Black faces were commonplace throughout my formative education. As a first generation Haitian American, education was emphasized in my home, but the wanton lack in my community prevented me from reaching my full potential. I was forced to seek a new future outside of my community, which I found by applying to a predominantly white magnet school in downtown Orlando. The words of James Baldwin, “To be black and conscious in America is to be in a constant state of rage,” perfectly characterized much of my day-to-day interactions. Going to this high school was more than a culture shock, it was traumatic. Around this time, I was also working as a volunteer attorney for my local teen court, realizing that I had a mind well suited for a career in law. Yet in this role, I was uncomfortable with how the entire bureaucracy appeared comfortable participating in tactics that were blatantly harmful or harshly punitive rather than rehabilitative. The young defendants clearly had a myriad of issues that they needed support with. Instead of taking these things into consideration, the mostly middle class teen jurors would assign unreasonable and disproportionate “sentences” that would prevent these often working class students from having time for their schoolwork and working to support themselves and their families. The same prejudices that I witnessed from adults abusing their power was clearly passed down to my generation, and this troubled me. I was unsatisfied with the idea of being a lawyer who was okay with preserving unfair laws and unjust systems. Later, these formative experiences were the primary fuel for me to fight against “anti-CRT” legislation like the “Stop WOKE Act” by testifying before members of the Florida House and Senate, and mobilizing other students to protest at the Capitol. I knew that the last thing we needed was the censoring and avoidance of conversations about race in the classroom. Moreover, working as a legislative intern with Representative Anna Eskamani, I saw the behind the scenes of the legislative process, recognizing how local politicians had the strongest and most direct effect on the everyday lives of Floridians. Seeing the importance of civic engagement and voter education, I took a job as an organizing fellow with People Power For Florida, a voter registration organization. In this role, I managed to independently register nearly 300 people to vote, young and old. When the “Stop WOKE Act'' passed, I felt disillusioned. These “public servants” had not listened to us, their constituents. So, I began to question why they were given this power and what if I, a dedicated community member, were in their position? From my cries of protest falling on deaf ears, to my dissatisfaction with the punitive criminal justice system, I was led to one conclusion: I needed that pen. As an attorney, I could advocate for individuals, but as a public servant, I could promote policies that would benefit the lives of many. I am the sole student plaintiff in Pernell V. Florida Board of Governors, which the ACLU is bringing against the state to overturn the “Stop WOKE Act”. Right now, as a servant leader and student activist, I advocate for the overturning of unjust laws. But one day, I will be making ones that center the needs of marginalized people and promote justice, progress and unity.

Growing up in a working class and under-resourced community, It was frustrating to see people constantly getting taken advantage of, victimized and exploited with no recourse. Being a witness to police harassment and abuse growing up was nothing new to me. Watching my parents get mistreated at jobs for being immigrants and speaking little English made my blood boil. Being a current witness to the legalization of marijuana around the country while victims of the supposed “War on Drugs” still rot in prison made my head spin. I believe that justice is for all, not just those who can afford quality legal counsel and can buy their way out of trouble. Around this time in my life, I was also working as a volunteer attorney and juror for my local teen court. Yet in this role, I was uncomfortable with how the entire bureaucracy appeared comfortable with partaking in tactics that were blatantly harmful or harshly punitive rather than rehabilitative. The young defendants were clearly traumatized by adverse childhood experiences, misled and groomed by older, experienced criminals, and had a myriad of issues that they needed support with. Instead of taking these things into consideration, the mostly middle class and privileged jurors (who were there for entertainment and community service hours) would assign unreasonable and disproportionate “sentences” that would prevent these often working class students from having time for their schoolwork and working to support themselves and their families. Seeing and experiencing these things growing up inspired me at a young age to provide legal counsel for marginalized people, particularly, people of low socioeconomic status. These moments also made me realize then that I could not be the kind of lawyer that was satisfied with preserving unfair laws. Moreover, community at work throughout my life, most notably through my church family, has taught me that an ethic of care coupled with a heart of servitude is key to social progress. We visit the ill, bringing them dinner and cleaning their homes. We bring gifts to new mothers, staying up with their babies so that they can rest. We conduct free health screenings and have monthly water and food distributions. We are a people who don’t have much ourselves - low income, uneducated, immigrants. Yet when we serve our communities, we create better circumstances for other marginalized and under-resourced people. Despite the gratification I receive from serving, I believe that we must address the circumstances that create the need for us to fill these gaps. I am not satisfied with the fact that some people live in food deserts, have limited maternity leave, and lack access to healthcare. Professionally, this has shaped my desire to help create a world where people don’t have to completely rely on charity to have their basic needs met. As someone aspiring to be an attorney and public servant, public service means fighting for policies that uplift and center the voices of those in the most need. These formative experiences were the primary fuel for me to fight against “anti-CRT” legislation like the “Stop WOKE Act” by testifying before members of the Florida legislature. These public servants had ignored their constituents. My dissatisfaction with “culture war” focused policies and my cries of protest falling on deaf ears reinforced the conclusion that I had come to long ago: I needed that pen. I now serve as a plaintiff in the case of Purnell V. Florida Board of Governors, which the ACLU is bringing against the state to rid Florida of this regressive law, but one day, I will be making those laws.

1. SERVANT LEADERSHIP The importance of service has been ingrained in me through my church family. It has taught me that an ethic of care coupled with a heart of servitude is key to societal betterment. We visit the ill, bringing food and cleaning their homes. We bring gifts to new mothers, staying up with their babies so that they can rest. We conduct free health screenings and have monthly water and food distributions. We are a people who don’t have much ourselves - low income, uneducated, immigrants. Yet when we serve our communities, we create better circumstances for other marginalized and under-resourced people. However, the church is not without its issues. The deep-rooted hostility in a place that's supposed to be caring and inclusive infuriates and disappoints me, but also serves as an opportunity for transformation to come from within. Building community through servant leadership is a never ending process that requires calling out social ills including antiblackness, misogyny and homophobia and developing diverse relationships, which will create a community that is safe for all. As a servant leader in my church community, I am a part of the education ministry. I host seminars and workshops not only about college readiness, but also about mental health, misogyny, nonviolent communication and social justice. Because my denomination of Christianity is very legalistic and conservative, I face push back for the topics that I choose to address. I choose to take those risks because that is what a leader does. Being a servant leader is not about doing what makes you comfortable. It sometimes requires taking risks to push the boundaries of leadership the community forward. I have learned this lesson not only from my experiences in the church but also through the experiences I am currently having in college. Currently, I serve as the Political Action Chair of the NAACP, the Programming Director of the FSU Black Advocacy Institute, and the event coordinator for The Society of Black Female Future Attorneys. This summer, I facilitated a Critical Black Studies program for high schoolers at Cornell University. With each of these experiences I have had to extend myself outside of my comfort zone and find ways to tactfully address important topics that many in my community find easier to ignore. Ultimately, I have found that true service lies in not doing what is easy but what is necessary. 2. Take RISK I never realized the extent of my imposter syndrome until after the college application period. Despite stellar academics and impressive extracurricular endeavors, I sold myself short and only applied to my safety schools. As a first generation, working class, Haitian-American, I did not think I “belonged” at certain institutions. I was afraid of rejection, not fitting in, and not being good enough, and decided that I was better off staying in my comfort zone. I am currently studying for the LSAT and preparing to apply to law school. My original score goal was just enough to be accepted to my “safety school”. I started out my pre-law journey wanting to play it safe to protect myself from disappointment. I wanted to stay comfortable. But then I thought about those who came before me , like my own mother, who didn’t have access to education. I owe it to myself to shoot for the moon. I risk rejection, hurt and disappointment, but the responsibility I have to carry is one of breaking generational curses, rising to heights beyond that of my ancestors’ wildest dreams, and being committed to being the best that I can be so that I can offer as much as possible in service and in leadership. I put together a study plan, going from 10 hours a week to 20 hours a week of intense study. I have worked on my discipline and time management skills, using apps like “Flora” to charge my credit card if I pick up my phone while I am supposed to be studying. I have sacrificed certain senior year experiences which are truly dear to me as the first and only person in my family to have ever gone to college. But the risk of failure will not deter me from putting my all into my studies. I’ve mentally prepared myself for all possibilities, embracing the fact that redirection is protection. But it is not my job to assign limitations to my own life. If a door closes, I will be content knowing that another door will open. But why close my own doors? I am no longer afraid of failure. I will no longer allow imposter syndrome to rule me. I will no longer take the easy road. I am committed to putting in the extra hours of study and sacrifice, and if God says no, I will still land amongst the stars.