When I turned nine, I was faced with the biggest decision any nine-year-old could ever make: choosing my birthday present. It was my last year before reaching double digits, a milestone that could not be taken lightly. With my pre-teen journey approaching, I had to decide on a gift that would farewell my childhood and accompany me through the social and emotional growth awaiting me. When the big day arrived, I was presented with two options, both of which seemed like they would define the rest of my life: buy the new Disney Infinity game, or go to Chuck E. Cheese and get Minecraft for the Xbox 360. I was stunned, torn between the two mouse-themed businesses that showed me the beauty of life. After carefully considering and analyzing both options, I finally made my decision. I was introduced to the 3D sandbox video game by my Minecraft-obsessed classmates who devoted endless hours filling their chests with materials. Survival Mode was their preferred way to play, with the primary goal of defeating the Ender Dragon. Though I did not fully understand what this goal entailed, their excitement was contiguous. Wanting to join them on this adventure, I decided that the Chuck E. Cheese and Minecraft choice was the only logical birthday gift. After leaving Chuck E. Cheese, I eagerly started my Minecraft survival world where I was met with Creepers lurking around every corner, blowing up the shelter I built with my carefully mined materials. I spent what felt like hours figuring out how the game worked while my classmates bragged about the stacks of diamonds they had collected. Seeing everything my classmates had already accomplished in Minecraft, I felt helpless and far behind—a feeling I was all too familiar with outside of the video game. Turning nine did not just mark my approach to pre-teenhood; it also marked my second birthday away from my home country, Mexico. I moved to the United States when I was seven years old and during these two years of living in this new country, I faced many challenges, like not understanding English and struggling to make friends. As silly as it may sound, feeling stuck and behind in a video game I was supposed to enjoy brought back similar feelings of frustration I felt while trying to complete homework in a language I could not speak, unlike my classmates. I had grown used to sacrificing fun and playfulness to catch up with everyone else, and all I wanted was to enjoy my birthday gift. Following this frustration, I decided to search for Minecraft videos on YouTube. Among many Survival Mode tutorials, I found a series titled Stampy’s Lovely World by the user Stampylonghead. Like me, Stampy played on the Xbox 360, but unlike me, he had created a world full of structures, mini-games, rollercoasters, and fun activities—all built with blocks I had never seen before. Intrigued by his imagination, I was introduced to Creative Mode. Entering this mode felt like entering a paradise. There were no limitations, expectations, restrictions, or obstacles preventing me from having fun. Creative Mode was not only a mode where I could build with all of the features in the game; it was a place of complete freedom. It was the only world where my identity was not met with stigmas, judgment, or injustice. In this new mode, I built homes, hospitals, and schools that did not limit people based on their identities. Minecraft became the comfort my nine-year-old self needed. Now as an undocumented adult, I continue to play Minecraft where my inner child can be free.

As a young Mexican girl living in Mexico, I had never questioned or recognized my identity and what that meant for me and those around me. For seven years, I actively participated in my Mexican community and culture; engaging in school activities such as reciting the Mexican National Anthem and Pledge of Allegiance. Pledging my loyalty to my country, I signified myself as a valued member of my community. At home, my connection to my Mexicanidad was further enforced by my family. Living with my extended family, I experienced big birthday parties with children eagerly watching the colorful piñata’s candy spill, the feeling of a watery mouth as female family members prepared the tamales for Christmas Eve, and being memorized by the firework show during Mexico’s Independence Day. These moments, once part of my everyday life, have become cherished memories I long to relive. Moving to the United States at seven years old conditioned me to become hyper-aware of my identity’s complexity and how quickly I would feel out of place. My experiences and survival in the United States were determined by ethnicity, language, and immigration status. I arrived in the U.S. before the school year began, becoming the new student from Mexico, with no papers and no understanding of English. Returning home meant releasing the tears I held back during the school day. I would break down, frustrated by homework in a language I couldn’t yet speak. I had to grow up faster than my peers, sacrificing fun and playfulness for extra English practice often facilitated through my own means. Misleading narratives, such as “The American Dream” and “Freedom is America”, propagate notions of guaranteed success while disregarding the deeply rooted systematic racism present in the U.S., contributing to inequality. As a child, I lacked the vocabulary to articulate these issues, yet I was aware of the restrictions and stigmas that my identity carried in a country that centers Whiteness. This feeling of alienation was reinforced when a U.S. citizen, unaware of our legal status or ethnicity, told my family and me to “go back to Mexico”. As I grew older, my classmates would talk about getting jobs and hoping to vote in a few years–opportunities closed to undocumented people. I have been responsible for shaping my educational and professional path. In recent years, I have built a strong connection with the Street Dance community in Los Angeles. I have been training, sharing meals, traveling, and performing with a BIPOC dance community dedicated to preserving the essence of Street Dance. Alongside this community, I am embarking on my professional career as a dancer. As a dance major at UCLA, with the goal of double majoring in Chicanx Studies by my sophomore year, I am working toward becoming a professional dancer who represents the versatility the Latinx community holds. I aim to unite and empower my Latinx and undocumented communities by fostering community determination. I believe in the power of art to be more than entertainment but an avenue to creating change. This year marks my twelfth anniversary of living in the United States. As a member of an underrepresented minority population, my understanding and compassion for the diverse communities within the U.S. has deepened. Rather than confining myself to a singular path, my identity has become a source of expression for my passions and ambitions. I acknowledge that the differing parts of my identity contribute to communities of resilience and hope. I am confident that receiving this scholarship will enrich my journey and serve as a step toward a brighter future for my community.

As a young Mexican girl living in Mexico, I had never questioned or recognized my identity and what that meant for me and those around me. For seven years, I actively participated in my Mexican community and culture; engaging in school activities such as reciting the Mexican National Anthem and Pledge of Allegiance. Pledging my loyalty to my country, I signified myself as a valued member of my community. At home, my connection to my Mexicanidad was further enforced by my family. Living with my extended family, I experienced big birthday parties with children eagerly watching the colorful piñata’s candy spill, the feeling of a watery mouth as female family members prepared the tamales for Christmas Eve, and being memorized by the firework show during Mexico’s Independence Day. These moments, once part of my everyday life, have become cherished memories I long to relive. Moving to the United States at seven years old conditioned me to become hyper-aware of my identity’s complexity and how quickly I would feel out of place. My experiences and survival in the United States were determined by ethnicity, language, and immigration status. I arrived in the U.S. before the school year began, becoming the new student from Mexico, with no papers and no understanding of English. Returning home meant releasing the tears I held back during the school day. I would break down, frustrated by homework in a language I couldn’t yet speak. I had to grow up faster than my peers, sacrificing fun and playfulness for extra English practice often facilitated through my own means. Misleading narratives, such as “The American Dream” and “Freedom is America”, propagate notions of guaranteed success while disregarding the deeply rooted systematic racism present in the U.S., contributing to inequality. As a child, I lacked the vocabulary to articulate these issues, yet I was aware of the restrictions and stigmas that my identity carried in a country that centers Whiteness. This feeling of alienation was reinforced when a U.S. citizen, unaware of our legal status or ethnicity, told my family and me to “go back to Mexico”. As I grew older, my classmates would talk about getting jobs and hoping to vote in a few years–opportunities closed to undocumented people. I have been responsible for shaping my educational and professional path. In recent years, I have built a strong connection with the Street Dance community in Los Angeles. I have been training, sharing meals, traveling, and performing with a BIPOC dance community dedicated to preserving the essence of Street Dance. Alongside this community, I am embarking on my professional career as a dancer. As a dance major at UCLA, with the goal of double majoring in Chicanx Studies by my sophomore year, I am working toward becoming a professional dancer who represents the versatility the Latinx community holds. I aim to unite and empower my Latinx and undocumented communities by fostering community determination. I believe in the power of art to be more than entertainment but an avenue to creating change. This year marks my twelfth anniversary of living in the United States. As a member of an underrepresented minority population, my understanding and compassion for the diverse communities within the U.S. has deepened. Rather than confining myself to a singular path, my identity has become a source of expression for my passions and ambitions. I acknowledge that the differing parts of my identity contribute to communities of resilience and hope. I am confident that receiving this scholarship will enrich my journey and serve as a step toward a brighter future for my community.

Misleading narratives created by the dominant White folk, such as “The American Dream” and “Freedom is America”, propagate notions of guaranteed success while disregarding the deeply rooted systematic racism present in the United States, contributing to inequality within and outside of educational institutions. These narratives impact the educational experiences and opportunities of past, present, and emerging non-US citizen communities. Social structures implemented by the dominant White folk intentionally disadvantage non-dominant communities and restrict social mobility. They do so by creating hierarchical systems or “castes” that create systemic and societal structures to diminish and dehumanize those who do not share characteristics belonging to the top of the hierarchy. I have been aware of the restrictions and connotations that my legal status carries in a country that centers Whiteness. Moving to the United States at the age of seven years old conditioned me to become hyper-aware of my identity’s complexity and how quickly I would feel out of place. Before moving to the United States from Mexico, I had never questioned or recognized who I was, and what that meant for me and those around me. My experiences and survival in the United States were determined by factors of my identity, primarily on my legal status. The differences that defined me led me to believe that I did not belong in this country. These feelings were further enforced after a US citizen, unaware of our legal status or ethnicity, told my family and me to go back to Mexico. As I got older, these wake-up calls of being different became frequent, as my classmates would talk about getting jobs and hoping to vote in a few years, opportunities closed to undocumented people. I have witnessed anti-immigrant rhetoric from people in power, such as Donald Trump, who use “Immigrant” and “Mexican” interchangeably to disunite communities, contributing to the concept of Othering. Othering is embedded in our society and ties institutions like universities to monolithic views on non-dominant groups such as immigrants. Whether explicitly created through systemic barriers or implicitly existing through “good” and “bad” immigrant rhetoric, I have witnessed educators distributing misleading information about immigrants to non-US citizen students. Educators and counselors close to my life have made assumptions about my experiences as a non-US citizen, with “reassuring” comments that I should not be ashamed of my legal status, or by creating uncomfortable classroom settings for undocumented students despite knowing about their legal status. Through the flaws and lack of effort that educational institutions hold toward their undocumented students, it has been my responsibility to shape my own path in my educational journey. My experiences as a non-US citizen have expanded my understanding and compassion for the differing communities in the United States. Rather than tying me to one path, I have used my status to shape a path that can be an avenue for change and advancement in my community. Receiving this funding would ensure that my education is supported rather than disrupted. As an undocumented student who is not safeguarded by a DACA status, I am at a disadvantage in being able to financially provide for myself. Additionally, I am restricted from applying to many more scholarships that are only open to DACA recipients, permanent residents, and/or US Visa holders. It is a privilege in itself that I can apply for a scholarship that not only presents a great amount of funding but is also provided by an organization that truly cares about offering opportunities for all. I am confident that this scholarship will enrich my educational journey and will be a step toward a brighter future for my community.