When I was little, visiting my grandparents did not start with hugs or small talk. It started with a scavenger hunt. Somewhere in the living room, or the master bedroom, but usually tucked on the arm of the couch or lined neatly on the coffee table...my grandfather would leave a small pile of quarters and exactly three Hershey’s Kisses. He never announced it. He never watched me look for them. He just knew I would find them, and I always did. To this day, I cannot see loose change without thinking of him. Being the only girl means I have always stood out, but nowhere did that matter more than with my grandfather. I was his only granddaughter, which automatically made me his favorite, a fact he never said out loud but made obvious in a hundred quiet ways. The quarters were one of them. The chocolate was another. Sitting next to him while he watched television in comfortable silence was maybe the biggest one of all. My grandfather is a veteran. A Marine. That fact feels heavy, like it should come with a long explanation or dramatic stories. But he does not talk about his service. Not really. There are no detailed war stories or emotional speeches about bravery. If you ask him about the Marines, he might shrug, change the subject, or give a short answer that somehow says everything and nothing at the same time. As a kid, I thought that meant it was not important. As I got older, I realized it meant the opposite. One of my favorite memories is sitting at his kitchen table while he fixed something small, usually a radio or a clock that did not really need fixing. He would let me watch, sometimes handing me a tool, trusting me with it even when my hands were too small. He never rushed me. He never made me feel like I was in the way. That patience stayed with me. It taught me that leadership does not have to be loud and that teaching can happen without a lesson plan. Growing up close to my grandparents meant I saw my grandfather not just as a veteran, but as a person. A man who loved sweets, who believed in showing care through actions, and who understood that strength could be gentle. Being raised around that kind of example shaped how I see responsibility now as the oldest sibling. I try to be steady. I try to be fair. I try to show up even when no one is asking me to. All he ever asked of me, was when I got older, I get him some food once and a while. After I landed my first job, I would snag him a cookie every now and then from my workplace. If not, I'd pick him up something from Culver's because we had been there so many times, I had his order memorized. And whenever they'd give me change, I'd think about the quarters he'd leave out for me.

Service, sacrifice, and bravery are words that usually sound big and distant, like something carved into stone. For me, they are much more ordinary and much more personal. I am a nineteen-year-old African American, the oldest sibling in a family of eight kids, with seven brothers who have been watching me my whole life to see what I would do first. Growing up in that role taught me early that leadership is not about being loud or fearless. It is about showing up, giving more than you take, and doing the right thing even when no one is clapping for you. Sgt. Albert Dono Ware’s legacy reflects those same values. Service, in my life, started at home. Being the oldest meant responsibility came before comfort. It meant helping with homework, breaking up arguments, and learning how to listen even when I was tired. That sense of responsibility followed me into college, especially during my first year, when I felt isolated and overwhelmed. Instead of retreating inward, I learned to serve my own growth by staying present, asking for help, and eventually building community where none existed before. Sacrifice showed up in the choices I made, choosing long nights of practice and study over easier paths, choosing a major that demands patience and persistence, and choosing to believe in a future I could not yet fully see. Bravery, for me, was choosing computer animation as my major. It is not a field where women who look like me are always visible. But I remember sitting as a child watching Princess and the Frog, feeling something shift inside me when I saw a Black princess on screen. It was not just representation. It was possibility. Someone who looked like me could be magical, determined, and central to the story. That moment stayed with me, and it became the reason I want to create animation. I want to give that same feeling to another little girl who is waiting to see herself reflected as powerful and worthy. These values directly shape how I think about the challenges facing the African diaspora in the United States today. Many of these challenges revolve around visibility, access, and opportunity. In creative industries, Black voices are often underfunded, underrepresented, or filtered through perspectives that are not our own. This affects how stories are told and who gets to tell them. One of the most critical reforms I see is increased investment in arts education and technology access in predominantly Black communities. Animation and digital storytelling are expensive fields to enter, and without early exposure, many talented students never get the chance to imagine themselves there. Policy reform should focus on equitable funding for public schools, especially in STEAM programs that combine technology and creativity. Grants and scholarships targeted toward students of color in creative and technical fields are essential. Community reforms are just as important. Mentorship programs that connect young Black students with professionals in animation, film, and technology can turn interest into direction. Representation should not be accidental. It should be intentional. Key stakeholders in this change include educators, policymakers, media companies, and community leaders. Schools can nurture curiosity. Lawmakers can ensure resources are distributed fairly. Studios and corporations can commit to inclusive hiring and storytelling. Community organizations can create safe spaces for young people to explore their talents without limitation. Change happens when these groups work together, guided by the same values of service, sacrifice, and bravery that Sgt. Albert Dono Ware embodied. My vision is rooted in quiet impact. I may not wear a uniform, but I carry responsibility. I want to serve by creating stories that affirm identity, sacrifice comfort to open doors for others, and be brave enough to imagine a world where little black girls see themselves as heroes without question. That is how I honor this legacy, not only in words, but in the work I choose to practice every day.