To me, collaboration is about connection. It’s not just about working alongside others but learning from them and building something that feels alive because of all the voices involved. In my practice, collaboration asks me to trust people, to stay open, and to let go of the need to control everything. It becomes less about one person’s vision and more about what can grow between people when ideas pass back and forth. One of the most meaningful collaborative projects I’ve worked on was Cover to Cover, which I created with my friend Tralee. The idea started as a conversation between the two of us and grew into a full event that combined music, visual art, and live performance. We began by selecting an album cover and giving it, without any context, to a group of musicians. Their task was to write a song based only on the image they received. After a few days, those musicians performed the song live for a group of visual artists. The artists then created new work inspired by what they heard. The art was displayed in the art gallery at my school, forming a creative chain that moved from image to sound to image again. The night of the event people filled the space with curiosity and excitement. Musicians shared the strange and beautiful ways they interpreted the cover, and the artists spoke about how the songs had shaped their visual responses. It wasn’t just a gallery show or a concert, it was an experience. It felt like stepping into the middle of a conversation where every voice mattered, and nothing was predictable. Tralee and I handled every part of the process. We selected the participants, managed the schedule, helped with set-up, and stayed in constant communication with everyone involved. On top of that, we ran a fundraiser to support our school’s art studio, which gave the project a purpose beyond the event itself. It felt good to be creating something exciting while also giving back to a space that meant so much to us. What made Cover to Cover so special was how fast it moved. Each group had just a few days to respond, which meant no one had time to overthink. People had to trust their instincts and respond honestly. That urgency brought out something fun and real. The finished show wasn’t just a display of individual talent, it was a creative game of telephone, where one piece of art sparked another, and that momentum kept moving. This experience reshaped how I see collaboration. I stopped thinking about it as dividing tasks and started thinking about it as a chain of influence. Working with Tralee to support artists and musicians, and watching the show come to life taught me how powerful art is. And how amazing it can be when you create something that depends on others to fully exist. It reminded me that art is never just about the final piece. It’s about the energy that builds in the process, and the relationships that carry it forward.

I plan to create a legacy by opening a gallery that is more than just a space to view art. I want it to be a place where people come together, connect, and feel seen. Art has always helped me process my identity and emotions. It gave me a way to speak when I did not know how else to express myself. I want to give that same opportunity to others. I want to create a space where people feel safe enough to share their work, tell their stories, and be vulnerable. The gallery I hope to build will be open to everyone. I want to feature artists from many different backgrounds, especially those who have not always had the chance to be heard. This includes young artists, queer artists, people of color, and those who are still trying to figure out where they fit in the art world. But I do not want the space to only be about identity. I want it to be about honesty, emotion, and human connection. Anyone who has something to say through their art will be welcome. My gallery will also function as a community hub. I want it to host workshops, collaborative shows, artist talks, and interactive events. I imagine a space where fashion, performance, sculpture, painting, and sound can all exist together. I want people to walk in and feel like they belong there, even if they have never been to a gallery before. I want it to feel warm, alive, and full of possibility. I shine my light by creating opportunities for others. I have already started doing this at my school by curating shows like Cardboard Creatures and Cover to Cover. I have helped organize performances, found musicians, built sets, and created costumes. I volunteer my time because I believe in building spaces where creativity can thrive. In the past I focused purely on acrylic painting but have worked hard to open my horizons. I have worked with laser cutting, collage, oil pastels and linoleum printing. I continue to push myself to grow as an artist, recently learning to sew and experimenting with fashion for the first time. These new skills have helped me express feelings I could never put into words. My dream is to keep creating, keep learning, and keep lifting others up. I believe that entrepreneurship is not just about running a business. It is about building something that makes the world better. That is the legacy I want to leave.

My name is Ollie Gordon, and I’m a transgender artist, curator, and student trying to make the world a little softer for people like me. People who often feel like they don’t belong. Growing up, I didn’t see many stories like mine. It was hard to feel safe, let alone proud of who I was. But through art, I found a way to speak up, connect with others, and start healing. Most of the work I make is about identity and how it feels to live in a body that people don’t always understand. I use wearable art and performance to show the emotions I usually keep inside. Things like fear, discomfort, and hope. It’s not always easy work, but I know it can help people see trans stories in a new light. I want others to feel less alone when they see what I make. Over the last year, I’ve stepped into leadership roles that have pushed me to grow. I co-led a show called Cover to Cover with a close friend, even when we were both struggling. I organized a Halloween event called Cardboard Creatures where kids and teens wore cardboard masks and danced to live music. I’ve also worked on immersive art shows like The Other and Nevermore, where actors performed inside the art itself. Each time, I’ve learned more about how to support others, stay grounded, and make something meaningful even when things get hard. Outside of art, I care deeply about helping others feel seen and safe. I volunteer when I can, especially for events that support queer and trans youth. I know what it feels like to grow up without much support, and I want to be the kind of person I needed when I was younger. Someday I hope to become a curator or artistic director so I can keep creating spaces where others feel brave enough to share their stories too. Receiving the Mark Green Memorial Scholarship would mean a lot to me. I come from an underprivileged background, and like Mark, I’ve had to push through a lot just to get where I am now. But I believe in what I’m doing, and I believe in what’s possible when someone finally gets the chance to be heard. This scholarship would help me keep going, both in school and in my mission to make the world more open, honest, and kind. Thank you for considering me. I won’t take this opportunity for granted.

Growing up as a transgender person, I often felt like I had to shrink myself to stay safe. Over time, I realized that hiding who I am only made me feel more alone. Instead, I have chosen to live honestly and use my creativity to build understanding between people. Art became my way to process emotions and communicate things that are hard to say out loud. It has helped me survive, and it is also how I try to help others feel seen. In high school, I have poured that passion into leading and supporting art exhibitions that center community, emotion, and storytelling. I co-curated a show called Cover to Cover, where students responded to each other’s work, creating an evolving conversation about identity, memory, and connection. I also directed Cardboard Creatures, a Halloween event with student-made masks, live music, and scare actors, which brought people together in a joyful, creative way. I have taken pride in building not just exhibitions, but safe and inclusive environments where others can express themselves freely. Beyond the art world, I have also served as the artistic director for my school’s science club. Right now, we are working on designing and building an aquaponics system, a sustainable way to grow food using fish and plants together. I have helped shape how we present and explain our project, blending visuals, storytelling, and science to engage our school community. This experience has shown me that creativity has a place everywhere, even in fields people do not usually associate with art. These experiences have taught me how to lead, collaborate, and advocate. I know I want to pursue a career where I can keep combining creativity and care, whether through curating exhibitions, running community programs, or working in arts education. I want to create spaces where people feel safe to be themselves, where empathy grows, and where stories that usually go unheard get the attention they deserve. It has not been easy to get here. I have faced judgment, fear, and the emotional weight of feeling like I do not belong. But I have learned how to hold on to my voice, to push forward even when I am scared, and to use what I have experienced to help others. That is what drives me. While I did not know Valerie Rabb, I understand the kind of impact she had. She uplifted students, championed their growth, and showed up with love. That is the kind of legacy I hope to carry forward in my own way.

Growing up, I always felt like the world wasn’t built for someone like me. As a transgender person, I’ve navigated spaces that didn’t see me, didn’t understand me, and sometimes outright rejected me. But instead of letting that defeat me, I’ve found strength in it. I’ve learned how to speak up, not just for myself, but for others who feel invisible too. I want to build a world that feels safer, kinder, and more accepting, and I know higher education will give me the tools to do that. Art has always been my way in. It’s how I process, how I speak, how I connect. I create wearable art pieces that bring internal struggles into the physical world, helping others literally see what we often try to hide. Through this work, I’ve watched people recognize their own experiences in mine. I’ve seen them reflect, ask questions, and show empathy. That’s the kind of impact I want to expand. College will give me a space to deepen my craft, collaborate with other creatives, and grow both personally and professionally. I want to study art and design with a focus on community engagement, blending emotional intelligence and storytelling with real-world application. I also want to learn more about arts administration, curation, and education fields where I can amplify voices that often go unheard. Beyond the studio, I’ve already started making change. I’ve curated and led exhibitions that center identity and youth expression. I’ve worked in service roles where listening and showing care made all the difference. Whether I’m helping a customer or leading a team, I carry my values with me. I believe that even the smallest interactions can shape someone’s day, and I want to keep building on that mindset as I grow. As a low-income, first-generation student, college isn’t just a dream for me, it’s a milestone for my entire family. It represents the chance to break cycles, create new possibilities, and model what’s possible for others like me. This scholarship would help make that future more achievable. I’m not aiming to change the whole world overnight. But I do believe in ripple effects. I believe that by being visible, by telling stories that matter, and by supporting others along the way, I can spark small shifts in thinking and feeling. And those small shifts add up. They become change. With further education, I’ll continue creating, connecting, and fighting for a world where everyone has the freedom to be themselves. That’s the future I’m working toward and I’m just getting started.

When I started at an arts high school, I was terrified. I had come from a school where people didn’t believe in me. Teachers discouraged me from becoming an artist. I felt like I wasn’t good enough, like I was just pretending. Then I joined Steven Stradley’s class, and everything changed. Stradley was my art teacher from freshman through junior year, and he’s one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met. He wasn’t just teaching, he was living what he taught. He made abstract art that was bold and packed with meaning, not just “pretty pictures,” as he would always say. That stuck with me. He cared deeply about the ideas behind what we made, and he expected us to care too. One thing I really appreciated was how honest he was. If my art sucked, he’d tell me straight-up. If something wasn’t working, he’d tell me to start over. And yeah, sometimes that stung, but it came from a place of belief, not judgment. He knew I could do better. He knew I had more in me. That kind of honesty shaped me. I learned that failure was part of the process, and that doing something again wasn’t a sign of weakness but a sign of growth. He pushed me in ways I didn’t expect. If I thought a piece was finished, he’d ask, “But what if you pushed it just a little further?” He never let me settle for “good enough.” He showed me how to lean into discomfort, how to keep going when I felt stuck, how to trust my instincts. In my junior year, he mentored me through my AP portfolio. It was intense, I was creating some of the most personal, challenging work of my life. With his guidance, I ended up getting a 5 on the exam. That was a huge moment for me. It wasn’t just about the score, it was proof that I could do this. Stradley also gave me the confidence to apply to college. I don’t think I would’ve had the courage without his encouragement. He believed in my voice as an artist, even when I didn’t. That belief meant everything. He left our school after my junior year to become a curator at the MSU Broad Art Museum in Michigan. I was sad to see him go but very happy to see what he would accomplish. He’d been with the museum before, back when it first opened, and now he was returning after over a decade of teaching. Stradley is someone who brings creativity into everything he does. His own paintings are these colorful, strange, beautiful forms that live somewhere between objects and images. He’s always making, always exploring. Because of him, I no longer see being an artist as some unreachable dream. I see it as something real, something I’m allowed to chase. Stradley taught me that art is about ideas, about risk, about truth. He taught me how to fight for my voice, and not just in art, but in life.

My dream is to become a curator and artistic director who builds experiences that challenge how people see each other and themselves. I want to create spaces that connect communities, encourage self-expression, and celebrate the weird, the vulnerable, and the honest. I’m working toward that dream by creating events like Cover to Cover, a show I co-curated and directed with my friend Tralee. Cover to Cover started as an idea between friends, inspired by the album Fishing for Fishies by King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard. We gave a group of musicians only the album cover, no title, no artist, no music. From that single image, they created an original song. Then, we invited a group of visual artists to listen to the live performance without knowing the song was based on an album cover. We asked them to create a piece within a 10'x10' wall space based solely on the music they heard. No one knew what the others had been given, it was a big game of telephone through sound and image. The final show was a living, breathing experiment. On opening night, the musicians performed, the artists spoke about their installations, and everyone (audience and artists alike) learned the full story at the same time. The art had traveled full circle, from cover to cover. As a low-income, first-generation student, I’ve had to get creative with how I pursue my goals. I don’t always have access to fancy supplies or big budgets, but I’ve learned to make impactful work using what’s around me, whether it’s cardboard, old paints, or worn out fabric. I’ve also had to push past fear. I’m a transgender person, and there were many times growing up when I was afraid to be seen. But now, through art, I’ve found a way to be loud, to lead, and to help others do the same. Projects like Cover to Cover taught me that I can take an idea and bring it to life. I’ve learned how to coordinate teams, communicate across disciplines, and shape experiences that leave people thinking and feeling something new. I want to keep doing that: on bigger scales, with broader audiences, and with the support of a creative community that believes in what I’m building. This scholarship would be a step toward continuing that work through school and beyond. I want to turn my dreams into reality by giving others a platform to share their voices. When I create art or curate a show, I’m not just making something beautiful, I’m making something meaningful. Something that might help someone feel less alone. Something that might change how they see the world. Thank you for considering my application.

Being a first-generation college student means more than being the first to attend college. It means carrying the hopes of my family while carving a path no one else in my household has walked before. My career goals are deeply shaped by this responsibility. I want to build a life where I can thrive and create change for others like me, people who grew up without a clear roadmap, who learned to dream by watching others but had to teach themselves how to reach those dreams. I am pursuing a career in the arts, not just as a creator but as someone who curates space for others to be seen. My experiences navigating education alone taught me the importance of support systems, of people who believe in your potential even when you do not yet see it yourself. That is why I want to become a curator or artistic director, someone who uplifts overlooked voices, especially those of queer and trans youth, people of color, and other first-generation students. My career goal is not only to make meaningful art, but to make opportunity. I want to build platforms that say, "You belong here. Your story matters." Without the guidance of family who have done this before, I have had to rely on community, resilience, and scholarships like this one to get through. That has shaped me into someone who does not just want success for myself. I want it for everyone who feels like the odds are stacked against them. Thank you for considering my application.

This year, I co-curated and directed an art and performance show called Cover to Cover—a student-led event that brought together visual artists, writers, and performers to celebrate storytelling in all its forms. We transformed our school art gallery into a performance space, showcasing live music and art. The event was playful and chaotic, but underneath the fun, it was a labor of love, rooted in service to our school’s creative community. I took on a lot of roles: curator, organizer, and mentor. One part I’m especially proud of was organizing a fundraiser for the show. I collected carved linoleum blocks from students in my printmaking class and used them to create handmade prints on paper. These prints were then sold at the event to help support the artists and future student-led exhibitions. It was a small act, but one that connected students' work to a greater purpose, giving them the chance to see their art appreciated and valued. In the short term, Cover to Cover helped me understand the value of intentional, community-focused art. It wasn’t about perfection, it was about giving people space to be bold and authentic. I saw students who were normally quiet light up as their voices were heard. I saw how just a bit of structure and encouragement could lead to powerful creative expression. It was also a lesson in resilience. There were moments where things fell apart, when tech failed, nerves hit, or people got overwhelmed. But each time, we regrouped and adapted, supporting each other through the chaos. I had to learn how to lead with empathy, how to listen, and how to ask for help when I needed it too. In the long term, this experience changed the way I view service. I used to think of service as volunteering in a traditional sense, but now I see it as something woven into the way I live and create. Service can look like building platforms for others to stand on, amplifying voices that go unheard, and fostering spaces where people feel seen. It’s about generosity—not just of time, but of care, patience, and vision. Cover to Cover also reinforced my passion for curation and community-building through art. I want to continue creating spaces like this, spaces where people feel safe enough to be themselves, to take risks, and to share their stories. Especially as a transgender student, I know how vital it is to feel like you belong somewhere. That’s what I try to offer through every project I take on. And honestly, I wouldn’t have made it here without the service of others. Teachers who championed my weird ideas, friends who stayed late to install art onto the walls, peers who trusted me with their art—all of them shaped this show. Their support reminds me that none of us build anything alone. Receiving the Judy Fowler Memorial Scholarship would help me keep building on this event, on this vision, and on a life rooted in service, creativity, and compassion. I hope to honor Judy Fowler’s legacy by continuing to make space for others, just like people have made space for me.

Growing up in a low-income household as a first-generation student, college has always felt like both a dream and a challenge—something so close, yet so hard to grasp. My family has always emphasized education as a way out of struggle, just like Alicia Blythe’s parents did for her. For me, a college degree is not just a milestone. It’s a turning point—one that will rewrite the future of my life and, I hope, the lives of those who come after me. A degree would be the first in my family. It would mean breaking a cycle of financial instability and limited opportunities. It would be a chance to pursue a career where I can support myself and give back to my family, who have given me everything they could, even when they had so little. I want to be the person who proves that where you come from doesn’t have to define where you’re going. What I’m most passionate about is helping others understand people who are different from them—especially through art. I use my art to tell stories about identity, discomfort, and the struggle of being seen. I focus especially on what it means to be a transgender person navigating a world that doesn’t always understand. Art is my way of reaching people. It lets me start conversations that wouldn’t happen otherwise, and create moments of empathy that can change someone’s perspective. To pursue this passion, I’ve thrown myself into every opportunity to create and lead. I’ve curated exhibitions, directed art shows, and collaborated with peers to make interactive, transformative experiences. One of my favorite projects was called Cardboard Creatures, where I worked with students to create wearable mask art for a Halloween event with live music and performances. I’ve also worked on a show called Nevermore, where I helped lead set design decisions. These aren’t just art projects, they are acts of community, of imagination, and of hope. They’re proof that I’m not waiting to make a difference—I’m already doing it. College will help me expand this work. I want to continue studying art and education, eventually becoming a curator or artistic director. I want to support other young creatives, especially those who feel like they don’t belong or can’t make it. I want to be living proof that they can. This scholarship would not just ease the financial burden of college, it would honor the work I’ve already begun and push me closer to the future I’m building. One where art, identity, and education come together to make change. One where I can make my family proud. And one where the story I’ve started becomes a legacy for someone else to continue. Thank you for considering my application.

As a transgender student, maintaining my mental and physical health is not just a personal goal. It is a necessity for survival and growth. My well-being is what allows me to keep creating, learning, and moving forward in a world that often doesn’t make space for people like me. Mental health is something I’ve had to work hard to protect. Growing up trans in a conservative state has meant constant pressure to hide or defend who I am. I have not been able to access gender-affirming care or therapy, not because I don’t want it, but because my parents don’t support it and the laws in my state make it incredibly difficult to get. Knowing that support exists elsewhere but is kept out of reach has been deeply frustrating. At times, it has made school and daily life feel like uphill battles. Despite that, I’ve found ways to care for myself. When I am overwhelmed or struggling, I turn to art. Making art helps me push through hard feelings. It gives me a way to take the pain and confusion I carry and turn it into something expressive and real. I create wearable sculptures and performances that speak to the discomfort of being misperceived and the emotional toll of not being supported. Art is where I find clarity, release, and strength. Focusing on my well-being also helps me care for others. I’ve curated shows, led art events, and created spaces where other LGBTQ+ students can be themselves and feel safe. I want to keep doing that. I want to be a curator and artistic director who centers care, empathy, and representation. The work I do is about more than just making something visually interesting. It is about helping people feel seen and understood. Even without formal resources, I’ve built resilience. I’ve relied on community, creativity, and persistence to get where I am. Prioritizing my health, in whatever ways I can, is how I make sure I can keep going. It is how I stay grounded in a world that often tries to push me aside. There are still difficult days. But each time I make the choice to rest, to create, or to connect with others, I am reclaiming a little more peace for myself. That is why my mental and physical health are so important to me. They allow me to survive, to grow, and to continue making space for others to do the same. Thank you for considering my application.

My name is Ollie Gordon, and I am a transgender artist, curator, and community builder. I use my art to express what often feels impossible to say with words. Being trans has shaped every part of my life—how I see myself, how others treat me, how safe I feel, and how I move through the world. It’s also the reason I create. Growing up trans means navigating a world that constantly questions your existence. I’ve felt that in school, in public, in moments where just being myself felt like a risk. But it’s also given me a deeper understanding of people and a strong drive to make change. I don’t just want to make art. I want to build spaces where others like me can feel seen, valued, and free. I’ve already started doing that. I co-curated a show called Cover to Cover that invited artists to explore storytelling through performance and wearable art. I directed an exhibition called Cardboard Creatures, where students made masks and performed in a live celebration with music and scare actors. I also created the set for Nevermore, a school production where I led a small team to design and build the visual world of the play. In another piece, I created a wearable sculpture that turns internal discomfort into something visible, helping others understand what it feels like to be looked at through the wrong lens. What drives me is the chance to teach people through art. I want to challenge how people think, especially about gender, and show them the human side of experiences they may not understand. My goal is to become a curator and artistic director, someone who creates and leads exhibitions that center marginalized voices. I also want to support trans youth and give them the kind of care and representation I needed when I was younger. Being trans and having financial need has made it harder to get here. Between healthcare costs, discrimination, and limited support, every step forward has required more effort. A scholarship like this doesn’t just help me pay for school. It tells me that people believe in what I’m trying to do. Cesar’s story reminds me how urgent this work is. There are so many young trans people carrying heavy things. Through art, I’ve found a way to carry those things differently. I want to keep creating, keep building, and keep helping others feel less alone. Thank you for considering my application.

Being transgender has been the greatest challenge I’ve faced in my life. It’s shaped my personal growth and my approach to everything, including my education. Growing up, I often felt like I didn’t fit in. I struggled with discomfort about who I was and how I was perceived, but this internal conflict pushed me to explore my identity more deeply. My art became my way of understanding and expressing these struggles. I use it to explore the dissonance between how we see ourselves and how others see us. Art helped me process the emotional pain that came with being misunderstood. In addition to the challenges of being transgender, I’m a first-generation college student from a low-income background. There was no clear path for me to follow in my family. No one had gone through the college application process, so I had to figure it all out on my own. I researched scholarships, filled out applications, and sought advice from teachers and mentors who helped me navigate the process. It wasn’t easy, and it often felt overwhelming. But I learned to be resourceful and to advocate for myself. I was determined to get to college, and I knew that I needed to fight for that opportunity. Finances have always been a significant barrier. My family couldn’t afford to send me to college, so I had to find a way to make it work. I worked part-time jobs, applied for every scholarship I could find, and carefully budgeted my money. The pressure of balancing schoolwork with financial worries was hard, but it only pushed me to stay focused on the long-term goal. I knew that getting an education would open doors for me and allow me to make a difference in the world. Through all of these struggles, I’ve learned that adversity doesn’t define me—it refines me. Being transgender and navigating the complexities of higher education has given me a unique perspective. I’ve learned to embrace my identity, despite the challenges that come with it. I’ve learned to be patient with myself, to advocate for what I need, and to never settle for less than what I deserve. My journey has shown me that resilience is key to overcoming any obstacle. This scholarship would make a huge difference in my ability to continue my education. It would ease the financial burden, allowing me to focus more on my studies and less on how to pay for school. With the support of this scholarship, I would be able to keep pursuing my passions—both in the classroom and in my art. I want to use my education to help others, particularly those who feel marginalized or misunderstood. My experiences have fueled my desire to create art that fosters empathy, and I hope to use my work to create spaces where people can connect and be seen for who they truly are. In the future, I want to give back to others who face similar challenges. This scholarship will not only support my education, but it will help me honor my journey and the lessons I’ve learned along the way.

A movie that really made an impact on me is The Truman Show. It’s about Truman Burbank, a man whose entire life has been a reality TV show—only he doesn’t know it. As Truman starts to notice weird things in his world, he begins questioning everything and eventually tries to break free from the life that’s been created for him. At the beginning, Truman thinks his life is perfect—he has a nice job, a loving wife, and a comfortable routine. But soon, he starts noticing things aren’t right. People act strangely, the world feels too perfect, and he begins to realize his reality is entirely controlled. Watching Truman question everything really resonated with me because it reminded me of the times when I’ve felt like the world expects me to be something I’m not. As a transgender person, I’ve had moments where I felt like I didn’t fit into what society said I should be, and watching Truman break free of his controlled life was a powerful reminder that sometimes, we have to push against those expectations to find who we really are. What stood out most to me was Truman’s courage to leave behind everything he knew. Even though he was scared and unsure, he chose to pursue the truth about his life. It made me realize that, even though it’s tough, growth comes from stepping outside our comfort zones and embracing who we truly are. Watching Truman struggle with the idea of leaving everything he knows makes me think about how hard it can be to let go of things that comfort us, even when we know It isn't what's best for us. The Truman Show also highlights how much of Truman’s life is controlled by someone else. His world is made for entertainment, and everything about it is planned. This made me think about how society often tries to shape us, telling us how to act or who to be. Watching Truman fight back against this control reminded me that we all have the power to challenge the expectations placed on us and live in a way that feels true to ourselves. In the end, The Truman Show is about freedom—freedom to think for ourselves, make our own choices, and live authentically. Truman’s journey taught me that it’s okay to question what’s around us and find our own truth, even when it feels like everything is against us. It reminded me that we have the power to create our own paths and be who we really are, no matter the world around us.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried the weight of being different without knowing exactly why. Growing up, I felt out of place in my own skin, like I was watching my life through someone else’s eyes. When I realized I was transgender, things started to make sense—but they also got harder. Navigating the world as a trans person takes a toll on your mental health. The fear of being misunderstood, rejected, or unsafe is always there. It’s exhausting to constantly defend your identity, especially when you’re still figuring out how to live in it. I haven’t had access to therapy, and most of what I’ve learned about surviving and coping has come from experience, community, and creating art. There were days when I couldn’t imagine a future for myself. The pressure of being a first-generation student, combined with the isolation of being trans in environments that didn’t always feel safe, pushed me into a place where everything felt too heavy. I didn’t have the words to describe what I was feeling, so I started making art instead. I created masks, wearable sculptures, and performances that let me show what I couldn’t say out loud. That process helped me externalize my pain and begin to take control of it. Mental health, for me, has been a quiet and personal battle—one I’ve fought largely on my own. I’ve had to build my own tools for survival: leaning into creativity, connecting with other queer and trans people, and learning to be patient with myself. I’ve learned that healing doesn’t always look like professional treatment. Sometimes it looks like showing up for yourself, again and again, even when the world tries to erase you. These experiences have shaped my relationships too. I lead with empathy because I know how it feels to be unheard. I try to make space for others who feel out of place or uncertain. I believe deeply in the importance of creating open, honest communities where people can be messy and human. Being trans has taught me the power of authenticity and the bravery it takes just to exist. My career goals are rooted in this journey. I want to become an artist and curator who uplifts marginalized voices, especially those of trans youth. I want to create exhibitions and events that offer connection, visibility, and healing. Through art, I hope to teach others about empathy and help them understand experiences different from their own. I believe that vulnerability is a strength, and that sharing our stories can change lives—including our own. Receiving this scholarship would mean support not just for my education, but for the vision I have of a future where trans people are celebrated, not just tolerated. It would be a step toward building the world I needed when I was younger—a world where someone like me doesn’t have to struggle alone.

To me, art is a reflection of the soul—an ever-evolving expression of identity, emotion, and the human experience. My motivation to pursue the arts comes from a deep need to tell stories that matter and to uplift others doing the same. As a transgender artist, I’ve used my own work to process identity and perception, exploring the space between how we see ourselves and how we’re seen by the world. But beyond creating, I’ve found purpose in making space—literally. My lifelong dream is to open a gallery that celebrates raw, human art and champions the voices that are too often overlooked. That dream isn’t just hypothetical—I’ve already started making it a reality. I curated and directed an exhibition called "Cardboard Creatures," where students designed wearable masks and performed live with scare actors and musicians for a Halloween celebration. I brought together artists, performers, and musicians to transform the space into something alive and unforgettable. I also co-curated "Cover to Cover," a collaborative show centered around shared emotional narratives, and created work for "The Other," a gallery that paired artists with actors to perform their pieces in a living exhibition. Each of these projects deepened my love for curation and helped me realize how powerful and healing art can be when shared in community. My gallery will be an extension of that: a space that prioritizes queer and trans artists, celebrates emotional honesty, and welcomes experimentation. It will be a home for the weird, the vulnerable, and the deeply human. In contrast to the rise of AI-generated art, I firmly believe in preserving the soul of creation. AI art, to me, is an insult to the labor and vulnerability real artists pour into their work. It mimics creativity without ever living it. My gallery will never show AI-generated work. Instead, it will stand as a haven for authentic expression—where every piece has a story, a struggle, and a heartbeat behind it. Art is how we connect, how we resist, and how we heal. I’ll keep creating, curating, and building spaces for artists who have something real to say, because we need human stories now more than ever.

Art has always been my way of communicating things I couldn’t say out loud. As a trans person, navigating a world that often misunderstands or rejects me, I’ve relied on art to process emotions, express my identity, and connect with others who might feel the same. My work explores discomfort, insecurity, and the tension between how we see ourselves and how we’re seen. Through wearable art, sculpture, and installation, I try to give form to internal struggles that are often invisible. I believe that showing these experiences physically can build empathy and help others feel less alone in theirs. One of the most meaningful things art has given me is confidence. Fashion and costuming, in particular, have helped me learn more about myself and take pride in how I show up in the world. It’s powerful to take control of your image and say, “This is me,” especially when that wasn’t always safe or accepted. I want to offer that same sense of empowerment to others through my work. My ultimate goal is to open a gallery space that not only showcases my own work but amplifies the voices of other queer and marginalized artists. I want to create a community where people can express themselves honestly and feel supported in doing so. I’ve already started on that journey by curating shows and collaborating with other young artists. Each experience has reinforced how important representation and safe creative spaces are. With my art, I want to inspire curiosity, vulnerability, and compassion. I want to make people feel something, whether that’s recognition, relief, or even discomfort that leads to reflection. I believe art has the power to transform how we see each other. That’s the impact I want to have: helping people understand experiences different from their own and showing trans joy and resilience in a world that often erases it. This scholarship would help me continue growing as an artist and expand the reach of the work I feel inspired to do.

I come from a family where higher education wasn’t really a topic of conversation. I’m a first-generation college student, and while I’m proud of that, it also means I’ve had to figure out most things on my own. On top of that, I come from a low-income background, so I’ve known from the beginning that I’d be responsible for covering most of my college costs myself. One of the hardest parts of my journey hasn’t just been financial, it’s been emotional. I’m trans, and my identity isn’t something I can safely share at home. My mom doesn’t support or understand it, and that’s meant carrying a lot of who I am in silence. Art became the place where I could finally be honest. It gave me a voice when I didn’t have one, and helped me build confidence in myself, even when I wasn’t being affirmed by the people around me. That’s a huge part of why I want to pursue higher education. I want to grow as an artist, but I also want to build a life where I don’t have to hide. I want to use what I learn in college to create space for others who have felt the same way I have- isolated, unsure, unseen. My dream is to one day open a gallery that uplifts trans artists and other marginalized voices, offering the kind of visibility and support I didn’t always have growing up. This scholarship would help lighten the financial load as I take these next steps, but more than that, it would mean someone believes in what I’m trying to do and that means everything.

I didn’t grow up thinking college was for me. No one in my family had gone, and it just didn’t feel like something people like us did. It felt far away, expensive, and full of unknowns. For a long time, I was convinced I’d have to figure out how to make it as an artist without any kind of degree. But eventually I realized that higher education could offer something I couldn’t get on my own: community, growth, and the space to take my work seriously. As a first-generation college student, this decision hasn’t come easy. I’ve had to learn how to navigate applications, financial aid, and everything else mostly on my own. I’ve had to ask questions constantly, teach myself how to fill out forms, search endlessly for scholarships, and plan how I’m going to afford school while working. There have been a lot of moments where I wasn’t sure if I could do this at all. But I’ve pushed through every part of that process because I know what I’m working toward. For me, pursuing higher education is about more than getting a degree. It’s about giving myself the chance to grow into the artist and community builder I want to be. My art focuses on themes of identity, discomfort, and self-perception, especially as a trans person. It’s how I process emotions that are hard to put into words. But it’s also how I communicate with others and build understanding. Being in college means having access to resources, critiques, mentorship, and peers that will challenge me to expand my work and ideas. I want to learn not just for the sake of knowledge but to become stronger in my practice and more connected to the world around me. I want to build something that lasts, a career where I can uplift others, not just myself. One of my biggest goals is to open a gallery someday. Not just to show my own work, but to create space for other young, queer, and marginalized artists to be seen and celebrated. I’ve already started on this path by curating shows, collaborating with others, and helping people feel safe expressing their experiences through art. College is the next step that will help me do that on a bigger scale. Preparing for this journey as a first-gen student has looked like building my own support system, learning how to advocate for myself, and staying grounded in my purpose. I’ve learned how to be resourceful, ask for help when I need it, and take pride in how far I’ve come. I know I don’t have all the answers, but I also know I’m ready to learn and to keep growing. College is a huge leap for me. But it’s not just about me anymore. It’s about the people who’ve supported me, the artists I want to lift up, and the future I want to help shape. I’m proud to be the first in my family to take this step, and I’m determined to make it count.

Art has always been my way of making sense of feelings I didn’t have words for. Growing up, I struggled a lot with insecurity, isolation, and a deep discomfort with myself that I couldn’t explain for a long time. I didn’t know I was trans until later in life, but the confusion and emotional weight were there long before I had the language for it. That tension, that internal struggle, was where my art really began. Creating has been the one place where I could be completely honest. It’s where I’ve processed fear, grief, dysphoria, and joy all at once. When nothing made sense, art gave me a way to make something out of it. I didn’t have to explain what I was feeling. I could just show it. That release was crucial to my mental health. My work isn't about making things beautiful—it’s about making things real. Fashion, in particular, has helped me better understand who I am. There’s something powerful about being able to dress in a way that reflects how I feel rather than how I’m expected to look. Through fashion and wearable art, I’ve explored different facets of my identity and reclaimed parts of myself I used to hide. The process of designing and wearing pieces that express emotional truths has been incredibly healing. It’s helped me gain confidence, feel more in control of my body, and connect to a version of myself that finally feels authentic. I started making wearable art pieces that externalize inner emotional states. These pieces are physical representations of discomfort, anxiety, and the way identity feels when you’re constantly shifting between how you see yourself and how others see you. I make things that feel vulnerable because I’ve spent most of my life feeling vulnerable. And strangely, by showing that to others, I’ve started to feel stronger. Art isn’t just a personal tool—it’s a way to create empathy. I know how isolating it is to feel like no one understands you. That’s why I want my work to make space for people, especially trans youth, who are trying to make sense of their experiences. I want them to see my work and know they’re not alone. The pieces I submitted for this scholarship reflect that mission. One of them, a sculptural garment called Starstruck, deals with the experience of being perceived when you don’t want to be. It explores visibility, pressure, and longing all at once. Another is a wearable structure that restricts movement to express the weight of social expectation. These pieces aren’t just art—they’re stories about emotional survival, discomfort, and the small victories of self-understanding. They’re weird, vulnerable, and raw—just like the feelings they come from. Art has helped me survive, but it’s also helped me dream. I want to own and curate my own gallery space one day, one that uplifts trans artists, young artists, and anyone who’s ever been made to feel like they don’t belong. I want to create opportunities for others to express their mental and emotional journeys through art, just like I have. I’ve already begun this work by co-creating shows that invite community and conversation. I don’t want to keep that healing for myself. I want to share it. I’m applying for this scholarship not just because I need the support, but because I believe in what Selin stood for. I believe in the power of art to help us grow, connect, and survive. My experiences with mental health have shaped the way I create, and now I want to use that same creativity to help others feel seen, safe, and strong.

I haven’t always wanted to go to college. For a long time, I didn’t think it was worth it. I knew I wanted to be an artist, and I wasn’t sure how a degree would help with that. It’s hard to believe in the value of something when you rarely see people like you succeed in it. But over the past few years, I’ve realized that college isn’t just about getting a job or checking a box. It’s a chance to grow, to connect with other creatives, and to build something bigger than myself. Art has always been the way I make sense of who I am. As a trans person, creating work that reflects my identity and emotions has been essential. My art deals a lot with discomfort, insecurity, and the gap between how we see ourselves and how others see us. That’s not something I could ignore or silence, even if I tried. But now, instead of seeing that as a weakness, I see it as the heart of my strength. My goal isn’t just to create for myself, but to use my work to help people understand trans experiences, to make space for others, and to create empathy through expression. I’m also deeply committed to helping other artists feel seen. One of my biggest goals is to own and run a gallery—not just to show my own art, but to showcase the work of people whose voices are often overlooked. I want to create a space where people feel understood and represented. I don’t want to just “make it.” I want to bring others with me. Right now, I’ve been accepted into college, and I’m preparing to cover most of the costs myself. That’s been overwhelming, especially knowing I’ll have to juggle jobs, classes, and making art without burning out. This scholarship would help relieve some of that pressure. It would give me room to breathe and to focus on growing as an artist, student, and community member. I don’t want to be in survival mode while trying to get an education. I want to thrive and really make the most of it. I’m not applying for this because I expect things to be easy. I know how hard this road is going to be. But I’m willing to do the work. I’ve already been doing the work—curating shows, building community, and making art that speaks honestly about hard things. I’ve helped other artists feel safe and supported, and I plan to keep doing that, no matter where this path takes me. I’m not asking for a shortcut. I’m asking for support. This scholarship would help me show up fully, not just for myself, but for others like me who need to know that they belong in these spaces too. If you choose me, you’re not just helping me pay for school. You’re helping me build something that will grow beyond me.

I think of art as a language that doesn’t need words. It can communicate emotion, experience, and ideas in a way that anyone can connect with as long as they’re willing to really look. My goal is to make work that creates that kind of connection. I want people to feel something when they see it, even if they don’t fully understand it. I’m not trying to explain everything. I just want to create space for feeling, reflection, and maybe even discomfort. As a transgender artist, I often make work that comes from my experience of navigating the world in a body that’s constantly misunderstood or politicized. Art gives me a way to express things that are hard to put into words, like the contradictions I feel about visibility, identity, and safety. I hope my work can help people understand what it’s like to live in that in-between space, and maybe even recognize something of their own in it too. Making art helps me process what’s going on inside me, but it’s also something I hope others can relate to. I like when a piece makes someone pause or when it starts a conversation. That’s the kind of impact I want to keep having. I want my art to be a tool for empathy, especially for people who haven’t had the chance to hear or see stories like mine. Art galleries have always felt like special places to me because they bring people together. One of my favorite memories is from the Seattle Art Museum. There was a piece that asked people to kneel and scream. So my friends and I did it. We knelt down in the middle of the quiet gallery and screamed. It felt strange and powerful. Everyone around us stopped and watched. That moment really stuck with me. It showed how art can break the rules and make people feel something real together. Being visibly trans in a public space already comes with tension, so having that moment of loud, shared release in a quiet, formal setting was especially powerful. I felt something similar while working on Cover to Cover, a show I co-curated and created work for. Through that experience, I got closer to the artists around me. We supported each other, shared ideas, and built something meaningful as a group. It reminded me that art isn’t just about the finished piece. It’s also about the people and the process behind it. As a trans person, community has always been a lifeline for me, and this show reminded me how art can be a space for building that kind of support. In the future, I want to keep making art that brings people in. I see myself growing not just as an artist but also as a collaborator and curator. I want to keep learning from others and let my work change as I change. Whether I’m making wearable pieces, installations, or putting together shows, I want to keep creating spaces where people can connect with the art, with themselves, and with each other. I want my art to evolve with me, to stay honest to where I am in life and how I move through the world as a trans person. My relationship with my work is something I hope will stay grounded in curiosity, care, and community.

I’m passionate about my art because it helps me say things I don’t always have the words for. It’s a way to explore who I am, especially as a trans person, and turn complicated feelings into something visual, something real. I use a lot of different materials in my work, and each one brings out a different side of me. I love switching between fashion, 3D forms, laser cutting, sketchbook doodles, painting, oil pastels, collage, and other mixed media. They all serve a purpose in how I think, feel, and create. Fashion and 3D work are where I feel most alive. I love making wearable pieces that feel like sculptures. They’re bold, strange, emotional, and they tell stories. When I make fashion, it’s like I’m building an external version of something internal. Wearing what I create makes me feel powerful and seen. It’s where I turn vulnerability into strength. Laser cutting is a medium I turn to when I want precision. It’s clean, sharp, and incredibly satisfying. I enjoy the process of designing digitally and watching it come to life in perfect detail. It brings structure and contrast into my work, especially when I combine it with softer, more handmade elements. My sketchbook is where everything starts. Doodling helps me stay connected to the joy of creating without pressure. It’s a space where my ideas can be messy, silly, or just for me. Sometimes I flip through old pages and find the beginning of something bigger. It keeps my creativity flowing. Painting and oil pastels are what I use when I want to let go. They allow me to work quickly and emotionally, using color and texture to express things I don’t want to overthink. Oil pastels especially are messy, vibrant, and raw. I love how hands-on they are. They help me explore intensity and instinct. Collage and mixed media are where I get to experiment and be playful. I love taking scraps of paper, fabric, old drawings, or anything lying around and layering them into something new. It feels like problem-solving without rules. These pieces are often spontaneous and surprising, which makes the process exciting. Each of these mediums has changed my life by helping me process my emotions, explore identity, and stay curious. They’ve given me a way to communicate when words fall short and a space where I feel safe being myself. Art has helped me build confidence, connect with others, and embrace the weird, shifting parts of who I am. I care deeply about my art because it’s more than just making things. It’s how I understand myself and how I share that understanding with others. Every material I use adds something meaningful to the story I’m trying to tell. Through this practice, I’ve learned that creativity is both a tool and a lifeline—and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

This is one of my favorite pieces I’ve created: part sculpture, part fashion, part performance. A star-shaped headpiece made from cardboard sits on the model’s head, acting both as an object of attention and a mask. The garment, constructed from soft, flowing fabric, is completely covered in sewn circles. One arm is painted to match the fabric exactly, blurring the boundary between skin and surface, self and presentation. "Circle" explores the complexities of trans identity, especially the pressure to shape-shift in order to be legible or accepted. The star, often a symbol of individuality or brilliance, is used here as a form of concealment. It hides the face, the most direct site of recognition. It softens sharpness, but it also silences. As a trans person, I know the experience of being looked at without truly being seen—of being categorized, simplified, or misunderstood. The star becomes a metaphor for that process: how even our attempts to shine can become costumes we’re expected to wear. The repeated circles stitched and painted onto the fabric reflect the expectation to conform. In a world where trans bodies are often scrutinized, categorized, or erased, the demand to “make sense” to others can be overwhelming. The circles are unbroken and repeating which becomes a visual language for sameness. What might normally suggest unity or wholeness becomes a symbol of pressure, of forced cohesion. The more circles I added, the more the garment felt less like clothing and more like camouflage. Painting the arm to match the fabric pushed this idea further. It’s about the collapse of identity into performance—how the boundaries between self and image blur when we’re constantly navigating how to be perceived. For trans people, this isn’t theoretical. We learn early how much safety, belonging, and survival can depend on how well we "match" what others expect. But that matching can come at the cost of authenticity. This piece doesn’t offer easy answers. It lives in the tension between visibility and safety, between the desire to be seen and the fear of being misread. As a trans artist, "Circle" is deeply personal. It speaks to the balancing act of expression and protection, and the way our identities are often filtered through what makes others comfortable. But in creating this work, I also reclaim that tension. I turn it into something intentional and something that demands to be witnessed. In the end, this piece isn’t just about performance it’s about presence. It’s about the quiet, powerful act of showing up in a world that doesn’t always make space for you, and making that space yourself.