Crossover: Wizards of Waverly Place and Jessie. Title: "Abraca-Kipling" Plot: The episode starts at the Russo's Waverly Sub Station. Jessie, the kids, and Mr. Kipling are out in New York and stop at the station for lunch. While there, Mr. Kipling slips his leash and finds his way into the Russo's magic lair. Ravi freaks out and runs back into the kitchen. Justin immediately steps in and tells him he can't be back there. Ravi tells him about Mr. Kipling disappearing and Justin realizes where the lizard actually went. Justin tries to divert Ravi's attention saying the lizard must've gone out the front. Ravi still isn't convinced, so Alex steps in and Luke joins. Eventually, both the Russo kids and Jessie's kids are all arguing. Jessie intervenes and is determined to find out where Mr. Kipling went. The Russos agree to let them look around upstairs since they refuse to leave. While Justin leads them upstairs, he sends Alex and Max to deal with Mr. Kipling. As they brainstorm how to get the lizard out, Max attempts a spell they learned. However, it goes haywire and makes Mr. Kipling super tiny. Alex runs upstairs to get Justin and he tells her to distract the kids. As Alex leads them around, Justin goes to the lair and tries to capture Mr. Kipling. But when the lizard crawls up his pants, he screams, flings Mr. Kipling off, and runs upstairs. He begs Alex to go back down and grab him. Alex runs back to the lair and manages to capture Mr. Kipling in a jar. When she attempts to fix him she accidently makes him four times as big as before. She runs back to grab Justin and, exasperated, he tells Max to entertain their guests while he helps Alex. Meanwhile, Jessie becomes suspicious. Max attempts to distract them with some poor juggling -- which works on Luke and Zuri, while Emma sits on her phone, and Ravi continues to frantically yell out for Mr. Kipling. Jessie asks Max where they keep running off to. Max lies and says they are making lizard sandwiches to lure Mr. Kipling out of hiding, but Jessie doesn't believe him. She demands he tell her where Mr. Kipling is. The other kids gather around him and he caves, telling them he's in their magic wizard lair downstairs. Jessie tells him if he's going to lie then she'll just find out herself. She stomps downstairs, followed by Ravi, Luke, Emma, and Zuri. Max runs ahead, immediately stepping in front of the freezer. Jessie is furious, thinking Mr. Kipling is in the freezer, but when she pulls Max to the side and opens the door she finds the Wizard Lair. Ravi pushes through, thinking Mr. Kipling is inside. He screams when he encounters a 6-foot-tall Mr. Kipling in front of Justin and Alex blasting magic spells at him. While Jessie and the kids stand dumbfounded, Justin grabs Ravi and says the only way to return Mr. Kipling to his original size is to calm him down. Ravi starts to pet Mr. Kipling's leg and sing a lullaby. As he calms down, Justin blasts another spell and the lizard returns to his normal size. Meanwhile, Luke, Zuri, and Emma are screaming about how he's a sorcerer who's going to put a curse on them. Justin decides to play into it and tells them they can't tell anyone what they saw or he'll zap him with his evil wizard powers. Jessie and the kids then go home, agreeing they must've eaten some bad sandwiches to have a hallucination like that.

Every decision I make has potential to impact the environment -- including my choice of transportation, food, and hobbies. It can be difficult to catch all the little ways my actions can harm the planet or the little ways I can make a difference. As a college student, I already walk everywhere and am lucky enough to have easy access to school-provided public transportation. Many of the buses are also hybrid, for even lower emissions. For further excursions to the mall, grocery stores, or large bookstores, I use my bike or the wider district's bus system instead of a car service. The greatest complication in my transportation carbon footprint is traveling home for the holidays. I go to school in Michigan, but my family lives in Maryland. This means multiple, emission-heavy flights a year. I reduce the impact of this by carpooling, instead of taking a plane, with other students from my hometown. This doesn't always line up in terms of timing, but can greatly reduce my carbon footprint. Food is a little trickier. I am limited by my budget as a student and more sustainable food options can be expensive. I avoid individually packaged snacks to minimize my plastic waste and have a goal to only eat meat twice a week. I am also lucky enough to live near a farmer's market and food co-op where I can shop for local produce and have access to refillable ingredients. I opt to go out to eat instead of ordering in because, especially in Michigan, excessive plastic and styrofoam packaging are used for take-out. One of the most difficult ways for me to live sustainably is through my hobbies. I absolutely love to paint and draw -- it lets me use my imagination and offers some much-needed escapism from the stressors of college. The drawback is that I paint best with acrylics, which are made of plastic and come in plastic bottles. They also release microplastics and toxic dye into the water system when washing the brushes. Instead of sacrificing my passion, I altered the way I practice it. Now, I go on lengthy walks collecting sources of natural dye (flowers, pine needles, etc.) or even just explore my house for old makeup or other sources of pigment. I then grind them up and make my own paints. Not wanting to waste the numerous bottles of acrylic paint I still have, however, I have been using them up. To reduce microplastics when cleaning, I collect any dried acrylic paint in a container and I wash my brushes in a designated paint cup before setting aside the water to eventually evaporate. This way, no paint is ever washed directly down the drain. In other hobbies, like watching TV, I try to limit my screen time to reduce electricity. I restrict my electronic activities until after it gets dark, so I can make optimal use of natural lighting for hobbies such as drawing, reading, etc. Overall, I do my best to live sustainably and encourage others to do the same. However, I live with the philosophy that sustainability is not all or nothing. The concept that it is can discourage people from trying at all. Sustainability is not a competition and everyone's situation is different. Not everyone has reliable access to public transportation, the time to walk everywhere, or the funds to purchase local produce or eco-friendly products. Living sustainably is about doing the best you can do because every little bit counts.

"Look at the bigger picture" -- a common phrase and directive of my childhood. However, in an age of infinite platforms crammed with headlines of a changing climate and rampant inequality, it's almost impossible to avoid "the bigger picture". Catching a breath has become an art form and is achieved in the tiny moments when I'm focused on the here and the now. This year, a professor introduced me to the idea of nature journaling. Simply detaching from civilization and taking a seat in the daily hum of nature. On my bookshelf now sits a notebook full of leaves and the journeys of small bugs and sketches of sunsets. My favorite moment, recorded in those pages, was merely a blip in time. One evening on a forest trail, I encountered a gathering of crows. I heard them before I saw them. Creeping quickly and quietly, I dodged fallen leaves and slipped behind a tree. I watched several pecking at fallen chestnuts. When I looked up, there were dozens more resting on tree limbs, muttering amongst themselves. One must've sensed my presence because as I took a step closer they all erupted in unison. For the briefest moment, their wings blacked out the sky and wind from their ascent grasped at autumn leaves and yellowing grass. I completely forgot about any sort of picture, big or small, for that one moment -- captivated by nature's simple and elegant visions. Moments like that are what bring me joy and most aren't even as grandiose. Often, it's just a gathering of mushrooms or a particularly lovely oak tree or a sparrow that wandered closer than usual. These moments are the ones I keep in my mind -- a much needed solace for when looking at "the bigger picture" becomes a bit too much.

I would quite like to see an increase in kindness towards each other. Growing up in a rather affluent area, luxuries such as multiple cars, a smartphone in the back pocket, and reliable internet were viewed as commonplace. The mentality of living without a care for the cost stratified my community along unspoken lines. Kids who couldn't afford designer clothes or exotic excursions fell to the wayside and those who could barely afford lunch fell even further. The divide came laced with judgments across groups, separated by their parents' money at an age where one's wealth should have no effect on connections. The cruelty of this separation was never deliberate but instead arose when someone couldn't afford to go out to eat or attend a summer beach trip. They would simply get left behind, often too embarrassed to admit the true reason for their isolation. Parents model that same behavior. They neglect to invite an old friend to a high-class restaurant to avoid the awkward handling of the bill. More commonly, adults in my community teach their children to avoid even meeting eyes with those of a homeless person. To avoid people who don't share their wealth. Many kids I met in school even came to believe that those living on the streets did not deserve their charity as they assume they somehow deserve to be there. To thrive as a society--within our own hometowns, within our own nation, and on our own planet--is to have a mind open to each other. A mind that recognizes each other's differences and accepts them. I was also taught at a young age to be skeptical of people huddled behind card-board signs on the sidewalk. It took a small action, but I suppose a bigger message, to break my mind free from the stereotyped box I had placed my neighbors in. When walking with my dad downtown, we ran across a man on park bench--his life's belonging piled up in a grocery cart to his left as he gazed up at the blue of a summer sky. Hearing us pass, he gave us a smile and a little wave. In that moment, he reminded me of my grandfather with his wispy white hair and friendly grin. It was the first time I saw a homeless person as just that--a person. My father, also seeing the man, offered to buy him a coffee. Being the very person who planted my suspicion of the homeless, my dad's action startled me. But, my 10 year-old surprise quickly turned to excitement as the man and my dad launched into conversation. I don't quite remember what they talked about. Maybe the weather or their childhoods or their mutual love of coffee. It doesn't matter. My dad and I both walked away with an altered understanding. We had crossed the ridiculous and thin, but powerful line that separated us from that man on the park bench. Soon after, we volunteered at a local soup kitchen through the program So Others Might Eat. This led to more conversations and more ventures across the line until the line became so blurred it could barely be called a line at all. When I was old enough, I further expanded my perspective by joining my church on youth service trips. In New Mexico, I cultivated a community garden alongside local kids through The Boys and Girls Club of America. In West Virginia, I befriended a family of eight when I helped insulate their trailer home. In Philadelphia, I made, plated, and served meals to hundreds of homeless men and women and children before joining them to eat and swap stories. Throughout it all, the only thing that it took to blur that line between us was an act of kindness. A smile or a wave or a word. I hope to see the day where we all get that it's just that simple.

In March 2020, with graduation looming and prom night just out of reach, I had everything to look forward to when my senior year was cut short. Graduation shifted from a packed ceremony in DC to a drive-through at the mall. Prom melted into the background and my last class of high school ended with an unceremonious flash of "leave meeting" button red. Regardless, I still looked to the future. Never having experienced a global pandemic before, I was sure the virus would die down by summer's end. But, as the coronavirus continued to spread with stubborn ferocity, it became clear the ramifications were to extend far beyond the finale of my high school career. Back in January, I had been accepted into my dream school: The University of Michigan. With roaring football games, infinite snow, and an almost equally infinite spread of people and resources, I was itching to leave the house. The virus, however, once again rose to stop me short. The campus would open in the Fall but most classes would be online, most buildings would be closed, the stadium would be shut down, and a school of almost 40,000 students posed increased risks with no change in tuition costs. With a sinking heart, I decided to defer my enrollment a year to diminish health risks and the financial consequences of COVID-19 on my family. Despite initial reservations, my gap year has turned out to be a gift. I know my dream school hasn't disappeared but instead has slipped into a future hopefully filled with greater opportunities and less disease. Within the past year, I have grown closer to my family, developed valuable life skills, and learned the benefits of taking your time. Compared to the immaculate state of my house early last year, tables are now littered with puzzles and board games and the air is thick with new memories. My parents and two sisters bond over the novel struggles of working from home, but remain grateful for the fact it means we all make it to dinner on time. On Fridays, my youngest sister and I test arrays of mini muffins and tea. With light hearts, we pretend we aren't confined to our home and half-barred shut town but lounging in an English café. Saturday nights are spent with the whole family--in the lamplight of the living room with take-out on the coffee table and a game of Clue splayed out amongst discolored napkins. Bright memories that would usually be a rarity, blossom in every corner of the house. Although enduring each family member's constant presence has led to plenty of fights, those have brought us closer together too. They reveal how the stress of a quickly changing world affects all of us and when those anxious feelings explode, we almost feel a little relieved to see everyone is just as stressed. In efforts to alleviate extraneous college costs from the shoulders of my hard-working parents, I have spent my gap year working three steady jobs--as a nanny, tutor, and garden center sales associate--interwoven with the odd stint pulling weeds, pet-sitting, and/or shoveling snow. Balancing my work schedule has taught me time management and the importance of organization, both mentally and physically. Nannying has certainly elevated my ability to compromise and diffuse tense situations as I often find myself in the middle of fights starring: a hyperactive 10-year-old boy and his brazen 12-year-old sister. However, such fights are usually over as quickly as they have begun and, through the magic of young children's minds, a solid five minutes are all that is needed to forget they ever fought in the first place. The ability to forgive with such ease is a skill hard to retain with age, so I'm glad to be reminded of it. As a tutor, I've seen firsthand the effects of online learning on kids in grade school. It has become increasingly evident that connections between friends, peers, and teachers are vital to students' ability to stay motivated and happy. In seeing this, I have rejuvenated efforts to stay connected with my friends virtually. Furthermore, I have cultivated a flexible mindset, so I can remain prepared for a world consistently rife with uncertainty. My most cherished takeaway from this past year, however, is the value of taking your time. The community I grew up in was competitive to the extreme and taking breaks, having gaps in your schedule, or settling for second-best only resulted in pitying looks. In debating my decision to take a gap year, my biggest fear was falling behind my peers and deviating from the life-path that had been hammered into my brain since elementary school. Go to school, get good grades, fill weekends with extra-curriculars, attend a four-year college, get a white-collar job and be "successful". But, in response to these concerns, my mom simply shrugged and asked me: "what's the rush?". My anxious, buzzing thoughts quieted and in the silence, I couldn't think of an answer. She was right. College would still be there in a year. A job would still be there after that. I had always seen my life as a race with a finish line and one winner when I should've been looking at it as more of a walk down a trail with hundreds of branching paths. There's no set destination or crowning outlook, so it's best to slow down, choose a direction that feels right to you, and enjoy the views as they come. In the past year, I've taken that to heart. I've slowed down and delighted in each view I've happened upon, whether it be an unexpected snowfall, a puzzle on the kitchen table, or a smile, only evident by a crinkle in the eyes and a shift behind a mask.

Many of my friends, as well as myself, are stuck at home this year. Right as the coronavirus was blossoming, we graduated high school, eager to fly the nest. However, the virus devastated many such flights as our plans for in-person college and freedom and flourishing individuality were put on hold for another long 365 days. Devastated to still be held captive by the rules of our parents and the whims of our siblings. Devastated by the near nonexistent lines between school and work and home. Group chats devoid of drama and filled with hilarity became our saving grace. I'm one of the few out of my friends who have a pet to provide much-needed solace while at home. As is such, I have been eager to share the fluffy charm of my cat, Clementine, with my pet-less comrades. The meme I've attached encompasses the essence of dozens of images and messages dispersed throughout my online chats, centered around my cuddly orange kitten. A wholesome escape from a too-often distressing reality.

Currently, I am working on building a website to promote environmental awareness. I hope to continuously create and upload artwork inspired by the beauty of nature and its creatures. A major part of my focus is capturing the images of endangered animals or landscapes and pairing such work with a description explaining what needs to be done to save them. Website viewers would have the opportunity to purchase prints of the artwork and all revenue would go towards a green charity of their choice, such as Defenders of Wildlife, the Environmental Defense Fund, or The Sierra Club Foundation. I am an eager learner. I've always held a love for knowledge and when I decided to take a gap year before attending college, I thought I would have to put my academic pursuits on hold. Instead, the opposite happened. I recognized my love for art, my planned major of study, stems from a desire to capture the magnificence of the natural world. I am taking the opportunity of no defined curriculum to delve into the environmental realm school has taught me so little about and develop my passion project. I've altered my planned course of study to include a dual degree in both art and the environment. A dual degree track means I will have a full course load every semester if I want to graduate in four years. This leaves little time to learn the skills I need to develop my website and expand it. I hope to use this grant to pay for an e-commerce course outside of school that will teach me how to sell products online and donate the proceeds, by the book. Having a scholarship cover the cost of this new digital marketing skill would ensure my own savings go towards extra costs for the website, so I can stay true to my vision of 100% of proceeds going towards charity.

Philadelphia is a brilliant city--its crowds of buildings and people brimming with vivacious, creative energy. I visited for the first time in the Summer of 2016 for a church service trip. My youth group and I stayed in a sanctuary on Broad Street, mere blocks away from the glowing center of the city. We spent our first day serving meals to the homeless and the next morning, we set off to explore. After a morning of boat rides and Philly cheesesteaks, we made our way to the train station. The afternoon was reserved for a tour of Kensington, a neighborhood of Philadelphia. Through the window of the subway car, rattling against the tracks, I watched the glass windows and commanding brick dissolve into faded storefronts and crumbling buildings. When the silver doors slid back twenty minutes later, I stepped out onto litter and glass that crunched under my feet. Our team descended the stairs and came to a stop under the tracks, our footsteps followed by the screech of metal on metal as the train departed. Once the sound cleared my ears, I put my surroundings into focus. The disparity between the city center and its outer rim was indisputable, severe and shocking. Residents stumbled about the street, eyes glazed over and mumbling as they lurched towards unknown destinations. Some sat on the curbside, smoking cigarettes and shooting us wary glances. Our tour guide, a young man in a white baseball cap, crossed the street towards us. He introduced himself as a former resident of Kensington who seeks to bring to light the issues its residents face, mainly its pervasive homelessness, its opioid crisis and its lack of means to handle it. Despite bearing the scars of a distraught population, parts of the district were still beautiful, reminiscent of the glow of the inner city. A park, once littered with needles that rendered it impassible, had been cleaned and refurbished with a playground set for the neighborhood children. Across from it, a church stood, upheld by a stone arch and stained glass that reflected the green of the park trees. The tour guide pointed out two bullet holes in a corner pane. Gang violence was yet another issue the area struggled with. As we made our way through the streets of Kensington, we began to reach its edges, specifically a bridge where we would take our leave--back to the sheltered splendor of the church on Broad Street. But just as our tour was coming to an end, a middle-aged man approached our guide. He was tall, with buzzed hair and a yellow shirt, whose chipper color conflicted with the imposing tattoos that wrapped around his arms. The man, Ivan, inquired about our group's purpose in Kensington. Our guide, in response, told him of his mission to raise awareness of Kensington's neglected issues and asked the man if he would like to share his own experience. Ivan's shoulders stooped in a troubled manner and then straightened as he launched into his story. Ivan was born and raised in Kensington. He married at a young age and soon after, they had a daughter. Only weeks after her birth, the mother left Ivan to raise the child by himself. Ivan worked two jobs to support his daughter and his mother, who had also become dependent on him in her old age. One night, when his daughter was only three, their house was broken into. Ivan confronted the armed intruder and they launched into a brawl that ended with the intruder dead on the floor. As he told us this, he touched a teardrop tattoo by the corner of his eye--a permanent reminder of the life he took. Ivan explained that he had no choice. It was either he killed the intruder or he died himself and left behind his daughter and mother. Ivan was convicted and released after ten years in jail. He considered himself one of the lucky ones. Most underprivileged men of color do not make it out of jail, no matter the crime. Once he got out, he had missed the majority of his daughter's childhood and it was a miracle his mother and daughter were able to keep afloat with him gone. Ivan was a victim of a crime-ridden area and, in defending his family, he marred his record with a prison sentence that barred him from most jobs in the area. Even employers who were often sympathetic to those with criminal records, such as fast-food chains, turned him away out of fear that his teardrop tattoo would deter customers. Ivan finally found a job as a construction worker, but said he still barely made enough to keep the clothes on his back. I was born into a privileged, middle-class family. I grew up in the suburbs of Washington D.C. I leave my bike in my front yard without fear of it being stolen. I live a five-minute drive away from two reliable medical centers. I have two parents and two sisters and I never worry about having enough to eat. Ivan opened my eyes to my privilege. I took my entire life for granted because I never knew anyone lived any differently. That moment popped the black-and-white bubble I had been living in and showed me that not everyone has even half as much as what I have. My encounter with Ivan further taught me to be open-minded. If I had met Ivan in any other context, I would not have assumed him a loving father or a hardworking son. I would have seen his teardrop tattoo and assumed him a murderer and a man void of morality. Not defining someone by one choice or one impression is now one of my greatest strengths. I begin and uphold my relationships with an open heart and an open mind.