I plan to give back to the youth in under-resourced communities through visual arts by creating accessible programs that teach skills, build confidence, and foster community pride. Growing up in Detroit, I learned firsthand how lack of resources and opportunities can limit a young person’s view of what’s possible. Art saved me during the hardest moments of my life; it helped me process grief, imagine alternatives to my surroundings, and find purpose. Because of that, I want to make sure kids in similar situations can find the same lifeline. My approach has three parts: workshops, mentorship, and public projects. First, I will lead free or low-cost workshops that teach drawing, storytelling, and comic creation. These sessions will focus on practical skills—composition, anatomy, sequential art—while encouraging students to tell their own stories. Teaching technique alongside personal expression helps students gain confidence and see that their experiences matter. Second, I will offer one-on-one mentorship and portfolio support for students who want to pursue art more seriously. Many talented young people never get feedback, guidance, or help navigating applications, supplies, or scholarship opportunities. I want to fill that gap by sharing resources, critiquing work kindly but honestly, and helping students plan next steps—whether that’s college, trade school, or a creative career path. Third, I will organize collaborative public art projects—murals, community installations, and pop-up exhibitions—designed and executed by youth. These projects transform neglected spaces and give young creators a visible legacy in their neighborhoods. When students see their work on a wall or in a park, it builds pride and reinforces the idea that their voices belong in public spaces. I also plan to partner with schools, nonprofits, and local businesses to secure supplies, venues, and funding so programs can be sustained. Ultimately, my goal is to use art as both a practical skill and an instrument of healing. I want to help young people turn pain into purpose, to see creativity as a way to express themselves, to open doors, and to change how their communities are seen. If I can inspire even one young artist to believe in their voice and pursue their dreams, I will have done the kind of work that once saved me. I am committed to lifelong service through art, learning, developing programs, and partnering with organizations to expand access. With sustained effort and community support, I believe we can unlock creativity, healing, and opportunity for generations.

The everyday world around me is my greatest source of inspiration as an artist. Growing up in Detroit, I’ve witnessed resilience expressed in murals painted on cracked walls, community pride reflected in playground sculptures, and quiet beauty in places others often overlook. These daily reminders shape the way I see art—not just as something created in a studio, but as something that lives within neighborhoods, people, and moments. What inspires me most are the ordinary experiences that carry extraordinary meaning. I draw strength from watching my community turn hardship into hope. A boarded-up building becomes a canvas for bold color. Children find joy in playing on streets once weighed down by struggle. Even in loss, like when I lost my brother Jamal to an overdose, I found inspiration in everyday memories of him—his laughter, his strength, his presence. Those small moments guided me as I created a comic book that reimagines him as a superhero. By pulling inspiration from my daily life, I honor both my personal story and the spirit of my city. As an artist, I am drawn to the details others might pass by: the lines of a city skyline at dusk, the way people’s expressions reveal unspoken emotions, or the way faith can be felt in quiet gestures of resilience. These observations fuel the characters and stories I create, giving my work authenticity and depth. Ultimately, the world around me reminds me that art is everywhere, waiting to be noticed. It inspires me to transform both beauty and pain into something lasting—something that can give others hope, healing, and the courage to imagine a better future.

Being a first-generation college student means carrying both the weight of my family’s struggles and the hope of their dreams. It means stepping into uncharted territory without a roadmap, while knowing every step I take is not just for myself, but for the people who came before me and those who will come after. To me, it represents breaking cycles, creating new paths, and proving that where you start does not have to determine where you end up. I grew up in Detroit in a low-income household where opportunities often felt out of reach. My mom worked long hours to keep the lights on, and my dad was often absent. Simple things, like participating in extracurricular programs or going on family trips, weren’t possible. On top of that, I was often labeled as “the big guy who should play football,” rather than being seen for my true passion: art. The greatest challenge I’ve faced was losing my older brother, Jamal, to an overdose. His passing during my senior year left me heartbroken at a time when I was supposed to be preparing for the future. Grief, financial struggles, and toxic home conditions made me feel like my dreams were slipping away. But instead of giving up, I leaned on the two things that gave me strength: my faith and my art. Through prayer, I found peace, and through art, I found healing. I began creating a comic book that reimagines Jamal as a superhero—someone his children could look up to and remember not for how he passed, but for how he lived. That project reminded me why I create: to heal, to inspire, and to give others hope. What drives me today is the belief that creativity is a form of power. My dream is to become a professional comic book artist and storyteller, using my work to reach kids who feel overlooked, misunderstood, or trapped by their circumstances. I want to show them that their voices matter, their stories are important, and they can rise above hardship. This scholarship would bring me closer to that dream. As a first-generation student, financial challenges are constant. Support like this would allow me to focus more fully on my education, refine my craft, and pursue opportunities in art and design without the heavy weight of financial stress. Being first-generation isn’t just about being “the first.” It’s about opening doors for others and proving that with resilience, faith, and determination, new paths can be forged. This journey has taught me that I am more than my circumstances—and with the support of this scholarship, I can continue moving forward, not just for myself, but for everyone I hope to inspire.

Growing up in a low-income family in Detroit shaped nearly every part of who I am today. While it wasn’t easy, those circumstances taught me lessons about resilience, gratitude, and perseverance that continue to guide my values and goals for the future. From an early age, I understood what sacrifice looked like. My mom often worked long hours, coming home too tired to even say much beyond, “Did you eat?” My dad wasn’t always present, and when he was, he struggled with his own challenges. We lived paycheck to paycheck, and things that seemed normal for other kids—like going on family vacations or signing up for extracurricular activities—often felt out of reach for me. But instead of letting these limitations define me, I found other outlets to create joy and purpose. For me, that outlet was art. We didn’t always have the best supplies, but I made use of whatever I could—pencils, cardboard boxes, even the backs of old school papers. Art became my way of expressing myself when words felt too heavy, and it allowed me to imagine worlds beyond my circumstances. Even though we didn’t have much, creativity gave me a sense of wealth no money could buy. Living in a low-income household also gave me perspective. I saw firsthand how hard my mom worked to keep us afloat, and it instilled in me the value of perseverance. I also learned empathy—for my family, my neighbors, and for anyone navigating struggles that aren’t always visible. Those experiences taught me never to look down on others, because you never know what battles they are fighting behind closed doors. The hardest challenge I faced came when my older brother, Jamal, passed away from an overdose. His death was devastating, and it happened during a time when my family was already stretched thin. Losing him deepened my understanding of how generational struggles and lack of resources can impact families like mine. But it also motivated me to work even harder—to be the one who breaks cycles, to create a different path not only for myself but for those who come after me. My background has shaped my goals in powerful ways. After college, I want to become a professional comic artist and storyteller. I want to use my creativity to inspire children who grow up in environments like mine—kids who are often overlooked or underestimated—to believe in their potential. My dream is to create stories that celebrate resilience, honor real people, and transform pain into purpose. Growing up in a low-income family wasn’t easy, but it made me who I am: resilient, grateful, and determined. It taught me the value of hard work, the importance of empathy, and the belief that circumstances do not have to define destiny. Those lessons are the foundation of everything I hope to achieve moving forward.

Arts education has shaped my life in ways I can hardly measure. Growing up in Detroit, art was more than just a subject in school—it was the outlet that gave me hope, structure, and a vision for my future. While many of my classmates leaned on sports to define who they were, I found my identity through sketchbooks, pencils, and teachers who encouraged me to see art not as a hobby, but as a calling. From an early age, I gravitated toward drawing. I remember sitting in classrooms where art projects allowed me to express what I couldn’t always put into words. When my family was struggling or when life at home felt heavy, being able to lose myself in sketching superheroes or designing characters was a form of relief. Arts education provided me not only with techniques but with a safe space to be myself. It taught me discipline—how to refine my skills through practice—and creativity, which helped me see possibilities where others saw dead ends. One of my earliest inspirations was my older brother, Jamal. He encouraged me to keep drawing even when I doubted myself. After we lost him to an overdose, my connection to art deepened. I began working on a comic book that reimagines Jamal as a superhero, someone his children could look up to and remember for his life rather than his passing. That project became a personal mission—it showed me that art is more than something I do, it is how I heal, how I honor loved ones, and how I share hope with others. Outside of my family, I also drew inspiration from the artists I studied through arts education. Watching Stan Lee’s interviews and studying the work of comic artists like Jim Lee and Todd McFarlane gave me the tools and motivation to keep going. I spent countless nights pausing videos, sketching alongside them, and realizing that with dedication, I could one day inspire others the same way they inspired me. But the people who truly pushed me to pursue my craft were my teachers. They saw more in me than I saw in myself at times. In high school, one art teacher told me that my perspective and storytelling through drawings could take me far if I committed to it. That encouragement stuck with me during the hardest times—reminding me that I wasn’t just another student, I was an artist with something meaningful to say. Because of arts education, I have grown into someone who not only creates for himself but also for others. Art gave me confidence when words failed and direction when life felt unstable. It connected me to mentors, peers, and communities that continue to push me forward. Most importantly, it showed me that creativity is a gift meant to be shared. Today, I pursue art not only for my own healing but to inspire others to see their own strength and resilience. Arts education gave me that gift, and I want to use it to give others a reason to believe in their potential, just as my brother and my teachers believed in me.

My name is Julian Smith, and for me, art has always been more than a creative outlet—it has been a lifeline. I was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan, a city filled with resilience but also marked by violence and generational hardship. In a place where opportunities often felt scarce, I discovered my purpose through creativity. Art gave me the strength to navigate loss, rise above my circumstances, and inspire others to imagine something greater. The most significant challenge I have faced was the loss of my older brother, Jamal, to an overdose. His passing left me broken during what was supposed to be one of the most hopeful times of my life—my senior year of high school. That same year, I missed out on a life-changing college trip because of my home situation, and I had to navigate toxic family dynamics that made me feel isolated and discouraged. At a time when many students were celebrating their futures, I felt weighed down by grief and uncertainty. There were nights when I wanted to give up. My father wasn’t always there to answer the phone, and my mom was often too exhausted to say, “I love you.” In those moments, I turned to two things that kept me grounded: my faith and my art. One night, in the middle of overwhelming grief, I cried out to God. I felt lifted, and I realized that no matter what life threw at me, if I nurtured my faith and my creative gift, I could overcome it. Art became the way I healed and honored my brother’s memory. I began creating a comic book that reimagines Jamal as a superhero—someone his children could look up to and remember not for how he passed away, but for the way he lived. That project gave me a sense of purpose again. It showed me that creativity is not just about making something beautiful, but about transforming pain into something powerful and lasting. From that experience, I also learned the importance of resilience and leadership. Instead of letting my grief silence me, I used my art to speak for myself and for others who are overlooked or misunderstood. I’ve volunteered my time mentoring younger students in my community, showing them how drawing can be a healthy way to express themselves. I’ve also stepped into leadership roles in group projects and classroom settings, using the lessons I’ve learned from hardship to encourage others to keep pushing forward. This experience has shaped my career goals in a profound way. After college, I want to become a professional comic book artist and storyteller. My dream is to create stories that honor real people, celebrate resilience, and inspire children growing up in environments like mine to believe in their own potential. I want to show young people that creativity is a form of power, and that their voices and perspectives matter. Through my work, I hope to build a legacy of impact by turning adversity into art that uplifts and empowers others. Losing my brother was the hardest challenge I have ever faced, but it also became the turning point that defined who I am today. It taught me that I am more than my circumstances, and that with faith, resilience, and determination, I can transform tragedy into something meaningful. Receiving the Anthony Belliamy Memorial Scholarship would not only help me pursue my education in art and design, but it would also allow me to carry forward the values of resilience, integrity, and leadership that Anthony embodied. Art gave me a voice when I needed one the most. Now, I want to use it to give others the courage to dream, to heal, and to rise above their challenges—just as I have.

In the world of art, there’s a myth that creativity is something solitary—that the best work is done alone in a studio, fueled by isolation and personal vision. But I’ve found that my most meaningful creative work doesn’t come from being alone. It comes from being in community. It comes from collaboration. For me, collaboration in the arts means bringing together different perspectives, stories, and skills to create something that none of us could build alone. In my field—illustration and visual storytelling—collaboration isn’t just helpful. It’s essential. I believe the power of art doesn’t come just from the artist’s hand, but from the connections it sparks between people: creators, subjects, audiences, and communities. One of the most powerful collaborations I’ve experienced is the comic book I’m currently creating in honor of my older brother, Jamal, who passed away from an overdose during my senior year of high school. The comic reimagines him as a superhero—a protector, a symbol of love and strength—for his children and for anyone who’s lost someone they love. What began as a deeply personal piece has evolved through conversations with my family, friends, and even younger artists in my community who’ve helped shape how the story is told. Their input—what they see in Jamal, what they feel from the pages—has made this more than just my project. It’s become a collaborative tribute and a shared space for healing. I also volunteer in youth art programs where I work with students to help them process emotions through drawing. Sometimes they don’t have the words to express their grief, anger, or fear—but through collaborative projects like group murals or storyboarding exercises, we create spaces where those feelings are validated. Watching a child go from scribbling in silence to proudly explaining their superhero drawing is a kind of transformation that reminds me what art is truly for: not perfection, but connection. Collaboration has also played a big role in my education at Columbia College Chicago. Whether it’s working with graphic design students on layouts or brainstorming with writers on comic scripts, I’ve learned that good ideas become great when they’re shared, challenged, and refined together. My technical knowledge has grown through these experiences, but so has my ability to listen—to really hear someone else’s story, vision, or critique, and let it shape the final work. As someone who comes from a background where being heard wasn’t always guaranteed, collaboration has helped me feel seen—and given me the power to help others feel that too. In creative spaces where trust and mutual respect are present, something magical happens: people lower their walls. They share their truths. And from that, something honest and beautiful is created. In the future, I want to continue building community-driven art through collaborative design projects, comic therapy, and multimedia storytelling. I dream of creating a nonprofit that brings artists, writers, and youth together to co-create stories that reflect the realities and dreams of overlooked communities. Whether we’re painting a wall in a neighborhood, building a digital comic series, or designing a gallery show, I want every project to be rooted in shared experience and mutual uplift.

I used to think staying quiet made me strong. That if I kept my head down and kept moving, I’d make it through whatever life threw at me. But silence doesn’t make you strong—it makes you invisible. And I’ve spent too much of my life feeling like I wasn’t seen. Mental health and suicide prevention are critical issues for my generation because we are constantly expected to “be okay” in a world that rarely asks how we actually feel. We’re told to hustle, to stay positive, to act like everything is fine—even when everything inside us is falling apart. I know that feeling all too well. I grew up in Detroit, in a single-parent home with a mother who loved me but was overwhelmed, and a father who wasn’t around. My room was in a moldy basement that made me sick. Then, in the middle of my senior year, my older brother Jamal died of an overdose. I missed my college tour with the Midnight Golf Program to attend his funeral. A few weeks later, I lost my grandmother too. My mom pulled away. I wasn’t allowed to eat in the kitchen, wash my clothes, or even shower. I was left to survive on my own—with no ride to college, no one to turn to, and seven bags of dirty laundry I didn’t even have a place to wash. That’s when I finally broke down. For the first time, I let myself feel it all—the grief, the anger, the questions. I talked to God honestly. That moment of surrender helped me rediscover something I hadn’t felt in a long time: clarity. It didn’t erase the pain, but it gave me enough strength to move forward. I washed my clothes at my girlfriend’s house, called my aunt to help with the trip, and made it to Columbia College Chicago, where I now study Illustration and Computer Science. Mental health matters because too many people carry invisible battles. I did. And I know so many others who do too. I now use my art to speak to those silent struggles. One of my most meaningful projects is a comic that reimagines my brother as a superhero. It’s a way for his children to see his strength and for others to process grief through storytelling. This project helped me realize how art can heal, connect, and even save lives. I also volunteer with community youth programs that use art to encourage emotional expression. Some kids can’t say what they feel, but they can draw it. I see myself in them. I know what it’s like to have something to say but no safe space to say it. That’s why I want to create those spaces for others—because being heard can mean the difference between surviving and thriving. In the future, I hope to launch a nonprofit that blends creative expression with mental health advocacy. I want to create programs that introduce digital storytelling, comic therapy, and community art to schools and shelters—especially in underserved communities like the one I came from. I want young people to know that their stories matter, that their emotions are valid, and that asking for help is a sign of strength, not weakness. Mental health awareness saved me. It helped me turn my pain into purpose and gave me the tools to help others do the same. I don’t just want to create art—I want to create healing. I want to make people feel seen.

I didn’t grow up with stability, but I did grow up with imagination. In Detroit, where poverty and generational trauma touched nearly every block, I found refuge in art. While my home life was filled with silence, grief, and loss, I found my voice by sketching on cardboard in the basement—dreaming up heroes who saved the world when no one else showed up. Now, I’m studying Illustration and Computer Science at Columbia College Chicago, with a deep passion for graphic design and digital storytelling. What drives me isn’t just the aesthetics of art—it’s the power of design to speak truth, to heal, and to give visibility to those who are often ignored. I’m passionate about design because it saved me. When I lost my older brother Jamal to an overdose during my senior year, I turned to my sketchbook to cope. I missed my Midnight Golf Program college tour to attend his funeral, lost my grandmother shortly after, and had to figure out how to survive on my own. I washed my clothes at my girlfriend’s house and organized my own way to college—with no ride, no support, and seven bags of clothes. I arrived in Chicago not just determined to succeed, but determined to create something meaningful from all the pain I carried. Today, I’m working on a comic book that reimagines my brother as a superhero—a digital project that blends illustration, storytelling, and emotional truth. It’s designed not just for me, but for his children, who will one day read those pages and see their father as the loving, powerful man he was. Projects like this excite me because they allow me to merge purpose with creativity, and emotion with technology. I plan to take full advantage of digital design tools—whether it’s Adobe Creative Cloud, Procreate, or web-based interactive design platforms—to bring my stories to life in new ways. I want to experiment with motion graphics, augmented reality, and even gamified experiences to make storytelling immersive and engaging. I’m especially interested in using platforms like Figma and Blender to take my illustrations into interactive, 3D spaces. Ultimately, my dream is to launch a nonprofit digital media studio that mentors and trains youth from underserved communities in art, design, and visual storytelling. I want to create space for young people to process their own stories through digital creativity—helping them turn their experiences into something powerful, just like I’ve done. I know that the arts are often seen as risky, especially when stability is rare. But I believe that creativity is just as essential as any other skill—it’s how we process the world, communicate across cultures, and imagine what’s possible. The ability to design something meaningful is not a luxury—it’s a form of service. And I’m ready to dedicate my career to using digital design to heal, uplift, and inspire. This scholarship would allow me to continue growing, creating, and sharing stories that might otherwise go untold. I’m not just passionate about design—I’m passionate about what design can do when it’s created with heart, purpose, and intention.

My relationship with God and my passion for art have shaped how I survive, grow, and inspire others. I was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan—a place where violence, poverty, and generational trauma sweep through every neighborhood. But even in the darkest corners of the city, I saw light. I saw murals of historical Black figures bringing hope to abandoned walls, sculptures transforming playgrounds into safe spaces, and young people like me trying to carve out peace through creativity. This year, I began to truly understand the weight of my circumstances—and the strength I carry within. Senior year started off with promise. My dad began checking in again, my cousins were excited to see me graduate, and I had just been accepted into the Midnight Golf Program, which gave me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to travel and explore colleges. For a moment, everything felt like it was finally coming together. Then my world cracked open. My mom’s emotional distance worsened, and the mold growing in my basement bedroom started affecting my health. I didn’t pray at first—I avoided it. I poured myself into school and followed my girlfriend to her dance competitions just to escape. Then one night, I was jolted awake by my mom’s screams: my older brother Jamal had overdosed. Not long after his funeral, I lost my grandmother too. My mom became emotionally unreachable. I wasn’t allowed to eat in the kitchen, shower, or wash my clothes. I had no ride to Chicago for college and seven bags of clothes to clean. Eventually, I broke down and spoke to God honestly. That night, I found strength in surrender. I washed my clothes at my girlfriend’s house, reached out to my aunt, and made my way to Columbia College Chicago—on faith, on grit, and on the belief that my story wasn’t over. Now, I study Illustration and Computer Science. Through my work, I’m focused on using art and storytelling to address social issues like trauma, grief, and generational cycles. One of my current projects is a comic book that reimagines my late brother as a superhero—so that his kids can grow up seeing their father’s strength, not just how he died. This comic isn’t just personal; it’s an example of how I believe art can heal, empower, and transform lives. I’ve also seen how art has reshaped spaces in my city—public school walls painted with pride, basketball courts turned into places of laughter and peace, and murals giving voice to communities that are usually ignored. This is what I’m passionate about: using creativity as a tool for justice, healing, and visibility. In addition to my personal projects, I volunteer with nonprofit youth programs that use art to help kids express emotions they don’t yet have words for. I believe that creating platforms for young people—especially Black youth from underserved communities—is a form of public service. Whether it's comic therapy, mural painting, or digital storytelling, I want to help others process their pain and reclaim their power. My goal is to launch a nonprofit that fuses art, technology, and mental wellness for at-risk youth. I want to bring hope to kids who feel invisible, and help them see that their voice matters. Because I know what it feels like not to be heard. I’m not just an artist. I’m a servant of stories—mine and others’. I want to use every gift I have to uplift the voices that have gone unheard for too long.

I didn’t grow up with peace or safety. I grew up in Detroit, in a home with a tired mother, an absent father, and a basement room with mold that made me sick. I remember waking up with headaches, feeling physically and emotionally drained, but never complaining—because in my world, survival didn’t leave space for softness. I got used to not being seen. My father was never really around. His absence didn’t just leave a gap—it left a question I asked every day: Why wasn’t I worth staying for? My mom, while loving, was exhausted. There were nights she didn’t say, “I love you,” and days she barely spoke at all. That silence shaped me. It made me tough, but it also left me with things I didn’t know how to express. Until I found art. I started by drawing superheroes on scraps of cardboard in the basement after watching Stan Lee interviews on YouTube. I created worlds where people were saved, where broken things could be fixed, and where someone always showed up. What started as imagination quickly became therapy. My sketchbooks became the place where I poured all the things I couldn’t say out loud—my fear, anger, hope, and dreams. During my senior year, everything fell apart. My brother Jamal died of an overdose. I missed my Midnight Golf Program college tour to attend his funeral. Then I lost my grandmother. My mom, grieving and overwhelmed, stopped speaking to me altogether. I wasn’t allowed to eat in the kitchen, wash my clothes, or even shower. I had no ride to college and no plan—just seven bags of dirty clothes and a heart full of questions. Eventually, I broke down. I talked to God for real—not with questions, but with raw honesty. And in that moment, something inside me shifted. My sadness turned into something I can only describe as overwhelming joy. It was like God reminded me that if I nurtured the seed He had planted in me, I could grow—even through concrete. I didn’t have to carry it all alone. With that strength, I took my bags to my girlfriend’s house to wash them and called my auntie to help plan my trip to Chicago. That’s how I got to Columbia College—on faith, on grit, and on the belief that my story wasn’t over. Now I study Illustration and Computer Science. One of my current projects is a comic book that reimagines my brother as a superhero. This isn’t just a tribute—it’s a way for his children to see him as the powerful, loving person he was, not just how he died. I want them to grow up with an image of their father filled with pride, strength, and light. Art gave me a voice when everything around me tried to silence me. It gave me purpose when I felt forgotten. It helped me process grief when my world was falling apart. And now, it’s how I plan to help others. My goal is to use art and technology to build platforms that tell real stories from communities like mine. Whether it’s through comics, murals, animations, or interactive media, I want to create work that reflects the resilience, creativity, and humanity of people who are often overlooked. I want kids who come from broken homes, who’ve been told they’ll never make it, to look at my work and see proof that they already have. I know what it’s like to feel invisible. That’s why I’m committed to creating art that helps others feel seen, heard, and valued. I don’t just want to tell stories—I want to help rewrite them. This isn’t just my dream. It’s my mission. And it’s just getting started.

Before I ever spoke about my pain, I drew it. On cardboard, notebook covers, or whatever I could find—I sketched out superheroes and scenes from a better world. I didn’t know it then, but I was doing more than creating—I was surviving. Growing up in Detroit in a single-parent home, I often felt caught in silence. My dad wasn’t around, and my mom—though full of love—was overwhelmed by work, stress, and eventually, grief. I had questions no one could answer and emotions I didn’t know how to express. Art became the only place I felt in control. I escaped into characters who showed up when no one else could. Over time, I realized I didn’t just want to escape into art—I wanted to use it to change lives. Now, as a student at Columbia College Chicago majoring in Illustration and Computer Science, I’m learning how to turn my drawings into powerful stories that reflect truth and give people hope. One of my most personal projects is a comic that reimagines my older brother Jamal as a superhero. He passed away from an overdose during my senior year of high school—a year that was supposed to be full of celebration and turned into one of survival. His death shook my world, but it also gave my art new purpose. This project is for his kids—to help them see the strength in who their father was, and to give them a hero they can carry with them forever. Through my art, I plan to amplify voices often left out of mainstream stories—kids like me, families like mine, and communities that don’t always feel seen. Whether it’s through comics, animation, or digital platforms, I want my work to represent struggle, healing, and resilience. I want it to make people feel something—and, more importantly, to feel seen. Art gave me a voice when life tried to silence me. Now, I’m using that voice to make space for others. That’s how I plan to make an impact: by turning pain into purpose, and stories into strength.

Growing up in a single-parent household shaped every part of who I am. My mother raised me and my siblings in Detroit, Michigan, doing everything she could to keep us afloat—working long hours, often multiple jobs, just to make ends meet. While I’m grateful for her sacrifices, the absence of my father left a gap that affected me deeply. There were no father-son talks, no rides to school, no one to teach me how to tie a tie, or guide me through what it means to become a man. I had to figure that out on my own. That absence made me question my worth at times. I wondered what I had done to be left behind. But in those quiet, confusing moments, I found something else: art. I would grab cardboard boxes from the basement and draw superheroes—figures who were present, powerful, and dependable. Creating those stories gave me a way to escape the pain of my reality and turn it into something I could control. Art became not just a passion, but a way to make sense of my world. Life in a single-parent home required me to grow up early. My mom did her best, but she was stretched thin. Emotional support was rare, not because she didn’t care, but because she was exhausted. There were nights she was too tired to say “I love you,” and days when the weight of our situation left me feeling invisible. When my dad didn’t pick up the phone and my mom couldn’t be emotionally present, I turned to my sketchbook. Over time, I realized that the things I created were more than drawings—they were pieces of my resilience. High school brought even more challenges. During my senior year, my older brother, Jamal, passed away from an overdose. I missed the college tour with the Midnight Golf Program to attend his funeral. Not long after, I lost my grandmother. Then my home life unraveled. My mom became more distant and stopped allowing me to use the kitchen, laundry, or even the shower. I had to wash my clothes at my girlfriend’s house and find a way to get from Detroit to Chicago for college—completely on my own. That season tested everything in me, but it also revealed who I was becoming. I could’ve given up, but I didn’t. I used every bit of strength my mother showed me and the fire lit by my father’s absence to keep going. I realized that my circumstances didn’t have to define me—they could fuel me. And that became my mission: to turn pain into purpose and create something meaningful, not just for me, but for others like me. Today, I’m a student at Columbia College Chicago, majoring in Illustration and Computer Science. My goal is to combine art and technology to tell stories that empower young people, especially those who feel unseen or unheard. One of my current projects is a comic that reimagines my late brother as a superhero, so his kids can grow up with a powerful image of the man he was. Long term, I want to create digital platforms that amplify voices from underserved communities—tools that inspire, educate, and create space for healing and hope. Growing up in a single-parent household taught me how to survive, but more importantly, how to lead. It taught me discipline, independence, and empathy. It showed me how to keep going when no one is coming to save you. It also taught me to show up for others in ways my father never did. This scholarship would not only ease the financial pressure that still follows me—it would support a dream that was shaped by absence and built on purpose. I want to use everything I’ve learned to help others rise above their circumstances and rewrite their stories, just like I’m doing with mine.

Some kids escape into video games. Others into sports. I escaped into cardboard boxes, turning them into canvases where I brought superheroes to life. Growing up in Detroit, Michigan—a city shaped by both struggle and resilience—drawing wasn’t just a hobby for me. It was a way to reimagine the world around me. As a child, I didn’t realize it, but I was already chasing the problem I would dedicate my future to solving: helping young people from underserved communities realize that their creativity has power, and that they can shape something greater than what they were handed. The problem I’m passionate about solving is a lack of representation, access, and belief in self among youth from underserved communities. I’ve seen how growing up without visible role models, support, or creative opportunities can lead people to believe that success is out of reach. I want to challenge that mindset by creating spaces—both physical and digital—where people like me can see themselves as leaders, creators, and innovators. My passion began with art. I spent nights drawing characters from comic books, learning from artists like Jim Lee and Todd McFarlane, and studying how they made illustrations come alive. Art was more than creative expression—it was survival. It helped me deal with a home environment filled with emotional distance and instability. When my dad wasn’t around and my mom was too overwhelmed to say “I love you,” art gave me a way to speak, feel, and hope. Senior year of high school changed everything. My older brother, Jamal, passed away from an overdose. Days later, I missed a life-changing college tour through the Midnight Golf Program to attend his funeral. Not long after, I lost my grandmother. At home, things grew worse. I wasn’t allowed to eat, shower, or wash my clothes. Preparing for college meant carrying seven bags of laundry to my girlfriend’s house and coordinating my own transportation out of Detroit. I was exhausted—but determined. In the midst of that chaos, I realized that my pain didn’t define me. What I did with it would. That clarity pushed me to pursue a future where I could combine my love for storytelling with technology. I now study Illustration and Computer Science at Columbia College Chicago. My goal is to design digital platforms, games, and stories that amplify real voices from underserved communities. One of my current projects is a comic book where my late brother is the hero, made so his children can remember his strength. Long-term, I want to build creative systems that educate, inspire, and empower. I know what it’s like to be counted out, to feel like there’s no blueprint for success that includes you. But I also know what it’s like to push forward anyway—to build from the ground up. I want to use what I’ve learned and what I’m building to help the next generation of young people break cycles, create freely, and dream without limits. This scholarship would allow me to continue shaping a future where young creators and thinkers from all backgrounds know that they matter—and that they were never meant to stay in survival mode forever.

Art has always been more than just a creative outlet for me—it’s been a lifeline. I was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan, where violence and generational trauma often cast long shadows over young lives. But from that pain, I found purpose through creativity. Art became the way I navigated difficult moments, told my truth, and inspired others to imagine something better. What inspires me to create is where I come from. I’ve seen my city transformed by murals on worn-down buildings and playground sculptures that make kids feel safe again. I’ve watched classmates in public schools use art to express the love in their homes—even when those homes were struggling. Growing up, I didn’t want to be known just as the “big guy who should play football.” I wanted to show people that I had depth and passion—and that my family and I could create new paths for ourselves. My love for drawing started when I was little. I would grab cardboard boxes from the basement and sketch the Avengers while watching Stan Lee’s videos on YouTube. That led to late nights watching artists like Jim Lee and Todd McFarlane, studying how they made their characters come alive on the page. One of my favorite pieces is a portrait I made of my older brother, Jamal. After we lost him to an overdose, I began working on a comic book that reimagines him as a superhero—someone his kids can read about and remember not for how he passed, but for how he lived. That piece means the world to me because it helped me grieve and gave his children something to hold on to. Art has led to some truly meaningful experiences in my life. It gave me the confidence to express myself when words couldn’t. It helped me cope during times when my dad didn’t answer the phone or when my mom was too tired to say, “I love you.” Most importantly, it reminded me that I am more than my circumstances. When my senior year was filled with grief—losing my brother, missing a life-changing college trip, and having to navigate toxic home conditions—I found healing through both faith and art. One night, I broke down, cried out to God, and finally felt lifted. I realized that if I nurtured my relationship with God and continued to create from a place of truth, I could get through anything. After college, I want to become a professional comic artist and storyteller. I want to use my art to inspire kids who grow up like I did—those who are overlooked, misunderstood, or struggling in silence. I want to show them that creativity is a form of power, and that their voices matter. I want to create stories that honor real people, celebrate resilience, and turn pain into purpose. Art gave me a voice when I needed one the most. It helped me rise above my environment and helped me begin to shape a future I can be proud of. Now, I want to use it to do the same for others.

"Home is where the heart is, but now art is all I have" Sitting by my window, I watch as the pink sky blends with the deep blues of the evening. As the sun sets, a rising fear overtakes me—the fear that my mother’s car won’t pull up. The fading light leaves me in a dark space, with no family in sight to comfort me, wipe my tears, or soothe my fears of being alone. This moment leaves me with a stark realization of what family is supposed to be and the profound importance they hold in your life. As middle school ends and high school begins, my brother Jamal reappears—once a distant memory. His presence brings an abundance of rules and discipline I didn’t know existed. I couldn’t feel the need to connect to a brother who also seemed disconnected from everyone. All I could feel was the pain of a deep wound in my heart, a wound trying to heal itself, yet blinding me to the remedy: hugs, playing games outside, and long conversations on park benches. Then one day, my mother’s yelling echoed through the house, snapping me to attention. Adrenaline surged through me as I raced up the stairs. The front door slammed shut as Jamal drove off, and just like that, what could’ve been a closer bond was again separated by family. After enduring struggles at home and school, prom was just around the corner, and the once-large hole in my heart began to fill with the grace of God, my creativity, and the support from my girlfriend. Yet, I still sought to mend my broken connections, especially with Jamal, whose presence I desperately wanted in my life. I hoped this year would be different. After countless phone calls, motivational speeches, workout videos, relationship advice, and the joy of witnessing my brother’s second child entering the world, I truly believed my family was finally being rebuilt. Then, less than a week later, my mother’s yelling jerked me awake, urging me to rush upstairs. I was met with the devastating news of my brother’s murder. My heart clenched as my blood poured from my eyes, and my body went limp. But my spirit lifted me up, allowing me to comfort my family and reach out to my girlfriend for my own comfort through my darkest moments. Through my pain, I turned to art, creating Hope, a comic that embodies my emotions, memories, and the lessons Jamal unknowingly left behind. The cover image of Hope visually represents the struggles and healing I have endured. In the illustration, Jamal stands solemnly at a grave, a chilling reflection of the separation and loss that defined much of our relationship. The glowing rose in his hands symbolizes something more profound: love, transformation, and the light that still lingers even in tragedy. The rain falling across the scene reflects the sorrow and emotional storm I endured after Jamal’s passing. Each drop feels like the tears I shed that night as my girlfriend held me. Despite the overwhelming darkness, the central light—a bright energy emanating from Jamal’s hands—signifies the hope that I refuse to let go of. This light is my creativity, my faith, and the love that still connects us beyond life and death. Through this project, I want to ensure that my brother’s story doesn’t end in tragedy. I want my nephews and younger siblings to see Jamal not just as a memory, but as a guiding presence. This piece, much like the comic itself, is my way of keeping his spirit alive—turning pain into purpose and darkness into light.

I am Julian Smith, an upcoming artist from Detroit. My childhood was rocky, as my mom entrusted my Auntie with caring for me while she worked to overcome her gambling addiction and find a stable home. Unfortunately, that wasn’t my Auntie’s plan. Instead of caring for me, she went to court and lied to gain custody of me, which the judge granted. Though this act by my Auntie seemed "heroic" at the time, I ended up feeling unloved and neglected. I became obese and lacked the structure I needed, which led to a growing desire to be seen and valued by my family. As a result, I began to act out in school, craving attention, until my mom got herself together and started requesting visits. Seeing her face filled me with excitement, like my body recognized that I was finally going to be loved and nurtured by her. It was through this that I was able to reconnect with my family—meeting my big brother Jamal, spending time with my sisters, playing with my baby brother, and it was the start if me becoming a role model for my three youngest siblings when my mom gained custody of me. When I began to get comfortable my mom noticed how much I played games, she wanted me to branch out and use that creativity to invest in my future. She began buying me coloring books of Batman, Superman, and many more heroes that I would spend hours coloring and admiring. I would show her every page I finished, and her encouragement sparked questions in my mind: how were comics created? How did they become so skilled at drawing these characters for fun? For months, I would wake up and watch how-to-draw videos, study live streams of Jim Lee, watch old Stan Lee how-to-draw comic videos, and practice as much as possible. I became transfixed on the idea of producing my own comics filled with characters people could look up to and admire. As Christmas was approaching, my mom invited Jamal to move in from Tennessee, so for the first time, all of her kids were under one roof for the holidays. The transition was overwhelming—going from being an only child to having a big brother to tell me what to do and younger siblings I had to learn to care for. Over the following months, I got to know just how strong and stubborn a big brother could be, and how challenging it could be to deal with younger siblings. But I had them to lean on when I needed help with homework or wanted a partner to draw with. Now I truly love those moments during my childhood because I was able to start working out, eating right, finding what I loved to draw as an artist, and I finally learned the value of having siblings who cared about me. Unfortunately, my relationship with Jamal became strained, due to him having a big falling out with my mom, causing him to go back to Tennessee. His troubles only deepened, leading to numerous returns and departures during my eighth- and ninth-grade years. Eventually, I learned I was going to be an uncle, but I also found out my brother would be spending a year in prison. This is when my mom, now trying to teach me responsibility, began creating a toxic environment where I had to be perfect forcing me to rely on the lessons Jamal taught me to help guide my siblings and maintain our home. I tried to step into Jamal’s shoes, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t earn my mom’s approval or the respect of my siblings. Instead, I constantly heard how much they missed Jamal and wished I would go away. The emotional weight of Jamal’s absence hit me the hardest one night when I woke up to find my mom crying. After consoling her, she told me Jamal had overdosed but survived. The news was like a tidal wave crashing over me, but I quickly reassured her that it wasn’t her fault, and that he was making his own decisions. After she calmed down, I went to my room and prayed for Jamal, hoping he would break free from his addiction before falling asleep. But sadly, that never came to pass. Over time, I began to learn how to focus my emotions on my passion for art. With 8th grade coming to an end, my counselor, who had seen one of my pieces displayed around the school, told me about the Detroit School of Arts. After researching the school and getting excited about the opportunity to focus all four years of high school on my art, I began putting together my portfolio. I even wore a suit and tried to look my sharpest for the interview. Long story short, my teachers loved my work and attitude so, I GOT IN! At DSA, I was able to focus on my craft, learn how to network with other artists, and study not only the fundamentals of art but also an assortment of different mediums, including gouache, watercolor, charcoal, and digital art. I truly pushed myself to improve as an artist and as a son. As graduation approached, Jamal and I became closer. We began to give each other advice and things seemed to be going well. Until I was woken up to mom screamed, announcing that Jamal was gone. The grief was overwhelming. Months of crying about how unfair the world was followed, but it wasn’t until I faced the realization that Jamal would never see me graduate or be there for me during the milestones of my life that the true weight of my loss hit me. One day, I told my girlfriend, “I can never have fun without him being here.” Instead of sympathizing, she told me, “You have me, and your family. Look around, there is so much to enjoy.” Her words shifted my mindset, reminding me that I had the power to fight for Jamal’s memory rather than continue to mourn. I decided to channel my grief into something positive: a comic book dedicated to him. This comic will show his children that their dad was a hero, always swooping down to protect them. Through this project, I also hope to create a scholarship in his honor for those who lose someone close to them, so they can find hope and purpose in the face of loss. Jamal words of encouragement will forever stick with me and inspire my art for years to come.

My artwork sheds light on where I come from and the talent that overwhelms my city. I was born in Detroit, Michigan, where violence and generational curses sweep through every neighborhood, leaving families trapped in cycles of poverty and anger. But from that disparity rise powerful individuals who take what they can and produce pieces that shape communities—from historical Black figures on the walls of a food co-op, to sculptures in playgrounds transforming the atmosphere into something described as bliss. I’ve seen young Black students in public schools creating art to represent their homes and the love from their communities while going through hardship. I played on basketball courts filled with arguments, and after they were adorned with designs, they became places of relaxation and laughter. Growing up, I always wanted to express myself and show people I was more than a big guy who could be a good football player. I wanted to show them that I could be more than my surface-level appearance, and above all, show my family that we could create different routes in our lives. I started taking cardboard from the basement to draw the Avengers after watching Stan Lee talk about his passions and life on YouTube. This led to long hours of me staying up drawing while watching artists like Jim Lee and Todd McFarlane to learn how they magically created dynamic fights. Art helped me get through times when my dad didn’t pick up the phone, and my mom was too tired to say she loved me or give me a kiss at night. Like others, I knew I could be greater than my environment by using art to inspire kids who acted tough, encouraging them to reach deep inside and pull out the child who wants to be seen and live in a world of peace and wonder. I’ve seen murals adorn dilapidated areas, transforming places that could feel dangerous into spaces of wonder. Art has given a voice to the quietest person in the room and shed light on dark moments in Detroit’s history. Through portraits, art has allowed families to heal by capturing a moment of happiness. Personally, after losing my brother, I will use art to mend my pain and create a comic where his kids can grow up knowing their father as the hero he was and always will be in our lives. When I’m asked why art is important to society, I think about my community and how it has changed the hearts and minds of individuals who once had only aggression to express. Now, they have art to make their message seen and it has given power to children who want to live better life.

My relationship with God has always weighed upon me allowing myself to become overwhelmed because so many things were going wrong at the same time, until this year. This year started smoothly I rejoiced knowing that I had finally reached senior year and was just around the corner from graduating. My dad started to see how I was doing for a couple of days going into school, my cousins talked all about how we were going to hang out after graduation and promised they would see me cross the stage, and my family on my dad's side pitched in to help me pay for a prom outfit. Things felt like they were going so well, I even got accepted into MGP a college readiness program where I could travel to schools on a big once-in-a-lifetime trip. Yet my genuine optimism didn't stay strong as my mom's antagonizing became harder to deal with and mold in the basement/my room started to get me sick. Even when things seemed like they were going downhill I realized I didn't pray or ask God to fix them, I only came to God for questions and it seemed I didn't have enough to call upon him just yet. As things progressively got worse, I used my issues to focus on grades or I left home altogether to go on outings with my girlfriend to her dance competitions to not only support her but also try to avoid the storms brewing at home. I see now that God was calling me to pray but instead, I attempted to use my issues as fuel but I was abruptly stopped as I was struck in my heart with a dagger, as I lay in bed, I was thrust awake from my mom's screaming since my older brother Jamal had overdosed. Over the next few weeks of fighting through my grief, I would miss my MGP trip due to being out of town for the funeral, lose my grandmother, and my mom would push me away as much as possible. I truly felt alone, it felt like the devil was playing a sadistic cruel trick on me as some form of entertainment, I expected God to shield me from anything that would come my way during such a joyful school year. As prom and graduation flew by, I found myself attempting to figure out how to get to Chicago from Detroit with no ride, and to add insult to injury my mom wouldn't allow me to eat in her kitchen, clean my clothes, or shower it was up to me to figure out how I would clean myself and get seven bags of clothes washed and bagged in time to leave. It's safe to say I broke down and talked to God about what was happening in my life, but as I lay down crying my sadness turned into overwhelming joy as if a switch uncontrollably flipped in my body. I set up astonished that God could lift me up even when I was allowing myself to stay down. God showed me that if I watered the seed that was planted within our relationship not only would I grow in wisdom and faith but I could truly let go of my worries and rely on him to get me through all things that the devil brings my way. So, with my newfound strength, I carried the clothes to my girlfriend's house to wash them and called my auntie to plan a trip to Chicago, where I am now pursuing my career.

I am Julian Smith, an upcoming artist from Detroit. My childhood was always rocky due to my mom entrusting my Auntie with caring for me while she broke her gambling addiction and looked for a new home where she could afford to take care of me but that wasn't my Aunties plan instead of taking care of me, she lied to my mom and went to court to get custody of me which the judge granted. Even though this act by my Auntie seemed ‘heroic’ but I became obese and never felt loved. This lack of structure started creating a desire to finally feel seen by my family causing me to act out in school until my mom got herself together and began requesting visits. Seeing my mother's face released a surge of excitement that shot through me like never before, it was like my body realized was I would be loved and nurtured by her. Through this I was able to meet my big brother, spend time with my sisters, and become a big brother to my three youngest siblings when my mom triumphantly gained custody of me. After this my mom invited my big brother Jamal to come down from Tennessee to live with us a could finally have all her kids under one roof for the Holidays. overwhelming, especially adjusting from being an only child to having a big brother to tell me what to do and younger siblings I had to learn how to be a big brother for. Over the next few months, I learned how annoying and strong a big brother was and how stubborn younger siblings could be, but I had them to call upon when I needed help with homework or wanted someone to play the game with. Unfortunately, that was bittersweet since my mom and Jamal ha a huge falling out leading to him heading back to Tennessee, where he would get in trouble, leading to his many returns and departures throughout my eighth-grade year into my ninth-grade year where I'd find out I was a uncle and that my brother would spend a year in prison. At this point I was having issues with my mother since she wanted me to be more responsible like my brother was while also trying to use the information my brother taught me to teach my siblings how to contribute to our home so that everything would run smoothly but the absence of my brother weighed heavily on me and no matter how hard I pushed to be like him nothing I did would gain the approval of my mother and the respect of my siblings, it was a never ending barrage of comments about how the kids missed my brother and wished I was gone. Which did not prepare me from the first scare. I woke up in the middle of the night to find my mother crying and after consoling her she told me my brother had an overdosed but survived, the news hit me like a wave, but I quickly came back to my senses since my mother was already frantic so I made sure to tell her he was making his own decisions, so it wasn't her fault. After she calmed down, I returned to my room to begin praying for my brother in hopes he would break away from his addiction before falling asleep. This sadly never happened and during my senior year everything was going well, my brother had another child and seemed to have a healthy relationship, I even got to talk to him and give him advice, but once again I would wake up to my mother screaming to announce he was gone. It took a few months of crying about how unfair the world was to really feel the loneliness of no longer having someone to ask advice from and tell me when mom was just being hard on me, I realized he would miss my graduation and seeing others playing with their siblings caused me to breakdown since now I'll never have a chance to grow close to him. My mindset remained negative until one day I told my girlfriend that “I can never have fun without him being here.” But instead of adding on she told me “You have me, and your family so look around because there is so much to enjoy.” This blew me back and gave me the desire to fight for him instead of cry for him, so I decided to dedicate a comic to him so that when his kids grow up, they will know their dad was a hero and will always swoop down to protect them. Through this venture I want to create a scholarship in his honor for those who lose someone close to them.

My poster represents the ability to proudly rise above stereotypical biases of a young Black man. I passionately challenge these biases everyday by overcoming a harmful environment fueled with trauma by practicing integrity, unwavering resolve, a constant thirst for knowledge, a keen eye for an optimistic future, and an undying support for my community. In the upper left-hand corner of my artwork, I illustrated a Black man who struggles with his emotions and life's many choices. He appears tough, while holding everything inside himself; this causes his skin to turn blue. He quivers but maintains a strong dominance, just like his tight corn rolls. On the upper right-hand corner, I illustrated another Black man whose bluish tips begin to fade into the color red. Anger appears across his face, tears build up in his eyes, and his emotional reaction is akin to the reaction of a beast. This man portrays the loss of control of his emotions and is deemed a danger to society and those around him. In the middle is what no one else is willing to see. I illustrated this same man, but this time he is full of joy, compassion, and embodies an abundance of love for his community. His warmth and love could fill an entire room. I chose to represent this by illustrating his loose natural afro, warm smile, and lighthearted eyes. These artistic choices are an example of my journey to constantly hold onto the Black excellence that I know exists inside myself. I let my actions define this excellence rather than someone else’s judgements and biases shaping who I am without even taking the time to get to know me. To support these feelings, I chose to illustrate six relatable representations and examples of Black excellence. I started with illustrating a representation of Jalen Rose; a man who pours back into the youth with his high school program “The Jalen Rose Leadership Academy”. I illustrated an Olympic medal which represents Sha’Carri Richarson, who is officially the fastest woman in the world and overcame mountains of people judging her character when claiming her title. The illustrated astronaut was inspired by Love Craft Country which, for me, represents African Americans and their ability to accomplish astonishing achievements. From athletics, mathematics, literacy, and astronomy we accomplish excellence with all odds stacked against us. The book of wisdom represents the deep wisdom and knowledge that we possess that is overlooked and often unappreciated. This wisdom comes from the stories of our ancestors, who are alive through us; allowing their books to never be closed and their stories never to be forgotten. The donut represents Detroit’s very own J Dilla who was a pioneer that shaped techno music. His influence has created generations of musicians who now express themselves through music using some of the steppingstones he left behind. Each of these artistic choices have helped me to convey this important theme and supports my own unique journey with embodying Black excellence.