My mother decided to keep me on the abortion table. Some sweet Southern lady whose name my mother can’t recall saved my life. My mother was 18-years-old and already a teen mom to my older brother. She had no car, no home, no money, and no family support. Her own mother had suggested abortion and my father couldn't be reached. She felt like she had no other option, until she heard my heartbeat. That's when she decided that she would figure it out, no matter what it took. By the time I was 6 weeks old, my mother had saved up enough money cleaning houses to move us into a two bedroom apartment, buy herself a car, and put us in daycare so she could get a better job. She quickly found work that she wasn’t qualified for, so she would stay up late teaching herself the skills she needed. She took care of us. We didn’t just survive, we thrived. Despite the trials of poverty, I excelled in school and was happy. Fortunately, I was mostly unaware of all of the things we went through. One thing I did know was that all we had, we had because of my mom. The point of this story is not to evoke pity, but to explain how my mom gave me the best gift you can give a young black woman: grit. Grit is defined as "strength of character" by the Oxford dictionary. This strength was evident in the lessons that I watched my mom learn and the ones that she taught me herself. For me, grit culminates into one piece of advice: You can do the hard things. You can do them by yourself and you can do them well and if something is important to you, you will find a way. I think that last part has impacted me the most. I want to be a lawyer and as a first generation college student with almost no financial support, that's hard. Because my mom never went to college, I applied alone. I've had to work two jobs to pay for school and seek out advisors to learn the law school application process. It's not easy, but I know that the future I want for myself is worth it. Personally, my own grit has carried me through undergrad, getting my own apartment, and competing for Miss Texas, all while working full time. It's this quality that led me to this application and this quality that will get me through law school. I believe that opportunities are always out there, if you have the grit to find them. My passion for this message is what led me to create Success Under 16, an organization aimed at linking kids to the opportunities and experiences they may have otherwise missed out on and giving them the tools that allow them to show their strengths to the world. I believe that opportunities are always out there, if you have the resolve to find them and my hope for the future is that I can create opportunity for someone else to find their grit.

I am a black Filipina, but I am not Filipino- American. That title would insinuate that one of my relatives immigrated from the Philippines to the US. My story is a little bit different. It starts 4 generations ago with my great-great-grandparents. They are the ones that first left behind everything they knew in Cebu in search of a better life. Not in the America we know today, but in a small chain of Islands called Hawai'i. Here, there were lots of opportunities to work in pineapple or sugar cane plantations and many other groups of Asian immigrants who came from Japan or Korea had established communities and shared similar dreams for their future children. Back then, Hawai'i was still holding on to her last monarch, Queen Liliʻuokalani, and this is where my family's gradual assimilation into Hawaiian culture began. My great-grandmother fell in love with hula dancing as a little girl and passed that passion on to my mom who eventually enrolled me, a black and Filipino girl from Texas, in hula school. This is where I began noticing I wasn't a "real" Filipino- American. This disconnect always left me hesitant to share what exactly the other race of my multi-racial upbringing was and always made me feel like an outsider at performances and luaus throughout elementary school. I felt this way up until I reconnected with my childhood hula teacher as a teenager. For the last 3 years I have been learning, eating, and dancing myself closer to my roots, not as a fake Filipina, but as a Filipino-Hawaiian woman. This shift of perspective is one of the main reasons I now feel comfortable owning my roots and led to me to begin sharing my culture and using my story to educate people on the extensive Filipino diaspora. In a long-term sense, I hope to show people that Filipinos comes in many different colors and that you don't have to trade one cultural identity for another. Just like in the Hawai'i my lola and lolo came to love, we can create a space where the culture you come from makes you proud, but the culture you create makes you even prouder. For now, I share my culture every chance I get. I have competed in the Miss America scholarship organization and brought traditional hula to the Miss Texas stage, despite pressures to "Americanize" by dances. Year round, I perform for free at senior centers with the wahines of my hula group. We also spread the Aloha spirit at festivals in the spring and summer. Getting to combine my love of service while also representing the AAPI and black community is an opportunity that I am so grateful to have. With this scholarship, I would have more time to participate in these events, as my two jobs have kept me away from them, and the opportunity to show how diversity and service can go hand in hand.

My mother decided to keep me on the abortion table. Some sweet Southern lady whose name my mother can’t recall saved my life. My mother was 18-years-old and already a teen mom to my older brother. She had no car, no home, no money, and no family support. Her own mother had suggested abortion and my father couldn't be reached. She felt like she had no other option, until she heard my heartbeat. That's when she decided that she would figure it out, no matter what it took. By the time I was 6 weeks old, my mother had saved up enough money cleaning houses to move us into a two bedroom apartment, buy herself a car, and put us in daycare so she could get a better job. She quickly found work that she wasn’t qualified for, so she would stay up late teaching herself the skills she needed. She took care of us. We didn’t just survive, we thrived. Despite the trials of poverty, I excelled in school and was happy. Fortunately, I was mostly unaware of all of the things we went through. One thing I did know was that all we had, we had because of my mom. The point of this story is not to evoke pity, but to explain how my mom gave me the best gift you can give a young black woman: grit. The lessons that I watched my mom learn and the ones that she taught me herself all culminated into one piece of advice. You can do the hard things. You can do them by yourself and you can do them well and if something is important to you, you will find a way. I think that last part has impacted me the most. I want to be a lawyer and as a first generation college student with almost no financial support, that's hard. Because my mom never went to college, I applied alone. I've had to work two jobs to pay for school and seek out advisors to learn the law school application process. It's not easy, but I know that the future I want for myself is worth it. I want to be a lawyer for my mom. As I got older, I've noticed how disproportionately political and legal issues impact people of color, more so those without two-parent households. At doctor's offices and school events, my mother was never taken as seriously as other parents because of her age and the fact that she was there without a partner. The repercussions of this judgment can affect the quality of a child's life in many ways. For example, if a teen gets into legal trouble, a single parent may not be able to leave work for court because they are the sole income in the household, negatively impacting the outcome of the case. The justice system is made for nuclear families, which likely contributes to the fact that 80% of prison inmates come from single parent households. It’s time for this to change. I hope that as a lawyer I can advocate for these children and families as well as be a mentor to other kids of single parents that may struggle to overcome the extra barriers between them and higher education that. Eventually, I want to become a judge and implement practices in court that meet single parents halfway and focus on rehabilitation over incarceration. With this scholarship, I can continue my education and work towards building up single parent families and showing kids like me that one parent can be enough.

My mother decided to keep me on the abortion table. Some sweet Southern lady whose name my mother can’t recall saved my life. My mother was 18-years-old and already a teen mom to my older brother. She had no car, no home, no money, and no family support. Her own mother had suggested abortion and my father couldn't be reached. She felt like she had no other option, until she heard my heartbeat. That's when she decided that she would figure it out, no matter what it took. By the time I was 6 weeks old, my mother had saved up enough money cleaning houses to move us into a two-bedroom apartment, buy herself a car, and put us in daycare so she could get a better job. She quickly found work that she wasn’t qualified for, so she would stay up late teaching herself the skills she needed. She took care of us. We didn’t just survive, we thrived. Despite the trials of poverty, I excelled in school and was happy. Fortunately, I was mostly unaware of all of the things we went through. One thing I did know was that all we had, we had because of my mom. The point of this story is not to evoke pity, but to explain how my mom gave me the best gift you can give a young black woman: grit. The lessons that I watched my mom learn and the ones that she taught me herself all culminated into one piece of advice. You can do the hard things. You can do them by yourself and you can do them well and if something is important to you, you will find a way. I think that last part has impacted me the most. I want to be a lawyer and as a first generation college student with almost no financial support, that's hard. Because my mom never went to college, I applied alone. I've had to work two jobs to pay for school and seek out advisors to learn the law school application process. It's not easy, but I know that the future I want for myself is worth it. I want to be a lawyer for my mom. As I got older, I've noticed how disproportionately political and legal issues impact people of color, more so those without two-parent households. At doctor's offices and school events, my mother was never taken as seriously as other parents because of her age and the fact that she was there without a partner. The repercussions of this judgment can affect the quality of a child's life in many ways. For example, if a teen gets into legal trouble, a single parent may not be able to leave work for court because they are the sole income in the household, negatively impacting the outcome of the case. The justice system is made for nuclear families, which likely contributes to the fact that 80% of prison inmates come from single parent households. It’s time for this to change. I hope that as a lawyer I can advocate for these children and families as well as be a mentor to other kids of single parents that may struggle to overcome the extra barriers between them and higher education that. Eventually, I want to become a judge and implement practices in court that meet single parents halfway and focus on rehabilitation over incarceration. With this scholarship, I can continue my education and work towards building up single parent families and showing kids like me that one parent can be enough.

I've always been an advocate. Just by being a multi-racial, first-generation college student, I have been forced to advocate for myself daily. As early as 5-years-old, I can remember feeling ignored and pushed aside at school. Kids ostracized me for the neighborhood I grew up in, the texture of my hair, and even because my dad never picked me up. Crying to my grandmother in the afternoons, I remember thinking that the world would always be uncomfortable for someone like me. My grandma, never one to coddle, would put on Judge Judy and tell me to watch what a powerful woman looks like. She told me that if I kept fighting back, one day I could be a lawyer and have the tools to stand up for myself and others in the real world. At the time, lawyers and judges were superheroes to me. People that other adults had to listen to because of their merit, not a job that you could choose. The older I got, the more space I insisted on taking up. I learned what a lawyer really was and got to work setting short term goals to achieve my long-term goal of obtaining a Juris Doctor. I got comfortable being the only woman in my engineering club, the only black person in my advanced classes, the only me everywhere I went. I became dedicated to becoming a black, female defense attorney with my own practice at a time when only 0.64% of law partners were black women. By the time I was a senior in high school, I had begun competing in pageants and using the prize money to pay my college application fees. Then George Floyd was murdered. The Black Lives Matter protests of 2020 were the first time in my life that I had ever felt truly oppressed. I dealt with racism constantly having only ever attended predominantly white institutions, but a true fear of the type of prejudice that could kill had never been instilled in me. I was just about to graduate from a high school that had a Confederate soldier as our mascot and had never once realized how deeply discrimination is rooted in America's systems and norms. This was the moment I finally woke up. After marching with my classmates to change our mascot, I began researching independently how police violence, mass incarceration, and politics impact black and brown communities. I was absolutely horrified. I had always thought that just being a black lawyer, being representation would be enough, but I discovered it wasn't enough by half. It was this revelation that gave birth to a new dream. I still aim to own a practice, but one that utilizes a need-based cost system and employs associates that are fluent in second languages, because everyone deserves legal help in their native language, without an interpreter. I hope to make legal education more accessible as well by offering community classes on the rights that you have as a citizen. In the past few years, I have begun my own organization, Success Under 16, which helps minority kids learn more about the options available to them post high school graduation and connects them to opportunities they may not have otherwise known about. With a scholarship, I can afford to continue my education and one day advocate for communities of color while also giving them the power to be superheroes themselves.

My dream future may be lots of different things, but I know one thing it has to be: happy. Careerwise, I want to be a lawyer. I have known this since I was at least 12. More specifically, I want to practice criminal law and work as a public defender for a few years. As a minority, I have seen first-hand how systemic racism and prejudice can impact communities of color. By working as a public defender and a judge, I hope to be able to work against discrimination and make justice for all include everyone. It is also my hope that I can combat the cyclical nature of poverty and be the first person in my family to obtain a degree and finally live above the poverty line. However, these are not my only ambitions, just as finances have not been my only struggle. I've been told my entire life how costly, time consuming, and stressful college and law school are. Instead of being encouraged to go further in my family, I am constantly told the reasons that I won't succeed. This led to a years-long battle with anxiety, a mental illness that my family refused to recognize, leading me to believe that something was wrong with me. When I got to college, I decided to major in psychology as well as political science to search for answers. I discovered that children born to teen or single moms often struggle in college, not only because of cost, but because they are not given the emotional support it takes to be successful. Armed with this information, I got myself into counseling and made sure to utilize stress management techniques like grounding, dedicated self care time, and organizational skills to ensure that I wouldn't drop out as my relatives had. Nearly three years later I have a diagnosis, a treatment plan, and I will soon have a bachelor's degree. I have been able to make the Dean's list and enjoy life by putting my mental health first. Everyday, I have to continually work at creating happiness for myself, just like I have to work towards my degree.I guess you could say that my own mind has been one of the biggest obstacles to overcome, but it has also given me the fortitude to continue. With this scholarship, I can pursue my law degree and show my younger siblings and cousins that higher education is possible for people like us. More importantly, I can show them how to maintain a healthy mindset and build a future of happiness.

I've always been an advocate. Just by being a multi-racial, first-generation college student, I have been forced to advocate for myself daily. As early as 5-years-old, I can remember feeling ignored and pushed aside at school. Kids ostracized me for the neighborhood I grew up in, the texture of my hair, and even because my dad never picked me up. Crying to my grandmother in the afternoons, I remember thinking that the world would always be uncomfortable for someone like me. My grandma, never one to coddle, would put on Judge Judy and tell me to watch what a powerful woman looks like. She told me that if I kept fighting back, one day I could be a lawyer and have the tools to stand up for myself and others in the real world. At the time, lawyers and judges were superheroes to me. People that other adults had to listen to because of their merit, not a job that you could choose. The older I got, the more space I insisted on taking up. I learned what a lawyer really was and got to work setting short term goals to achieve my long-term goal of obtaining a Juris Doctor. I got comfortable being the only woman in my engineering club, the only black person in my advanced classes, the only me everywhere I went. I became dedicated to becoming a black, female defense attorney with my own practice at a time when only 0.64% of law partners were black women. By the time I was a senior in high school, I had begun competing in pageants and using the prize money to pay my college application fees. Then George Floyd was murdered. The Black Lives Matter protests of 2020 were the first time in my life that I had ever felt truly oppressed. I dealt with racism constantly having only ever attended predominantly white institutions, but a true fear of the type of prejudice that could kill had never been instilled in me. I was just about to graduate from a high school that had a Confederate soldier as our mascot and had never once realized how deeply discrimination is rooted in America's systems and norms. This was the moment I finally woke up. After marching with my classmates to change our mascot, I began researching independently how police violence, mass incarceration, and politics impact black and brown communities. I was absolutely horrified. I had always thought that just being a black lawyer, being representation would be enough, but I discovered it wasn't enough by half. It was this revelation that gave birth to a new dream. I still aim to own a practice, but one that utilizes a need-based cost system and employs associates that are fluent in second languages, because everyone deserves legal help in their native language, without an interpreter. I hope to make legal education more accessible as well by offering community classes on the rights that you have as a citizen. In the past few years, I have begun my own organization, Success Under 16, which helps minority kids learn more about the options available to them post high school graduation and connects them to opportunities they may not have otherwise known about. With a scholarship, I can afford to continue my education and one day advocate for communities of color while also giving them the power to be superheroes themselves.

I am a black Filipina, but I am not Filipino- American. To me, that title is reserved for the descendants of those who immigrated to the US from the Philippines. My story is a little bit different. It starts four generations before me with my great-great-grandparents. Nearly 100 years ago, they left Cebu for a better life. Not in the America we know, but in a small chain of Islands called Hawai'i. Here, there were opportunities for work in pineapple or sugar cane plantations alongside Japanese immigrants who had shared my grandparent's dreams of prosperity. Back then, Hawai'i was still ruled by her last monarch, Queen Liliʻuokalani, and not yet a state. Despite this, my family was still wary of racism from the mainland and refused to teach my great-grandmother Tagalog, so fell in love with hula instead. This passion passed to my mom who eventually enrolled me, a black and Filipino girl from Texas, in hula school. This was when I realized I had nothing in common with Filipino-Americans. This disconnect left me hesitant to share that I was multiracial and always made me feel like an outsider around "real" Filipinos. I felt this way up until I reconnected with my childhood hula teacher as a teenager. For the last 3 years I have been learning, eating, and dancing myself closer to my roots, not as a fake Filipina, but as a Filipino-Hawaiian woman. This shift of perspective is one of the main reasons I now feel comfortable owning my roots and led to me to begin sharing my culture and using my story to educate people on the extensive Filipino diaspora. In a long-term sense, I hope to show people that Filipino comes in many different colors and that you don't have to trade one cultural identity for another. Just like in the Hawai'i my lola and lolo came to love, we can create a space where the culture you come from makes you proud, but the culture you create makes you even prouder.