I will forever remember the look on my sister's face as the woman harassed my family during our milk shopping at the Halo Farm, a crucial part of my family's small cheese business, M&A Cheesemakers. My parents had made great efforts to keep us both in a little bubble of innocence, where we wouldn't realize the scrutiny they have faced as Guatemalan immigrants, yet during the fall of 2016, this bubble popped. I had been aware that my Latin features and food were not common for many of the children at my school, but words spat out that morning, such as 'thieves' and 'distrustful', made them stick out that much further. I was surprised that my differences were only so obvious now: since I was a child, I never received help with my homework the way other elementary schoolers had or experienced the freedom of not having to translate documents, whether from school, doctors, or even text messages to employees and bosses at my dad's second job. That day at the Halo Farm had taught me that I was alone. When I entered high school, I had the privilege of connecting with students who have had the same experiences that I had and even convinced me to join the Students Helping Honduras club, an organization dedicated to bringing awareness and fundraising to schools in Honduras. Determined to stray away from my shell, I decided to sign up for one of our fall Mercer County community festivals, where I had been able to not only introduce the club to strangers but had the opportunity to translate for Spanish-speaking community members. When COVID-19 made its impact, I had been introduced to the Eastern Service Workers Association, a non-profit organization that helps low-income Hispanic families. I soon began as a language tutor to the elder volunteers who had founded the organization. Once in-person volunteering opportunities came about, I was introduced to two young girls, Lizzy and Delilah, whom I would hang out with while their parents received information about the COVID vaccine. They were no older than eleven, their faces captivating that innocent gaze, while the stories they shared with me were the opposite. At that moment, I was reminded again of my younger sister's face that one fall in 2016, when she began to realize, right at their exact age, that she was seen as different from the world simply because of her heritage. My parents have always reminded me about the advantages I have as a bilingual American, but I never truly realized it until I meet these girls. They made me reflect on my memories of translating documents and my insecurities about the way my skin wasn't as fair as the main protagonists on screen. Rather than to be hurt by these experiences, I realized if they are to serve any purpose it would be making sure that they are experienced by no one else. Although I was taught to feel shame for speaking Spanish in public as a child, I have fully embraced this as it is a connection to my heritage, and I have used it to not only provide comfortable services to the Latin American community but a sense of pride for children who were taught the same lies I was made to believe at their age. As my love for not only the Spanish language grows but my curiosity about connecting with other heritages, learning and experiencing these languages and cultures would be my absolute dream. To be able to study abroad with the aid of the "Keyport's Mom" Scholarship would catalyze my goal.

I will forever remember the look on my sister's face as the woman harassed my family during our milk shopping at the Halo Farm, a crucial part of my family's small cheese business, M&A Cheesemakers. My parents had made great efforts to keep us both in a little bubble of innocence, where we wouldn't realize the scrutiny they have faced as Guatemalan immigrants, yet during the fall of 2016, this bubble popped. I had been aware that my Latin features and food were not common for many of the children at my school, but words spat out that morning, such as 'thieves' and 'distrustful', made them stick out that much further. I was surprised that my differences were only so obvious now: since I was a child, I never received help with my homework the way other elementary schoolers had or experienced the freedom of not having to translate documents, whether from school, doctors, or even text messages to employees and bosses at my dad's second job. That day at the Halo Farm had taught me that I was alone. When I entered high school, I had the privilege of connecting with students who have had the same experiences that I had and even convinced me to join the Students Helping Honduras club, an organization dedicated to bringing awareness and fundraising to schools in Honduras. Determined to stray away from my shell, I decided to sign up for one of our fall Mercer County community festivals, where I had been able to not only introduce the club to strangers but had the opportunity to translate for Spanish-speaking community members. When COVID-19 made its impact, I had been introduced to the Eastern Service Workers Association, a non-profit organization that helps low-income Hispanic families. I soon began as a language tutor to the elder volunteers who had founded the organization. Once in-person volunteering opportunities came about, I was introduced to two young girls, Lizzy and Delilah, whom I would hang out with while their parents received information about the COVID vaccine. They were no older than eleven, their faces captivating that innocent gaze, while the stories they shared with me were the opposite. At that moment, I was reminded again of my younger sister's face that one fall in 2016, when she began to realize, right at their exact age, that she was seen as different from the world simply because of her heritage. My parents have always reminded me about the advantages I have as a bilingual American, but I never truly realized it until I meet these girls. They made me reflect on my memories of translating documents and my insecurities about the way my skin wasn't as fair as the main protagonists on screen. Rather than to be hurt by these experiences, I realized if they are to serve any purpose it would be making sure that they are experienced by no one else. Although I was taught to feel shame for speaking Spanish in public as a child, I have fully embraced this as it is a connection to my heritage, and I have used it to not only provide comfortable services to the Latin American community but a sense of pride for children who were taught the same lies I was made to believe at their age. As my love for not only the Spanish language grows but my curiosity about connecting with other heritages, learning and experiencing these languages and cultures would be my absolute dream. To be able to study abroad with the aid of the Maverick Grill and Saloon Scholarship would catalyze this goal.

I will forever remember the look on my sister's face as the woman harassed my family during our milk shopping at the Halo Farm, a crucial part of my family's small cheese business, M&A Cheesemakers. My parents had made great efforts to keep us both in a little bubble of innocence, where we wouldn't realize the scrutiny they have faced as Guatemalan immigrants, yet during the fall of 2016, this bubble popped. I had been aware that my Latin features and food were not common for many of the children at my school, but words spat out that morning, such as 'thieves' and 'distrustful', made them stick out that much further. I was surprised that my differences were only so obvious now: since I was a child, I never received help with my homework the way other elementary schoolers had or experienced the freedom of not having to translate documents, whether from school, doctors, or even text messages to employees and bosses at my dad's second job. That day at the Halo Farm had taught me that I was alone. When I entered high school, I had the privilege of connecting with students who have had the same experiences that I had and even convinced me to join the Students Helping Honduras club, an organization dedicated to bringing awareness and fundraising to schools in Honduras. Determined to stray away from my shell, I decided to sign up for one of our fall Mercer County community festivals, where I had been able to not only introduce the club to strangers but had the opportunity to translate for Spanish-speaking community members. When COVID-19 made its impact, I had been introduced to the Eastern Service Workers Association, a non-profit organization that helps low-income Hispanic families. I soon began as a language tutor to the elder volunteers who had founded the organization. Once in-person volunteering opportunities came about, I was introduced to two young girls, Lizzy and Delilah, whom I would hang out with while their parents received information about the COVID vaccine. They were no older than eleven, their faces captivating that innocent gaze, while the stories they shared with me were the opposite. At that moment, I was reminded again of my younger sister's face that one fall in 2016, when she began to realize, right at their exact age, that she was seen as different from the world simply because of her heritage. My parents have always reminded me about the advantages I have as a bilingual American, but I never truly realized it until I meet these girls. They made me reflect on my memories of translating documents and my insecurities about the way my skin wasn't as fair as the main protagonists on screen. Rather than to be hurt by these experiences, I realized if they are to serve any purpose it would be making sure that they are experienced by no one else. Although I was taught to feel shame for speaking Spanish in public as a child, I have fully embraced this as it is a connection to my heritage, and I have used it to not only provide comfortable services to the Latin American community but a sense of pride for children who were taught the same lies I was made to believe at their age. As my love for not only the Spanish language grows but my curiosity about connecting with other heritages, learning and experiencing these languages and cultures would be my absolute dream. To be able to study abroad with the aid of the Richard Neuman Scholarship would catalyze this goal.

I will forever remember the look on my sister's face as the woman harassed my family during our milk shopping at the Halo Farm, a crucial part of my family's small cheese business, M&A Cheesemakers. My parents had made great efforts to keep us both in a little bubble of innocence, where we wouldn't realize the scrutiny they have faced as Guatemalan immigrants, yet during the fall of 2016, this bubble popped. I had been aware that my Latin features and food were not common for many of the children at my school, but words spat out that morning, such as 'thieves' and 'distrustful', made them stick out that much further. I was surprised that my differences were only so obvious now: since I was a child, I never received help with my homework the way other elementary schoolers had or experienced the freedom of not having to translate documents, whether from school, doctors, or even text messages to employees and bosses at my dad's second job. That day at the Halo Farm had taught me that I was alone. When I entered high school, I had the privilege of connecting with students who have had the same experiences that I had and even convinced me to join the Students Helping Honduras club, an organization dedicated to bringing awareness and fundraising to schools in Honduras. Determined to stray away from my shell, I decided to sign up for one of our fall Mercer County community festivals, where I had been able to not only introduce the club to strangers but had the opportunity to translate for Spanish-speaking community members. When COVID-19 made its impact, I had been introduced to the Eastern Service Workers Association, a non-profit organization that helps low-income Hispanic families. I soon began as a language tutor to the elder volunteers who had founded the organization. Once in-person volunteering opportunities came about, I was introduced to two young girls, Lizzy and Delilah, whom I would hang out with while their parents received information about the COVID vaccine. They were no older than eleven, their faces captivating that innocent gaze, while the stories they shared with me were the opposite. At that moment, I was reminded again of my younger sister's face that one fall in 2016, when she began to realize, right at their exact age, that she was seen as different from the world simply because of her heritage. My parents have always reminded me about the advantages I have as a bilingual American, but I never truly realized it until I meet these girls. They made me reflect on my memories of translating documents and my insecurities about the way my skin wasn't as fair as the main protagonists on screen, but rather than be hurt by these experiences, I realized if they are to serve any purpose it would be to make sure that they are experienced by no one else. As I move forward with pursuing my career in the medical field, the Morgan Levine Dolan Community Service Scholarship will be the catalyst for my ability to reassure families without the English language when going through such invasive procedures. I know I will see children such as Lizzy and Delilah again, and by then I will be prepared.

I will forever remember the look on my sister's face as the woman harassed my family during our milk shopping at the Halo Farm, a crucial part of my family's small cheese business, M&A Cheesemakers. My parents had made great efforts to keep us both in a little bubble of innocence, where we wouldn't realize the scrutiny they have faced as Hispanic immigrants, yet during the fall of 2016, the bubble popped. I had been aware that my Latin features and food were to many, but that woman's words 'thieves', 'distrustful', and 'these types', made them stick out that much further. I was surprised that my differences were only so obvious now: since I was a child, I never received help with my homework the way other kids did, or experienced the freedom of not having to translate documents, whether from school, doctors, or even text messages to employees and bosses at my dad's second job. That day at the Halo Farm had taught me that I was alone. When I entered high school, I had the gift of meeting several other students who have had the same experiences that I had, and even convinced me to join the Students Helping Honduras club, an organization dedicated to bringing awareness to the school's in Honduras. Determined to stray away from my own shell, I decided to sign up for one of our fall Mercer County community festivals, where I had been able to not only introduce the club to strangers but had the opportunity to translate for Spanish-speaking community members. When COVID-19 hit, I was introduced to ESWA, a non-profit organization that helps low-income Hispanic families, and I would begin as a language tutor to the elder volunteers who had founded the organization. When I began to volunteer in person, I was introduced to two young girls, Lizzy and Delilah, whom I would hang out with while their parents received information on the COVID vaccine. They were no older than eleven, their faces young and innocent, while the stories they shared to me were the opposite. In that moment, I was reminded again of my younger sister's face that one fall in 2016, when she began to realize, right at their exact age, that she was seen as different from the world simply because of her heritage. I want to make sure that I will never have to see that mix of pain and uncertainty displaced on a child's face due to the pressure of being the only person who can understand the harm placed on their family. As someone who dreams of dedicating their life to the medical field, I want to be the person that I wish I had when I was forced to translate words not even I could comprehend to my parents. I want to be a relief to children such as Lizzy, Delilah, and Amy, my younger sister, starting with being able to attend college to study biology and language, so that this dream comes true. Volunteering had taught me that my Hispanic heritage and translating was not a burden, but rather a gift to help my family and my community.

I will forever remember the look on my sister's face as the woman harassed my family during our milk shopping at the Halo Farm, a crucial part of my family's small cheese business, M&A Cheesemakers. My parents had made great efforts to keep us both in a little bubble of innocence, where we wouldn't realize the scrutiny they have faced as Hispanic immigrants, yet during the fall of 2016, this bubble popped. I had been aware that my Latin features and food were not common for many of the children at my school, but that woman's words such as 'thieves', 'distrustful', and 'these types', made them stick out that much further. I was surprised that my differences were only so obvious now: since I was a child, I never received help with my homework the way other kids did, or experienced the freedom of not having to translate documents, whether from school, doctors, or even text messages to employees and bosses at my dad's second job. That day at the Halo Farm had taught me that I was alone. When I entered high school, I had the gift of meeting several other students who have had the same experiences that I had, and even convinced me to join the Students Helping Honduras club, an organization dedicated to bringing awareness to the schools in Honduras. Determined to stray away from my own shell, I decided to sign up for one of our fall Mercer County community festivals, where I had been able to not only introduce the club to strangers but had the opportunity to translate for Spanish-speaking community members. When COVID-19 hit, I had been introduced to ESWA, a non-profit organization that helps low-income Hispanic families, and I would begin as a language tutor to the elder volunteers who had founded the organization. When I began to volunteer in person, I had been introduced to two young girls, Lizzy and Delilah, whom I would hang out with while their parents received information on the COVID vaccine. They were no older than eleven, their faces young and innocent, while the stories they shared with me were the opposite. At that moment, I was reminded again of my younger sister's face that one fall in 2016, when she began to realize, right at their exact age, that she was seen as different from the world simply because of her heritage. I want to make sure that I will never have to see that mix of pain and uncertainty displaced on a child's face due to the pressure of being the only person who can understand the harm placed on their family. As someone who dreams of dedicating their life to the medical field, I want to be the person that I wish I had been when I was forced to translate words not even I could comprehend to my parents. I want to be a relief to children such as Lizzy, Delilah, and Amy, my younger sister, starting with being able to attend college to study biology and language, so that this dream comes true. Volunteering taught me that my Hispanic heritage and translating were not a burden, but rather a gift to help my family and my community.

I will forever remember the look on my sister's face as the woman harassed my family during our milk shopping at the Halo Farm, a crucial part of my family's small cheese business, M&A Cheesemakers. My parents had made great efforts to keep us both in a little bubble of innocence, where we wouldn't realize the scrutiny they have faced as Hispanic immigrants, yet during the fall of 2016, this bubble popped. I had been aware that my Latin features and food were not common for many of the children at my school, but that woman's words such as 'thieves', 'distrustful', and 'these types', made them stick out that much further. I was surprised that my differences were only so obvious now: since I was a child, I never received help with my homework the way other kids did, or experienced the freedom of not having to translate documents, whether from school, doctors, or even text messages to employees and bosses at my dad's second job. That day at the Halo Farm had taught me that I was alone. When I entered high school, I had the gift of meeting several other students who have had the same experiences that I had, and even convinced me to join the Students Helping Honduras club, an organization dedicated to bringing awareness to the schools in Honduras. Determined to stray away from my shell, I decided to sign up for one of our fall Mercer County community festivals, where I had been able to not only introduce the club to strangers but had the opportunity to translate for Spanish-speaking community members. When COVID-19 hit, I had been introduced to ESWA, a non-profit organization that helps low income Hispanic families, and I would begin as a language tutor to the elder volunteers who had founded the organization. When I began to volunteer in person, I had been introduced to two young girls, Lizzy and Delilah, whom I would hang out with while their parents received information on the COVID vaccine. They were no older than eleven, their faces young and innocent, while the stories they shared with me were the opposite. At that moment, I was reminded again of my younger sister's face that one fall in 2016, when she began to realize, right at their exact age, that she was seen as different from the world simply because of her heritage. As someone who dreams of dedicating their life to the medical field, I want to be the person that I wish I could meet I was forced to translate words not even I could comprehend to my parents. I want to be a relief to children such as Lizzy, Delilah, and Amy, my younger sister, starting with being able to attend college to study biology and language, so that this dream comes true. Volunteering taught me that my Hispanic heritage and translating were not a burden, but rather a gift to help my family and my community, and I dream of putting it to use with the aid of this scholarship.

I will forever remember the look on my sister's face as the woman harassed my family during our milk shopping at the Halo Farm, a crucial part of my family's small cheese business, M&A Cheesemakers. My parents had made great efforts to keep us both in a little bubble of innocence, where we wouldn't realize the scrutiny they have faced as Guatemalan immigrants, yet during the fall of 2016, this bubble popped. I had been aware that my latin features and food were not common for many of the children at my school, but that woman's words such as 'thieves', 'distrustful', and 'these types', made them stick out that much further. I was surprised that my differences were only so obvious now: since I was a child, I never received help with my homework the way other kids did, or experienced the freedom of not having to translate documents, whether from school, doctors, or even text messages to employees and bosses at my dad's second job. That day at the Halo Farm had taught me that I was alone. When I entered high school, I had the gift of meeting several other students who have had the same experiences that I had, and even convinced me to join the Students Helping Honduras club, an organization dedicated to bringing awareness to the schools in Honduras. Determined to open up from my own shell, I decided to sign up for one of our fall Mercy County community festivals, where I had been able to to not only introduce the club to strangers, but had the opportunity to translate for Spanish speaking community members. When COVID-19 hit, I had been introduced to ESWA, a non-profit organization that helps low income hispanic families, and I would begin as a language tutor to the elder volunteers who had founded the organization, through zoom. When I began to volunteer in person, I had been introduced to two young girls, Lizzy and Delilah, whom I would hang out with while their parents received information on the COVID vaccine. They were no older than eleven, their faces young and innocent, while the stories they shared to me were the opposite. In that moment, I was reminded again of my younger sister's face that one fall in 2016, when she began to realize, right at their exact age, that she was seen as different from the world simply because of her heritage. When I was younger, I had been taught to carry shame for the way my parents spoke, for the food I ate, for the way my skin had been tanner than the rest of my classmates. When I began to work with the kids at ESWA, this view had finally been swept away from my mind, as I realized that my heritage was not a deacon, but rather a gift, where it's greatest use is to become the person I needed when I was a child. My wish is to work in the medical field, a dream I had since I was younger, and where I was forced to comprehend words too large for my age so that my parents could understand even half of what they told us. I know I will encounter these situations again in the future, where I will see families resembling mine, faces that will forever remind of my sister when we encountered that woman, and by then, I will be prepared, all thanks to ESWA.