September 20, 2023. Exactly one month into my freshman year at Carnegie Mellon University, my father passed away from a stroke, ten years from the first stroke he had when I was 8 years old. Two weeks before his passing, he was planning on flying up from Dallas to see me at college, something he never had a chance to do with my siblings due to his struggles with poverty and homelessness. He was so excited for me, but it just wasn't in God's plan. I am a first-generation college student whose lived under the poverty line my whole life. My mom, a single mother, try to keep me disillusioned in the chances of me going to an out of state school for college. My father, however, made me look at it another way. While my family looked at my future from the perspective of "I'll be lucky to get into one school", my father looked at my future as, "Make sure you know what these colleges can do for you. What will they provide for you? How will this make up for the sacrifices you, your mother, your family will have to make to bring you there?" My father didn't look at me like I had potential, he saw me as someone the world needed to know. My father spent in his life working for his father's HVAC company. He never left Texas, he never felt like he needed more. But he wanted more for me. He wanted me to have a degree, to work towards something, to see more than what my little barrio had to offer me. When he passed, I didn't know how to do that anymore. Although I was always a good student, I didn't know what to do in class. Although I was always a believer, my faith waivered and I stopped praying. Although he always told me to lead with laughter and love, I stopped cracking jokes and closed myself off to everyone. My father was my heart, who I followed in life. When he was gone, I wasn't sure what to keep going for. His funeral was a month later in the church my parents got married in. I remember talking to the priest beforehand who hadn't seen any of their children since we were really little. He asked me what I was doing with my life, and I told him about my move to Pittsburgh to study at Carnegie Mellon. During his eulogy for my father, he talked about my life, how I "made it out", and how proud my father still is, and how he always will be. And I realized that, just because I can't hear his support anymore, doesn't mean I should stop doing everything he wanted me to accomplish. I spent the rest of my freshman year participating in any project I could in his honor. I helped create three short films, I was published in one of my school's art magazines, I read my poetry for the creative writing department, worked as an athletic journalist, particularly following women's basketball, a sport my father coached me in. And finally, made the dean's list with honors at my college, something my dad always expected of me. And after every time, all I could say is Thank you Dad.

I long to write for the masses I long to speak into existence ideas of perfect minds, perfect souls, perfect bodies that know when to crumble and when to stand tall I long to write as though I stand tall at the gates of society’s ridicule The life I’ve walked floating before me like a broach on a waistcoat I am too elegant to wear I long to write for the elegant I long to read my texts for lectures that already knew my name I long for people to perform my work at dinner parties I wouldn’t be invited to I long to write like the great poets Who smuggled their work into popular books Who performed on the street to make themselves heard Who wrote of love like love was their first thought of the day Who wrote of pain as though it was the last emotion they ever felt Who wrote of life as though living it was a gift they didn’t expect I am not a great poet I am not sure I am a poet I cannot write divinity into simplicity and make it unique Thought of character, I have no character I am the shell of the character they wished me to be Full of hope, full of anguish, hung on the family tree I am an object that made friends with pencils to understand my mind I am the personification of my mind I have no body No nerve endings that shock me as his fingers trace my skin No lips that melt unto necks No hands that know how to hold the end of the world I have no soul No golden spirit floating through my head To remind me what today is And why I got out of bed I am a bruised heart that doesn’t know how to stop beating I am a processor of my intelligence I am a lover of language I can’t speak I wish I could be a poet you find comfort in One that finally understands the receptors that make us hate ourselves That makes us find heartbreak in our love stories That makes us find hope in the scars we examine in the mirror But I just can’t I find passion in the problem I find life in the dead I write like a broken author who doesn’t know why they began.

I suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder, and like many people who suffer from this, I have certain rituals I partake in to combat this disorder. I learn to cope with it by writing poetry. In poetry, there aren't any rules, just suggestions on how to format, how to perform, and how to create your writing. In this, I have found a way to combat my intrusive thoughts. I start with a question, whatever anxiety-ridden question is circling my brain. And I then go through every single response to this question until my hand cramps. I flow from what if to what if, swinging through hyperboles to validate this intrusive thought. Then I step away, I take a minute to breathe. I stretch or I look outside my window. Just get away from that area after it has been taken over by my thoughts. Then I fight against it. I write all the opposites to this question. I juxtapose everything I just validated, and I tie myself back down to reality. I create a world where the what-ifs are not valid questions anymore. Because this world that I'm living in, doesn't have anxiety, it doesn't have cruel people, it doesn't have pain, liars, or people who want to hurt me. All the things that scare me, people I love betraying me, or not understanding me, or trying to change me, I push that image on them. It's not real. Me believing I need to touch a doorknob three times, flick a light switch a certain way, or use a certain mug on a certain day, it's not real Each pattern I conform to, each feeling I let control me, I created it all. My writing helps me maintain myself, it's therapy for me. I believe everyone can use this technique. It's the same as journaling but it's more fulfilling. It drives us forward, it forces us to acknowledge the problem and its control over us. It submits us to our mind and whatever is poisoning us but then, it turns it around. It makes us reject the problem, it makes us ruin it. To me, it's like raising a dictator, just to poison him before taking the throne. You show how evil the world could get if someone like this gains power, so you know to never let it get like that again. I find it to be the first step in understanding mental illness. It finally makes it feel real.

I was born into a masculine household. I am the only daughter of my parents, who gave me four brothers. My father is a narcissistic, misogynistic, broken man who raised me to be a housewife. By the age of nine I was cooking without supervision, using large knives and our stove. I would clean with bleach and other chemicals. I spent my weekends going to my brothers' sporting events because my job was to support them and make them look good. I was never supported, loved or taken care of but I had to support, love and take care of everyone else. My father is a liar who mentally and emotionally abused me and neglected me. I was raised to think I could not have a fruitful life if I wasn't taking care of someone. When I was ten years old, I began to write to cope with everything that was going on in our house. Even now, having not spoken to my father since my parent's divorce when I was 11, I still write everyday. I write to create worlds I can escape to. I write to advocate for different issues, to cope with my mental health. In general, I write because I am drawn to it. Because of this experience, my biggest ambition is women's suffrage. I believe it is one of the biggest problems plaguing my generation. In today's day in age, 81% of women have reported experiencing some form of sexual harassment and/or assault, with 1 in 3 women stating it happened between the ages of 11 and 17. 1 in 3 women have experience some kind of physical violence by an intimate partner. In Texas, women have lost control of bodily autonomy, where the cannot get an abortion, even in cases of rape and incest. And people who help someone get an abortion can be sued, and miscarriage can be investigated and charged as second-degree murder. As of 2021, women in general make 80 cents to a man's dollars Many women in my life have been effected by abuse, sexual assault, the pay gap and misogyny as an whole. I plan to write a book, telling the stories of the women in my life, the violence they have endured, the pain they have felt, and the strength they have required. I also plan to use this book to advocate for autonomy rights, bring awareness to sexual assault, and highlight the need for a women's voice in society. This book is not to show case a certain political side, disregard men's struggle, who give more power to women. It is to show the struggles women deal with on a daily basis so we as one world, can fix it for the next generations.