Growing up in 5th Ward, Texas, I learned early that obstacles weren’t just occasional—they were constant. From a young age, I witnessed the weight my mother carried as she raised me and my three younger brothers with strength, love, and very limited resources. She often worked multiple jobs, never complaining, always finding a way to make something out of nothing. Watching her sacrifices instilled in me an unshakable drive to lead, serve, and rise—not just for myself, but for my family and my community. My journey to college has been far from easy. As a first-generation college student now attending Howard University, I’ve faced moments where financial insecurity threatened to derail my education entirely. I’ve had times where I wasn’t sure how I would pay my tuition, where unknown balances hung over my head, and where I felt like giving up would be easier than pushing forward. But giving up has never been an option—not when I know my younger brothers are watching, learning from how I carry myself through life’s storms. Instead of folding under pressure, I chose to lean into leadership. On campus, I’ve used my voice to advocate for others. I became involved in organizations that center student empowerment and culture. I captured stories at community events like Taste of Howard to spotlight Black excellence and unity. My belief is simple but powerful: everyone has a story worth telling. And when we amplify the right voices, we shift mindsets, we build bridges, and we create change. I’ve also stepped up in more personal ways—mentoring younger students who, like me, come from places where opportunity can feel like a distant dream. I help them navigate financial aid, understand their worth, and embrace the idea that greatness is in their DNA. I don’t have it all figured out, but I show up, and I lead with heart. Leadership to me isn’t about having a title or being the loudest in the room. It’s about resilience. It’s about showing others what’s possible even when the odds feel stacked. It's about rewriting the narrative for those coming after me. I know that with the right resources, I can continue to grow into a changemaker who gives back tenfold—to my school, my neighborhood, and to kids who see a bit of themselves in me. Receiving this scholarship wouldn’t just ease a financial burden; it would help sustain a mission rooted in service and uplift. I’m not walking this path alone—my brothers are walking it with me. My community is watching. And I refuse to let any obstacle stop me from becoming who I was always meant to be.

Some would say the way the world feels on the edge—politically, socially, culturally—would be enough to make someone abandon the arts. But for me, it’s exactly why I am committed to telling stories. When everything feels uncertain or fractured, art becomes a place to find both truth and connection. My why is simple: I believe storytelling can help people feel seen in their full humanity. What motivates me is knowing there are entire worlds of experiences still waiting to be shared, especially those that don’t fit neatly into a mold. As technology evolves—AI scripts, digital art generators, machine learning tools—I feel even more urgency to protect the raw, imperfect, human quality of stories. The world doesn’t need more polished simulations of emotion. It needs real, messy, complicated reflections of who we are. I want to make work that feels alive, that acknowledges struggle without letting it define us. Whether it’s a film about a young Black artist trying to escape generational trauma, or a documentary exploring the quiet resilience of single mothers in my community, I want my projects to spark conversations that outlast any trend or technological wave. One of my lifelong goals is to create a limited TV series based on the kinds of characters I longed to see growing up—Black and brown kids with big imaginations and complicated feelings, not just surviving but dreaming. I also plan to develop a comic book exploring the hidden histories of underrepresented communities through the lens of speculative fiction, blending reality and fantasy to remind us of what’s possible. As a student of the arts, I’m committed to learning the technical tools of modern filmmaking while never losing sight of the emotional core. Technology can enhance stories, but it should never replace the soul that only a human can bring. My purpose is to use the visual arts to document real human experiences—to tell the stories that hurt, heal, and ignite something in all of us. That’s my why, and it’s what will keep me creating, no matter how much the world changes.

Growing up in 5th Ward, Texas, I learned early that every block, every building, every face holds a story. But far too often, those stories are left untold—or worse, told by someone else who doesn't understand the community. That’s why I fell in love with digital media and design. It gives me the power to control the narrative, to take what I see and feel and transform it into something that others can experience and connect with. As a TV/Film major, design is the heartbeat of everything I create. I’ve always been fascinated by the power of visuals—not just to entertain, but to evoke emotion, spark conversation, and shift perspectives. Whether it’s a digital campaign about justice, a short film about life in 5th Ward, or a visual tribute to the people who raised me, I treat design as both art and activism. It’s how I fight back. It’s how I express hope. The types of projects that excite me most are ones that feel personal but have universal impact—projects that challenge stereotypes and tell stories people haven’t heard before. I’m especially drawn to documentary-style media and visual campaigns centered on Black life, youth voices, and social justice. I’ve seen how a single image, edit, or piece of music can change how someone feels about a subject they thought they already understood. That excites me more than anything. Lately, I’ve been working on a series that highlights underrepresented youth voices using short-form video and graphic storytelling. I combine motion graphics, color grading, typography, and sound design to bring these narratives to life in a way that feels modern and emotionally engaging. These projects aren’t just about showing skill—they’re about showing soul. And I want to keep creating media that not only looks good, but means something. To take my work even further, I plan to continue mastering the digital tools that allow creatives to innovate. I already use Adobe Creative Suite—especially Premiere Pro, After Effects, and Photoshop—but I’m diving deeper into motion design, animation, and AI-driven editing tools. I also plan to study interactive media tools like Webflow and Figma, so I can build digital experiences that are both visually stunning and functionally accessible. For me, design is more than decoration—it’s a language. And I want to be fluent in all its dialects: video, photography, typography, layout, storytelling, UX, and beyond. These tools are how I translate my experiences, my culture, and my message to the world. They’re how I fight invisibility and give voice to people and places that deserve to be seen. This scholarship would help me continue that journey without being weighed down by financial barriers. It would allow me to access the tools, equipment, and mentorship I need to sharpen my skills and expand my creative reach. Most importantly, it would affirm that there is real value in the work I’m doing—and that being a young, Black creative from 5th Ward isn’t a setback; it’s a superpower. Thank you for considering my story and my vision. I’m ready to keep designing, keep creating, and keep telling the stories that the world needs to hear.

When I read about Kalia D. Davis’s story—her drive, her kindness, her love for her community—I saw someone I would’ve been honored to know. I also saw pieces of myself in her. Kalia lived boldly. She moved with purpose, never letting adversity stop her. That’s the type of legacy I’m striving to leave too—through creativity, community, and commitment. I’m from 5th Ward, Texas—a place full of soul, struggle, and stories that deserve to be told. As a Black man growing up in that environment, I’ve seen both sides of life: the beauty in resilience and the pain in being overlooked. Those experiences didn’t break me. They built me. They made me want to create—not just to entertain, but to educate and empower. That’s why I chose to major in TV and Film. I believe the screen is a mirror to the world, and too often, that mirror leaves people like me out. I want to change that. Kalia believed in using her strengths to uplift those around her, and that’s something I hold close. Whether it’s mentoring younger students, being involved in community outreach, or simply listening to someone who feels unseen, I aim to be that presence for others. Like Kalia, I’m not just chasing success for myself. I’m chasing it so I can give back to the communities that shaped me. Storytelling has been my healing. It’s how I make sense of the chaos around me. It’s how I bring attention to the injustices people from my community face—whether it’s the flaws in the criminal justice system, immigration challenges faced by peers, or simply being misrepresented in media. I’ve studied how stories like the Central Park Five weren’t just legal cases—they were examples of how the world sees young Black boys as guilty before they’re seen as human. I want to change that narrative, not only through activism, but through film. Like Kalia, I’ve had to push through challenges—academic, emotional, and financial. But my roots are deep, and my purpose is bigger than my setbacks. I’m the first in my family to pursue a path like this. And every day I wake up reminded that I represent something greater: my family, my block, and my future audience. I’ve applied to dozens of scholarships because I’m committed to walking this road no matter how hard it gets. I know how powerful education and storytelling can be when they're placed in the right hands. Receiving the Kalia D. Davis Scholarship would be more than financial support—it would be a symbol that my voice, my story, and my vision matter. It would allow me to focus more on my craft, less on surviving, and continue creating work that reflects the world not just as it is, but as it could be. Kalia’s story reminds me that the impact we leave is just as important as the path we take. I’m determined to leave mine with light, legacy, and love—just like she did.

Tupac once said, “I’m not saying I’m gonna change the world, but I guarantee that I will spark the brain that will change the world.” That quote has always resonated with me—not just as something inspiring, but as a personal challenge. I may not have all the answers, but I know I want to be one of the sparks. And for me, that spark comes through storytelling. I’m an African American male from 5th Ward, Texas—a place filled with history, heart, and struggle. Growing up there, I witnessed both the resilience of my community and the weight of being systemically overlooked. Too often, people from neighborhoods like mine are painted in a single shade—reduced to statistics or stereotypes. But we are more than that. We are storytellers, visionaries, survivors. I chose to major in TV and Film because I want to challenge those narratives. I want to use the camera as a tool for truth. I’ve always been drawn to justice. Whether it's the failures of the prison system or the long and painful road of immigration that many of my peers’ families have faced, I see the cracks. I once thought I’d pursue criminal or immigration law to try to fix them directly. But the more I studied and the more I created, the more I realized that film can be just as powerful a weapon as a legal argument. It reaches people in ways courtrooms and classrooms can’t. Film can humanize the dehumanized, spotlight the unheard, and challenge the comfortable. My dream is to write and produce work that focuses on justice, identity, and truth. I want to tell stories like those of the Central Park Five—narratives that reveal the flaws in our system while also uplifting the strength of those who endure it. I want to capture both the pain and beauty in Black life, the nuance in struggle, and the joy that still lives in places like 5th Ward. I’ve already started laying the foundation. I’ve worked on creative projects, drafted scripts, applied to countless scholarships, and studied both film technique and real-world policy. I don’t just want to entertain; I want to educate and evoke change. Receiving this scholarship would be a crucial step in that journey. It would lessen the financial load on my shoulders, allowing me to focus more on developing my craft, telling my story, and representing the communities I care so deeply about. Tupac didn’t live to see all the minds he sparked, but his words live on. And like him, I’m not claiming I’ll fix everything. But I know the power of one voice, one lens, one story. I know the power of being from 5th Ward. And I know I’ve got something to say.

Charity is important to me because it shaped how I understand community and resilience. Growing up, stories were a gift that helped me feel less alone. As a young Black boy searching for belonging, I found it in the pages of Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Those stories were more than entertainment—they were acts of generosity from authors who offered hope to kids like me. To me, charity means using whatever you have—skills, time, or creativity—to uplift others. Because I know what it feels like to be inspired and supported by people I’ve never met, I feel a responsibility to give back through my own craft. When I complete my film degree, I plan to create movies that center voices and experiences too often ignored, especially within Black communities. I believe storytelling can validate people’s struggles, celebrate their strengths, and start important conversations that lead to change. Beyond filmmaking, I want to launch free media workshops for underserved youth, giving them tools and mentorship to explore writing, directing, and production. My vision is to build a nonprofit dedicated to helping young creatives tell their own stories and see their perspectives as valuable. Charity isn’t just about giving material things—it’s about opening doors. By sharing the power of storytelling, I hope to honor the generosity that shaped me and empower the next generation to know their voices matter.

The desire to be a vessel for change in my community has always been stronger than any fear of stepping outside my comfort zone. From my early years as a quiet child with my nose buried in books to the young adult I am today, I have held a steady conviction: stories have the power to transform lives. Growing up, I discovered that stories weren’t just entertainment—they were survival. They offered me glimpses of worlds where courage triumphed over fear, where friendship conquered isolation, and where an ordinary kid could rise to become a hero. I carried these stories like a lantern through dark hallways of uncertainty. Whether it was the magic of *Harry Potter*, the adventures of *Percy Jackson*, or the humor of *Diary of a Wimpy Kid*, each narrative taught me something about resilience, hope, and the quiet strength that comes from believing in yourself. Those lessons have shaped the person I am today. They also sparked my dream to become a filmmaker whose work shines a light on the stories often left untold. My future career goal is to create films that center the voices of marginalized communities, especially Black youth, whose experiences deserve to be honored, validated, and celebrated. As I pursue my degree in film, I plan to use my education to open doors for others. I want to launch media workshops for young people of color, providing tools and mentorship to help them tell their own stories. So many of us grow up without ever seeing ourselves fully represented onscreen. I believe that by increasing access to creative education and professional development, we can change that narrative—and in doing so, change hearts and minds. While I’ve always cared about artistic excellence, I’ve learned that being a storyteller means more than mastering craft. It means understanding the responsibility that comes with shaping culture and influencing perspectives. That’s why I am committed to using my voice not just to entertain, but to create dialogue about issues that matter—racism, inequality, mental health, and the beauty of everyday life in underrepresented communities. I refuse to remain silent in the face of injustice or settle for a world where only certain stories are seen as worthy of telling. It is not my purpose to follow well-worn paths. I intend to carve new ones—ones that make space for people who have been silenced, overlooked, or misunderstood. In the end, I believe that stories can be catalysts. They can spark empathy, shift perspectives, and empower people to imagine something better. My goal is to create art that inspires, educates, and builds bridges. Through my studies and future career in film, I hope to be part of a generation of artists who prove that our stories, in all their complexity, are powerful enough to change the world.

Stories have always been a way for me to cope with uncertainty, to feel connected to something bigger than myself, and to imagine a world beyond what I could see. When I was growing up, the characters I met in books became my first friends and my earliest teachers. Whether it was slipping into the halls of Hogwarts with Harry Potter or going on quests with Percy Jackson, I learned that stories could make me feel brave even when life felt overwhelming. It was in elementary school that I first realized how powerful storytelling could be. I remember my English teacher, Mrs. Johnson, handing back a short story I had written. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “You have something special in your words.” That moment planted a seed. I started bringing a journal everywhere, filling it with ideas, scenes, and pieces of dialogue inspired by the books I loved. I wanted to create worlds where other kids like me could feel seen, understood, and valued. If there was one person who inspired me most to keep pursuing this craft, it was Mrs. Johnson. She introduced me to authors like J.K. Rowling, Rick Riordan, and Jeff Kinney—not just as writers, but as examples of how stories could shape culture and touch lives. She would say, “Think about how these authors made you feel—and imagine how you could do the same for someone else.” That idea has stayed with me ever since. When my life at home was sometimes unpredictable, stories were my anchor. I would close my bedroom door, pick up a novel, and feel transported. When no one seemed to understand me, characters did. And when I felt small or invisible, the worlds I built in my mind gave me the freedom to be anything at all. It was in those quiet moments, sitting cross-legged with a pen and a notebook, that I realized I wanted to spend my life telling stories—on the page, but also on the screen. As I got older, my love for storytelling evolved into a passion for film. I started learning how a camera could capture what words sometimes couldn’t—a glance, a moment of silence, the flicker of hope. Mrs. Johnson was the first person to encourage me to see filmmaking as a real possibility, not just a dream. She shared documentaries about directors who came from humble beginnings, and she reminded me that every artist starts out as someone with an idea and the courage to share it. Now, as I work toward my degree in film, I carry all those lessons with me. The authors who shaped my childhood taught me the power of empathy and imagination. Mrs. Johnson taught me that my voice mattered. Together, they lit a spark that has grown into a calling: to tell stories that open minds, start conversations, and remind people—especially in my community—that our experiences are worth celebrating. Thanks to them, I feel more certain than ever that my dreams are within reach and that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

To some, I go by Miah. To others, Jeremiah. To my family, I am a son and a brother. To my friends, a confidant. But to myself, I am, first and always, a storyteller. Growing up, stories were my sanctuary. They were more than words on a page—they were entire universes waiting to be explored. Harry Potter taught me the magic of loyalty and courage, the way a single choice could alter the course of a life. Percy Jackson showed me the thrill of adventure and the quiet power of self-belief. *Diary of a Wimpy Kid* reminded me to laugh at life’s absurdities and never take myself too seriously. These stories did more than entertain—they offered me a way to imagine something bigger than my everyday reality. When I was lost or unsure, I could slip into their pages and emerge braver, wiser, and a little less alone. As I look toward the future, I feel called to create that same refuge for others. My dream is to tell stories through film—stories that inspire people to see themselves more clearly and to see each other with deeper understanding. I believe stories are among the most powerful tools we have. They shape culture. They spark conversations. They remind us what matters and why we care. Through my work, I want to give voice to the experiences, struggles, and triumphs within my community—stories that too often go untold or are misunderstood. I envision films that explore resilience in the face of injustice, the beauty in everyday Black life, and the complicated, unpolished truths of who we are. I want my films to challenge assumptions and start the kinds of discussions that ripple outward, creating change not just in perception but in action. My goal is to make art that is both honest and hopeful, that acknowledges pain without surrendering to it. In doing so, I hope to create spaces where people feel seen and understood, the way I once did reading about wizards, demigods, and awkward middle schoolers. Ultimately, I want to prove that stories aren’t just entertainment—they are blueprints for empathy, courage, and transformation. They are reminders that no struggle is truly isolated, no voice too small to matter. If I can help even one person imagine a better version of themselves, or a more compassionate version of the world, then I’ll know I’ve honored the stories that shaped me. And that is who I am—a storyteller determined to make the world a little more human, one story at a time.

I’m the kind of person who never really fit neatly into a box. I grew up in a world where everyone celebrated the guy who could dunk a basketball or run the fastest 40-yard dash. Meanwhile, I was the kid more interested in why a photo could make you cry or why a film could change the way you looked at your own life. My mother used to force me and my brothers to take photos on the first day of school. I used to roll my eyes. “These don’t matter,” I’d say. But she’d keep snapping away anyway, like she knew one day I’d look back and realize those pictures were proof we existed—proof we mattered. That realization was my first lesson in the power of storytelling. It doesn’t care how athletic you are. It doesn’t care where you come from. Stories level the playing field, because everyone has one—and they’re all worth hearing. That’s why I’m studying TV and Film. I believe stories can be a weapon to fight apathy. They can unearth truths we’d rather ignore. They can remind us we’re human. There are three ways I plan to make a positive impact through my career. First, I’m going to create documentaries that amplify voices society forgets. Not the polished, corporate-friendly stories but the raw ones—kids from broken homes, people hustling just to stay alive, artists who never get their shot because their zip code doesn’t look pretty on paper. These are the stories that force people to question their assumptions and, hopefully, inspire them to act. Second, I want to build platforms—maybe a digital collective, maybe physical spaces—where young people can learn to tell their own stories. Growing up, I didn’t see many examples of Black filmmakers or photographers who were celebrated in my community. I want to be the example I didn’t have. I want a kid to see my work and think, “If he did it, why can’t I?” Because representation isn’t some abstract concept—it’s the difference between believing you can succeed and assuming you’ll never be enough. Third, I plan to use my skills to challenge the way mainstream media portrays us. Too often, Black stories are reduced to trauma porn or stereotypes. I’m tired of it. I want to show the full picture—the joy, the struggle, the nuance. Because until people see us as complex, three-dimensional human beings, nothing will really change. Right now, I’m already impacting social issues by documenting student-led movements and cultural events on my campus. When I photograph a protest or a pageant celebrating Black excellence, I’m doing more than taking pictures—I’m archiving a living history. I’m capturing moments that might otherwise fade into rumor. I’m proving our stories are worth preserving. I’m not trying to sound like some savior. I’m just a guy with a camera and a conviction that stories can change the world. Maybe that sounds naïve, but I’ve seen firsthand how one photo can start a conversation. One film can shift a mindset. And sometimes, that’s all it takes to create real impact. That’s why I’m here—and that’s why I won’t stop.

I’m the kind of person who never really fit neatly into a box. I grew up in a world where everyone celebrated the guy who could dunk a basketball or run the fastest 40-yard dash. Meanwhile, I was the kid more interested in why a photo could make you cry or why a film could change the way you looked at your own life. My mother used to force me and my brothers to take photos on the first day of school. I used to roll my eyes. “These don’t matter,” I’d say. But she’d keep snapping away anyway, like she knew one day I’d look back and realize those pictures were proof we existed—proof we mattered. That realization was my first lesson in the power of storytelling. It doesn’t care how athletic you are. It doesn’t care where you come from. Stories level the playing field, because everyone has one—and they’re all worth hearing. That’s why I’m studying TV and Film. I believe stories can be a weapon to fight apathy. They can unearth truths we’d rather ignore. They can remind us we’re human. There are three ways I plan to make a positive impact through my career. First, I’m going to create documentaries that amplify voices society forgets. Not the polished, corporate-friendly stories but the raw ones—kids from broken homes, people hustling just to stay alive, artists who never get their shot because their zip code doesn’t look pretty on paper. These are the stories that force people to question their assumptions and, hopefully, inspire them to act. Second, I want to build platforms—maybe a digital collective, maybe physical spaces—where young people can learn to tell their own stories. Growing up, I didn’t see many examples of Black filmmakers or photographers who were celebrated in my community. I want to be the example I didn’t have. I want a kid to see my work and think, “If he did it, why can’t I?” Because representation isn’t some abstract concept—it’s the difference between believing you can succeed and assuming you’ll never be enough. Third, I plan to use my skills to challenge the way mainstream media portrays us. Too often, Black stories are reduced to trauma porn or stereotypes. I’m tired of it. I want to show the full picture—the joy, the struggle, the nuance. Because until people see us as complex, three-dimensional human beings, nothing will really change. Right now, I’m already impacting social issues by documenting student-led movements and cultural events on my campus. When I photograph a protest or a pageant celebrating Black excellence, I’m doing more than taking pictures—I’m archiving a living history. I’m capturing moments that might otherwise fade into rumor. I’m proving our stories are worth preserving. I’m not trying to sound like some savior. I’m just a guy with a camera and a conviction that stories can change the world. Maybe that sounds naïve, but I’ve seen firsthand how one photo can start a conversation. One film can shift a mindset. And sometimes, that’s all it takes to create real impact. That’s why I’m here—and that’s why I won’t stop.

I didn’t grow up thinking I’d be an artist. Honestly, I used to think art was for people who had too much time on their hands. My mom was obsessed with taking pictures. She’d pull out her phone at every single moment—first day of school, family cookouts, random Tuesday nights—and I’d roll my eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. I’d stand there in these forced poses, thinking, “Nobody cares about this. We’re going to forget it anyway.” But the crazy thing is, we didn’t. Years later, I found those pictures stuffed in an old box, and they felt like time capsules. Proof that we existed, that we were happy sometimes, that we survived all the chaos. That’s when it hit me—art is storytelling, and storytelling is how you keep yourself from disappearing. I’ve chosen to pursue art because it’s the only thing that feels honest to me. Everything else feels like a performance—school, work, social media. Everybody’s out here trying to look perfect. Art is the opposite. It’s messy, awkward, unpolished. It’s the truth you don’t want to admit but can’t ignore. From those bedtime stories my mom used to tell us to calm down the house, to the blurry photos she insisted on taking when we were too cool to smile, stories have always been how I made sense of things. Photography just became my language when words weren’t enough. And trust me, there are plenty of moments that don’t fit neatly into a caption or a tweet. That’s why I love it. What inspires me artistically is the rawness of real life. I’m not interested in the curated highlight reels. I want the behind-the-scenes footage—the moments you’d never post because they don’t match your “aesthetic.” I’m inspired by the way a single image can hold pride and pain at the same time. The way a laugh can cover up sadness, or how two people can sit side by side but feel miles apart. I’ve seen that in my own life. I’ve lived it. That’s the stuff I want to capture. Not because it looks good, but because it feels real. One thing I learned early is that most people don’t actually see themselves. They’re too busy performing, too worried about what everyone else thinks. When I’m behind the camera, I get to strip all that away. I get to freeze a moment where the mask slips and you see what’s underneath. That’s why I don’t just take pictures to impress people or make things look pretty. I take pictures to connect. To say, “Yeah, I see you. Even the parts you don’t want to show.” And maybe to make someone laugh in the process, because sometimes the truth is hilarious in a way you can’t script. I’m not doing this for clout. I don’t care about going viral. If I wanted attention, I’d just post some half-baked hot take and watch the comments explode. But that’s not me. I care about legacy. I care about making something that lasts longer than a scroll on your phone. Art is how I process the world. It’s how I deal with the fact that life is unpredictable and unfair and sometimes beautiful in ways you don’t expect. It’s how I keep myself honest. At the end of the day, I’m just trying to leave something behind that matters. Not because I need to be seen, but because I know what it feels like to be invisible. And if my work can make one person feel less alone, like their story is worth telling, then that’s enough.

When people talk about “community,” they usually picture something neat—smiling neighbors, block parties, everybody sharing potato salad. My reality was a little more chaotic: four boys in one house, a mom who expected nothing less than greatness, and a lot of noise. But that’s where I learned what community really means. It’s the people who see you at your best and your worst and keep showing up anyway. One of the most meaningful times I contributed to my community happened during my senior year of high school. I had just started to take photography seriously. Before that, I honestly thought taking pictures was corny—just another chore my mom made me do. But the more I practiced, the more I realized I was capturing memories for people who might not otherwise have them. That year, I volunteered to photograph events for a local youth mentorship program. A lot of the kids came from situations where they didn’t have family photos or anyone documenting their milestones. One day, there was this little boy—probably eight or nine—who absolutely refused to smile for the camera. He crossed his arms, glared at me, and said, “Pictures are stupid.” Part of me respected his honesty, because I used to feel exactly the same way. So I just sat down next to him and started showing him some of the photos I’d already taken. Slowly, he started to lean over my shoulder. Then he pointed to one and said, “That’s me.” That moment was small, but it reminded me why storytelling matters. When people see themselves—really see themselves—they start to feel like they belong. Like their life is worth remembering. Being part of that project showed me how powerful connection can be, even between strangers. It taught me that sometimes resilience isn’t about pushing through alone—it’s about having someone show you a different way to see yourself. That’s the lesson I’ve carried into everything I do as an artist and as a big brother. My sense of hope for the future comes from moments like that. Because if a camera and a little bit of patience can help one kid feel proud of who he is, imagine what can happen when more of us share our stories and show up for each other. That’s the kind of community I want to build: one where everyone feels seen, valued, and inspired to keep going.

You ever look back at old photos and feel like you’re watching a trailer for your life? That was me, scrolling through pictures my mom forced me to take. Back then, I thought photos were pointless. Like, why do you need fifty angles of me holding a basketball I never actually liked playing with? But now I get it. Those pictures are receipts—proof that you existed, that you felt something, that you grew. One picture I don’t have is from the day my ex hit me. Probably for the best, because it would’ve been a terrible selfie. We were arguing—she swore up and down I was cheating, even though I wasn’t. Logic left the building. And before I knew it, she slapped me. I just stood there, thinking, “Bro, did this really just happen?” I didn’t tell anybody for a long time. Part of me thought no one would take me seriously. Another part thought I should just “man up.” But that’s exactly why intimate partner violence stays hidden. Everybody’s too busy performing whatever role they think they’re supposed to play. I think education can change that. Not the boring kind of education where a guy in khakis drones on about “boundaries.” I’m talking about real education—open conversations, raw stories, examples that make you uncomfortable in a good way. When you show people what healthy relationships actually look like, and you’re honest about the fact that anyone can end up in an abusive one, you take away the shame. You make it easier to ask for help. That’s why I’m studying photography and film. Because stories stick in people’s heads way longer than statistics. You can quote a report about dating violence all day, but one honest documentary, one powerful photo series, will actually make people feel something. That’s how you change minds—and eventually, behavior. My plan is simple: use my camera to tell the stories nobody wants to talk about. The quiet stuff. The messy stuff. The stuff that’s too “awkward” for polite conversation. Whether it’s about relationships, identity, or just being a Black creative trying not to get boxed in, I want to put it all on display. Because when you see yourself reflected in someone else’s story, it hits different. Growing up as the oldest brother taught me how to lead. Getting slapped by my ex taught me how to be honest. And my mom taught me to aim higher than just surviving. Put it all together, and you get the reason I do what I do: to inspire people to see their own worth, to start conversations that actually matter, and maybe to make someone out there feel a little less alone. So yeah—education can stop intimate partner violence. But only if we stop pretending it’s not happening. And only if we start telling the truth about what it feels like when it does. My camera is my way of telling that truth.

Of course—here’s your text with all the dashes removed and everything flowing naturally: --- When I was younger, I hated taking pictures. I didn’t think they mattered and saw them as a waste of time. Still, my mom always made me and my brothers take them, whether it was the first day of school, a basketball game, or a family event. At the time, I didn’t get it. But everything changed the summer before my senior year of high school. I was looking back at old pictures and videos from the years leading up to that moment, and it hit me how many meaningful, nostalgic memories I had almost forgotten. One that stood out was when my two younger brothers and I were all finally in high school together. At first, I wasn’t excited. High school had always been my space, a place where I could just be me without the responsibility of being the older brother. But as the year went on, I grew to love watching my brothers grow up, fall in love, get their hearts broken, and go through all the little moments that make high school what it is. Being able to look back and see where that chapter started meant the world to me, and all because we had those pictures. That moment made me realize the power of visual storytelling. My biggest influence has always been my mom. As a mother of four boys, she’s tough, demanding, and has always expected the best from us, especially me as the oldest. She constantly reminds me that it’s my duty to be great, not just for myself, but so my younger brothers can believe they can be great too. That pressure has shaped me. It’s made me a leader, taught me how to speak up, and more importantly, how to listen. Those qualities are at the heart of who I am as an artist. As a photographer and videographer, I use my art to tell stories, real, raw, and powerful stories. I believe stories have the power to heal, connect, and ignite change. When I graduate, I plan to create accessible platforms and spaces for young people, especially young Black creatives, to express themselves through photography, film, and storytelling. Too often, Black youth are funneled into paths like sports or traditional careers because creative ones are seen as risky. I want to shift that narrative. I want to inspire others to see that creativity is not just valid, it’s valuable. My work is not just about visuals, it’s about vision. I tell stories that open eyes, challenge assumptions, and move people to action. That’s how I plan to impact the world: by helping others find power in their stories, just like I found power in mine.

In the future, I aspire to build a career as a filmmaker and photographer dedicated to capturing authentic stories that reflect the richness of the Black experience. I believe storytelling is one of the most powerful tools we have to shape perceptions, inspire communities, and preserve our collective history. Whether it’s through film, television, or photography, my goal is to create work that not only entertains but also uplifts and educates. Being Black to me means resilience, creativity, and an unbreakable connection to a legacy of triumph over adversity. It means understanding that my story—and the stories of those around me—matter deeply. Growing up, my mother instilled in me the importance of remembering where I come from, and that perspective continues to drive my passion for art. I chose to attend an HBCU because I wanted to be part of a community where Black excellence is celebrated and nurtured every day. At Howard University, I am surrounded by peers and mentors who share my dedication to telling our stories unapologetically. Here, I’ve found an environment that empowers me to grow as both an artist and a leader. Ultimately, I hope my work will encourage future generations to see themselves as worthy of being seen, heard, and remembered—and to embrace the power in their own narratives.

Growing up in Houston, Texas, I didn’t always understand the value of stories. As a child, I disliked taking pictures and often felt they were a waste of time. But my mother, who insisted on capturing moments—from the first day of school to family gatherings—taught me that memories matter. As I got older, particularly during my senior year of high school, I began to understand that storytelling, whether through images or words, is one of the most powerful tools we have. Today, as a TV/Film major at Howard University and an active campus photographer, I’m committed to using storytelling to empower and uplift my community. If given the opportunity, I would improve my community by creating a multimedia storytelling initiative that centers the voices and experiences of young Black students and creatives—those who often go unheard. This project would combine photography, film, and narrative writing to highlight the diverse backgrounds, dreams, and resilience of youth in underrepresented communities. Through student-led workshops, public exhibits, and digital content shared across platforms like TikTok and Instagram, the initiative would not only provide creative outlets but also instill a sense of pride, visibility, and connection. This mission is personal. At Howard, I’ve served as a photographer for Models of the Mecca (MOTM), capturing not just fashion but confidence, creativity, and culture. I’ve also shot major campus events like the CEA Pageant, Mr. and Mrs. Howard Pageant, and the Mother Pearl Pageant—experiences that have taught me how powerful visual representation can be. Beyond the lens, I am a member of organizations like Bloom and Build and have participated in Howard’s Alternative Spring Break (ASB), showing my dedication to community engagement and development. What I’ve learned is that improvement doesn’t always start with infrastructure—it starts with identity. When people see themselves represented authentically, when their stories are told with care, they feel valued. And that value fosters motivation, healing, and collective strength. That’s why this initiative matters. By giving young people the space to share their narratives through creative media, we give them agency—and the tools to shape not just their own futures, but the future of our community. I also recognize the importance of equipping others with practical skills. As part of the initiative, I would host community-based workshops where students could learn basic photography, filming, and storytelling techniques—using accessible tools like smartphones and free editing apps. My goal is to make creativity and expression available to everyone, regardless of resources. These skills could also open doors to careers in media, marketing, journalism, or the arts. Ultimately, improving my community means investing in its voices. It means telling the stories that deserve to be heard, seen, and remembered. I believe my journey—from a kid who hated photos to a visual storyteller at Howard—has uniquely prepared me to lead this work. With support, I hope to help others discover the power of their voice, just as I discovered mine.

When I was younger, I hated taking pictures. I didn’t think they mattered and saw them as a waste of time. Still, my mom always made me and my brothers take them—whether it was the first day of school, a basketball game, or a family event. At the time, I didn’t get it. But everything changed the summer before my senior year of high school. I was looking back at old pictures and videos from the years leading up to that moment, and it hit me—how many meaningful, nostalgic memories I had almost forgotten. One that stood out was the moment me and my two younger brothers were finally in high school together. At first, I wasn’t excited. High school had always been my space—a place where I could just be me without the responsibility of being the "older brother." But as the year went on, I grew to love watching my brothers grow up, fall in love, get their hearts broken, and go through all the moments that make high school what it is. Being able to look back and see where that chapter started meant the world to me—and all because we had those pictures. That moment made me realize the power of visual storytelling. My biggest influence has always been my mom. As a mother of four boys, she’s tough, demanding, and has always expected the best from us—especially me as the oldest. She constantly reminds me that it’s my duty to be great, not just for myself, but so my younger brothers can believe they can be great too. That pressure has shaped me. It’s made me a leader, taught me how to speak up, and more importantly, how to listen. Those qualities are at the heart of who I am as an artist. As a photographer and videographer, I use my art to tell stories—real, raw, and powerful stories. When I graduate, I plan to use my skills to serve and grow my community. I believe Black people, especially in creative fields, are often pushed to the side in favor of sports or other "safer" paths. I want to change that. I want to use my art to inspire people, open conversations, and shift the culture. What makes my artistic gift different is its purpose. My work isn’t just about visuals—it’s about vision. I tell stories that open eyes, challenge beliefs, and move people. That’s what drives me. That’s what sets my creativity apart. And that’s the legacy I want to leave behind.