My mum made her way to the U.S. to follow in her father's footsteps after he died. She struggled to support her four other siblings, her mother, and pay for college, but she now says it was all worth it. "Why is that?" I would ask. I didn't see how it could be such a positive life-changing step. Every summer, we'd leave for Kenya, and I loved being there more than in the U.S. I could speak Swahili and English, I had closer friends, the food tasted better, I could use my Kenyan name, not be judged for my religious practices, etc. I thought it couldn't get any better than Kenya. Because my mum couldn't explain to a 10-year-old the complexities of politics, exchange rates, and poverty, she told me about the most wholesome and, to me, most important reasons why moving to America was a great decision. Because of her brave move, I now have a very diverse perspective of the world. I understand, more than others, nuanced cultural differences that are essential to abide by when around the world and how to respect other cultures, all while not knowing anything about them. I now see the world through many different lenses, thanks to my mum, and bringing that perspective to the table can help the greater population dive deeper into social, political, and world topics by not just examining the bulk of the issue at hand but diving deep into the cracks in the foundation, doing that all without jumping to conclusions and accidentally being disrespectful. I love to write, take photos, and debate which is why I'm going into journalism and can hopefully bring my culture, knowledge, and some neutrality to the world of news and media.

Andrew Watakila was the name plastered on the obituary I held while sitting on a fourteen-hour plane ride traveling over 12,547 kilometers back to my family's home country of Kenya. I knew he was in a box above my head in the cabinet where bags were supposed to go. That was a hard concept to grasp, and I'm still not sure I completely understand the concept of death. My Uncle Andrew was a father figure in my life up until his death. He heavily influenced my love for sweets. When I was old enough to eat solid foods and could run around and talk, my uncle introduced me to candy. I wouldn't say I liked it along with anything else that was sweet, my mum assumed I'd be an easy kid when it came to sweets and buying treats since I wanted none of them, but slowly after years of exposure, I began to enjoy them because of him. Uncle Andrew and I would go to candy and ice cream shops when he picked me up from school. On Saturday afternoons, he took me to play golf and to get pizza from a local shop. He would perfect my swing on the golf course and teach me how to drive carts. He somehow always knew everyone, from the workers on the course to the employees of the pizza shop we went to. I always got free ice cream and somehow was integrated into a new family. Everyone at the pizza shop knew who I was, and walking in was always a feeling of comfort. In my eyes, he was the coolest of potential superheroes that Marvel could've produced a movie on. As I got older, I saw less and less of my uncle, and my priorities shifted from calling, texting, and spending time with him, to hanging out with friends, doing schoolwork, and focusing on my image. We still hung out and had fun, but my priorities shifted. I remember one day when he came over after months of not seeing him. My aunt and mum looked concerned. I heard him burst into tears crying in the next room over. Since my mum and aunt ushered him into the next room, it was probably nothing for me to hear due to my age, and I should keep watching whatever was on tv at the time. I did just that, and the thought of that warning sign slipped my mind. A year and a half later, I found out that my uncle had committed suicide while being subbed out of a volleyball game in the middle of a two-day tournament. We couldn't have an open-casket funeral; in fact, we weren't allowed to see the body. We had to cremate him in order to transport him to Kenya, which went against many of our cultural beliefs. Prior to the death of my uncle, I was continuously sexually assaulted. I had already slipped into depression, and knowing the cause of my uncle's death was exactly what I was mentally going through made the journey ten times as troubling to me. I drowned myself in endless amounts of tv shows and movies. My grades began to slip, and I was heading down a slippery slope. I had an epiphany about the whole ordeal during my sophomore year. My uncle and father figure in life taught me many lessons in death that I still hold close to. The pain you have only moves on to others in death. You don't want the pain, but also don't want your loved ones to have it. The best you can do is try fixing it. And I did, I reached out, talked to my mum, and got a therapist. I worked through as much as possible and learned new things about myself. My uncle's death caused me to focus on myself and my family. I wish I'd never pulled away from our relationship. I wish I never began to focus on minuscule things like popularity and trends. I also wished I'd listened to my own cries for help earlier and not let them affect my grades, social life, and overall health. I realized that focusing on myself isn't a selfish thing and it actually improves the lives of those around me. Your grades go up, your relationships with family and friends get better, and life overall becomes happier. Now my relationships with friends and family are stronger than before. We laugh, cry, and hug together, and we always check up on one another. I realized how much pain my uncle was in and how we weren't there when he needed us most, and because of that understanding, I pushed myself every day to do better, be happier, and be less focused on trivial and materialistic things.

I’ve been an outspoken person, even from a young age. Once, in fifth grade, I wrote a not-so-nice letter to the President of the United States. I gave him a piece of my mind as best as a 10-year-old could. Looking back now, I doubt he even glanced at my letter, but it’s just a clue into how my brain worked. As I got older, I began to see the importance of being outspoken and seeing the world through others perspectives. Seventh grade came, and the boldness I carried like a bright lightbulb started to flicker. I had my first crush and simultaneously was humiliated. It’s funny to look back on now, but my 11-year-old world was in shambles. That year I also began to experience the cynical side of the world. I was sexually assaulted for three years until 10th grade. My bright lightbulb definitely flickered a few times. But in those moments of insecurity, loss, and fear, I learned to understand why some people don’t share their stories, why they don’t come out, and why some people just aren’t comfortable speaking up. Using your voice isn't something that's always verbal. I learned that written word is not only a captivating emotional release, but it also serves as an elegant and powerful approach to conflict, spreading important and valuable news, along with creating incredible works of art. Writting became more than just a hobby to me. It became my therapy, my main passion, and my work. I went to BLM marches, and Row v. Wade protests (Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization), took photos, and created a short article with a collage of female faces. It was and is my passion. After a while mustered up the courage to talk to my mum about the things I was withholding from her. I wrote her a letter because saying everything out loud seemed too challenging. With her support I was able to grow and move on. By the end of my sophomore year, I was writing multiple pieces of work that I shared with family and friends. I helped write essays edit essays and just this year made a speech for a thanksgiving program at my school. Every once and a while, my mum would try and reign me in with my writing and going to important rallys that could potentially not be the safest. She started calling me her little Angela Davis. I talked about being a first-generation kid with most of my family in Kenya and the struggles that came with it. Most importantly, I wrote about the struggle to be confident and bold. Today I stand, willing to push myself in new directions as a writer and as a person. Finding my courage again taught me the importance of writing. It taught me to have a voice like Angela Davis, use peace like Jim Lawson, and stand as myself, Jasmine. I learned that while it is time-consuming and sometimes draining, working to help whoever has a story or perspective on a topic, will always be fulfilling. I learned to balance my calmness with my enthusiasm, friendships with personal time, and taking on the role of an adult. I matured a lot from ninth to senior year, which is to be expected in every teenager, but no two stories are the same, and the lessons I learned, along with my passions, have shaped me into the proud, young woman I am today.