Prior to discovering I was pregnant, I was dead set on majoring in political science. I was moved by the social action that took place during the beginning of the pandemic, and wanted to take part in changing the world for the better. After finding out, however, I shifted my direction. I could not imagine not spending time with her; how could I spend days or weeks doing work elsewhere when what matters most to me is at home? Thus I ended up switching my major to early grades preparation, where my schedule would often match that of hers, plus I had positive experiences working with younger children at the jobs I had following my high school graduation. I gave birth to Salomé five months later in the first semester of my freshman year at West Chester University. I was horrified by how much I did not know despite having spoken to so many women and read so many materials about babies and children. She was so small and fragile. I was scared for her - scared for me. With help I managed to push on. I would complete my class readings with her on my chest or sleeping beside me. As she grew bigger, I began growing more confident in my parenting, but my classes were proving unfruitful. I had wanted to be a teacher, to educate children and try to have a positive impact on youth, but when I would try imagine being in a classroom, I often felt underwhelmed. It was not until my second semester that I started to feel my first pulls towards a different path. What was it that pushed me away from wanting to be an elementary school teacher? A children's literature class, surprisingly. In the class we focussed on diverse perspectives and how to educate younger audiences about heavier subjects such as death, racism, and historical inequality. Throughout the semester, I felt most connected to the subject - I felt the topics being discussed were ones that I had no idea how to tackle in my own life with my own child. Knowing how difficult the subjects were for me to even think of, let alone imagine teaching to my daughter when the time comes, I began wondering how this aversion affects other children. Over the summer I began reading into multicultural perspectives in the classroom and literature for children. That - alongside the time I spent reading to my daughter at the library - made me realise the impact of reading to children and how books acts as pivotal gateways to difficult subjects. This prompted me to switch my degree path to Secondary Education in English and enrol in my schools Literacy minor program. I realised what my path was: I wanted to be a librarian, to work in Community and Youth engagement to produce similar teaching opportunities that I experienced in my children's literature course. Without my daughter, I would have likely thrown myself into politics - a field I now recognise as too tumultuous for my health. On top of that, if I had not experienced that initial fear of otherwise tough subjects and how to talk with my daughter, I may have not received that final push towards pursuing a career as a Librarian. Without her, I would not have found my own way to make an impact.

Sports have always served as an outlet for me. Throughout my high school years, I ran. I would listen to music and just sprint every sorrow I had out. I did it so much that my knees became cracked and weak - I could barely go up the stairs. Even then I walked. Between 2020 and 2022, when my family was stationed in Germany, I walked everywhere. I was gone for hours at a time exploring the winding roads all throughout the city. It gave me time to find peace within myself and think my own thoughts in silence - When my grandmother died I travelled so far that I had to take a regional train back home. This changed when, in March of 2022, I discovered I was pregnant with my daughter. Stress with the father's family and my heightened social anxiety meant that I spent most of my days in my room - I was scared for anyone to see me, thinking my predicament would be obvious and I would be subjected to further emotional torment. I was only 18. Eventually, we moved to Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania. My life dragged on like time on a hot summer day. We were trapped in a small suburban island, located in an area too hilly for me to be able to walk, even if I had wanted to. In the record heat, I was further confined to my room, this time with my feet up to try to reduce the aches and swelling of my feet. My family was in the middle of a move, and the stress of my upcoming due date and first semester at university overwhelmed me. I was just entering the cycle. I had my daughter, Salomé, in September of 2022 - The first week of my classes. She was beautiful. Although I had never dreamed of being a parent, the moment I saw her it felt like I had met what I was destined for. All my love was in this little person. My world revolved around her, with her even being seated on our dinner table as I completed my classwork. Any moment away from her only made me want to be closer. Despite Salomé being everything I could love, I couldn’t get past the social anxiety I felt being a teenage mother. My concerns about her and my future and all the uncontrollable aspects of life only brought me more anguish. Day and night I would sit, thinking of every bad thing, having trapped myself in a cycle of misery. In early 2023 - when my daughter first began to crawl - my family moved to Elkins Park. The area was simple and cosy. As the spring drew into summer, and my first year of classes came to a close, I suddenly desired change. I was treading water on my emotions, but I knew that eventually, I wouldn’t be able to handle it anymore. I didn’t want to break. Not with my daughter. So I started walking again. I would strap her into her little wagon and just go. First just around a few blocks; next time to the train station; the following past the train tracks. Anywhere her little wagon had a sidewalk to roll on. I found relief in the exploration, my curiosity keenly satisfied. The only difference from previous years is that now - which made this time so much better - was that I have her as a companion.

Now that my daughter is 15 months old, I often get asked what her first words were. I never know what to answer, mainly because of my family's disputes of whether her first words were in English or German. Due to this lack of agreement, I have resorted to telling people that she was raised similarly to how I was - between American and German culture - and therefore her first words forever remain a mystery. This convergence of backgrounds contributes greatly to my current aspirations. Between 2020 and 2022, when my father was stationed overseas for his work with the military, I had an opportunity open to me to explore Europe. A large portion of this time was spent in Berlin, Germany, where I had helped care for my late grandmother, Heidi. I had always enjoyed my time with her, where she would talk about many aspects of European art and culture. Her vast knowledge could be largely attributed to all her travelling and her multilingual abilities. Heidi could speak German, English, French and Italian; at one point in my childhood, she was even learning Greek. She had no issues conversing with the most random people passing her by, inquiring about the surroundings and history of the places she found herself in. She would immerse herself into the culture and life wherever she was. I was able to experience similar intercultural interactions in my time spent in a German language course. In the winter of 2021, I decided to take a course to prove my language proficiency to then study political science at a university in Germany. In this program, I met many other international students, coming from Italy, Vietnam, Korea, Pakistan and Japan. In the five weeks we spent meeting in our classroom, we were able to learn about each other's respective cultures, life experiences and reasons for migrating to Germany. In my reflections following our graduation from the course, I realised that I would have never come to have deepened my international and cultural understanding if we had not spoken the same language. Conversation serves as a gateway between individuals, giving them opportunities to reveal aspects of their experiences, cultures, beliefs and more. These connections are often held back by one pivotal issue: Language barriers. Following the death of my grandmother, I began applying to universities back in my home state of Pennsylvania. When trying to decide what major path I wanted to pursue, I thought back on my experiences at my language school. I wanted to bring people together and allow for these cross-cultural integration and conversations to occur. Because of this desire, I decided to become a teacher of the English language. With this, I hope to broaden my knowledge of various nations, alongside providing an opportunity for others to do the same. As mentioned earlier, I have a toddler. With my learning, I hope to be able to help her understand and appreciate both her American and German heritage and languages, just as I was able to in my own multicultural experiences. This scholarship would provide me the financial support to continue my education towards being a teacher, alongside helping pay for my daughter to attend a preschool. Currently, I can afford only to spend two days a week attending classes in person, which has strained my academic progression. Her attendance at a preschool would help me have the time to take the classes I need to graduate and pursue my dream.

My grandmother, Heidi, was born 1940 in Hamburg, Germany. Her childhood was filled with pain, with her mother fearing her discovery by Nazis, even after the war had ended. Despite her hardship, she filled my childhood with colours, teaching me how to draw and paint the beautiful sceneries that surrounded me, and how to cook crepes and other sweet foods. Most importantly, she taught me kindness. She gave although most of the time she couldn’t afford to. She wanted to see people happy. I always enjoyed the times throughout my childhood and adolescence when my family would visit my grandmother in Berlin. She worked as an artist, both in selling and teaching art. She had the personality of an artist; never too serious, curious, relaxed and eccentric. She spoke French fluently, learned some Greek, and had visited a handful of countries, most of which served as her canvas. She used to drive a deep green hatchback that didn’t have enough room to sit my siblings and cousins, meaning that two of us would have to brave the trunk when she would drive us down the mountain of a small summer home in Füssen, found in the south of Germany (She knew better than to have children in her trunk when driving in the city). I was only made aware of her Parkinson's diagnosis in early high school, although I was always aware of her tremors and bouts of sudden weakness. It had gotten particularly bad during my freshman year, when she had many accidents in her apartment, meaning that she had to be put into a nursing home. It was very hard after that point, with the white walls and stale air draining any sense of creativity and motivation from the inhabitants. Nevertheless, she still managed to muster her energy to teach me perspective and other drawing skills or talk about her own youth when I visited her in the summer. On days she couldn’t, which had grown more frequent, we would spend our time together listening to Kulturradio (a German classical music station) or CDs of composers like Schubert and Mozart. In December of 2021, a few days after her 81st birthday, she passed away. Around the time of her death, I was studying at a German language school called Actilingua, preparing to take an exam to prove my proficient speaking, reading and writing abilities. I was doing so in hopes of studying political science in Berlin since I was fond of the city and the memories I had made there, and wanted to live close to Heidi. In the wake of her death, I felt a sudden sense of emptiness, and I realised that without my grandmother living anymore, Berlin was empty to me. My grandmother connected us to the history and practices of Judaism. Without her there, I didn’t even have my religion to lean on, since Berlin didn’t have a culture that supported religious Jews. Going to synagogue for Shabbat was like being a goldfish, with more people coming to watch than actually attending services. It felt like living in a museum. In the new year, I began applying to universities in the United States, eventually being accepted to West Chester University in Pennsylvania to study Early Childhood Preparation in the hopes of becoming a teacher. In my decision, I thought fondly of my grandmother - how she would work with my sisters and me individually, building our strengths, alongside her interest and care for others. Her memory will always be a blessing.