Education gave me direction by turning what I loved into a path I could commit to. Music was always the constant in my life, but college forced me to decide what kind of musician I wanted to be, what kind of teacher I wanted to become, and what kind of impact I wanted my work to have. I am a senior finishing a B.S.E. in Music Education and a B.A. in Percussion Performance, and my GPA is 3.72. I am student teaching now, completed my senior recital, and preparing to step into my first full time teaching job in the same district that raised me. That sequence is not luck. It is the result of choosing a demanding route because I wanted my future to be built on real skill, not vague ambition. The biggest way education shaped my goals is that it moved me from “I’m good at music” to “I want to serve people through it.” Performance taught me accountability. You cannot fake time, sound, or preparation. You either did the work or you did not. Once I pursued a dual degree, that accountability expanded. The performance side pushed me to develop as a classical percussionist across keyboard instruments, snare drum, timpani, and the many roles percussionists are asked to cover. The education side pushed me to think beyond my own playing and ask harder questions. How do students actually learn, how do you build skills without crushing confidence, how do you create excellence without making the room feel unsafe. College gave me language for those questions, but more importantly, it gave me repeated chances to practice answering them in real classrooms. My musicianship training also shaped how I plan to teach. Aural skills work strengthened my inner hearing and accuracy as a daily habit of listening and correcting with precision. Methods work translated that musicianship into sequencing. It taught me to treat learning as a process, not a performance, and to build understanding through sound before expecting students to label it on paper. Over time I stopped thinking of teaching as delivering content. I started thinking of teaching as building independence, so students leave more capable than when they arrived. Alongside that growth, the biggest challenge I have overcome is financial strain that never fully disappears. Tuition is only the start. There are fees, required texts, materials, and the cost of living while you prepare for a career. Student teaching intensifies that reality because it is full time professional work without full time pay. The placement still carries real expenses, commuting, parking, classroom supplies, program requirements, certification costs, and basic logistics. At the same time, you are expected to plan and perform at a professional standard every day. That is difficult to sustain if you are also forced to work excessive hours just to cover basic costs. Music adds another layer that most majors do not see. Instruments, sticks and mallets, repairs, and recital related costs are not optional. You cannot decide to do less and still meet the standards of a performance degree. Recital preparation has no shortcuts. You either invest the time and resources, or the results show. I have managed this through careful budgeting, working when possible, and relying on scholarships that have helped keep my debt from climbing even higher, but the pressure remains. It is most intense at the transition point I am in right now, moving from unpaid training into an early career that does not leave much margin. Another challenge has been the mental load of carrying constant workload. I have dealt with anxiety, burnout, and self criticism that can make normal pressure feel heavier. A major part of my growth has been learning that perseverance is not only pushing harder. It is building boundaries, protecting routines, and separating personal life and work life enough that neither one consumes the other. Teaching requires steadiness. Students do not need an adult who is emotionally perfect, but they do need an adult who is emotionally reliable. Part of my education has been learning how to show up consistent and calm even when I am carrying pressure behind the scenes, and how to treat students’ struggles with respect instead of judgment. The purpose I want to build my future around is access. I do not want to teach music as a filler class. I want to build musicianship, confidence, and belonging for students who might not otherwise get it. That belief is also personal for me. My aunt is profoundly disabled and nonverbal, fully dependent, and my family has lived the reality of caregiving for decades. That experience shaped how I see students who need more support. They are not problems to manage. They are people to serve with dignity, patience, and real expectations. I want my classroom to be structured and safe, with clear routines and multiple ways to participate. Education has also shaped my sense of direction by giving me a place to return to. After graduation, I will be teaching K to 5 in my home district. That matters because it connects ambition to responsibility. I want to give back to the schools that formed me, and I want students to see someone who understands their world and still expects great things from them. This scholarship matters because it would reduce strain at the exact moment my education becomes my livelihood. I am crossing the hardest financial gap, the transition from unpaid training into a first year of teaching with new expenses while still carrying loan burden. Support like this offsets real barriers tied to student teaching and certification, reduces the need to take on additional debt, and provides stability while I begin serving students full time. I am already doing the work, and I am stepping directly into a role that serves children and a community. This scholarship would make that path less fragile and allow me to enter the profession focused on impact rather than survival.

After graduation, I will be returning to my home district to teach K to 5 general music and choir in the same elementary community that helped shape me. That matters to me on a personal level, but it also says something about why I’m passionate about early childhood education. I’m not drawn to it as an abstract idea. I’m drawn to it because I’ve seen firsthand what early educators can do for a child’s confidence, curiosity, and long term relationship with school, and I want to give that gift back to the place that gave it to me. Early childhood education is where students learn what school feels like. Before a child can explain their needs or even fully regulate their emotions, they are already forming beliefs about themselves. Am I safe here. Am I capable. Do adults listen to me. Do I belong. Early childhood educators shape those beliefs through thousands of small interactions, and those interactions can set a trajectory that lasts for years. That’s why I take K to 5 teaching so seriously. At that age, a teacher can either open a door or quietly convince a student they don’t fit. My passion for early childhood education is rooted in music, specifically early elementary general music. Young children learn through movement, echo, imitation, and story. When instruction is built around play, routine, and joy, you can teach serious skills, steady beat, pitch matching, listening, cooperation, and self control, without crushing the curiosity that makes kids want to learn. I want my classroom to be structured, musical, and welcoming, where students feel both supported and challenged. I’m also passionate about this age group because early childhood is where inclusion is either established or lost. Many students with learning differences, language delays, or sensory needs enter school already anxious about being wrong. Early childhood educators can prevent that spiral. Clear routines, visual supports, and multiple ways to participate can change a child’s entire relationship with school. In music, that might look like movement based learning, call and response singing, choices in how students show understanding, and roles that allow every child to contribute meaningfully. This scholarship matters to me because I’m entering the profession with real financial pressure. Student teaching, certification costs, and tuition have required loans and careful budgeting, and early childhood educators aren’t entering a field known for financial flexibility. Support like this would reduce the burden as I transition into my first year of teaching, help me keep building the resources my students deserve, and allow me to focus on becoming the strongest educator I can be rather than simply trying to stay afloat. It would also let me invest in developmentally appropriate materials, instruments, and learning tools that make music more accessible and engaging for young children. Sandy Jenkins’ legacy as a preschool director and leader reflects what great early educators do. They create an environment where children feel known, capable, and excited to learn. That is exactly the impact I want to have in my K to 5 classroom, and exactly why I’m committed to early childhood education.

One of my favorite stories about my grandfather, Richard Zirpoli, is how he carried service like it was ordinary. He was a U.S. Army veteran, but if you met him at home in Milford, you would not have guessed it from the way he talked. He wasn’t the type to announce what he had done. He was stubborn, funny in a dry way, and he treated duty like a normal part of being a man. I was the youngest of seventeen grandchildren, so I grew up with him when he was older and had nothing left to prove. For about nine years, my grandparents lived with my parents and I after they sold their house, which meant I didn’t just see him at holidays. I saw him every day. He had routines. He had opinions. He also had an unshakable habit of caring about other people’s lives, even when he acted like he didn’t care about anything. He would ask what I was working on, what I was practicing, where I was performing next. He bragged in his own way, the kind of pride that sounded like he was just making conversation, but you could tell he meant it. The story that stays with me most happened during my winter break in 2024. I had just gone to China on an exchange trip to perform internationally with Millersville, representing our school musically and professionally. When I got back, days, before his passing, I found out my grandfather had told my cousins that he was “waiting for me to come home.” That line hit me harder than people might expect. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was him. He didn’t say, “I’m proud of you.” He said something practical, like he was holding the door until I walked through. I came home, Christmas happened two days later, and our house became a revolving door. My dad is one of eight, and my grandfather’s home was always full of people coming and going, telling stories, arguing over food, laughing, checking in. Then, on his ninety-sixth birthday, he passed away peacefully at home. Even that felt like him. Stubborn enough to go on his birthday, like he picked the date himself. After his passing, I realized the story wasn’t just that he served in the Army. The story was that he never stopped serving. He worked hard his whole life, he was a Eucharistic Minister for over twenty years, he volunteered with Meals on Wheels, and he showed up for family constantly. Faith and service weren’t separate categories for him. They were the same thing, just lived out in different places. I dedicated the finale of my senior recital, Watercolor Sun, to him. It’s a piece that feels warm and together, and it made sense as a way to say thank you to someone who supported me quietly for years. What my grandfather taught me is simple, and it has stuck. Be dependable. Do the work. Love people without needing recognition. If you live that way long enough, you leave a mark that lasts.

Cancer has touched my family in more than one way, and it has shaped how I think about time, responsibility, and what it means to keep showing up when life gets heavy. Two people closest to me have faced it. My grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer and went through a mastectomy, and my dad battled testicular cancer before I was born. Even though those experiences happened in different seasons, they left the same imprint on our family, nothing is guaranteed, and strength is often quiet. My grandmother’s diagnosis was the one I experienced directly. Alongside being her only grandchild, she is one of my closest friends, and throughout my life, my parents and I would visit her constantly, and she would always visit us. That meant I saw the reality, not just updates after doctor visits. What made her situation even heavier is that she has spent decades as the primary caregiver for my aunt, who is profoundly disabled and nonverbal and completely dependent. Even in her 80s, my grandmother continues to care for her. Watching her face cancer while still carrying that responsibility was frightening, but it also showed me what resilience actually looks like. It is not dramatic. It is the decision to keep doing what needs to be done, to keep loving people well, and to keep moving forward even when you’re scared. My dad’s cancer was before I was born, but it still shaped my life. After his testicular cancer, my parents faced uncertainty about having a child, and my mom also endured miscarriages. I grew up knowing I was not an accident or a given. I was a gift they had hoped for through fear and loss. That context changes how you see your own life. It makes you more grateful, but it also makes you feel a responsibility to not waste what you were given. It pushed me to take opportunities seriously and to treat my goals as something worth working for. Cancer also taught me what matters in a family. It reveals who shows up and how. It forces hard conversations. It teaches patience, because healing does not happen on a schedule that cares about your plans. It also reshapes your definition of success. Success becomes less about impressive outcomes and more about endurance, character, and the ability to stay present for the people you love. Financially, cancer is never just a medical event, it is a stressor that ripples outward. Even when treatment goes well, it leaves behind costs and a sense of vulnerability. That is part of why scholarship support matters to me. I am committed to finishing my education and building a career that serves others, but I also understand how quickly a family’s stability can be threatened by circumstances outside their control. Through these experiences, I have learned to be grateful without being naive, to be driven without becoming ruthless, and to value service as a daily practice. Cancer affected my family, but it also clarified my priorities. It taught me that love is action, resilience is consistency, and the future is worth working for, even when life has already proved how fragile it can be.

I want to be a music educator who is truly prepared to serve students with special needs, because I have lived close to disability long enough to know that access is not automatic. My aunt is profoundly disabled and nonverbal, fully dependent, and my grandmother has been her primary caregiver for decades. Growing up around that reality taught me that dignity is not a slogan. It is the daily work of meeting someone where they are, communicating patiently, and refusing to treat a person as less valuable because their needs are greater. That perspective is the reason I’m drawn to make inclusion a real part of my teaching rather than an afterthought. In high school, I volunteered with Special Olympics, and it shaped how I think about support. The athletes did not need pity. They needed adults who treated their effort as real achievement, who encouraged them honestly, and who made the environment work. I learned quickly that confidence grows when expectations are clear and when people are respected enough to be challenged. That experience still influences how I speak to students and how I define success, not as being “the best,” but as progressing, participating, and being taken seriously. More recently, I have worked in Transitional Learning settings as a substitute teacher. Those days taught me that supporting students with disabilities is not only about having a big heart. It is about skill, consistency, and planning. It is routines that reduce anxiety, directions that are clear and repeatable, and flexibility that does not turn into chaos. When a student who typically shuts down participates because the structure finally makes sense, you realize how much of “ability” depends on environment. A well designed classroom can unlock students who have been mislabeled as unwilling or incapable. Music is uniquely powerful in this work. Rhythm provides structure and predictability. Singing and echoing build memory and language in a way that feels natural. Instruments offer immediate cause and effect that can be motivating for students who struggle with abstract tasks. Ensemble activities create belonging without requiring constant verbal performance. I want my music room to be a place where students with autism, Down syndrome, and other learning differences are not placed on the edge of the carpet. I want them participating with meaningful roles, supported by visual cues, movement, predictable routines, and multiple ways to respond. I also want to collaborate closely with special education teachers, paraprofessionals, and related service providers so music class supports students’ goals instead of working against them. My goal is simple but serious. I want students to leave my class with real musical skills, but also with a stronger sense of their own presence, confidence, and worth. If I can be the kind of educator who makes school feel more accessible and more human for students with special needs, that is the impact I want my career to have.

I love math for the same reason I love music, it is structure that turns into meaning. On the surface, math can look cold, like a set of rules you either follow correctly or you fail. But the deeper you go, the more it feels like a language. Patterns repeat, ideas transform, and small choices create big outcomes. That is not far from how rhythm works, or how harmony changes the emotional direction of a phrase. What I enjoy most is the clarity. In a world where so many things are subjective, math teaches you to define terms, state assumptions, and prove what you claim. That discipline carries into everyday thinking. If you cannot explain your reasoning, you probably do not understand it yet. I like that math rewards patience and honesty. It does not care about confidence, it cares about logic. Math also teaches humility. You can feel sure and still be wrong, and the only way forward is to return to the steps and find the break in the chain. That habit is useful in every field. It is how engineers build safe systems, how economists model trends, and how people make responsible decisions with money. Most of all, I love that math is creative. There is often more than one path to the answer, and the most satisfying solutions are the ones that feel elegant. When everything locks into place, it feels like resolving a cadence.

Mental health is important to me as a student because I know what it feels like to keep functioning while your mind is quietly working against you. I have dealt with anxiety, burnout, and a self deprecating inner voice that can turn normal pressure into something heavier. On paper, I look like someone who has it together. I’m a senior, I’m student teaching, I keep up with a demanding schedule. But that is exactly why mental health matters. You can be “doing fine” and still be struggling. If we only take mental health seriously when someone falls apart, we wait too long. As a student, the most dangerous part of burnout for me is how it distorts your thinking. It convinces you that rest is laziness, that asking for help is weakness, and that your value depends on constant output. Anxiety adds a second layer, it makes small problems feel permanent and makes you rehearse worst case outcomes until they feel like facts. Over time I had to learn that discipline alone doesn’t fix that. What helps is discipline paired with honesty, boundaries, and community. One of the most important things I’ve practiced is separating work life and personal life, I refuse to let stress leak into every hour of the day. I plan ahead, set limits, and protect basic routines like sleep, meals, and quiet time so I can show up stable for students. Student teaching especially has taught me this. Kids do not need a teacher who is emotionally perfect. They need a teacher who is emotionally reliable. When I’m anxious or burned out, my job is to manage it responsibly so it doesn’t become a child’s burden. That practice has made me more compassionate toward myself, and more aware of what students might be carrying when they walk into a room. Mental health is also important to me because I’ve seen how support systems change outcomes. My church community has been a consistent source of accountability and encouragement, and being on the worship team since middle school taught me that showing up for others strengthens you. When you are part of something bigger than your own stress, you gain perspective. You also learn that people are often dealing with more than they say. I advocate for mental health in my community by treating it as normal and worthy of respect. In school settings, that means I don’t label students as lazy or difficult when what I’m seeing might be anxiety. I use clear routines, predictable expectations, and calm correction, because structure lowers stress for everyone. I try to give students multiple ways to participate and demonstrate understanding, because one rigid format can turn a manageable day into a failure spiral for the wrong kid. I also pay attention to tone. Students can tell when an adult is irritated with them instead of redirecting a behavior. I work hard to make that distinction clear. Outside of class, advocacy looks like smaller choices too. I check in on friends who are drowning but still smiling. I’m careful about how I talk about workload, because constant complaining can normalize hopelessness. I make space for honest conversations without trying to fix people, and I encourage support when someone needs more than a friend can provide. The reason I care about mental health is simple. It affects learning, relationships, and identity. If we want students to grow, we have to treat mental health as part of education, not an optional add on. I’m learning to do that for myself, and I’m committed to doing it for the students and communities I serve.

My experience with mental health has shaped my beliefs less through theory and more through proximity, including my own. I have dealt with burnout, anxiety, and a pattern of self depreciation that can turn normal pressure into something heavier than it needs to be. I have also seen how stigma turns ordinary struggle into secrecy, and how secrecy makes it worse. Over time, that combination has changed the way I relate to others. I take people seriously when they say they are not okay, even if they cannot explain why. I listen more carefully. I try not to confuse performance with wellness. Those lessons matter because I am entering education, a field where students bring mental health into the room whether adults acknowledge it or not. I am a senior studying music education and I am student teaching now. In schools, mental health shows up as unfinished work, explosive behavior, silence, perfectionism, or detachment. Early on, I learned that the most harmful response is to treat those signals as defiance or laziness. The better response is to preserve dignity while still holding structure. Clear routines, predictable expectations, and a calm tone are not soft, they are stabilizing, especially for students whose nervous systems are already running hot. My own burnout and anxiety forced me to learn boundaries. I have had to practice separating personal life and work life so that neither one consumes the other. That looks like disciplined planning, realistic limits, and refusing to let self talk become cruel when I fall short. It also looks like learning how to show up consistently for students even when I do not feel at my best. Teaching requires steadiness. Students need the adult in the room to be emotionally reliable, not emotionally perfect. I have learned that being strong does not mean pretending I never struggle, it means managing my struggles responsibly so they do not become someone else’s burden, especially a child’s. My relationships have been shaped by that mindset too. In my family I have learned that caregiving and stress do not always look dramatic, but they accumulate. People can function while still struggling. That reality has made me more patient and less interested in judging someone’s capacity based on a single day. It has also made me more intentional about seeking healthy support systems, including my church community, which has been a consistent source of accountability and encouragement. I do not claim to be a therapist, and I do not see mental health as something a teacher can fix. What I can do, and what I plan to do, is create a classroom environment that supports mental wellbeing rather than undermining it. As a music educator, I want to build spaces where students experience belonging, expressive outlets, and achievable success. Music gives students a way to process emotion safely, develop self regulation through breath and rhythm, and practice collaboration without constant verbal pressure. I also plan to collaborate with counselors and support staff when a student’s needs are beyond my role, and to advocate for a school culture where asking for help is normal and respected. If we want better mental health outcomes, we need trained professionals, but we also need adults in everyday roles who respond wisely. My goal is to be one of those adults. I want students to leave my classroom with stronger musicianship, but also with a sense that they are seen, capable, and not alone, and I want to model a version of adulthood where pressure is real, but it can be carried with discipline, honesty, and hope.

The Taylor Swift performance I find most moving is her Eras Tour rendition of All Too Well (10 Minute Version). Not because it is the biggest moment on a setlist, it is not fireworks music, it is a long walk through memory, but because it shows what her career in the spotlight actually costs. She stands alone, holds the room with nothing but phrasing and breath control, and lets a story unfold without rushing to the hook. That kind of patience is rare in stadium pop, and it is the clearest proof that her power is still lyric driven, even when the production around her could easily hide it. What makes that performance land is the tension between scale and intimacy. The Eras Tour was built to commemorate a discography and it became a cultural machine, yet in that moment she refuses to perform bigness. She performs specificity. The delivery is controlled, almost conversational at points, and the crowd response becomes part of the piece, not noise on top of it. You can hear thousands of people singing lines back, but the emotional weight stays centered on the narrative. It feels less like a singalong and more like a collective act of recognition, everyone acknowledging that a private hurt can become public art without losing its sharpness. I also think the performance is moving because it reframes what it means to be “in the spotlight.” The scholarship prompt frames TS12, The Life of a Showgirl, as a tribute to her ongoing career on stage. But a showgirl, in the old sense, is not only sparkle, it is stamina. The Eras Tour asked her to carry multiple eras, characters, and vocal styles, night after night, in front of an audience that brings its own expectations and mythology. In All Too Well, she does something harder than impressing people, she slows down and trusts the material. She lets silence exist between lines. She does not soften the edges to keep it “fun.” That is confidence, and it is also a kind of vulnerability that reads as honest because it is disciplined. As a musician, I respect the craft in it, long form storytelling, pacing, controlled intensity. As a listener, I respect the message beneath it. The spotlight does not erase pain, it often preserves it. Her most moving performances are the ones where she refuses to hide that truth behind production, and instead turns it into something precise enough to share.

I plan to make a positive impact on the world by building classrooms where students feel safe, capable, and worth the work, and by carrying that same spirit of service beyond the school day. I am a senior pursuing degrees in music education and percussion performance, and I am student teaching now. The simplest way I can describe my goal is this, I want music education to be both excellent and accessible. Too often students are sorted early into “musical” and “not musical,” and the ones without resources, confidence, or prior experience quietly opt out. I want to build programs where students do not have to earn belonging before they are allowed to participate. My approach to impact is practical and consistent. I have always been the person who thinks ahead, notices what needs to happen next, and tries to make things easier for the people around me. I have also been told my energy changes a room, not because I am loud, but because I stay positive and make people feel comfortable. In a classroom, that matters. Students learn more when the adult in the room is calm, prepared, and genuinely glad they are there. In my own life, I learned what steady service looks like through family. My aunt is profoundly disabled and nonverbal, fully dependent, and my grandmother has cared for her for decades. That experience taught me that dignity is not a slogan, it is daily practice. It shaped how I volunteer and how I teach. In high school I volunteered with Special Olympics, and the lesson was simple, people flourish when adults take them seriously. More recently I have worked in Transitional Learning settings as a substitute teacher, where impact is measured in routines that actually work, calm structure, and the patience to treat progress as real. In my career, I want to create music spaces where students with disabilities and students who struggle in traditional academic settings still have a clear path to succeed. Music is uniquely powerful here. Rhythm provides structure, singing builds memory and language, instruments give immediate cause and effect, and ensemble work teaches cooperation without requiring constant verbal performance. My responsibility is to design instruction so every student can enter the work. That means predictable routines, visual supports, movement-based learning, and multiple ways to demonstrate understanding. It also means collaborating closely with special education staff and honoring IEP supports so students are not treated like guests in the room. I also plan to keep giving back through community programs. I taught with Music for Everyone for two years, and I saw what happens when students who lack resources are still given serious instruction and encouragement. Access changes outcomes. Long term, I want to build partnerships between school music programs and community organizations so students have opportunities beyond the school day. The impact I want to make is not abstract. I want students to leave my classroom with musicianship, confidence, and a sense of belonging, and I want families to feel that their children are seen and valued. If I can build that environment year after year, that is a life of service with real effect.

I currently work as a professional classical percussionist, and that identity is what ultimately confirmed that music needed to be more than a hobby for me. Percussion has become the center of my life because it forces you to bring the same level of detail and musical intention no matter what instrument is in front of you (keyboard percussion, snare drum, timpani, and every role in between). Freshman year of college is when my classical percussion playing truly took off and became my specialty. I realized I did not just enjoy percussion, I liked the standard it requires. You have to be dependable across multiple styles and settings, and you cannot hide behind anyone else’s sound. The pivotal moment that set me on this path began earlier, in drumline. I started drumline at the end of sixth grade and stayed involved through my sophomore year of college. At first it was energy and excitement, but over time it became the space where I learned the habits that still shape my musicianship. You cannot fake time, you cannot talk your way around being unprepared, and if you rush or drag the entire ensemble feels it immediately. Drumline taught me to listen outward instead of inward, to take correction without ego, and to show up ready because other people are counting on you. It also taught me that excellence is not a single performance, it is repeated choices that add up. In high school, when it was time to decide what direction I wanted for my future, and I realized music had been the biggest constant in my life. From starting classical piano at the age of five, to performing as my university's jazz ensemble pianist, life changed, but music stayed. This was where I learned how a strong educator shapes habits, character, and identity. I did not want music to stay something I loved on the side, I wanted it to become the work I build my life around, both as a performer and as someone who helps students find their own voice. Once I got to college, classical percussion made that decision feel even more certain. Drumline gave me grit and internal time, but classical percussion demanded depth, touch, tone, color, phrasing, and style. It pushed me beyond accuracy into expression. Learning repertoire across instruments forced me to become a better listener and a more complete musician. Preparing my junior recital was one of the first times I felt that growth fully. I had to own a full program, manage long term preparation, and let the results speak for themselves. An international performance trip to China reinforced it in a different way. Representing my school musically and professionally showed me that performance is not only about playing well, it is about carrying yourself with maturity and respect, and using music to connect with people beyond your own familiar world. Finally, I had my senior recital, where I had the opportunity to fully display my musicianship to everyone that supported me during this journey. That is why I am pursuing a dual degree, a B.S.E. in Music Education and a B.A. in Performance with a percussion concentration, and earning a GPA of 3.72. I do not want to choose between teaching and performing because each strengthens the other. I want my teaching to be rooted in real musicianship, and I want my performing to stay connected to purpose. The pivotal moment began with drumline, but it matured through classical percussion. Music has been the constant in my life, and now it is the calling I am choosing to follow.

My grandfather passed away last year on his ninety-sixth birthday. In a strange way, the timing fits who he was; stubborn, determined, and the kind of person who did things on his own terms. Losing him did not just hurt because he was family; it hurt because he was one of my biggest supporters, especially in music. I come from a large family with a lot of love, and I’m grateful for that. Still, my relationship with my grandfather felt unique. I was the youngest of seventeen grandchildren, which meant I got to know him in his later years, when time together feels more deliberate. He paid attention to what I was doing and made it clear that it mattered. That closeness wasn’t occasional. For about nine years, I lived with both of my grandparents after they sold their house and moved in with us. Sharing a home changes a relationship. You don’t just see someone at holidays; you see their routines, their humor, their small habits, and the ways they show love without making a speech about it. My grandfather’s support became part of the everyday background of my life. He wanted to hear everything that I was working on. He was proud in a way that didn’t need to be dramatic to feel real. What shaped me most was the quiet consistency of that support. Music is a long game. Practice is repetitive; progress is slow; performances come and go in a night. Having someone in your corner for years, someone who genuinely enjoys your growth, changes how you see yourself. It gave me confidence when I was younger, but it also gave me responsibility as I got older. When someone believes in you that steadily, you start to feel accountable not to waste the gift. The loss itself came with a kind of emotional whiplash. Over winter break I traveled to China to perform internationally with Millersville, and I found out later that my grandfather had told my cousins he was “waiting for me to come back.” I returned, Christmas followed two days later, and our home became what it always becomes in a big family; people coming in and out, stories being told, life moving loudly around a person who is slowly nearing the end. Then he passed on his birthday. It felt abrupt even though it wasn’t. Since he died, perseverance has taken on a more grounded meaning for me. People talk about “keeping going” as if it’s a motivational phrase, but grief forces you to define it. For me, keeping going meant continuing to practice when I didn’t feel like it, continuing to prepare when the deadlines didn’t pause, and continuing to show up for the people who still needed me. It also meant deciding that loss wouldn’t shrink my ambition. If anything, it clarified it. I don’t want to chase achievements just to collect them; I want to do work that honors the people who built me. That’s why I dedicated my senior recital finale, "Watercolor Sun", to him. The piece has a calm, together feeling to it, something warm and steady, and it felt like the right way to carry his presence into a moment he would have been excited to see. I can’t bring him back into the room, but I can let his support keep living through the way I work. Losing my grandfather reshaped my life by reminding me that time is limited and love is real; the best response is to live with gratitude, discipline, and purpose.

Faith has helped me most by giving me a steady center when life is busy, expensive, and uncertain. I’m a senior finishing a B.S.E. in Music Education and a B.A. in Percussion Performance, and I’m student teaching; the workload is real, the schedule is demanding, and the financial pressure is constant. In those seasons, it’s easy to let anxiety set the pace, or to measure your worth by productivity. My faith pulls me back to a different standard: obedience over ego, character over image, and service over self-protection. It reminds me that my life has direction even when the next month feels unclear. I grew up in the church with a christian family, but my faith became even more personal in high school when I chose to be baptized. That moment wasn’t about being perfect; it was about committing to live with accountability and to take Jesus seriously in the parts of life that don’t get applauded. Since middle school I’ve served on my church’s worship team, and that has been one of the most formative experiences I’ve had. Worship team life is not glamorous; it’s preparation, humility, and teamwork. You show up early, rehearse when you’re tired, and put the focus on the congregation rather than yourself. That environment taught me a kind of discipline that has carried into school and work, and it taught me that leadership is proven in consistency, not in being the loudest person in the room. Faith has also shaped how I respond to hardship. In my family, I’ve watched resilience up close. My aunt is profoundly disabled and nonverbal, fully dependent, and my grandmother (now in her mid-80s) has been her primary caregiver for decades. That reality taught me that love is not only emotion; it is responsibility. It also taught me that dignity matters, especially for people whose needs make them easy to overlook. Those lessons have influenced the way I teach, the patience I try to practice, and the kind of educator I want to be. Looking ahead, my faith will assist my career because teaching is not only a job; it’s an influence. Students may forget a specific lesson, but they remember whether their teacher was fair, consistent, and trustworthy. I want to be the kind of music teacher who builds musicianship and belonging at the same time; high standards without humiliation, structure without harshness, and feedback that helps students grow rather than shrink. Faith supports that by shaping my integrity. It tells me to tell the truth, to keep my word, to give credit, to treat students as image-bearers, and to make decisions that are right even when they cost more time or convenience. The story of immigrants who built success through hard work resonates with me because I see that same principle in a different form, long obedience in the same direction. Faith doesn’t replace effort, it purifies it. It helps me pursue goals without cutting corners, and it keeps success from becoming my identity. My aim is to build a life that is both productive and moral, one where ambition and integrity don’t compete, and where the work I do serves people, not just my own future.

My journey into Christianity did not begin with one dramatic moment; it began with steady exposure to a faith that was lived, not just talked about. I grew up in the church, but what made my faith real over time was seeing that Christianity was not simply a set of beliefs. It was a way of shaping daily life; how people treated others, how they handled hardship, how they served when no one was watching. As I got older, I realized I could not rely on borrowed faith. I had to decide whether Christ would be central to my life or merely familiar. That decision became real for me in high school, when I chose to be baptized. It wasn’t about checking a box or trying to look “more religious.” It was a public commitment to live differently, with accountability, humility, and a willingness to be led rather than just self-directed. A defining part of my faith journey has been long-term service in my church. I have been active in my Christian community and part of my church’s worship team on piano since middle school. Serving in worship taught me what it means to show up consistently and humbly. It also taught me that leadership is not performance. You practice so you can serve without distraction. You listen so you can blend. You adjust because the goal is not spotlight, but unity. Week after week, that kind of service formed my character. It deepened my prayer life and reinforced the idea that gifts are meant to be offered, not hoarded. It also gave me a model of Christian community that has shaped how I want to live: dependable, teachable, and oriented toward others. Those same convictions guide my academic and professional goals. I am a senior at Millersville University pursuing a B.S.E. in Music Education and a B.A. in Percussion Performance, with a GPA of 3.72. While my primary degrees are in music, my faith informs the direction of my career. I want to teach because I believe education is a form of service with generational impact. A student may forget a worksheet, but they do not forget the adults who treated them with dignity, expected growth from them, and showed them what integrity looks like. My goal is to become a musicianship-centered educator who builds both high standards and real belonging. In practical terms, I want to teach elementary general music in a way that is sequential, literacy-based, and accessible to every learner, including students who often feel unseen in school. I also hope to remain involved in church music long-term, mentoring younger musicians and serving in worship wherever I live and teach. Receiving this scholarship would support my academic and professional endeavors at a crucial time. I am currently student teaching, which is a full-time commitment with real costs attached; commuting, required materials, and the basic pressure of living while completing unpaid professional work. Financial strain is not just inconvenient, it can force students to spread themselves thin and compromise the quality of their preparation. This scholarship would ease that pressure and allow me to focus more fully on finishing strong, completing my training, and entering the profession with stability. My future plans are straightforward. I plan to graduate, begin my career in education, and continue serving through my church community. I want my life to reflect the kind of faith Pastor Thomas Rorie Jr. modeled; faith expressed through generosity, consistency, and care for others. This scholarship would not only help me reach the finish line academically, it would also strengthen my ability to step into my calling with less burden and more capacity to serve the students and communities that God places in front of me.

Photography is the art medium that has stayed with me because it does two things at once; it lets me notice the world more carefully, and it lets me give something back to other people. I’m a music education and percussion performance student at Millersville University, so my daily life is full of sound, timing, and emotion. Photography became the visual extension of that same mindset. I don’t take pictures just to “get a shot.” I’m trying to catch the exact moment that shows what something felt like. That is why recital photography has become such a meaningful part of my work. Over the past couple of years I’ve been taking photos for my peers’ performances (senior recitals, studio classes, concerts) because I saw how often musicians put months of work into a single night and end up with nothing to show for it besides a program and a memory. A good photo preserves the part that disappears first; the focus in someone’s face right before a difficult entrance, the relief after a final cadence, the posture and intensity that audiences feel but can’t always describe. When I deliver a set of images to a friend and they post one with pride, or use it for a graduate application, it feels like I’m supporting the arts in a practical way. It’s also a form of service that’s easy to overlook until you need it. Photography has also changed how I move through everyday life. It trained my attention. I notice light now, how it falls across a hallway, how it warms up near sunset, how harsh fluorescents flatten a face, and I think in terms of contrast and framing even when I’m not holding a camera. That awareness carries into my teaching. In a classroom, you’re constantly “composing” the room; where you stand, what students can see, what the focal point is, what distracts them, what invites them in. Learning to frame an image has made me more intentional about framing an experience. The editing side matters too. I use Lightroom and Photoshop to refine my images, but I’m careful not to overdo it. The goal isn’t to manufacture perfection; it’s to reveal the story that’s already there. That philosophy matches the way I see art in general. Whether I’m teaching a student to sing in tune or editing a photo so the performer’s face is actually visible, I’m trying to help something real come through more clearly. Photography has enhanced my life by giving me a second way to create and a second way to listen. It has enhanced the lives of people around me by honoring their work—by giving them images that match the effort they put into their craft. Christal Carter’s legacy was innovation and generosity through art. In my own medium, I’m pursuing that same idea: make something carefully, make it useful to others, and let it carry beauty forward.

Leadership through service only means something when the service is real; unpaid, unrequired, and done because someone needs help. I learned that early through volunteering with Special Olympics in high school. I was not there to “run an event” as a résumé line; I was there to make sure athletes were encouraged, oriented, and treated like competitors. That experience taught me a simple leadership principle: the job is to notice what would make someone’s day easier and then quietly do it. The athletes did not need performative praise; they needed consistency, respect, and adults who would take their effort seriously. In college, I kept that same mindset, but in settings that also required planning. My most meaningful organizing work has been in the music spaces I’m part of; setting up percussion section logistics, coordinating who covers what equipment, helping peers prepare for juries and recitals, and making sure underclassmen have what they need to succeed. A concrete example is recital support. When I realized how many student performers finish a major recital without professional documentation, I started offering recital photography and sharing the edited images back with them. It is a small service, but it changes outcomes; students use those photos for graduate applications, teaching portfolios, and program promotion. It also builds morale because the work feels seen. The organizing side is real; scheduling, coordinating with performers and stage crews, knowing where to stand without disrupting the performance, and turning around edits quickly enough that the images are useful. I treat it like service because there is no requirement that I do it; I do it because it helps people. I have also given back through direct teaching service. I taught with Music for Everyone in community programs, working with students who often do not have access to private lessons or extra resources. In those settings, leadership is not about being the loudest person in the room; it is about preparation, patience, and the willingness to adjust so every student can participate. The point is not perfection; the point is access. Leadership through service matters because it produces a different kind of credibility. People trust leaders who show up when there is no spotlight, who take on unglamorous tasks, and who measure success by whether others are better supported afterward. Service also reshapes the leader; it forces you to listen, to collaborate, and to act with humility. The most sustainable communities are built by people who do not wait for a title before they contribute. That is the kind of leadership I try to practice: steady, practical, and aimed outward.

Faith has never been an accessory in my life; it has been the structure underneath it. When life has felt uncertain (financially, academically, or emotionally) my faith has kept me grounded in the belief that my work has purpose beyond my own success. That is why the Jim Maxwell Memorial Scholarship is meaningful to me. It recognizes something I know firsthand: students of faith often carry responsibilities and burdens that are invisible on paper, and support at the right moment can keep a calling from becoming unsustainable. I’m a senior at Millersville University pursuing a B.S.E. in Music Education and a B.A. in Percussion Performance, and my GPA is 3.72. I’m also student teaching, which is a full-time commitment with real costs attached - commuting, required materials, and the basic pressure of living while doing unpaid professional work. Like many students, I’ve had to be strategic and resilient to keep moving forward. When things have felt tight, I’ve relied on work, scholarships, and careful budgeting, but I’ve also relied on faith to keep my perspective steady: I’m not simply trying to “get through” college; I’m preparing to serve students well. My faith has shaped my life through consistent service. I’ve been active in my church and on the worship team since middle school. That long-term commitment taught me discipline, humility, and the importance of showing up when it isn’t convenient. Worship ministry also taught me something central to education: leadership is not performance. The goal is not attention; it is contribution. You rehearse so others can worship without distraction. You listen so the group can blend. You adjust so the room can participate. That same mindset is what I try to bring into teaching, create an environment where others can grow. Faith has also helped me face hardship in a way that does not harden me. In my family, I’ve watched resilience up close. My aunt is profoundly disabled and nonverbal, fully dependent, and my grandmother has spent decades as her caregiver. Seeing love expressed through responsibility, not words, made my faith concrete. It taught me to value patience, dignity, and perseverance, and it has influenced the kind of teacher I want to be, especially for students who need consistent support. If I receive this scholarship, I will treat it as more than financial help. It would reduce pressure during student teaching and allow me to focus on becoming the strongest educator I can be, one who teaches musicianship with high standards while still making the classroom accessible and welcoming. Looking ahead, I plan to use my faith as a guiding force by serving students with consistency, integrity, and compassion, and by treating teaching as a calling rather than a job. Jim Maxwell’s legacy is about empowering youth in a whole-person way. That is exactly the kind of impact I want my life to have.

Selected paragraph (Plato, Republic, Book III): “Then we must look after the makers of tales; and if they make a good tale, we shall approve it, but if a bad one, reject it. And we shall persuade nurses and mothers to tell their children the approved tales, and with them to shape their souls rather than their bodies. Most of the tales which they now tell we shall have to reject.” Thesis: Plato’s underlying argument is that repeated artistic experiences shape a child’s inner life before formal reasoning develops; Kodály’s music-education philosophy rests on the same premise, which is why both thinkers treat repertoire selection and sequencing as moral and educational responsibilities rather than aesthetic preferences. Plato begins with what sounds like administration—“look after the makers of tales”—but the phrase reveals his assumption that art is not neutral entertainment. For a child, stories are not “content” to evaluate; they are worlds to inhabit. A tale trains what feels admirable, what feels shameful, what kinds of anger seem justified, and what sort of person seems worth imitating. When Plato says “approve” or “reject,” he is not mainly worried about factual accuracy. He is worried about repeated models. Children absorb patterns through repetition long before they can critique those patterns. That logic is why he shifts responsibility to the earliest environment: “persuade nurses and mothers.” Plato is locating education before school, where influence is constant and therefore powerful. The verb “persuade” matters because it admits that adults often treat early artistic exposure as harmless background noise. Plato’s claim is that there is no harmless background. What children repeatedly hear becomes a template for how they interpret the world. The line that carries the paragraph is “shape their souls rather than their bodies.” Plato is contrasting inner formation with outward performance. “Bodies” stand for what is obvious and measurable—skills, achievements, visible competence. “Souls” stand for orientation—what a person values, how they respond emotionally, what they consider normal. His deeper meaning is that education is not primarily the transfer of information; it is the cultivation of instincts and dispositions that will later govern choices. This is where Kodály provides a modern, classroom-level parallel. Zoltán Kodály, the Hungarian composer and educator, argued that “music belongs to everyone” and built an approach to general music instruction that begins early and develops musicianship through singing, folk repertoire, and carefully sequenced skill-building. In Kodály-inspired teaching, students first internalize musical patterns through sound—steady beat, rhythm syllables, solfège, inner hearing—before those patterns are labeled and notated. The goal is not simply to prepare for concerts; it is to form musically literate people who can hear, understand, and create music independently. Plato’s paragraph helps explain why Kodály places such weight on what students sing and when they encounter it. If repeated artistic experiences shape the inner life, then the repertoire is not random. Folk songs, singing games, and high-quality musical materials are not “cute activities”; they are the musical stories children live inside. They shape attention, memory, taste, discipline, and a sense of belonging. Sequencing matters for the same reason. If you introduce symbols before sound is internalized, students may perform externally without owning the music internally—Plato’s “bodies rather than souls” in a different register. Plato’s final sentence—“Most of the tales which they now tell we shall have to reject”—can sound harsh, but the underlying point is diagnostic: culture defaults to what is convenient, popular, or inherited, not to what forms people well. Kodály makes a similar claim without Plato’s political edge. If we want students to become musically capable—not passive consumers—we cannot rely on chance exposure or treat music as a luxury. Adults must choose materials deliberately, teach them sequentially, and sustain the work long enough for internal musicianship to develop. Read closely, Plato is arguing that formation precedes reflection: by the time students can “think critically,” their instincts have already been trained by repeated experience. Kodály’s approach is an educational answer to that reality. It accepts that early repeated musical experiences shape who students become, and it responds by building a curriculum where those experiences are intentional, skill-building, and humanizing.

One of the most meaningful relationships in my life is with my grandmother. I’m her only grandchild, and she is one of my closest friends. That relationship isn’t built on convenience; it’s built on years of watching her carry responsibilities that most people never see. My aunt is profoundly disabled and nonverbal, completely dependent, and my grandmother has been her primary caregiver for decades. Even now, in her 80s, she still shows up every day with the same steadiness. Growing up around that kind of love taught me something I didn’t learn from a textbook: commitment is not a feeling; it’s a decision you keep making when it’s hard. That lesson became even sharper when my grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Watching someone who has always been the caregiver suddenly become the one who needed care was frightening. What stayed with me most was not the fear, but her posture through it. She didn’t perform strength; she practiced it. She kept the household moving, kept advocating, kept caring for my aunt, and kept showing people around her what endurance looks like. That season changed the way I define resilience. It isn’t motivational talk; it’s showing up with responsibility and kindness when you’d rather collapse. That relationship has shaped how I build connections with others, especially now that I’m a senior studying music education and percussion performance and working through student teaching. In teaching, it’s easy to focus on tasks: behavior, pacing, assessment, the next activity. My grandmother’s example keeps me focused on the person in front of me. She taught me to notice what someone needs before deciding what they “should” be able to do. That doesn’t mean lowering standards; it means making the path to growth real. In a classroom, that shows up in small choices: clear routines, calm tone, consistent follow-through, and the ability to adjust without making a student feel singled out. When a student needs directions broken down, visual supports, another way to respond, or simply a teacher who doesn’t embarrass them for being behind, I think back to my grandmother and the patience she has practiced for decades. Her influence also shaped the way I see community. I’ve been active in my church and on the worship team since middle school. Worship ministry only works when relationships are strong. You have to listen, blend, and serve the room rather than showcase yourself. The discipline of rehearsal, the humility of accompanying others, and the responsibility of being dependable every week all reinforce the same values I learned at home. In that space, you learn quickly that connection isn’t automatic; it requires effort, attention, and sacrifice. Because of my grandmother, I also approach leadership differently. I’m not drawn to leadership that is loud or status-based. I’m drawn to leadership that is useful: noticing who needs support, mentoring without ego, and doing unglamorous work that helps the group succeed. That’s how I try to operate with peers and students. Whether I’m collaborating with other educators, supporting younger musicians, or building trust with a class that’s testing limits, my goal is to be steady. People don’t open up to chaos; they open up to consistency. When I think about the kind of connections I want to build in my career, I come back to the same core idea: relationships change lives because they shape what people believe about themselves. My grandmother’s love taught me that being dependable can be transformative. It can stabilize a home, restore dignity, and keep someone moving forward when life is heavy. I want to carry that into education and community work—using music as a tool for belonging, but using my presence as the real foundation. Students may forget a specific lesson, but they remember whether a teacher respected them, listened to them, and believed they were worth the work. That is what my grandmother modeled for me, and it’s the kind of connection I’m committed to building with others.

Service, to me, is not a line in an application; it is a habit of showing up with consistency and responsibility. I learned that first through my family. My aunt is profoundly disabled and nonverbal, fully dependent for daily care, and my grandmother has carried that work for decades. Watching her serve without applause shaped what I believe about dignity: people do not become less valuable because their needs are greater. That perspective affects how I treat students, how I work with families, and how I define success. My faith is also central to how I understand service. I’ve been active in my church and part of the worship team since middle school. Week after week, you learn that serving is rarely convenient; it is preparation, reliability, and humility, doing the work so others can participate fully. Worship ministry taught me how to lead without making myself the center, and it taught me how to listen, support, and respond to what a community actually needs in the moment. That same mindset has guided my volunteering and education work. In high school I volunteered with Special Olympics, and it reinforced a simple truth: encouragement matters most when it is paired with respect and high expectations. More recently, as a substitute teacher, I’ve worked in Transitional Learning settings. Those experiences made service concrete. You learn to communicate clearly, build routines, and measure growth fairly; you also learn that “access” is not a slogan but a daily choice in how lessons are designed and how students are treated. I am now a senior at Millersville University pursuing a B.S.E. in Music Education and a B.A. in Percussion Performance, with a current GPA of 3.72. I plan to use my education to serve others by becoming the kind of music teacher who builds both musicianship and belonging. I want students to leave my classroom with real skills (aural training, literacy, ensemble habits) but also with confidence and identity. Music can be a place where students feel seen when other parts of school feel frustrating or closed off. That is why I’m committed to teaching in ways that include every learner: voice-first learning, movement, predictable routines, and multiple ways for students to participate and demonstrate understanding. I also plan to collaborate closely with special education staff and honor IEP supports so students with disabilities are not placed on the edge of the room. Mrs. Marion Makins’ legacy is rooted in faith, education, and community uplift. I’m pursuing a career that allows me to live those values daily. My goal is not simply to teach content, but to serve students in a way that strengthens their confidence, their character, and their ability to contribute to others in turn.

I should be considered for this scholarship because I have pursued a demanding academic path with consistent performance, and I have used my training to serve students and strengthen the communities around me, even while navigating the very real cost barriers that make a college degree feel fragile for many families. I am a senior at Millersville University completing a B.S.E. in Music Education and a B.A. in Percussion Performance, and I have maintained a 3.72 GPA while balancing a heavy course load, ensemble commitments, and the responsibilities that come with preparing to teach. I chose the double degree on purpose. I want to enter the profession as a musicianship-centered educator, not someone who can only talk about music, but someone who can model it. Academically, the most influential foundation for me has been Solfège I-IV with Dr. Michael Houlahan. Those semesters strengthened my aural skills, audiation, intonation, and literacy in a way that changed how I practice and how I teach. Solfège was not simply a requirement to survive; it trained my ear to be accountable. It made me listen more carefully, correct more precisely, and understand music as something internal before it becomes something on the page. That mindset matters in performance, but it matters even more in education. Students can sense when a teacher’s musicianship is real. A teacher’s confidence, pitch accuracy, and ability to demonstrate and diagnose errors are the difference between students guessing and students learning. Alongside Solfège, Elementary Methods with the now-retired Dr. Philip Tacka gave me a teaching framework that matches my values: sound before symbol, careful sequencing, and lessons designed to build independence rather than dependence on the teacher. Those two experiences together shaped the kind of educator I am trying to become: structured, musical, and practical. My work outside class reflects that same focus. I perform regularly in university ensembles and currently serve as first chair percussion in Wind Ensemble. I do not treat that label as a personality trait; it is simply a responsibility. It means preparation, consistency, and being dependable when the part is exposed. I completed my junior recital, and I am now preparing my senior recital. Recital preparation forces a different level of discipline than ensemble playing. It asks for long-range planning, attention to detail, and the ability to sustain focus when no one else is holding the tempo for you. It has pushed my technique and my musical decision-making, but it has also shaped my teaching; when you have experienced the pressure of performing something you truly own, you plan differently for students. One of the most formative experiences of my undergraduate career was traveling to China as part of Millersville’s cultural exchange to the Wuhan Conservatory of Music in Winter 2024. I was selected to represent the Tell School both musically and professionally, and I took that seriously. The trip demanded adaptability, humility, and high standards. When you are in a new environment with different expectations and you are representing your institution, you learn quickly that skill alone is not enough; preparation, communication, and professionalism are the full package. That experience expanded my perspective on what it means to be a musician in a broader world, and it reinforced why I want to teach: music can connect people who do not share the same background, language, or daily life, but only if we teach it with respect and intention. Service and teaching are not separate from my “music life”; they are the reason I am pursuing this degree. Over the past two years, I taught with Music for Everyone, working with students who often do not have the same access to private lessons, instruments, or enrichment opportunities that many musicians take for granted. I saw how much difference a consistent adult presence can make for a student who is trying to build confidence, discipline, and identity through music. In settings like that, teaching is not about impressing anyone; it is about making learning real, joyful, and reachable. Those experiences are also part of why I am working toward additional credentials in Kodály, Modern Band, and Technology in the Music Classroom. I want to be prepared to teach in ways that reach more students-traditional literacy work, contemporary instruments and styles, and production tools that make music feel accessible to students who may not connect to the “standard” pathways. Financial need is not a rhetorical point for me; it shapes daily decisions. College costs do not show up only as tuition. They show up as technology fees, required method books and scores, recital expenses, and the constant background pressure of making sure you can afford the next semester. Student teaching intensifies that pressure. It is full-time professional work without full-time pay, and the hidden costs add up quickly: commuting, parking, required materials, and the basic expenses of living while doing a placement that demands your full attention. A scholarship like this does not just “help me”; it protects the integrity of my preparation and the quality of instruction I can give. I have already been recognized for my work through scholarships such as the Music for Everyone Scholarship (2023, 2024) and the Glorious Sounds of the Season Scholarship (2024). I do not list those to collect applause; I list them because they demonstrate a pattern. When people invest in me, I use that support to deepen my musicianship and expand my impact. This scholarship would do the same. It would reduce the financial strain of finishing my degrees and allow me to focus more fully on my student teaching responsibilities, my recital preparation, and the work of becoming the teacher I intend to be. My long-term goal is straightforward: to build classrooms where students gain real musicianship, real confidence, and a sense that music belongs to them. This scholarship would help me get there faster and with fewer barriers, and it would strengthen the work I am already doing to serve students through music.

I’m John Michael Zirpoli, a music education major who has learned about disability first through family, then through service, and now through classrooms. My aunt is profoundly disabled and nonverbal; she is completely dependent, and my grandmother (now in her mid-80s) has remained her primary caregiver for decades. Living close to that reality makes it hard for me to romanticize the “special needs community” in the abstract. Disability is daily logistics, communication barriers, medical uncertainty, and systems that routinely assume less of people than they deserve. It is also loyalty, humor, and personhood that does not shrink because speech or independence looks different. In high school I volunteered with Special Olympics, and the simplest lesson I took from it was that dignity grows when adults treat effort as real achievement rather than charity. More recently, as a substitute teacher, I have been placed in Transitional Learning settings. Those days reinforced something I already believed from my family experience: access is rarely about a single accommodation; it is about consistency, trained adults, and environments designed for success instead of “managed” for compliance. My confirmed job position starting in May will be to teach elementary general music, but I plan to serve students with special needs intentionally rather than incidentally. My social impact will come from building music spaces where students with autism, Down syndrome, and other learning differences are not sidelined to the edge of the carpet. I want to design instruction that assumes competence, offers multiple ways to participate, and measures growth fairly. Practically, that means predictable routines, visual schedules, movement-based learning, call-and-response structures, and choices that let students show understanding without relying only on speech or handwriting. It also means collaborating closely with special education teachers, paraprofessionals, and related service providers so music supports, not disrupts, students’ broader goals. Music matters here because it can bypass some of the barriers that make school feel hostile. Rhythm gives structure; singing and echoing build language and memory; instruments offer immediate cause-and-effect; group music-making creates belonging without requiring constant verbal performance. I have watched students who struggle to communicate engage fully when the task is steady beat, a two-note response, or a simple ostinato. Those moments are not “cute”; they are evidence that the environment, not the child, was the problem. I also want to advocate beyond my own room. Long-term, I hope to support professional development that helps music teachers feel competent working with IEP goals, sensory needs, and inclusive classroom management. Too many educators want to do right by students but were never trained to do it well. If I can be the teacher who shares practical systems, models inclusive rehearsal habits, and insists that special needs students deserve full musical lives, that impact multiplies. Kathleen Lehman’s legacy points toward a world that is more welcoming and more capable. My aim is to contribute to that world through daily practice: high expectations, real accommodations, and a classroom culture where every student is treated as present, valuable, and worth the work.

Music and technology have been intertwined in my world since I was young, not only as instruments, but as languages that allow me to make, share, and connect. Working in music technology was a natural choice for me. As a performer, a percussionist, a pianist, and a teacher, I've never been interested in the end product, but in the how. The how the rhythm pulses beneath a groove, the how frequencies form feeling, the how production lifts a composition into a fully realized narrative. I am a current student, working toward a Bachelor of Science in Music Education and a Bachelor of Arts in Performance with a concentration in Percussion at Millersville University. Along with those degrees, I also obtained a certificate in both Technology in the Music Classroom and Modern Band. I gained access to expert software, hardware, and digital workflow that I never realized existed. I've been working hard throughout my higher education journey as well as to sustain my education financially. I've been utilizing multiple side jobs, including my work as a photographer, music lesson independent contractor, and performance gigs, in order to help support tuition and keep progress. I never lost hope in the potential impact that my current field could make for the future generations, my community, and the future of music education. My goal is to be a public school music teacher that incorporates production, recording, live sound, and songwriting into the curriculum-but does so in a fashion that provides practical, 21st-century skills directly applicable to the music that they actually hear. I aim to provide programs in which students both consume, yet create; perform, yet produce. I've already been creating materials and curricula that utilize no-or low-budget software such as BandLab and Soundtrap, and allow students to experiment with beat-making, podcasting, audio editing, and soundscape composition. Music tech, in my eyes, goes way deeper than professional development, it's about access and equity. I have firsthand knowledge of how students come alive when they get to record their own voice, experiment with sampling, or mix an entire song themselves. These programs make students feel empowered as they explore their identity, share their narrative, and believe in their creative abilities. And that, my friend, is the type of space I aim to build: a room in which every student, and particularly underrepresented kids, feel seen, heard, and capable of creating something amazing. This award would assist me in continuing that work. Financially, I could refine my skills further, broaden my technology arsenal, and, in the end, support students with the most effective tools and techniques available. I appreciate the chance to apply and be considered as a person capable of continuing the work of D. Cox in a spirit of passion, innovation, and dedication above all to enjoying my work and enabling others to enjoy theirs as well.

Music has always been the strongest influence in my life, not merely as a tool of self-expression, but as a means to give, teach, and inspire others. I am seeking a Bachelor of Science in Music Education and a Bachelor of Arts in Percussion Performance at Millersville University of Pennsylvania, in addition to certifications in Kodály Studies, Music Technology, and Modern Band Applications. My love for music lies in both performance and education, and I intend on utilizing that love in giving back to the future students, those who lack equal access to quality music education. I believe music changes lives. I've seen it in my own family, in my community, and through my work in schools. The passion I have for teaching arose through a sequence of personal experiences such as watching my high school band director change lives through warmth and rigor and through working with students that have special needs and seeing how rhythm and movement opened up communication among children with disabilities. I work part-time as a substitute in Pennsylvania school districts, often in Transitional Learning and Special Needs rooms, and as a marching band front ensemble instructor. I have also taught part-time with Music for Everyone, a nonprofit organization that takes music education into underserved neighborhoods. Most of the children that I taught have private lessons or access to instruments outside their schools. The music classes were a time and place to be confident, expressive, and capable, and that is the class atmosphere I strive to achieve. As an only child from a family that has faced serious illness and struggle - including my father's previous fight with cancer and neck injuries from a car accident and my grandmother's continuing care for my disabled aunt - I recognize the real value of chance. I am in college through a combination of my scholarships, work, and community support. I teach lessons, work gigs, and take photography gigs to help myself continue this incredible opportunity for an education. A scholarship like this would continue to help fund my ability to keep working towards both degrees and to be a mentor for the students depending on teachers like me. I am inspired by the example of Sunni E. Fagan. Like her, I believe in the transformative power of music and strive through my professional practice to expand that spirit. Where I desire most as a profession is teaching music in the public schools, with a curriculum that is inclusive and culturally responsive, appreciative of value in every student's voice and heritage. I continue to give back to the community as a brother in Phi Mu Alpha through performances such as the Mills Music Mission. Following the tradition of paying it forward, I also hope to continue mentoring first-year music majors, most of whom are struggling with the intensity of conservatory-level study. I've been there myself, and I understand how overwhelming it can be, especially without a support system. Having been there, I strive to reach out a support and guidance. While my aspiration is simply to teach music, my ambition is also to impact lives through music. Be it providing the student with a feeling of confidence, overcoming emotions, or uncovering a future profession, a superior music teacher's touch can be lasting. With the support of this scholarship, I shall be continuing my education, expand my teaching practice, and expand my potential impact on students most in need. Thank you so much for considering my application and for recognizing Sunni E. Fagan's life by sponsoring prospective teachers like me.

For as long as I can remember, teaching has been about service. Growing up, my understanding of service was shaped by watching my grandmother care for my aunt, who is nonverbal and fully dependent due to lifelong disabilities. My grandmother, now in her 80s, has been her full-time caregiver, embodying a level of patience, compassion, and perseverance that I have always admired. She didn’t get days off; she didn’t ask for recognition. She simply showed up every day with the mindset that her daughter deserved the same dignity and joy as anyone else. That example left a permanent imprint on me. It taught me that service isn’t about grand gestures, it’s about consistent, intentional actions that uplift the people around you. As I’ve grown older and stepped into educational spaces myself, that perspective has guided how I approach teaching, especially in special education settings. During high school, I volunteered with the Special Olympics every year I could, assisting athletes in track and field events. It was there that I first learned how success could look different for each individual. For some athletes, it was crossing the finish line faster than before. For others, it was simply completing the race, regardless of time. My role wasn’t to judge or compare; it was to celebrate their efforts, provide encouragement, and help them recognize their own achievements. That experience taught me to value process over outcome, a mindset I carry with me as an educator today. In my current role as a substitute teacher, I’ve had the opportunity to work in Transitional Learning classrooms, supporting students with a range of cognitive and developmental disabilities ages 18-21. These experiences have reaffirmed my belief that teaching is about adaptability and relationship-building. Some days, success looks like helping a student independently complete a routine task. Other days, it’s about creating a moment of joy or connection, even if the lesson plan doesn’t go as intended. Each day brings new challenges, but also new opportunities to help students experience a sense of their own presence, to borrow Professor Harold Bloom’s words. Bloom’s statement, “The purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence”, resonates deeply with my teaching philosophy. To me, this means that a teacher’s greatest responsibility is to guide students toward recognizing their own value, capability, and place in the world. For students with special needs, this journey is often made more difficult by societal limitations and misconceptions. Too often, these students are defined by what they “cannot” do, rather than being encouraged to explore what they can do. As a future music educator that will work with special education, my mission is to ensure that every student I teach discovers their unique strengths and learns to see themselves as capable and valued individuals. This starts with meeting students where they are, not where a curriculum says they should be. It requires crafting lessons that are flexible and responsive, creating a classroom environment that celebrates effort, progress, and individuality. I want my students to develop self-awareness and pride in their abilities, to recognize that their voices and experiences are important, regardless of how the world may define “success.” Part of guiding students to their own sense of presence is fostering a classroom culture built on trust and encouragement. This means giving students the space to take risks, make mistakes, and grow without fear of judgment. Whether through hands-on learning activities, collaborative projects, or simply patient one-on-one instruction, I want my students to feel safe and supported as they navigate their own learning journeys. I also plan to utilize my background in music education to support my students’ development. Music has a unique way of breaking down barriers and connecting people, even when language fails. Through rhythm games, group activities, and simple musical improvisation, I’ve seen students who struggle with verbal communication light up with engagement and joy. Music becomes an accessible way to foster social interaction, motor skills, and emotional expression. It’s another path to helping students feel “present” in their own learning. Teaching special needs students is not a career of convenience, it requires a combination of resilience, flexibility, creativity, and an unwavering belief in your students. I’ve witnessed these traits in my grandmother, who has navigated caregiving challenges with a quiet strength that often goes unrecognized. Through my experiences in Special Olympics, Transitional Learning classrooms, and my ongoing studies in education, I have built a foundation that reflects these same qualities. I know this journey isn’t easy, but I am committed to the daily work of showing up for my students and helping them reach their fullest potential. Fairy Tale: “John and the Island of Hidden Gifts” Once upon a time, in a faraway village, there was an island that everyone feared. They called it the Island of Hidden Gifts. The villagers believed that the children who lived there were cursed. They couldn’t speak the same way others did, didn’t learn in the same way, and often moved to rhythms the villagers didn’t understand. Because of this, the island remained isolated, and its children were left to grow without guidance. One day, a young teacher named John heard stories about this island and became curious. He believed the children weren’t cursed at all, but that no one had taken the time to listen to their songs or understand their language. So, he packed a satchel filled with instruments, art supplies, puzzles, a heart full of patience, and set sail. When John arrived, he didn’t bring a lesson plan carved in stone. Instead, he watched and listened. He noticed that one child, who didn’t speak, communicated through creating rhythms from the trees. Another child, who struggled to read, could draw vivid stories in the sky that needed no words. John began teaching by following their lead. He taught the rhythmic child how to count patterns, turning sounds into math. He helped the artistic child describe colors and shapes, transforming visual stories and drawings into a new kind of vocabulary. Soon, the island was alive with creativity. The villagers, hearing laughter and music across the water, became curious and visited. To their amazement, the children were not cursed, but gifted each in their own unique way. John’s belief and determination had unlocked their hidden talents, and the villagers realized that “presence” wasn’t about fitting into one mold; it was about celebrating every individual’s way of being. And so, John didn’t just become a teacher; he became a bridge, guiding his new students to discover their own presence, while teaching the world how to listen. The End! Receiving this scholarship would allow me to continue my education and refine the skills I need to serve students with special needs. It would ease the financial burdens of tuition and allow me to focus more on gaining field experience, creating adaptive lesson materials, and investing in tools that support diverse learners. But more than that, this scholarship would be a recognition of the path I’ve chosen, a path that is challenging, but also incredibly rewarding. I’m determined to become a teacher who uplifts students who are too often overlooked, helping them discover their strengths and take pride in their own journey. The story of my aunt, the lessons I’ve learned through service, and my deep commitment to education fuel this passion every day. I hope to honor that through a career dedicated to guiding students to their own sense of presence, just as Professor Bloom so eloquently described.

If I could create a class that every K-12 student would be required to take, it would be a “Creative Thinking and Expression” course, a class that combines music, visual arts, improvisation, and collaborative projects to develop students’ creative problem-solving skills, emotional expression, and cultural awareness. In today’s education system, we emphasize test scores and measurable outcomes, yet creativity (arguably one of the most essential life skills) is often left to the sidelines, accessible only to those who can afford private lessons or extracurricular activities. I believe creativity is not a luxury; it’s a necessity. It shapes how students approach challenges, empathize with others, and build innovative solutions in any field they pursue. This class would not be limited to traditional “arts education” as we usually see it. It would be about cultivating habits of mind that encourage students to think beyond the obvious, to be comfortable with uncertainty, and to express themselves in diverse ways. The curriculum would be interdisciplinary: students would learn to connect a rhythm to a poem, visualize math concepts through drawing, and use digital media to tell stories that reflect their personal experiences. Most importantly, the class would focus on process over product. Students wouldn’t be graded on how perfectly they can play an instrument or draw a picture, but on their willingness to take creative risks, collaborate with others, and reflect on their own ideas. It would be a space where failure is reframed as experimentation and curiosity is celebrated. The long-term impact of this class would be profound. Students would not only develop their artistic skills, but also strengthen their confidence, communication, and critical thinking abilities. These are skills that transcend the arts; they prepare students for any career path and help them navigate a world that increasingly values adaptability and innovation. Additionally, by integrating cultural traditions and student-led projects, this course would promote inclusivity and foster a deeper understanding of diverse backgrounds. As a future music educator, my philosophy has always been centered on creativity, not just as an artistic endeavor, but as a fundamental human skill that shapes how we think, connect, and communicate. In my classroom, I aim to develop students through my five key dimensions of musicianship: as performers, stewards of cultural heritage, critical thinkers, creative human beings, and active listeners. A class like this would give every student, regardless of their background or starting point, the opportunity to explore these dimensions in a meaningful and personal way. By fostering creative expression through performance, connecting students with diverse musical traditions, encouraging critical engagement with their own ideas, and sharpening their listening and collaboration skills, this class would help students realize that their ideas and voices truly matter, not only in music but in every part of their lives. Supporting aspiring educators is essential to making ideas like this a reality. This scholarship would help me continue my own education, so I can bring creative, inclusive learning experiences to my future students. I believe that when we prioritize creativity in education, we’re not just teaching students how to create, we’re teaching them how to lead, collaborate, and make an impact in their communities.

My name is John Zirpoli, and I’m currently pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Music Education and a Bachelor of Arts in Percussion Performance at Millersville University of Pennsylvania. Alongside my academic studies, I'm earning certifications in Kodály Studies, Music Technology in Education, and Modern Band Applications. My goal is to become a public school music educator who not only teaches students how to perform, but also inspires them to believe in themselves and their potential. Like Kalia D. Davis, I strive to approach every part of my life with a strong work ethic, kindness, and the determination to make a positive impact on those around me. Balancing academics, multiple performance ensembles, teaching jobs, and community service has been challenging, but it has also shaped who I am. Throughout college, I’ve maintained a GPA above 3.5 while working as a substitute teacher, percussion instructor, and peer mentor. Each of these roles has taught me the importance of showing up consistently for others, whether it’s leading a rehearsal, helping a struggling student with an assignment, or just being a supportive listener. Though I’m not a traditional athlete, my 8 years of experience in marching drumline has taught me the same discipline and physical endurance as competitive sports. As a member of the Millersville Marching Band Drumline, I’ve participated in long rehearsals, demanding performances, and team-oriented environments that require focus and resilience. Performing in this setting has taught me how to balance precision and teamwork under pressure, lessons I carry into my academic and teaching work. Volunteering and community service are central to who I am. Through organizations like Music for Everyone, I’ve had the opportunity to teach percussion in schools where arts programs are often underfunded. I also volunteer my time mentoring first-year music majors, helping them navigate the demands of college and performance life. These experiences have shown me how small acts of service can ripple out to make a meaningful difference in someone’s journey. Receiving this scholarship would greatly ease the financial burden of pursuing two degrees and allow me to continue investing time into teaching and community service, rather than worrying about how to afford tuition and equipment upgrades. More importantly, it would serve as a reminder that qualities like hard work, compassion, and determination matter in a world that often overlooks them. Kalia’s story is a powerful example of living fully with ambition, kindness, and a dedication to uplifting others. I hope to honor that legacy by bringing the same energy and purpose into my work as an educator. Through music, teaching, and service, I aim to help students find their voice and recognize the strength they already carry within themselves.

When people ask me why I want to become a teacher, I always think about the teachers who saw potential in me before I knew it was there. Their impact wasn’t just in the lessons they taught, it was in the way they made me feel valued, capable, and seen. That’s exactly the kind of teacher I aspire to be. I’m currently pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Music Education and a Bachelor of Arts in Percussion Performance at Millersville University of Pennsylvania. From the start, I’ve known that teaching is not just my career path, but my way of giving back. My family and my own educational journey have shown me how powerful a compassionate and dedicated teacher can be in a student’s life. One of the most impactful teachers I’ve ever had was my high school band director. He didn’t just care about how we sounded on stage; he cared about who we were becoming as people. He gave me my first opportunities to lead, whether that was running a sectional rehearsal or mentoring younger students in the ensemble. Under his guidance, I discovered how rewarding it is to help others grow. He treated every rehearsal as an opportunity to teach life skills: discipline, collaboration, perseverance. Those lessons stayed with me long after graduation and have become foundational to how I approach my own teaching philosophy. Since then, I’ve sought every opportunity to develop as an educator. I currently work as a substitute teacher and percussion instructor, where I’ve taught students across a wide range of learning needs and musical abilities. I also mentor first-year performance majors at my university, helping them adjust to the rigorous demands of college music studies. Additionally, my work with Music for Everyone, a non-profit providing music education to under-resourced schools, has shown me the importance of making arts education accessible to every student, regardless of their background. Teaching, to me, is more than delivering content; it’s about empowering students to discover their voice. I want my future classroom to be a space where students feel safe to explore, fail, and grow. I believe music is a powerful tool for teaching not just artistry, but confidence, empathy, and critical thinking. My goal is to help students see the value in their own experiences and encourage them to bring their full selves into the learning process. I’m especially passionate about bridging traditional music education with modern approaches. With certifications in Kodály Studies, Music Technology, and Modern Band Applications, I want to create learning environments that respect the past while embracing the tools and sounds of today’s students. Whether it’s through folk songs, digital audio workstations, or group songwriting projects, I aim to make music education relevant and meaningful for every learner. Marie Humphries believed that everyone should be a teacher. While I understand that teaching isn’t the right fit for every person, I do believe that passionate, dedicated educators can change lives, not just through curriculum, but through the simple act of believing in a student. I hope to carry forward that spirit by being the kind of teacher who inspires others to grow, achieve, and perhaps even teach themselves. Receiving this scholarship would not only support my educational journey, but also honor the legacy of someone who recognized the true value of teachers. My ambition is to follow that legacy by becoming the kind of educator who makes a lasting impact in the lives of students, just as my mentors did for me.

For me, teaching has never been just a career goal, it has always felt like a responsibility to give back. I’ve been fortunate to have mentors and family members who demonstrated what it means to lead with heart, and their examples have shaped my commitment to serving others through education. Throughout my time as a music education major at Millersville University, I’ve looked for every opportunity to put my teaching philosophy into practice. I currently work as a substitute teacher and percussion instructor, where I’ve had the chance to work with students across a wide range of abilities and backgrounds. Whether I’m assisting a student in a general education classroom or helping a marching band ensemble refine a performance, my goal is always to meet students where they are and build a supportive space where they feel confident to grow. One of the most rewarding service experiences I’ve had is working with Music for Everyone, a non-profit dedicated to providing music education access to underfunded schools. During my time there, I provided percussion instruction in public schools where students often didn’t have the resources for private lessons. For many of them, it was their first experience receiving individualized music instruction. Seeing their faces light up when they realized they could learn a challenging rhythm or master a new technique reminded me why I chose this path. It’s not just about teaching music; it’s about giving students a reason to believe in their abilities. Beyond formal teaching roles, I’ve also served as a peer mentor for incoming music performance majors at Millersville. I remember how overwhelming that first year of college can be, so I made it a priority to support others in navigating the challenges of balancing rigorous academic, musical, and personal demands. Sometimes that meant helping them prepare for juries; other times, it was just being someone they could vent to after a tough rehearsal. When I think about the kind of teacher I want to be, I hope my students will gain much more than musical skills. I want them to walk away with confidence in their own voice, a respect for the diverse stories that music can tell, and an understanding that failure is part of the learning process. I want them to know that their backgrounds, cultures, and experiences are not only valid, but are valuable contributions to the classroom. Ultimately, my ambition as an educator is to foster an environment where students feel seen, heard, and valued. I believe that teaching is one of the most direct ways to create positive, lasting change in a community. By equipping students with both skills and self-belief, I hope to inspire them to carry that confidence into every part of their lives. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to continue my education and expand the ways I can serve my future students, not just as a teacher of music, but as a mentor, advocate, and lifelong learner.

Resilience isn’t something you develop in a perfect classroom, with a perfect plan. It’s something that grows in the margins; between family emergencies, schedule overloads, and moments where you’re just not sure how you’re going to make everything work. I’ve lived through those margins, and they’ve shaped how I show up: for my education, for my students, and for my community. My family’s story is one shaped by adversity. My grandma, one of my closest friends and role models, is in her 80s and still caring full-time for my aunt, who is disabled, nonverbal, and completely dependent. A few years ago, my grandma was diagnosed with breast cancer and had to undergo a mastectomy. That was terrifying for all of us. She’s the person who’s always taken care of others, now she was the one needing care. Watching her continue to support my aunt through her own recovery showed me what real strength looks like. That example stays with me every time I feel overwhelmed or uncertain. As an only child raised in a family that has experienced both cancer and loss, I’ve learned to be resourceful, reliable, and determined. I’m currently pursuing dual degrees, a Bachelor of Science in Music Education and a Bachelor of Arts in Percussion Performance, alongside three certifications in Kodály, Modern Band, and Music Technology. Balancing this intense course load with my job as a substitute teacher, percussion instructor, peer mentor, and ensemble performer has required more than time management; it’s taken persistence. I’ve learned how to handle stress with purpose, not panic, and how to keep showing up even when it’s hard. But resilience means little if it doesn’t extend outward. I believe strongly in service, especially through education. That’s why I’ve worked with organizations like Music for Everyone, where I provided percussion instruction to students in under-resourced schools. It’s why I dedicate hours each week mentoring first-year music students at my university, helping them navigate the same challenges I faced. It’s why I continue teaching and volunteering in my home district, helping young musicians develop confidence and skill, even if they can’t afford private lessons. As a performer, I also use my art to build community. I’ve played with church bands, orchestras, jazz groups, and chamber ensembles. Whether it’s Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 or a simple solo piece for a student, I bring the same intention to every note: to connect people, to celebrate something meaningful, and to give back to the communities that have supported me. I’ve even used my growing skills in photography and design to help my peers document their recitals and promote their own work, another small but important way I try to serve others in the arts. Life has thrown challenges my way, from family illness to financial pressure to intense academic demands, but I’ve always met them with a sense of purpose. I’ve maintained a GPA above 3.5 while actively performing, mentoring, and teaching because I believe in the impact music can have—and the responsibility we carry as educators and artists. Receiving this scholarship would not only ease the financial pressure of my education, but it would also honor the values I strive to live by: hard work, service, and resilience. Like the Algers, I hope to make a lasting difference in someone’s life, not just through words, but through action.

"Describe how you envision you might make a positive impact with your music career." At Millersville University of Pennsylvania, I am pursuing both a Bachelor of Science in Music Education and a Bachelor of Arts in Percussion Performance. Alongside these degrees, I’ve completed certifications in Kodály Studies, Technology in the Music Classroom, and Modern Band Applications. These paths reflect the kind of music educator I want to become—one who blends tradition and innovation, who sees music not just as a skill, but as a tool for connection, expression, and personal growth. The impact I hope to make with my music career is grounded in access. I want to make sure that students, regardless of their background, have the opportunity to experience music education in a meaningful and empowering way. I believe a strong music program can give students the space to express themselves when words fail, to discover their culture and history, and to build confidence in ways that carry into every part of their lives. I see myself not only as a music teacher but as a mentor who creates that space. My training in the Kodály approach has shown me how music can begin with the human voice and grow into something deeply rooted in cultural identity. I was fortunate to study under Dr. Philip Tacka and Dr. Michael Houlahan, two internationally respected leaders in Kodály education, who taught me how to create curriculum that is both musically rigorous and emotionally meaningful. I plan to carry this forward in classrooms where students can explore folk music from their own communities alongside global traditions, building musicianship while also building understanding and empathy. In addition to classical methods, I’m passionate about using modern tools to reach more students. Through my certification in Technology in the Music Classroom, I’ve learned how to incorporate digital audio workstations, sound production, and recording tools into daily instruction. This training allows me to reach students who might not see themselves in a traditional band or orchestra, but who are eager to create, mix, and explore music in other formats. Similarly, with my background in Modern Band Applications, I’ll be able to guide students in songwriting, group composition, and live performance on contemporary instruments, bringing more voices into the room and validating their musical identities. Outside the classroom, I also aim to uplift student musicians through photography and design. I’ve been photographing recitals and performances for my peers, offering them high-quality images they can use for their own portfolios. This has grown into a side passion, where I use Lightroom and Photoshop to edit and design materials that reflect the artistry of the music being performed. I plan to continue developing these skills and using them to elevate the work of my future students, whether that means a poster for their first concert or capturing a moment that shows them just how far they’ve come. In short, I want to build a career in music that opens doors; doors into the arts, into community, into confidence. The legacy of Michael D’Ambrisi and Audrey Sherrill reminds me that music careers can be deeply personal and deeply public. They affect how students see themselves, how they find their voice, and how they relate to the world. I’m grateful for the opportunity to share my story and my junior recital as part of this application, and I hope to honor that legacy by helping the next generation build one of their own.

I’m currently studying music education, but my creative life doesn’t stop at music. Photography and design have become essential ways for me to reflect on the world around me, uplift others, and deepen my understanding of art and community. Whether I’m teaching rhythm in a classroom or capturing a recital through my camera lens, I’m focused on connection; making people feel seen and heard through artistic work. My biggest goal as a future educator is to create a space where all students feel represented and empowered. I want to use music to help students explore their own identities and appreciate the identities of others. Through culturally responsive repertoire, collaborative activities, and inclusive conversations, I aim to make music classrooms more welcoming for every voice. Outside of teaching, I’ve developed a growing portfolio in photography and professionalism. It started when friends asked me to take recital photos, and it quickly grew into something much more meaningful. I’ve found that photographing performances gives students something tangible to be proud of; something that documents their hard work and artistry. I use tools like Lightroom, Photoshop, and Canva to edit, design posters, and explore the visual side of storytelling. These projects often blend design and emotion, capturing not just what happened, but how it felt. Art has the power to build bridges between people, and I want to keep doing that across disciplines. I see myself continuing to grow both as an educator and as a visual artist; creating not only music lessons and learning tools, but also digital work that reflects the students and communities I serve. This scholarship would give me more freedom to keep building that creative foundation. It would help me afford better tools, explore new techniques, and keep growing as a multifaceted artist. More importantly, it would support a vision I truly believe in: that the arts should reflect and celebrate everyone, not just a select few.

I’ve grown up surrounded by strength. Some of it looks quiet—like the kind that shows up every single day without asking for attention. Some of it looks like survival. In my family, cancer has left its mark, but it has also revealed the depth of resilience that I carry with me into every part of my life. My grandma, my mom’s mother, is one of my closest friends, always sneaking me a scratch-off ticket and a penny since elementary school. I’m her only grandchild, and our bond has always felt like something rare, like partners in crime. She raised three daughters, including my mom, the youngest, and my aunt, who is disabled, nonverbal, and completely dependent. Even in her 80s, my grandma continues to care for my aunt full-time. That alone is a kind of strength I can’t fully wrap my head around. But then, on top of all that, my grandma was diagnosed with breast cancer. I remember the fear in my family when we found out. She ended up needing a mastectomy, and the recovery was tough, both physically and emotionally. It was terrifying to think about losing her—this person who had already given so much of herself to others. Watching her go through that while still caring for my aunt showed me a type of courage I don’t think many people ever see up close. Cancer also touched my life before I was even born. My dad had testicular cancer in his younger years, and doctors weren’t sure if he would be able to have children. After my mom went through a series of miscarriages, they thought having a child might not be possible at all. I was a miracle baby—the one that finally made it. Growing up, I always understood that my existence came from a place of hope and perseverance. Now, as a college student studying music education, I carry all of that with me. I want to become the kind of teacher who helps students believe in themselves, even when things feel uncertain or overwhelming. The strength I’ve seen in my family—the quiet kind and the battle-hardened kind—guides how I approach learning, relationships, and the way I care for others. Cancer has impacted my life by reminding me that time is precious, and the people we love are not guaranteed. It’s made me more grateful, more aware, and more committed to giving back however I can. I see this scholarship not just as financial support, but as a chance to honor the people who have held me up—especially my grandma, who continues to live with unshakable purpose, and who will be joining be for my 21st birthday at the casino! Thank you for considering my story. I hope to carry forward the values Peter J. Musto lived by: strength, kindness, friendship, and love—all things my family has taught me through everything we’ve faced together.

I introduce myself on my portfolio with three simple words, Educator ; Musician ; Entrepreneur, because I move among those roles every day. Music education is my career path, yet photography and digital design have become the extra lenses through which I understand art, discipline, and community. To me, my work is art is not just a hobby that I pick up when time allows; it's a second craft that sharpens the first. My first real camera came to me in an eleventh-grade art class. What began as school experiments in shutter speed turned serious once I reached college and friends asked me to photograph their instrumental and vocal recitals. Standing in the quiet of a hall, listening for a singer’s breath, I learned that good photographs depend on the same skill I learn in ear-training based courses: attentive timing. The “Media” gallery on my site now holds images that travel far—jury packets, graduate-school applications, Instagram spotlights—and each time they do, I am reminded that visual storytelling can amplify music’s reach. Design tools opened a second door. Editing recital shots in Lightroom taught me how small adjustments—shadows, color balance, and texture—can completely shift the emotion of a photo. As I’ve gotten more comfortable with Photoshop and Canva, I’ve started thinking more intentionally about the design side of my work, especially when it comes to creating visuals that support musicians. While I haven’t yet moved into illustration-heavy or motion-based projects, I’m interested in how digital tools like Procreate or After Effects could eventually allow me to layer more storytelling into my photography. I’ve begun experimenting with adding text overlays and layout designs to my recital photos, turning them into poster mockups or social media spotlights. These projects sit at the intersection of documentation and imagination; capturing a real moment, but reshaping it to emphasize its meaning. Over time, I hope to keep expanding this skillset to create stronger visuals for musicians and eventually for my future classroom as well. Balancing two artistic disciplines is deeply rewarding, but also expensive. My current second-hand DSLR struggles in low-light halls; a fast 50 mm prime lens would let me shoot clean images at lower ISO. A full-size tablet would slash editing time and improve illustration precision. An online motion-graphics course would guide me into the animation skills my future projects demand. Paying tuition leaves little margin for these upgrades. This scholarship would bridge that gap; every dollar would turn into sharper photos for student performers, richer learning materials for my future classroom, and a portfolio that proves young artists do not have to choose between stability and creativity. Ambition, drive, and passion are the qualities you look for; they are also the threads that tie my music teaching and visual art together. By supporting my growth in photography and design, you are investing in an educator who will pass that creative courage to the next generation; one lesson plan, one concert poster, and one perfectly timed shutter click at a time.

I am pursuing a career in music education because I believe that teachers shape not only the minds of their students, but also their communities. Music education, to me, is a powerful tool for cultivating identity, connection, and creativity. I aim to develop well-rounded musicians who are emotionally expressive, culturally aware, and deeply engaged with their art. My teaching philosophy is grounded in five core dimensions of musicianship: performance, cultural stewardship, critical thinking, creativity, and active listening. Each helps students become more than just musicians; they become reflective individuals ready to contribute meaningfully to the world around them. I believe deeply in the role that educators play in community growth, and my commitment is to prepare the next generation not only to perform, but to think, feel, and listen with intention. At the heart of music education is performance; whether through singing, playing instruments, or collaborating in ensembles. However, I teach my students that true performance is not just about accuracy but connection. The bond between the performer and the audience is where art lives, and my job is to nurture that emotional bridge. In elementary settings, this takes the form of joyful exploration through singing games and movement. At the secondary level, students refine their technique and expressive skills, and I support them with my own modeling as a practicing musician. But musicianship is also about understanding our roots. Music reflects history, identity, and shared culture. I emphasize repertoire that reflects my students’ cultural heritage and diverse global traditions, often through the Kodály approach, which draws heavily on folk traditions. This empowers students to respect and explore where they come from and connect with others more deeply. In doing so, they become stewards of cultural heritage; an essential role in any vibrant, healthy community. Equally important is nurturing critical thinking. Music is not simply memorized; it is questioned, interpreted, and synthesized. Through a vertically aligned curriculum and a Kodály-inspired approach to literacy, I challenge students to go beyond what’s on the page. They learn to audiate, to make connections, to ask questions. They engage intellectually and artistically with their learning. I also prioritize creativity at every stage of learning. From rhythm games to improvisation and student-led composition, I encourage all students to see themselves as creators. Too often, creativity is reserved for advanced musicians, but I believe it belongs to every learner, starting at the earliest level. This approach not only enhances musical growth but inspires confidence and voice in each student. Finally, I cultivate the essential skill of listening. Being an active, critical listener is the foundation of musicianship; and of empathy. My goal is to help students listen beyond the notes, to understand the emotion and intent behind what they hear, and to reflect on how music moves them and others. A strong ear not only improves musical skill but builds emotional intelligence and lifelong appreciation. This scholarship represents more than financial assistance. It represents the values I aim to pass on to my students: compassion, community, and resilience. The story of Anna and Ava Taylor reminds us how fragile and precious life is, and it inspires me to make the most of my opportunity to give back through teaching. This support would help me continue my education at a high level while reducing the financial burden that comes with it. In honoring the memory of Anna, Ava, and others lost too soon, I hope to build a classroom that celebrates life, creativity, and connection. My mission as an educator is to create a space where students feel seen, heard, and empowered to reach for the stars.

One of the most memorable concert experiences of my life was attending a Trans-Siberian Orchestra (TSO) performance last winter with my parents and girlfriend. It was an evening that combined incredible music with a vibrant atmosphere, creating lasting memories for all of us. From the moment we entered the venue, we were immersed in the excitement. TSO concerts are known for their powerful performances, and this one was extraordinary. The music filled the arena with its energy and emotion, featuring captivating solos and dynamic orchestral arrangements. "Carol of the Bells" was a standout, its intensity and intricate melodies captivating the entire audience. What set this concert apart was the spectacular visual and theatrical elements. The stage was a marvel of creativity, with moving platforms that descended from above, elevating musicians into the spotlight for their solos. At one point, a band member even walked into the audience, engaging directly with fans and adding an intimate touch to the performance. One of the most memorable moments was spotting a grounded giant snow globe with a talented performer inside on the opposite side of the arena. Her voice and presence added to the magical atmosphere, transporting us into a winter wonderland of music and enchantment. The concert also featured a full orchestra and choir, whose harmonies and grandeur elevated the music to new heights. The combination of their powerful sound and the stunning visual effects created a symphonic experience that left a profound impact on all of us. In addition to the extraordinary music and visuals, the concert was made even more enjoyable by the surprisingly reasonable cost of refreshments at the venue. It was a relief to find reasonably priced snacks and drinks, allowing us to fully relax and enjoy the evening without the usual financial stress associated with concert outings. However, what truly made the night unforgettable was sharing it with loved ones. Experiencing such an awe-inspiring concert together created a sense of unity and joy. We sang along, cheered with the crowd, and felt the music resonate within us. It was a collective experience of being swept up in the moment, surrounded by the infectious energy of live music. Having attended multiple Trans-Siberian Orchestra concerts over the years, this one stood out as a pinnacle of musical excellence and entertainment. It reignited my passion for live performances and reinforced my appreciation for the artistry and skill of musicians and performers. In conclusion, the combination of extraordinary music, stunning visuals, interactive elements, and the joy of sharing it with loved ones made this TSO concert a truly unforgettable experience. It reminded me of the power of music to create lasting memories and meaningful connections, and it continues to inspire me in my own musical journey and appreciation for the arts.

I graduated from Delaware Valley High School and am currently entering my junior year at Millersville University, where I am pursuing a BSE in Music Education and a BA in Music Performance. Additionally, I am working towards certifications in Kodaly, Music Technology, and Modern Band. Throughout my life, I have been involved in many organizations, clubs, and sports, but music has always been my constant. Joining the Marching Band Drumline in 7th grade was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. This experience ignited my passion for music and performance, and I have now been part of a drumline for eight years. My dedication to music extended beyond school, as I have been hired to perform for multiple orchestras just this past year. These experiences continue to reinforce my commitment to spreading the joys of music and art through education. High school was a pivotal time for me, as I discovered my true passion within the arts and music performance. I am proud to say that I have had strong role models growing up who have guided and inspired me to reach where I am today. Their influence has been invaluable, and I aspire to emulate their impact by becoming an educator who can inspire future generations of musicians. My ultimate dream is to teach higher education and share the joys of music and art with others. Through my music education, I aim to inspire and nurture the next generation of musicians, just as my mentors did for me. By teaching music, I can provide students with a creative outlet, a sense of discipline, and an appreciation for the arts that can positively influence other areas of their lives. I believe that music has the power to bring people together, transcend cultural barriers, and foster a sense of community. In addition to teaching, I hope to use my skills and knowledge to advocate for music education in schools and communities. I want to work with organizations that promote the arts, ensuring that every child has the opportunity to experience the transformative power of music. My goal is to create inclusive and supportive environments where students can explore their musical talents and grow both personally and artistically. My vision is to make a positive impact on the world by using my passion for music to educate, inspire, and unite people from all walks of life.

Joy is a word that has more than one way to be interpreted, but ultimately revolves around the happiness that people and activities can offer. To me, joy is something I get when I go out of my way for anyone. To me, joy is when I am able to be that small difference in somebody's day. This is one of the many reasons that I am deciding to go into music education and performance. When I play music, either solo or in a band, and I see the audience smile and really get into the groove of the music, that is what I consider joy. The way that I feel when I teach someone younger than me, willing to learn, about the sound and theory of music, that is what I consider joy. The feeling of compassion, understanding, and selflessness, that is what I consider to be joy. For some people finding joy could be difficult or easy. To me, I feel proud to say that I find joy everyday of my life. Everyday, I am blessed to get to be around the people that love and care for me. So what exactly does joy mean to me? Joy isn't derived from one specific gesture. Joy can be alive from anything and everything, but it is only found from seeing through the thickness.