“Entrepreneurial Management” typically means operating a small business. For me, it is the fastest pathway that I could think of that would allow me to open culture-focused, non religious soup kitchens. I grew up fortunate that my stomach never went empty, and my fridge was generally full. Both of my parents who came from drastically different backgrounds didn’t experience the same privilege, and neither did their parents. Gratitude and recognition came before all else. I knew that I was given the privilege to be educated. In a family where most don’t know more than 4-function math, I was given the opportunity to study calculus and art history. For me, my academics are everything my grandparents and parents worked to give me. I reach for every opportunity because I know that my family has done everything they can to make sure I'm able to grasp it. Because of this, the gaps between my peers and I are stark, and hard to swallow; I am a queer woman, who is fortunate enough to receive love and support from those around her. The support I’ve received from my family is something I know that a lot of my LGBTQ+ peers don’t receive. Those who aren’t supported by their families often end up struggling with their mental health, are more likely to experience homelessness, and particularly food insecurity. Because of this, Queer people tend to lean on crucial government programs such as SNAP, the funding for which is being chipped away for the sake of greed and lack of empathy. Social services for queer youth are unfortunately underfunded and overlooked much of the time. For some that struggle with food insecurity, religious/worship-based soup kitchens are all they can turn to. These “free” services are often coupled with a requirement or expectation to attend mass. Sometimes even becoming part of the church. These restraints often leave people with two choices; sacrifice their dignity in exchange for food, or go hungry. I strongly believe that providing communities with food security is the first step to ensuring they are able to escape cycles of poverty and homelessness. Every day of my life is spent cooking, reading about cooking, menu planning, and fleshing out the ideas for my soup kitchens. More than anything, I want to provide meals that don’t come with the price of dignity or feeling “stuck” in an environment that doesn’t resonate with a lot of queer people. My soup kitchens would be focused on cultural foods that are nourishing and filling. I grew up eating traditional home cooked Chinese meals; rice, vegetables, stewed meats, fish, etc. I hope to partner with culinary schools that allow students to intern at my kitchens, providing real world education and experience so that they are better prepared for the professional world. These students would be able to bring their own comfort foods to the table, and allow those who come to my kitchens for a meal the dignity of a choice; Not a choice between eating or going hungry, a choice of what they want to eat, when, and if they want to take food with them to go. To me, entrepreneurship is about every generation that sacrificed before me so that I could lend a helping hand to others. I want to embody the spirit of someone who recognizes the value in each person, regardless of their backgrounds. Food security provides individuals with the stability to pursue jobs, education, and break cycles of poverty. I want to provide that for others.

My parents spent two and a half years getting a divorce. Perhaps the most critical fact was that they lived together the entire time. Two people who hated each other sleeping in bedrooms barely six feet apart. I never saw my parents hold hands, kiss, or embrace. I saw them living like two parallel lines, doomed to hover around each other in the kitchen for what I thought would be forever. I didn’t know that parents were supposed to love each other. My dad struggled with alcohol abuse, but not the kind that results in violence; the kind of drunkenness that results in screaming. It was 2021, and I was going into my second semester of 8th grade during COVID. I remember everything as a blur because my intense state of depression led me to barely speak for days on end. I spent so much time alone, holed up in my room and not interacting with anyone. Divorce isn’t the “quick and over” story I used to see in movies. It is like white water rafting: the calm scenery can be quickly overtaken by frothy, milk-like water searching to thrust your paddle-raft into a rock. What no one talks about is the battle of stories: Who is right? Who was the “true fighter” in the marriage, and who let it slip away? One night, I slept in my mom's room because I had an uneasy gut feeling that I couldn’t shake. My eyes shot open as I watched her get out of bed and go downstairs to search my dad's work backpack. He had just come back from a trip in Texas. Throughout the bag was evidence of his affair with a woman who is now his fiancée. I spent the whole night wide awake, my thoughts racing. My dad stormed into the bedroom we were in and started yelling at my mom, and then at me. The next two years were a blur of fighting, screaming, my dads drinking habits, divorce mediators, co-parenting therapists, and my dad's inability to accept that his affair was wrong. He left in January of my sophomore year. A U-Haul truck I helped him pack with dishware and Army T-Shirts left the driveway, and my dad was gone. He now lives with his fiancée in Texas, pretending he is a DINK (double income, no kids). My relationship with my dad is something I grapple with every day. He always picks up the phone on the first ring, he always answers my texts right away, and he always wants to fly me out to see him. But none of that erases the damage. What I’ve learned from my parents' divorce is tenfold, and it has shaped me more than anything I’ve ever experienced. When my dad left, I loathed my family. Our house wasn’t a home; it was filled with hatred and anger. In a divorce that stems from an affair, there is very little trust among anyone. My dad’s distorted narrative furthered my apprehension toward my mom, and my morality was constantly being challenged by his infidelity. But in the end, I learned to love and trust again. My mom is my greatest superhero. After my dad moved out, she was diagnosed with breast cancer and shortly after, lost her job. The only money we received was my father's child support. She was a newly single parent with two teens who had schedules that never stopped. In less than two years, she has healed my inner child and shown me that I can be happy again, that I am safe, and that I won’t ever have to feel like no one is there to catch me when I fall. Our three-member household has become an unbreakable triangle. Of course, like any family, we fight. But my mom pushed for us to go to family therapy, which (after my staunch opposition) has become a critical part of establishing a healthy household dynamic. She advocated for me to have my own therapist during the beginning of my parents' divorce. She pushed for my future and loved me even when I was angry with her and screamed hateful things, a projection of my broken relationship with my family. Her gentleness and willingness to work on herself and heal my inner child has been something that has helped my own journey of healing. I’ve learned to say “I love you” again. I’ve learned to laugh full belly laughs, and I see a future with a family to lean on and appreciate. Despite the most obliterating tear-down of my character and mental state, my mom has built me back up into a stronger and more confident woman.

One of my biggest inspirations is Jose Andres, his work with World Central Kitchen and FEMA disaster relief has inspired me to create a new path for myself; Cultural soup kitchens. The light in my life has always been my family and the meals we share together; One big Chinese family bumping knees at a table meant for a family of 6. I've grown up eating large communal meals of all kinds, and one day I'd like to provide a space for all kinds of people who want to experience similar types of connection. I'd like to open a restaurant (following in the footsteps of my family) that provides internships to culinary students. They'd gain experience working in a professional kitchen, learning the front and back of the house while also exploring the different and constantly changing menus of my true passion. The restaurant is how I'd fund a venture that has been my passion project for close to 3 years now: a cultural soup kitchen. Most soup kitchens are religious based, and offer more American/Eurocentric dishes. I want to provide a space for the wide range of people who struggle with food insecurity, or may not have the means to make their traditional foods. Growing up in restaurants and eating all different types of food across the world, I've had the opportunity to study the effects of instability in regions and how it affects the cuisine. Several cultures emphasize stretching and maximizing the dollars they can spend on food, largely due to famine, colonization, and war that has devastated regions. My grandparents and great grandparents fled China during the rise of Communism, and like many Asian Americans at the time, they found themselves displaced with very little money and very little to sustain themselves. Because of this, their influence has shown me the immense value of every meal. I've been fortunate enough to share my time with others by cooking and eating together. Giving people in my communities the opportunity to eat without the burden of cooking, cost, and clean up is something I'd like to pass along. My soup kitchen could put different cultures at the forefront and allow people to experience "home cooked" meals, while providing the opportunity for others to try foods they may not have the means to. My biggest leap in the coming future will be getting an initiative off the ground. It isn’t easy to start a restaurant, nor to make it profitable, and certainly not to run a soup kitchen off of the profits. I haven’t found a place with a similar concept to use as a guide map. Instead I have to create my own by searching for other individuals who can help me provide a space that fosters a sense of security around food. As of now, I spend my Sunday mornings working as a barista, and my afternoons at a Senior center playing trivia. My grandparents have had an incredibly profound impact on my future, and I want to ensure that the time I can afford to give other elderly people is given to them completely. Everyday I spend working, going to school, and volunteering is another contribution to my future that will revolve around providing security and assurance for others.

May it please the court, counsel, members of the jur—” “Please speak up, I’m hard of hearing.” I started volunteering at a senior center after my junior year mock trial season. My time away from evaluating legal materials was spent reading trivia questions in the dining hall of Sunrise Senior Living. My first couple of games always ended with me feeling dejected. Even though the residents were much nicer than my attorney evaluators in the jury box, they still struggled to hear me. The circular table became a chorus of “What?” in a sitcom-style skit depicting elderly hearing problems. I’d start my question, “Who was the youngest person to sign the constitu—” and Barneé would interject, “I’m so sorry, honey, I can’t hear. It’s not you, it’s me.” I felt awful; here I was, wasting the time of Pearl (82), Barneé (103), and Mark (79) because I couldn’t read the questions loudly enough. I thought I was screaming—my voice felt loud and strained—but it still didn’t reach the ears of my group of residents. After that first week, I almost didn’t return. But something about the laughter at the table, the "humph" Pearl would let out when she got an answer right, and Barneé’s enthusiastic smile brought me back the next week. I took each weekend as a new opportunity, shifting my perspective to emphasize consistency instead of feeling embarrassed. Our games became comfortable and almost rhythmic. My voice wavered less, and I didn’t feel discouraged when they asked me to repeat questions. I learned to project without feeling like I was yelling. I picked up on the little things— Mark would always say "gimme a hint" in a gruff tone, and Barneé would always stop me to ask "Did you say "T" as in Teresa?" Now, I spend most of my Sunday afternoons enjoying ice cream during snack time and reading silly trivia questions. “What is a baby oyster called?” “A spat!” Each week, I look forward to eating Häagen-Dazs and talking about family visits with Barneé. Her cataracts have impaired most of her vision, so she can’t see me. Even so, I speak loudly enough for her to hear me, and she has quickly become someone I consider my friend and a highlight of my week. Volunteering at Sunrise has taught me more than I could have imagined. It’s not just about speaking loudly; it’s about speaking with patience, care, and intention. I’ve become a better communicator, a more empathetic listener, and a more understanding friend. Just like in mock trial, where I’ve learned to adjust my tone and adapt to the unpredictable nature of the courtroom, I’ve learned to navigate the unpredictability of our Sunday trivia games. I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything. Patience and humility is something I've realized is sparse in the day to day of life. The environment around so many adolescents fosters a "hustle" culture, one that doesn't allow people to slow down and surely doesn't emphasize empathy for others. I hope that by working with a group of people who require that I slow down will help me dismantle my own internalized "hustle" mindset.