I am passionate about receiving my education because I want to make a difference in the world and make it a little bit better each day. I think the way to do this is through staying informed and learning to be better to each other every day. I plan to make a positive impact in the world by combining my passions for healthcare and medicine as well as law, politics, policy, and social considerations. I have been intrigued by medical law from a young age. I am a government and political science major at UT Austin with a certificate in Ethics and Leadership in Healthcare. I have a passion for this intersection of medicine, law, and ethics. Through my academic education, passion, and experiences, I hope to learn about the relationship between doctors and patients, the history of how the system we have in the united states came to be, how rules and standard practice can evolve and change, the politics of healthcare (why there is privatized healthcare in the US, how Telehealth from the pandemic has changed healthcare, etc.), the role women play in healthcare, and much more. I want to be able to gain experience through coursework, internships, and research so that I may be able to help someone in the future. This is the positive impact my education will have on the world and is why I am passionate about receiving an education. Being in school in Texas and with my hometown being Manhattan, I know I have a ton of opportunities. One example of an opportunity I would love to take advantage of is the NYU Medical ethics internship program. NYU has an undergraduate internship opportunity during both the school year semesters and the summer. They offer two internships, one called the Working Group on Pediatric Gene Therapy and Medical Ethics and one called the Working Group on Compassionate Use and Preapproval Access. I would love to work with the Pediatric Gene Therapy and Ethics group. On the website, it says “The mission of the Working Group on Pediatric Gene Therapy and Medical Ethics (PGTME) is to advance research, policy, and education regarding ethical issues surrounding gene therapy trials. We seek to promote an improved understanding of challenges and nascent best practices for ethical research across the evolving landscape of genetic technologies... We give interns real-world experience with collaborative work and problem-solving and research in the field.” I think this real-life connecting experience at NYU would benefit me in unfathomable ways. Through the PGTME, I could get an insight into the ethics and policy regarding hospital procedures for gene therapy in children. Working closely with doctors and hospital administration would be a dream come true for someone who wants to go into medical defense law. Another great opportunity in Austin could be an internship position with Refugee Services of Texas, Austin as the Cash and Medical Assistance (CMA) Program Intern. In the description, it states “The CMA internship will be project-based, both allowing the intern to utilize computer skills, and gain an understanding of the U.S. Refugee Program and the various domestic and international policies influencing refugee resettlement. Interns will work closely with Employment and Social Adjustment Services programs for verification of client eligibility and compliance”. I hope to apply to programs such as these in the future to further my education in policy, politics, medical ethics, and how we can use the information going forward to advance our society. These practices will put my critical thinking skills to use. This is what makes me passionate about my education in and outside of the classroom.

“Kirsten, you are always to take it all in, okay? Notice the little things, notice the people, make sure everyone is seen, make sure everyone is heard as well.” My dad said this to me when I was sixteen before he passed away, the last time we went to our waterfall together. I know what he meant now. I try every day to see the world as he did, always appreciating the small things, never underestimating anyone or anything's significance.

I plan to make a positive impact in the world by combining my passions for healthcare and medicine as well as law, politics, policy, and social considerations. I have had some hands-on experience shadowing and learning about different legal fields, and at this point, I think I want to pursue medical law. I have been intrigued by medical law from a young age. I am a government and political science major at UT Austin with a certificate in Ethics and Leadership in Healthcare. I have a passion for this intersection of medicine, law, and ethics. Through my academic education, passion, and experiences, I hope to learn about the relationship between doctors and patients, the history of how the system we have in the united states came to be, how rules and standard practice can evolve and change, the politics of healthcare (why there is privatized healthcare in the US, how Telehealth from the pandemic has changed healthcare, etc.), the role women play in healthcare, and much more. I want to be able to gain experience through coursework, internships, and research so that I may be able to help someone in the future. Being in school in Texas and with my hometown being Manhattan, I know I have a ton of opportunities. One example of an opportunity I would love to take advantage of is the NYU Medical ethics internship program. NYU has an undergraduate internship opportunity during both the school year semesters and the summer. They offer two internships, one called the Working Group on Pediatric Gene Therapy and Medical Ethics and one called the Working Group on Compassionate Use and Preapproval Access. I would love to work with the Pediatric Gene Therapy and Ethics group. On the website, it says “The mission of the Working Group on Pediatric Gene Therapy and Medical Ethics (PGTME) is to advance research, policy, and education regarding ethical issues surrounding gene therapy trials. We seek to promote an improved understanding of challenges and nascent best practices for ethical research across the evolving landscape of genetic technologies... We give interns real-world experience with collaborative work and problem-solving and research in the field.” I think this real-life connecting experience at NYU would benefit me in unfathomable ways. Through the PGTME, I could get an insight into the ethics and policy regarding hospital procedures for gene therapy in children. Working closely with doctors and hospital administration would be a dream come true for someone who wants to go into medical defense law. Another great opportunity in Austin could be an internship position with Refugee Services of Texas, Austin As the Cash and Medical Assistance (CMA) Program Intern. In the description, it states “The CMA internship will be project-based, both allowing the intern to utilize computer skills, and gain an understanding of the U.S. Refugee Program and the various domestic and international policies influencing refugee resettlement. Interns will work closely with Employment and Social Adjustment Services programs for verification of client eligibility and compliance”. I think I would gain a lot of experience through this opportunity in Austin as well and I think it would definitely be an interesting connecting experience. From each of these academic challenges I hope to look forward to in the future, I know I would take away a really important understanding of the history of the intersection of policy, politics, medical ethics, and how we can use the information going forward to advance our society. These practices will put my critical thinking skills to the test and that is extremely important for education in and outside of the classroom.

1. I don't deserve it but I do want it. Desires are important too. 2. Well I want to follow in the footsteps of my older brother... Kind of. He is also a student at UT Austin and he is a finance major, with a minor in sports management. He wants to go on to be an NFL ref... So I think I should take up a double major in journalism, specifically in the center for sports communication and media division of journalism at UT. Then I want to go on to be a sports journalist on ESPN so I can tell everyone why each of his calls is bad. This is my plot to win the sibling rivalry indefinitely. 3. What's an obstacle?

In March of 2020, on a bitterly cold Sunday morning, my dad appeared at my mom’s apartment door for ‘dinner’ at 9 am. He was dizzy, confused, and most alarmingly, he was convinced that it was 9 pm. Even though he was known for being ‘kooky’ at times, this was different. Only a week later, the doctor confirmed our hunch, informing us that he did have lung cancer that now metastasized to his brain. I’ve never been so devastated, breathing in our family’s silent suspicions as true. His cancer had entered its final stages - he was entering his final stages. All thoughts of the upcoming SAT, spats with friends, school work, even the pandemic, immediately disappeared. For the next month and a half, I watched the man who had been my rock for seventeen years deteriorate. It was my turn to be a rock. I’m not going to lie and say I did a perfect job of holding myself together. During the times he was coherent, I could convince myself everything was normal, laughing and debating with him like always. But during the times he fell silent or disoriented, I often snuck away to try to process the reality of our situation. This is really when Jesus stepped into my life. Through the hardest time in my life, I had to rely on Him. Let me tell you, it is very easy to trust in the Lord in the best of times, but it can feel challenging in the worst of times. I questioned for a while why this would happen. How could this possibly be part of a bigger plan? I wanted to pray for a miracle, and while God does make miracles happen sometimes, I knew this wouldn't be the case. So instead, I had to pray for love, peace, compassion from those around me. I would pray that Jesus would take my father in his arms when it was his time. I would pray that my family would comfort my dad. I prayed that my dad did not have to suffer too much pain. I prayed that we would get to spend time with him as much as possible. I prayed that my father would start believing. And because of the Lord's good work, I was blessed with these things. I listened to my father's favorite songs with him, stared at his treasured artwork, and prayed for his comfort. Sometimes I stood on the shoulders of my brother and mother; sometimes they stood on mine, and we all stood in the comfort of the Lord. On April 16, my father passed away. We surrounded him, and he us, with the Lord and our everlasting love.

The broken street light on 76th, where you can cross both ways at once. The Wagner MS 167 poster, tacked onto the bulletin board of 82nd since the 1980s. The Pavilion Building on 78th, where I used to trick or treat every Halloween. All of these lie within the ten blocks between 1560 York Avenue to 1360 York Avenue. I’ve walked these ten blocks my entire life, making my way from my mom’s apartment to my dad’s apartment and back again. I never fully acknowledged the importance of noticing the small fragments of what makes up this walk - that is, not until the last six months. I still try to take that same ten-block walk every week, but now, I find myself trying to inhale every little detail along the way. I step out of my mom’s vestibule door at 1560 York Avenue and the strong whiff of sausage stretches across the street from Ottomanelli’s on 82nd. Its forest green awning looks the same as always, simple and slightly run down. There, under that awning, I first met my guitar teacher eight years ago. I pass my friend Julia’s building on 81st, D'Agostino’s grocery store on the corner of 80th, my old elementary school that encompasses the entire block between 78th and 77th. I pause, remembering myself as a kindergartner, wishing I could have my older brother’s teacher, now realizing she’s chosen me as her assistant for the past five years. I cross the intersection, wondering if the sweet elderly couple still rents out videos on 76th. As I move along to 75th, I can taste the brownies my grandma would buy for me every day after elementary school from Beanocchio's. The next place, on 72nd, is my final destination. Here, too, everything is the same as it’s always been. That is, except for one thing: there is a ‘for rent’ sign hanging from my dad’s apartment window. On April 16th of 2020, during the midst of the Coronavirus pandemic, my dad passed away from stage four lung cancer, metastatic to his brain. He lived his last days at 1360 York Avenue, Apartment L4. My mom, brother, and I crammed ourselves inside of this space for months leading up to his death, spending precious time with him. Back in my childhood bedroom, I stood against the “height wall” and realized that I measured the same as I had in seventh grade. Beside my dad’s bed, which had been moved to the living room, I spent hours staring at his handmade artwork, “Birds of Paradise,” a drawing of a flower, enclosed in a cylindrical glass frame with beautiful blue hummingbirds painted on it. I had time to contemplate the multiple sculptures from all around the world and the clutter all over the living room table. A familiar voice jolts me back into the present. I hear the building’s superintendent discussing water pressure with a tenant, someone I know I’ve met countless times before, but whose name I now realize I’ve never learned. Cracking a small smile, I wave to them, take a deep breath, and round the corner. This turn leads me to a man-made patio with a waterfall in its center, a patio where my dad frequently brought me when I was younger. I sit down on a bench, absorbing the sounds of the water flowing and the chattering voices around me. “Kirsten, you are always to take it all in, okay? Notice the little things, notice the people. Make sure everyone is seen and is heard as well.” My dad said this to me when I was sixteen, the last time we went to the waterfall together. I know what he meant, now. I try every day to see the world as he did, always appreciating the small things, never underestimating their significance.

During my sophomore year of high school, our Spanish teacher took her maternity leave. Our administration hired three different substitute teachers, yet none was able to convey the material effectively to our admittedly rowdy class. Needless to say, when our original teacher returned six months later, our class was nearly a year behind in Spanish. I questioned the choice of starting junior year Spanish with essentially a freshman’s background, so I had a few choices. Option A: to quit a foreign language altogether, as Spanish is the only LoTE class offered at my high school. Option B: to spend my summer attempting to essentially teach myself a year of Spanish, and to continue into junior year utterly unprepared. These options weren't my favorite, so I began to search for Option C. On my bucket list, I’ve always kept “learn sign language” towards the top. I started to connect the dots. I did my research - lots and lots of research. Ultimately, I chose to follow the course of a virtual program hosted by the Gallaudet Schools online Sign Language program. Though my school does not offer credit for American Sign Language, I realized I could utilize the time I would have otherwise spent in Spanish class to follow my yearning to learn ASL. So, through short, soundless videos each day, and modules that adjust speed and track progress, I soon spoke my first sentence: “Hi, nice to meet you, my name is K-I-R-S-T-E-N.” Now into my second year of studying ASL, I’m even more enamored by its beauty. Like any other language, it possesses its own grammatical rules and phrases. Like few other languages, it possesses a unique ability to include the deaf and hard of hearing community - a community that is too often marginalized. As a future lawyer with the intention of advocating for constitutional and civil liberties, I cannot, and I will not, exclude the differently-abled from my work. Yes, I realize that learning ASL is only a small step towards achieving that goal and that I have many more steps to take. Thus far, I’ve opened up just one conversation using ASL, with an older woman who is hard of hearing, and who works at our school as a teacher’s aide. That one conversation, though, propelled me to keep going, not just in my study of ASL, but in my quest to become as knowledgeable as I can as I strive to achieve my life-long goal of facilitating equity for all.

The broken street light on 76th, where you can cross both ways at once. The Wagner MS 167 poster, tacked onto the bulletin board of 82nd since the 1980s. The Pavilion Building on 78th, where I used to trick or treat every Halloween. All of these lie within the ten blocks between 1560 York Avenue to 1360 York Avenue. I’ve walked these ten blocks my entire life, making my way from my mom’s apartment to my dad’s apartment and back again. I never fully acknowledged the importance of noticing the small fragments of what makes up this walk - that is, not until the last six months. I still try to take that same ten-block walk every week, but now, I find myself trying to inhale every little detail along the way. I step out of my mom’s vestibule door at 1560 York Avenue and the strong whiff of sausage stretches across the street from Ottomanelli’s on 82nd. Its forest green awning looks the same as always, simple and slightly run down. There, under that awning, I first met my guitar teacher eight years ago. I pass my friend Julia’s building on 81st, D'Agostino’s grocery store on the corner of 80th, my old elementary school that encompasses the entire block between 78th and 77th. I pause, remembering myself as a kindergartner, wishing I could have my older brother’s teacher, now realizing she’s chosen me as her assistant for the past five years. I cross the intersection, wondering if the sweet elderly couple still rents out videos on 76th. As I move along to 75th, I can taste the brownies my grandma would buy for me every day after elementary school from Beanocchio's. The next place, on 72nd, is my final destination. Here, too, everything is the same as it’s always been. That is, except for one thing: there is a ‘for rent’ sign hanging from my dad’s apartment window. On April 16th of 2020, during the midst of the Coronavirus pandemic, my dad passed away from stage four lung cancer, metastatic to his brain. He lived his last days at 1360 York Avenue, Apartment L4. My mom, brother, and I crammed ourselves inside of this space for months leading up to his death, spending precious time with him. Back in my childhood bedroom, I stood against the “height wall” and realized that I measured the same as I had in seventh grade. Beside my dad’s bed, which had been moved to the living room, I spent hours staring at his handmade artwork, “Birds of Paradise,” a drawing of a flower, enclosed in a cylindrical glass frame with beautiful blue hummingbirds painted on it. I had time to contemplate the multiple sculptures from all around the world and the clutter all over the living room table. A familiar voice jolts me back into the present. I hear the building’s superintendent discussing water pressure with a tenant, someone I know I’ve met countless times before, but whose name I now realize I’ve never learned. Cracking a small smile, I wave to them, take a deep breath, and round the corner. This turn leads me to a man-made patio with a waterfall in its center, a patio where my dad frequently brought me when I was younger. I sit down on a bench, absorbing the sounds of the water flowing and the chattering voices around me. “Kirsten, you are always to take it all in, okay? Notice the little things, notice the people. Make sure everyone is seen and is heard as well.” My dad said this to me when I was sixteen, the last time we went to the waterfall together. I know what he meant, now. I try every day to see the world as he did, always appreciating the small things, never underestimating their significance.

The broken street light on 76th, where you can cross both ways at once. The Wagner MS 167 poster, tacked onto the bulletin board of 82nd since the 1980s. The Pavilion Building on 78th, where I used to trick or treat every Halloween. All of these lie within the ten blocks between 1560 York Avenue to 1360 York Avenue. I’ve walked these ten blocks my entire life, making my way from my mom’s apartment to my dad’s apartment and back again. I never fully acknowledged the importance of noticing the small fragments of what makes up this walk - that is, not until the last six months. I still try to take that same ten-block walk every week, but now, I find myself trying to inhale every little detail along the way. I step out of my mom’s vestibule door at 1560 York Avenue and the strong whiff of sausage stretches across the street from Ottomanelli’s on 82nd. Its forest green awning looks the same as always, simple and slightly run down. There, under that awning, I first met my guitar teacher eight years ago. I pass my friend Julia’s building on 81st, D'Agostino’s grocery store on the corner of 80th, my old elementary school that encompasses the entire block between 78th and 77th. I pause, remembering myself as a kindergartner, wishing I could have my older brother’s teacher, now realizing she’s chosen me as her assistant for the past five years. I cross the intersection, wondering if the sweet elderly couple still rents out videos on 76th. As I move along to 75th, I can taste the brownies my grandma would buy for me every day after elementary school from Beanocchio's. The next place, on 72nd, is my final destination. Here, too, everything is the same as it’s always been. That is, except for one thing: there is a ‘for rent’ sign hanging from my dad’s apartment window. On April 16th of 2020, during the midst of the Coronavirus pandemic, my dad passed away from stage four lung cancer, metastatic to his brain. He lived his last days at 1360 York Avenue, Apartment L4. My mom, brother, and I crammed ourselves inside of this space for months leading up to his death, spending precious time with him. Back in my childhood bedroom, I stood against the “height wall” and realized that I measured the same as I had in seventh grade. Beside my dad’s bed, which had been moved to the living room, I spent hours staring at his handmade artwork, “Birds of Paradise,” a drawing of a flower, enclosed in a cylindrical glass frame with beautiful blue hummingbirds painted on it. I had time to contemplate the multiple sculptures from all around the world and the clutter all over the living room table. A familiar voice jolts me back into the present. I hear the building’s superintendent discussing water pressure with a tenant, someone I know I’ve met countless times before, but whose name I now realize I’ve never learned. Cracking a small smile, I wave to them, take a deep breath, and round the corner. This turn leads me to a man-made patio with a waterfall in its center, a patio where my dad frequently brought me when I was younger. I sit down on a bench, absorbing the sounds of the water flowing and the chattering voices around me. “Kirsten, you are always to take it all in, okay? Notice the little things, notice the people. Make sure everyone is seen and is heard as well.” My dad said this to me when I was sixteen, the last time we went to the waterfall together. I know what he meant, now. I try every day to see the world as he did, always appreciating the small things, never underestimating their significance.

I've always had weird talents since I was little. People used to tease me about being able to memorize song lyrics instead of my times' tables and loving card magic sleight of hand instead of cooking and baking. Yet, two things I was made fun of for, evolved into some of the greatest joys in my life. Let me explain how... “Ah summalama domalma you assuming I'm a human what I got to do to get it through to you I’m superhuman...” My brother’s friends stare at me, bewildered; they’d only heard this song for the first time, too, and it’s the little sister who’s already belting out its lyrics. I’m used to these stares. Before I knew that it was uncommon to hear a song and immediately recite its words in its entirety, I’d received those looks quite often. Unfortunately for my pop star career, I wasn’t as blessed by my vocal cords as by my memory. Fast forward to an errand-filled Saturday, my nine-year-old self tagging along behind my mom and brother, entering a behemoth-like store: Guitar Center. Among the shiny, jam-packed instruments and electronics and accessories, my eyes latched onto a tiny, tan, acoustic guitar, looking almost lonely in a corner. A kind associate must have noticed my affection for it and allowed me to try playing it. I suppose that moment exemplifies ‘love at first sight’- or sound. I promised my mom that I’d commit to lessons if we bought ‘my’ guitar. Eight years later, Issac Darshe still teaches me to listen to the nuances of a song: its strum patterns, chord changes, notes, and harmonies. By taking my unique talent for memorizing lyrics and broadening its scope, I channeled my passion for music into a way I can create joy and peace for myself and others - and while I play, they sing. Although I was never great at learning any foreign languages, I've always been crafty and good with my hands. On my bucket list, I’ve always kept “learn sign language” towards the top. I did my research - lots and lots of research. Ultimately, I chose to follow the course of a virtual program hosted by the Gallaudet Schools online Sign Language program. Though my school does not offer credit for American Sign Language, I realized I could utilize the time I would have otherwise spent in Spanish class to follow my yearning to learn ASL. So, through short, soundless videos each day, and modules that adjust speed and track progress, I soon spoke my first sentence: “Hi, nice to meet you, my name is K-I-R-S-T-E-N.” Now into my second year of studying ASL, I’m even more enamored by its beauty. Like any other language, it possesses its own grammatical rules and phrases. Like few other languages, it possesses a unique ability to include the deaf and hard of hearing community - a community that is too often marginalized. As a future lawyer with the intention of advocating for constitutional and civil liberties, I cannot, and I will not exclude the differently-abled from my work. Yes, I realize that learning ASL is only a small step towards achieving that goal and that I have many more steps to take. Thus far, I’ve opened up just one conversation using ASL, with an older woman who is hard of hearing, and who works at our school as a teacher’s aide. That one conversation, though, propelled me to keep going, not just in my study of ASL, but in my quest to become as knowledgeable as I can as I strive to achieve my life-long goal of facilitating equity for all. Taking up my weird talents at a young age caused me to transform them into my favorite pass times now, with beauty and personal sentimental meanings behind each one.

The broken street light on 76th, where you can cross both ways at once. The Wagner MS 167 poster, tacked onto the bulletin board of 82nd since the 1980s. The Pavilion Building on 78th, where I used to trick or treat every Halloween. All of these lie within the ten blocks between 1560 York Avenue to 1360 York Avenue. I’ve walked these ten blocks my entire life, making my way from my mom’s apartment to my dad’s apartment and back again. I never fully acknowledged the importance of noticing the small fragments of what makes up this walk - that is, not until the last six months. I still try to take that same ten-block walk every week, but now, I find myself trying to inhale every little detail along the way. I step out of my mom’s vestibule door at 1560 York Avenue and the strong whiff of sausage stretches across the street from Ottomanelli’s on 82nd. Its forest green awning looks the same as always, simple and slightly run down. There, under that awning, I first met my guitar teacher eight years ago. I pass my friend Julia’s building on 81st, D'Agostino’s grocery store on the corner of 80th, my old elementary school that encompasses the entire block between 78th and 77th. I pause, remembering myself as a kindergartner, wishing I could have my older brother’s teacher, now realizing she’s chosen me as her assistant for the past five years. I cross the intersection, wondering if the sweet elderly couple still rents videos on 76th, and as I move along to 75th, I can taste the brownies my grandma would buy for me every day after elementary school from Beanocchio's. The next place, on 72nd, is my final destination. Here, too, everything is the same as it’s always been. That is, except for one thing: there is a ‘for rent’ sign hanging from my dad’s apartment window.  On April 16th of 2020, during the midst of the Coronavirus pandemic, my dad passed away from stage four lung cancer, metastatic to his brain. He lived his last days in 1360 York Avenue, Apartment L4. My mom, brother, and I crammed ourselves inside of this space for the months leading up to his death, laughing with him, dressing up for my parents' Zoom wedding (yes, they got married over Zoom during the pandemic), or simply being present in the space he had occupied for decades.  Back in my childhood bedroom, I stood against the “height wall,” where I still measured the same as I had in seventh grade. Beside my dad’s bed, which had been moved to the living room, I spent hours staring at his handmade artwork, “Birds of Paradise,” a drawing of a flower enclosed in a cylindrical glass frame with beautiful blue hummingbirds painted on it. And I had time to contemplate his multiple sculptures from all around the world, the inexplicable clutter all over his living room table, and listening to his lengthy stories that accompanied random photographs scattered throughout his apartment. A familiar voice jolts me back into the present, and I hear the building’s superintendent discussing water pressure with a tenant, someone I know I’ve met countless times before, but whose name I now shamefully realize I’ve never even learned. Cracking a small smile, I wave to them, take a deep breath, and round the corner. This turn leads me to a man-made patio with a waterfall in its center, a patio where my dad frequently brought me when I was younger. I take a seat on a bench, absorbing the sounds of the water moving up and down among the chattering voices around me. “Kirsten, you are always to take it all in, okay? Notice the little things, notice the people, make sure everyone is seen, make sure everyone is heard as well.” He said this to me when I was sixteen, the last time we went to the waterfall together. I know what he meant, now. I try every day to see the world as he did, always appreciating the small things, never underestimating their significance. 

“At some point, you gotta stop looking up at the sky, or one of these days you'll look back down and see that you floated away, too.”- John Green A tiny smile casts over my face as I re-read John Green’s novel, “Paper Towns”. The sentence above is highlighted, underlined, and has notes scribbled frantically in the margin. I have spent a multitude of hours contemplating the meaning of this sentence. Sometimes, this metaphor has meant one can and should have dreams, but if you never do anything with those dreams, nothing will happen. Sometimes, this metaphor has meant you can’t take the things you have for granted, or you may lose those too. Both of these meanings represent the different places of my life, and they both have proved to be helpful. Age thirteen: One can and should have dreams, but if you never do anything with those dreams, nothing will happen. Anxiety passed through me, as it seemed like every other thirteen years old had their “life plan” figured out. Some friends wanted to become veterinarians, flight attendances, and racecar drivers. I, on the other hand, loved volleyball, guitar, history, and reading, but I didn't know what my “life plan” was. When I read this quote, I pondered how I could channel what I love into something more. I sit here now, pursuing thoughts of going to law school someday, specifically focused on constitutional law. This metaphor expanded my sense of self and pushed me to question what I want out of life. Age seventeen: You can’t take the things you have for granted, or you may lose those too. You have no right to assume that things will always be there. After reading this book for the seventh time in four years, I understood this. My junior and senior years of high school have been a whirlwind of chaos so far. I went through a lot of heartaches in the four months of quarantine, between my dad passing away, my three best friends moving out of state, and increasing worry of the pandemic spreading like wildfire in the city I call home. This metaphor hit me deeply this time because of where I am in my life. As I stare at that quote, I take out my phone and hit the notes app. A list of all the good things... Once I am done, I have a list of over sixty small things to be grateful for. I learned to appreciate all of these things, because they may not always be around. This metaphor was extremely helpful to me because I now seek to understand the balance between these two meanings and live every day in the present.

“Ah summalama domalma you assuming I'm a human what I got to do to get it through to you I’m superhuman...” My brother’s friends stare at me, bewildered; they’d only heard this song for the first time, too, and it’s the little sister who’s already belting out its lyrics. I’m used to these stares. Before I knew that it was uncommon to hear a song and immediately recite its words in its entirety, I’d received those looks quite often. The best way I know to express myself is through music. Whether I’m spewing “Rap God” by Eminem, singing “Kill the Director” by The Wombats, belting “28 hours/Wherever We Are” from the musical Come from Away, or humming the famous Jazz tune “Earth Angel” by The Penguins, I am extremely passionate about expressing myself through song. Unfortunately for my pop star career, I wasn’t as blessed by my vocal cords as by my memory. Fast forward to an errand-filled Saturday, my nine-year-old self tagging along behind my mom and brother, entering a behemoth-like store: Guitar Center. Among the shiny, jam-packed instruments and electronics and accessories, my eyes latched onto a tiny, tan, acoustic guitar, looking almost lonely in a corner. A kind associate must have noticed my affection for it and allowed me to try playing it. I suppose that moment exemplifies ‘love at first sight’- or sound. I promised my mom that I’d commit to lessons if we bought ‘my’ guitar. Eight years later, Issac Darshe, my guitar teacher, still teaches me to listen to the nuances of a song: its strum patterns, chord changes, notes, and harmonies. Music opens up so many lines of communication that were not available beforehand. No matter what a person’s background or culture is, you can bond through music. I will continue to learn and create music every day. By taking my unique talent for memorizing lyrics and broadening its scope, I channeled my passion for music into a way I can express joy and peace for myself and for others - and while I play, they sing. 

I want to write about morality and what it means to be human. While this might seem like a cliche, I would want to tie in the story of my father, who passed away last April. Rather than trying to explain what I mean, I will give you a peek. It would go something like this: Chapter One: The gold chain necklace and a voicemail If there are two things that my dad and I have in common, it’s that we are both incredibly messy and that we both suck at texting and calling back at good times. Therefore, we are bound to leave each other and many other people endless voicemails, and constantly having everyone tell us to clean up. “Hi curly, it’s dad. Uhh this is our new phone number, it’s the house line, and uh we just wanted to let you know. Okay, we will see you for dinner! Love you, love you, love you”. I have this voicemail on repeat as I paced back and forth down the hardwood floor of my dad's apartment. I look into the bedroom on the left, but it is one I don’t recognize. My dad would be considered a low-profile hoarder, but with each thing came a different memory. Every photo in that apartment with a backstory to it. “That was the night I accidentally crashed a wedding!” or “this was your first Halloween!”. I turn into the bedroom that I no longer knew. It’s clear now I would even say pretty. The floor was no longer covered in clothes and the shelves were now organized picture frame by picture frame. The TV isn't blaring at 88 volume. There are no more clothes left in the closet. My father had died, one week prior to this incident. He passed on April 16th, 2020 at 6:52 pm from Lung Cancer, metastatic to his brain. The place I once called home had turned into a place for despair because I can’t look anywhere without wanting to cry. I trace my finger along with an old, dusty table. I am met by an orange box, one with nothing indicating what’s inside. Inside this mystery box, I find a simple but absolutely stunning gold chain. Of course, I instantly wrapped it around my neck. Not because it’s beautiful, not because it’s gold, but because it’s my dad's. It’s a piece of his life story that I get to carry around with me every single day for the rest of my life. So to remember my dad, I keep his necklace around me at all times. On the days when I talk to him or ask him for advice, I just grasp the chain and immediately feel comfortable. When I miss his voice, I play all the old voicemails that I have because we often played phone tag. It may not seem like much to anyone else, but the most valuable things in my life are a simple gold chain and a voicemail.

As a native New Yorker, I’ve devoured cuisines from all over the world, inadvertently learned to greet people in almost a dozen languages and I celebrate Indigenous People’s Day instead of Columbus Day. I have always been aware of other cultures and if not for my seventeen years in the city, I would be a far less educated person. That being said, I have witnessed the normalization of racism on the internet and even in my community. My drive for advocating comes from witnessing injustices within my area. Before the pandemic erupted, internal chaos was already brewing within my high school community. Some students had taken to overtly and frequently using the n-word, and at least one student had scrawled an anti-Semitic slur on a Jewish teacher’s desk. Some laughed off these atrocities as “jokes” but most of us felt appalled. Our small, seemingly tight-knit community began exhibiting signs of splintering. As pockets of chatter became louder, a concerned group of students and I brainstormed ways to proactively address the diverse concerns of our peers. Ultimately, our efforts resulted in forming an official leadership panel composed of students, teachers, and administrators. Formally called the Equity Team, in this forum, everyone sits at the same table, and we contribute equally, listen intently, all driven by the common goal of bringing our school back together. We’ve led walkouts to support climate change activism; we’ve organized ‘town halls’ where all interested parties can articulate their opinions; we’ve addressed ongoing problems as they arise, unafraid of changing what always has been done to what currently needs to be done. Yet, my work to make a change does not stop at my high school. Hearing the pain in the voices of others is a call to protect and make an impact. We must work together to make this impact. I myself am fascinated with culture and make frequent efforts to learn about the customs and history by visiting museums and landmarks. Being able to see the world from the perspective of others has always been important to me. I have realized the plethora of empathy that comes with diversity. With these varying viewpoints from people of all backgrounds and customs, we can contribute to each other’s overall understanding of the world, and gain insight into differing ideas. In recognizing each other’s differences, we can take advantage of all of the opportunities for learning and growth. We can begin challenging ourselves to view life from the perspective of another. In expanding our own viewpoints, we better connect, and we are able to resolve issues with various approaches.

The greatest inspiration in life is my hometown, New York City. I grew up in Manhattan, experiencing both the most beautiful and the most devastating events. New York isn't just The Plaza, Times Square, and Rockefeller Center. That is not what inspires me, nor what makes my city beautiful. The reality is I grew up in two separate homes in the city. I had to apply to public middle and high schools. I watched as my father rapidly declined and passed away in April of 2020, in his apartment of thirty years. But I also started to learn how to read at three years old on the six train, by looking at all the posters. I witnessed diversity and acceptance daily. When injustices happen in my city, people speak out against them. I was raised in a politically active city, which has made me question all injustices. While there is both love and hatred in my city, what inspires me most is the concealed beauty. The Bitter End, a live music venue, that I grew up going to. The Lighthouse on Roosevelt Island, tied in my life by the creation of mini-movies and picnics with my best friend. Madison Square Park, where I would often eat lunch with friends after school. The steps of Lincoln Center, aka my thinking spot. These things may seem trivial to others, but they are beautiful to me because these intimate details make my city special. New York inspires me because, in the past few years, I have had the opportunity to dive into my city in a way that many may not. I have the privilege of being able to go walk up the street from my school and sit in the New York City Appellate Division Court. What inspires me is that New York has given me opportunities to watch, listen, educate and make the world a better place. That's what drives me, what gives me hope, and what pushes me to do better.

My interest in politics and social issues started at a very young age. Specifically, I remember being only nine years old when I started to form an opinion on gun reform after the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting. At the time, I knew that something was extremely wrong in our country, but I did not understand the legislation behind how it happened or how to fix the problems. Being raised in a generation of March For Our Lives, #MeToo, Black Lives Matter, and countless more social-political movements, I discovered my passion for the advocacy of marginalized people. I have elected to pursue Political Science and Government as my major in college so that I can make a meaningful impact through advocacy. This is perfect for me because many of the schools I am applying to have an "issue advocacy track". Through these sorts of programs, I can take advantage of and learn about everything from public policy to negotiation to the rhetoric of social movements. These classes are taught by renowned professors who work within the political system. After my time in an undergraduate program, I believe that I want to go to law school and eventually become a civil liberties or constitutional lawyer. Therefore, I believe that as an undergrad student, the major of political science and government will put me on the perfect track to do just that.

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Most dogs hate long trips in the car. Whether it is because they get motion sickness, don't like where they are going, or anything in between, they are usually just not up for it. In contrast, the car is my dog Gracie's favorite place in the world. She smiles brightest here. We don't think it's because she is particularly fond of the car itself, but rather about being included in the family outing. Here's a picture that was taken by myself, @kirsten_corrigan on Instagram.