I’ll never forget the moment I stood in the back of a Kentucky high school auditorium, listening to one of my former students present her “Greenleaf Award” speech. This award is given to students in the top 20 of their graduating class, honoring someone who made the greatest impact on them during high school. Her name was Abby, and I had taught her during my very first year as a teacher at Knox Central High School, in southeastern Kentucky. She was a sophomore. She was brilliant (though she didn’t believe that), soft-spoken, and quietly carrying more weight than most adults I knew. When she stepped up to the podium, I expected something sweet, formal, something like I had heard before. But instead, she broke the audience. Instead of a speech clearly written with someone else’s support, she told everyone for this speech, she didn’t need a piece of paper or practice. She started to speak, commanding the audience’s attention. I was so proud to see her confidence. And then she said something I’ll never forget, I’ll never want to forget. I asked to have her words transcribed so that I never will. “Mr. Combs, you are the reason I stand here today as #2 in this class, and you don't even teach here anymore. Instead, you followed your dreams of leaving poverty behind, leaving bigotry behind, and I (and others in this class) are doing the exact same thing. Mr. Combs, this one is for you. Mr. Combs, whenever you hear Professor Stafford's words, remember me next. Remember I said this: ‘Mr. Combs is the joy I never knew I needed. He is the reason math made sense. Mr. Combs is the reason I’m graduating. Mr. Combs is the reason why I'm going to major in math. He deserves to know that I’m doing this, because of how powerfully gifted he is to the math community.’ I cried. For the first time in years, I cried. You see, Professor Stafford was the only math professor at my small undergraduate college who taught upper-level courses. He once looked me in the eye and told me that someone like me didn’t belong in the math community. I was a poor, first-generation student from rural Appalachia. I already felt like I didn’t belong. After that, I questioned everything. I questioned my intelligence, my path, and my worth. I didn’t go to medical school, though I had an MCAT score of 518. I didn’t believe I was capable of advanced degrees. I no longer believed I belonged in academic spaces. His words stuck to me like tar. But in that auditorium, Abby’s voice cut through years of shame, doubt, and disgust. She didn’t just speak to my impact. She gave me back a piece of myself I thought was gone. I left Kentucky after that first year to move with my partner to Chicago; to escape poverty, to escape bigotry, and to find room to grow. But students like Abby are why I have continued to stay in education. So are Rashad and Akin (from southside Chicago, IL), Elias (from Brookline, MA), and Shai (from Newton, MA). I stay for the kids who’ve lost their spark — not just in math, but in learning, in believing they matter. I teach because I remember what it felt like to be told I didn’t. I teach so they don’t have to carry that same wound. I didn’t become a teacher to fix kids. I became a teacher so students wouldn’t feel as broken as I did. I want Sierra Argumedo’s family to know I see my students the way she saw hers; as deeply human, full of worth, and worthy of being loved to their fullest potential. This is the kind of teacher I am. This is the kind of teacher I fight to be, every single day. And now, here I am, pursuing a PhD so that I can one day take up the same space Professor Stafford once held — but do it the right way. I want to stand in front of future mathematicians and remind them they belong. That they matter. That math is for them, too. Especially the students who were and are told it isn’t. But the truth is, I carry the weight of generational poverty with me every single day. I'm trying to break free, not just for myself, but for my students, for the communities I serve, and for my hometown. A place that, too often, says don’t even go to college, let alone get a PhD. I need others to know that they can do this too. To do that, I need help. I need financial support to continue this journey. This scholarship is not just honoring Sierra’s memory, and her legacy, but will lighten the weight on my shoulders so that I can continue to spread my own legacy. This scholarship can make it so that I can continue my work and exemplify Sierra's legacy through the work I promise to continue doing. I promise to keep loving students deeply, fiercely, and without condition. Thank you for your time and your consideration. Be safe, and be blessed, Jesse D. Combs