The First Italo-Ethiopian War of 1895–1896 is famous for being a moment where people stood their ground against overwhelming odds. As someone who is fully Ethiopian, born in Italy, and raised in America, that history feels personal. It represents the exact resilience I’ve had to find in my own life. Growing up, my parents kept me close to our Ethiopian Orthodox Christian faith, but my childhood was fractured. For years, my dad worked in America while my mom, sister, and I lived in Italy. I was an outgoing, energetic kid, but my whole world flipped when I was seven and we moved to the U.S. My parents didn't move us on a whim; they did it for economic survival and a better education. But the "American Dream" hit us hard. In Ethiopia, my dad was incredibly smart and though unable to finish was top of his college class. In America, that meant nothing. He took a low-wage job at the airport just to get by. To keep us afloat, my mom worked endless hours as a caregiver, and on her only days off, she braided hair. She never rested. Starting over was overwhelming. Moving from a mostly white region in Italy to a diverse U.S. environment opened my mind, but the language barrier isolated me. I faced constant bullying until third grade. Unable to form basic English sentences, I felt invisible. Kids laughed when I tried to speak, so I stopped trying. The bubbly kid I used to be vanished, replaced by a quiet, insecure version of myself. By the time the pandemic hit in middle school, my isolation deepened. Just raising my hand in class felt like too big of a risk. In high school, watching my parents' hard work inspired me to stop letting fear run my life. I forced myself into uncomfortable spots taking harder classes, starting conversations, and pushing past the panic. To challenge myself, I volunteered as a leader at Outdoor School for sixth graders. My first week, I froze and let my partner do all the talking. But I knew I had to step up. One night, I got on stage and sang in front of everyone. My heart was pounding, but I did it. That moment broke my silence. With every session after, my voice grew steadier, and I became someone the kids could lean on. Once I found my voice, I wanted to fight the isolation I went through. I joined the Multnomah Youth Committee (MYC), working alongside other young leaders who believed in human rights. A cause that has genuinely interested me since childhood. In MYC, I’ve spent the past year finding "third spaces". Spaces where teens can feel safe, connected, and valued outside of home or school. The Douglass M. Hamilton Memorial Scholarship matters so much to me because it bridges the gap between my empty wallet and my actual potential. As a first -generation student from a low-income family, this money means I can focus on my classes instead of drowning in the stress of student loans and interest. My goal is to become an optometrist. My own eyesight worsened as I got older, so I understand how much vision impacts daily life. I want to use my education to give back. After graduation, I plan to open a practice providing affordable eye care to low-income and immigrant communities. By helping me go to college debt-free, this scholarship lets me start my career right away doing what matters most: healing people, standing up for human rights, and helping the community that raised me.