I am in constant pursuit of connection. I don't yearn, I crave. It's been this way for as long as I can remember. I was the weird, touch-y kid. Some combination of queerness (I identify as bisexual, though interactions with men often have me ready to jump off the side of a building into full blown lesbian separatism), experiences with bullying at home and school, and likely some undiagnosed version of neurodivergence (I'll spare you) has left me feeling eternally outside and alone. As a teen, like so many, I withdrew into books, self-mythology, the internet, and a light eating disorder. I thrived academically, but struggled socially–I longed for escape. Have you heard this story before? This is how I really became a Reader. I've always read, my mother made sure of that. Being Reader, though, someone who yearns for the written word, feels it in their bones, lives for it, grew in me out of loneliness and curiosity. And, as Toni Morrison said, when the book you're looking for does not exist, you must write yourself. I am not a unique case, in fact, there are many like me. I'm sure you have already read hundreds of essays just like mine. "I am alone, writing is my voice." This is true, for all of us it is true. Maybe we should all get together, it would be the worst party ever. We write because our voices do not suffice, we write because we are lonely and need a story to keep us company, we write because there are so many stories in the world all we have to do is pluck them out of the universe. I am sure Justin was the same. An observer, moody, often lonely, funny, has a way. I find it overwhelming, there are so many of us. Everyone, in my opinion is a storyteller, anyone could do this. What makes me so special that I should be able to do it? That someone should pay me to? I don't think the answer is skill, though I try to take pride in my work. I don't think it's effort, or dedication either. The truth is that there is no reason. There is no reason I should be able to do this, that you should give me this money just so I can sit on my laptop and spin webs, even if I am good at it, and maybe I am. Listen, I am not getting an MFA. Not because I don't think I would love it or because I think I am too good for it, that couldn't be further from the truth. It is because there are other ways to write and tell stories. I am applying for this scholarship to fund my MLIS degree in Culture Heritage. I am a storyteller, I am a writer, there is no escaping that for me. And, of course, I plan to continue writing for myself, writing stories. I also want to use these skills and passions for the world. Archiving is storytelling, it is a lot like writing. It is collecting informations and observations in order to preserve some feeling or time or person or place or culture. We actually are living in a time where so much is disappearing, so much is being destroyed, and I want to help save it with my writing.

My first semester of college, I was an Animal Sciences major. My plan was to work on some reservation for large animals, particularly elephants – I had not thought it through very well. Clearly, this did not work out as I am now an English Major. I realized that what I was looking for was not so much operating on animals or treating diseases, that honestly sounded kind of gross. No, I was looking for an animal to choose me, to love me unconditionally, to be my best friend – in other words, I had probably read Koko’s Kitten too many times. In reality, what I wanted was a pet. I had a pet. My mom and I got a cat when my parents separated. Actually, we got a cat for my father, but she never took to him; when my mom and I moved out, the cat – Lotte – hid until we came back to get her, then she came running out to greet us, yelling at us for leaving her so long. So, she was ours. I was five then. There is no way to describe this cat, my cat. She was a cat that chose us. In fact, we had actually gone to the MSPCA that day to look at dogs. It was a coincidence that our local shelter was too small for a waiting room. It was a coincidence that we were told to step into a room filled with cats. It was a coincidence she saw us and we saw her and none of us needed to see anything or anyone else ever again because we had already found it all. I do not have a revelation to tell you. My cat did not save me from a burning building or put her white-gloved paw on my hand to give me a heart to heart about how to love people. There is nothing I can tell you about her because there are no words that would let you know her, she cannot be contained in that way. I can tell you that my mother used to say that she was like a dog, the way she followed us everywhere, never letting us step ahead of her. I can tell you that all of our neighbors knew her and had a story about her. I can tell you that she would disappear outside, but was always available to greet a guest. I can tell you that she used to think of herself as my mother’s equal, and me her stupid kitten. There is no one way that she changed my life, but a million small ways. I cannot even tell you that she changed my life, because she was with me for all of it until now. There is nothing in my life or home that was not touched by her or that does not remind me of her. She changed my life the way a family member changes your life, it was in ways you do not notice until they are gone. I loved my cat and hopefully someday I will love another cat. Pets are messy and require a lot of attention and care, and in that way they are exactly like humans. A pet is a partner to go through life with, and the only partner you know will stay with you through it all – as long as you still have those crunchy, salmon-flavored treats they like so much.