owner. While, the school's demographics are 92% nonwhite. A group of 30 students and 2 teachers from diverse backgrounds at my high school organized themselves in the fall of 2017 to change the name. They entered history classes and revealed for the first time Patrick Henry's involvement in slave ownership. When they came to my U.S history class, I decided to join the movement. As a Muslim African American student who read Black authors like Maya Angelou, Alex Haley, Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, and Langston Hughes for pleasure, I developed critical consciousness. I grew up in a household that sometimes couldn't afford to feed nine kids, but always had shelves filled with books ranging from Islamic studies to cookbooks. In a house that big, sometimes voices weren't always heard. I knew the power of listening. I never would have guessed that I would become the face of a movement. During months of work, my peers always handed me the mic and suggested I be on TV, in newspapers, and on radio stations. I was often the only student who volunteered to give up my Saturdays to speak at basketball games or stand in gym lobbies explaining the name change to my peers’ parents. I worked two jobs at the time and the name change felt like yet another one. There was no better job than to make a change in my community. During moments when we could see those who denied history, many students were discouraged. We sold shirts, wristbands, and candy, but in a poor community like North Minneapolis, we were not able to raise the funds for the name change. When our campaign hosted community events, people would tell us that “Slavery wasn’t that bad,” or “Just because Patrick Henry owned slaves does not mean he was a bad man.” Attendance to our weekly meetings plummeted. During the last two months of school, I sacrificed playing softball to be the only student who did not give up. After months of diligent fundraising, bringing awareness, appearing in local news, and talking to elected officials, the name was not changed. But I have. I was under grave pressure and my community relied on me. I learned what it meant to listen first to understand, rather than to be understood. I do not see the name change movement as a failure. Instead, I see a time in my life when I grew as a listener, a leader, and a person. I grew to understand organizing and leadership. And I learned that, before I changed others’ minds, I changed myself first. Now, I am a fearless leader. A leader who knows the power of listening, learning, and understanding.

From an early age, I knew I was the black sheep of my family. Two of my older sisters were the only kids in the house with a TV in their room. With nine kids under one roof, that was a big deal. Most days, they would watch Supernatural or binge-watch the Twilight series. They welcomed my little sister into their room to share popcorn and watch their favorite shows with them. I wanted to join, but they never let me enter their room. I would have to sit outside the door frame with my necked crooked to the side, trying to glimpse the tv. It was never the same as being allowed in. Physically, I was in the same space as my family, but I knew that proximity and blood weren't enough to feel connected. The exclusion grew deeper when my mom began to abuse me starting as early as 1st grade. My personality has always been bold, unique, and creative. I would walk downstairs in the summertime singing my favorite pop song at the time- usually something by Katy Perry, but my siblings faced me with harsh words. You would've thought "Annoying" was my name, by how much my siblings used it to label me. My mother was faced with raising 9 of her children and 6 of my step siblings under one roof on Section 8 and Food stamps. While trying to run a house, she was experiencing marital issues that resulted in her becoming a domestic violence and abuse victim. In turn, the trauma and pain my mother felt often channeled onto us kids, and the cycle of abuse continued. During elementary, I knew my family was not only much larger than most of my peers at school and in my community, but I knew the pain and suffering were more damaging than my young mind could handle. I quickly found an avenue to process my feelings through journaling. I would hide in the back of my shared closet with a tiny flashlight and write my pain away. To this day, I can still see smears on my pen marks from the tears that fell from my eyes. Though unfortunately, my mother would find my journals, read them, and punish me for expressing myself, and I began to journal less at home and more at school, locking away my secrets and pain in my locker after each day. At school, I felt safe. The house held my family in its walls, yet the space felt empty to me. I knew I was very different from those I shared blood with. I didn't belong. As middle school approached, I excelled in school, participating in every sport and club I could to avoid being at home. Quickly, the school became my home, a refuge. I began to cope with the isolation from my family, the abuse, and the hardships of poverty by overworking myself. My survival mechanism was being a 16-year-old workaholic. Changing my home environment was unachievable; instead, resilience helped me grow into a strong individual. I worked three jobs in high school, was a dual varsity athlete, sat on the Minneapolis School Board, frequently met with state representatives, was a full-time PSEO student, and ran a campaign that became the front cover of many Twin Cities magazines and newspapers. I was a familiar face in my community, yet I felt like a stranger when I walked into my house. I deserved to be loved and understood. My mother resented me for her relationship with my father and the lack of mental health support she received for her trauma as a domestic abuse victim. My siblings labeled me annoying for seeking the attention and validation my mother and family never gave me. Fortunately, I found purpose in working hard at school and being validated for my successes in and outside the classroom. In front of my teachers, I felt seen for once. It's no question that Education is my greatest passion. School saved me from the suicidal ideations I faced from being a victim of isolation and physical abuse. Every day I rushed to my following classes after spending time talking to teachers about subjects that related to our current units in class. The walls of my schools held me closer than my own family. Teachers loved me in the ways that I yearned for in my family. My teammates on the soccer and softball teams became the sisters I thought I'd never had. I didn't, and still don't, belong in my family, but I know I deserve to receive an education and be welcomed into the community of academia. Two weeks before my senior year of high school, my mother kicked me out, and I lived with my alcoholic father, who felt like a ghost; he was never home. Soon after, I moved out and have been committed to breaking the cycle of poverty and learning to provide for myself independently. My family has continued to alienate me and refuses to provide information for collecting FAFSA for college. Because of this, I have opted out of school to work full time after declining school acceptances. This scholarship with not only provide the opportunity for affordable Education, but it will also end another generation of poverty here in Minnesota. The challenges I faced at home allowed me to cling to school and transform my energy positively. I have been inspired to overcome my challenges by one day having a classroom that'll be a refuge for students who share those childhood experiences with me. Through my perseverance, I have excelled in any classroom I enter and continue to show my dedication to Education. Eliminating the financial barrier to higher education will allow me to become a teacher of color in Minnesota and carry the legacy of teachers before me. I am ready to return to the classroom and begin to heal and shape the future of Education. School saved me-I am a resilient student.