Growing up in an underprivileged area meant I didn’t have access to resources that taught me about different career choices. Thus, when I arrived at high school, I felt wildly unprepared compared to the rest of my classmates who already had the chance to develop their passions. As I continued to reflect on the systemic implications of what I was going through, my desire for a remedy to my issue came to a climax last year. Wanting to take action for youth like me, I contacted the manager of my local Immigrant Social Services’ after-school branch. I proposed to create a program with them that would propel kids forward toward their future, fittingly named FutureForward, that would teach middle school students about different career paths and opportunities. When they greenlighted my pitch and assigned me to teach at the middle school I graduated from, I happily spent all of last summer planning with Immigrant Social Services to assemble an incredible team of volunteers with special interests in different fields. On the first day of FutureForward, I asked each of my students, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” They all responded with the same answer, “I don’t know.” I promised them that they would be well equipped to answer my question with each lesson I taught. Thirteen weeks flew quickly; my students were engrossed with each activity, finding new ways to explore their interests. From learning how to write invigorating mysteries like Agatha Christie, to solving murders with foundational principles of forensic science, to drawing floor and electrical plans for their cardboard castles, there was nothing my students weren’t willing to try. When the final lesson for the first cycle of the program came, I asked them, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” As I promised, they were finally able to answer my question with “author,” “lawyer,” and even “architect.” As I watched each of my students find themselves through the FutureForward lessons, I could see the next generation of my community shining. While continuing to plan these lessons and working with more students, I am helping my community to dismantle the education disparity that we face in a society that fails to recognize the potential in people of color. Although my journey as an advocate and educator isn’t over, I know that my dedication to serving the children of my community and trying to guide them past unemployment from societal obstacles will impassion me to advance my activism.

Mama had always told me to address family friends with uncle and auntie as if they were family: and as the product of a tight-knit immigrant community in Chinatown, they were definitely family. Like family, Mama and Baba’s friends were willing to lend a helping hand whenever we needed it. If we had issues with our WiFi, Uncle Yu would reroute our wires. If our hair looked horrible, Auntie Jane was ready with an emergency haircut. It didn’t matter that we weren’t actual relatives, we still viewed one another as our own. In my giant ‘family,’ I bore the name of Jie Jie, meaning older sister. When someone would yell “Jie Jie,” I knew that my assistance was needed. Once I heard my name called, I would promptly get up to translate a document, draw a birthday card, or help someone with their English homework. Jie Jie is a name with high honor because it means I am a trusted pillar of support in my community, especially when I volunteer at places like the Chinatown Daycare Center. As I step into Class 301, a little hand shoots up to greet me. One of my students, Lucas, was always ready to put me to work. “G’morning Jani! Can you play wuh me?” Lucas excitedly motioned me to sit next to him. Lucas had an articulation disorder, meaning he had trouble pronouncing words correctly. He often got frustrated having to constantly repeat words for others to understand him, so I developed another way for us to communicate. His boisterous laugh rang through the room as I grabbed two whiteboards and dry-erase markers. I started by prompting him to draw his favorite vehicle, a fire truck. He meticulously drew a monster fire truck with nineteen wheels and six water pumps. After he finished, he passed me the board and I added an orange kitten on top of his fire truck. Back and forth we would pass the white board, conversating through scribbled lines. Although more giggles were exchanged than words, we still fully understood one another. My service at Chinatown Daycare Center affirmed a responsibility I have to engage with my community and continue being a Jie Jie. Drawing with Lucas, I recognized the importance of communicating with others, which has impassioned me to uplift the voices of my AAPI community through civic action. Even when testifying about the failures of New York City’s education system in City Council meetings, lobbying for a change in the public school foundation formula at budget hearings in Albany, and writing fiery op-Ed’s that challenge gentrification in Chinatown, means I’m constantly faced with people telling me to quiet down, I continue to persevere because of my dedication to voice my community’s needs. I’m glad to be an “older sister” in my extended Chinatown family; I am a close confidant, an educator, and an activist all in one. In other words, I’m a Jie Jie, and I will work to ensure that I can forever use my life experiences as inspiration for my future as a Political Science major in college. With this blessing of a higher education, I can’t wait to gain more opportunities to bring Chinatown to new civic heights.

Growing up in an underprivileged area meant I didn’t have access to resources that taught me about different career choices. Thus, when I arrived at high school, I felt wildly unprepared compared to the rest of my classmates who already had the chance to develop their passions. As I continued to reflect on the systemic implications of what I was going through, my desire for a remedy to my issue came to a climax last year. Wanting to take action for youth like me, I contacted the manager of my local Immigrant Social Services’ after-school branch. I proposed to create a program with them that would propel kids forward toward their future, fittingly named FutureForward, that would teach middle school students about different career paths and opportunities. When they greenlighted my pitch and assigned me to teach at the middle school I graduated from, I happily spent all of last summer planning with Immigrant Social Services to assemble an incredible team of volunteers with special interests in different fields. On the first day of FutureForward, I asked each of my students, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” They all responded with the same answer, “I don’t know.” I promised them that they would be well equipped to answer my question with each lesson I taught. Thirteen weeks flew quickly; my students were engrossed with each activity, finding new ways to explore their interests. From learning how to write invigorating mysteries like Agatha Christie, to solving murders with foundational principles of forensic science, to drawing floor and electrical plans for their cardboard castles, there was nothing my students weren’t willing to try. When the final lesson for the first cycle of the program came, I asked them, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” As I promised, they were finally able to answer my question with “author,” “lawyer,” and even “architect.” As I watched each of my students find themselves through the FutureForward lessons, I could see the next generation of my community shining. While continuing to plan these lessons and working with more students, I am helping my community to dismantle the education disparity that we face in a society that fails to recognize the potential in people of color. Although my journey as an advocate and educator isn’t over, I know that my dedication to serving the children of my community and trying to guide them past unemployment from societal obstacles will impassion me to advance my activism.

As a kid, my Baba loved telling me stories about his journey hopping from country to country to find a stable income. Although he encountered people from various backgrounds, he had one secret to making friends everywhere and anywhere: always listening to others with an open heart. Baba's lesson proved especially useful during a student roundtable hosted by council member Hanif, where she asked us to share our thoughts about how AAPI culture was represented in the New York curriculum. I began the conversation by sharing how I felt that AAPI culture wasn’t represented well because the curriculum lacked Southeast Asian representation. I saw a few nods of agreement from the group until one student raised his hand to reply. “I actually disagree,” he began. I was surprised by his statement; I believed that everyone would agree there could be improvements made in AAPI representation. “Looking back at history, Asian culture as a whole wasn’t represented much," he continued. "Compared to that, I feel pretty represented.” As we continued discussing, I found myself enjoying the points he made despite my initial shock. After the event, I thought about how I never viewed AAPI representation in a historical light. I felt a deep gratitude for what Baba taught me, as I was able to expand my own opinion by embracing another student’s thoughts. As I connect with people from all walks of life, I look forward to always listening with an open heart and developing more nuanced perspectives through disagreements.