I have Mast Cell Activation Syndrome, or MCAS. This disease causes me to have POTS-adjacent symptoms like fainting and my heart racing if I so much as stand up too fast. I have trouble eating because it's easy for my stomach to be set off, my skin itches all the time, and I use a cane because my joints hurt all the time. Although it's difficult, I have learned to live with it. I have no choice because I can't afford treatment- I was lucky to be diagnosed at all. Even with this diagnosis, doctors aren't completely sure, even though I meet all the symptoms. They want me to undergo more tests- tests I cannot undergo because they are too expensive. Due to this, I often feel like a fraud. I know in my bones that I have this illness. I've been told by multiple doctors that I have it and that I need to be checked for chronic illnesses that are often co-occurring with it. Even though I know it as sure as my name, I still think I don't deserve the help, don't deserve the cane I bought, or the accommodations I was given because someone has it worse. I can't help but feel like I'm less worthy of help because someone else had better insurance, wealthier parents, or just has it worse. I am most grateful for my university. I don't think I would have ended up on this path if I didn't have MCAS. I had planned on being an archaeologist, but the physical demands of the field forced me to change my mind. We are still paying off the medical debt from the tests I underwent to get answers. Due to these factors, I chose the school with a specialized history program- the only one in the state- and the one with the lowest tuition out of all the schools that accepted me. I wasn't happy about going to this school. It was a long way from home, in an area that wasn't friendly to drivers like me who were used to small towns with six roads and two stop signs. I had given up the extracurriculars I once loved because my body couldn't handle it, I had given up the subject I wanted to major in, and I started out in housing that caused physical strain because it was an old high-rise dorm with a lot of allergens. Thankfully, the university surprised me. They got me into a different, fully accessible dorm and helped me get accommodations that made going to and from classes easier. They also worked with me to get back into the band, and I'm now able to march with a flag in one hand and a special forearm crutch in the other. If this university hadn't been willing to work with me, I would have given up on so much. It showed me that MCAS can alter my path, but it will never steal my future.

I wanted to be an archaeologist. I grew up watching movies like Jurassic Park and Indiana Jones, and I had it in my head from a young age that I wanted to do the same things. Although not the entire focus of archaeology, a significant amount of the work involves being out in the field, laboring in the sun with heavy tools and artifacts. Those goals came crashing down when I was a junior in high school. I'd had weird symptoms for years, but they were generally pretty mild. Over the course of that school year, things like my joint pain, dizziness, and heat sensitivity only got worse. By the time I was applying to and going to college, I knew I would never survive in archaeology with my condition. It wasn't until I started my second year of my historic preservation undergraduate that I stopped letting my disability dig its claws in just because I was undiagnosed. Over the summer, I kept a log of all my symptoms throughout the day, and I went to the accessibility office shortly after I got back to campus. I was able to get accommodations that help me in my day-to-day life as a student and make it easier to function. With these assistive accommodations in place, I hope to be able to finish my degree on time. I have planned for years to get my master's degree overseas and stay there for the rest of my life, and I still do. Now, part of that plan is to also get diagnosed in a country where I can afford healthcare. I don't expect to be cured, but I hope that I can get answers and treatment. I know I likely won't be able to be out in the heat working with heavy artifacts and tools like I once dreamed, but I can take my future into my own hands. Part of how this experience shaped my career goals is the way it steered me off course from what I was once certain I would do for the rest of my life. Instead of going into archaeology, I am now majoring in historic preservation with a focus on anthropology. When I graduate in 2028, I intend to move to Germany and pursue a graduate degree in linguistic anthropology. I would like to use my knowledge to help preserve languages that are at risk of dying out. I think my experiences have also influenced my career goals in the long-term sense. I know I will likely end up working under or at a museum, I know I will be out doing ethnographic fieldwork with languages, and I also plan on sharing my findings through writing and speeches. All of those are things that fall under the umbrella of making things accessible to the general public, and while different than the type of accessibility that has positively impacted my life, it is accessibility nonetheless. As I reflect and look back on the past few years, I find it ironic and hard to believe that I have my disabling disorder to thank for the goals I have and the achievements I have been able to make.

My name is Rachel Presswood, and I am a student athlete. I'm lucky to be able to continue my passion for sports and competition to an extent because I became disabled during my junior year of high school. I had been a soccer player, a baton twirler and a dancer, and all of it faded away in front of me. As sad as it was at the time, it gave me time to focus on my other interests and hobbies. I'm a writer and at this time, I've completed three out of five books in a series that I want to publish one day. When I went to college, I knew I wouldn't be able to go back into athletics fully, but I was able to adapt enough and work with the university to be able to go back into marching band, cane in one hand and flagpole in the other. I went to a small school in rural Missouri where there weren't many opportunities. It was a town where everyone knew everyone, and you could get in or out of a ticket just by telling the single cop in town who your parents were. I was an honors student, but the question of college always dangled over my head. I didn't know if I would get enough aid or enough assistance to be able to afford it. I didn't choose Southeast Missouri State University because I liked the area or the campus or that they are the only college nearby with a Historic Preservation program, although all those things are true, I chose it because out of the ten universities I applied to, it had the lowest tuition. I largely have my dad and grandparents to thank for where I am in life. My dad had to work a lot for a large portion of my life because my mother wasn't a good person. Because of this, my younger sister and I spent a lot of time with our grandparents across the street. They almost had to raise us. Listening to their stories about when they were young and how their parents got to the United States from places that seemed extremely far away is what gave me my passion for history and ultimately led me to major in Historic Preservation and Anthropology, which led to my future plans. Accessibility has always been important to me, and so has language. I feel like it is due in part to my undiagnosed condition that hinders my mobility and my hesitation to call myself disabled. I plan to go overseas and get a graduate degree in Linguistics. I want to help record and preserve languages that are at risk of fading out, and make them available to learn. I also want to try to publish the stories I've spent years writing. As difficult as it was, I have my small, restrictive town, my family, and my disability to thank for the opportunities I've been able to get and the progress I've made.

When the symptoms of my chronic illness began impacting my mental health, I got extremely bitter about it. The symptoms and subsequent mental health issues and impact flared up when I started college. My freshman year, I had a roommate for most of the year. We got along well but I am very anxious around people I’m not familiar with and between the days where I would skip class because I knew I’d fall if I stood up, the laundry piling up because it hurt too much to carry my basket downstairs when the elevators weren’t working and my urgency, and in a few unfortunate instances incontinence, made it humiliating to live in a shared space where someone else was witness to symptoms I couldn’t put a name to because I don’t want to self diagnose. One of the biggest challenges I had living in that building was not the fire alarms themselves, but the combination of frequent fire alarms when I was living on the tenth floor. These alarms meant I had to run down ten flights of stairs, which is dangerous for me because my joints are unstable and I often get stabbing pain in my feet on stairs. When running or even jostling myself too much, I get pain in my lower ribs that feels as though they are sliding out of place. This would happen almost every time I went down the stairs, and then I would be outside in the evacuation zone, where, depending on the time of year, I was either standing in extreme heat, which makes me nauseous and lightheaded, or extreme cold that makes my joints lock up. After going back inside, I would have to choose between risking going up the stairs again or waiting for up to thirty minutes for the resident assistants to stop blocking the elevators because I was not visibly challenged. At the time, I did not own a cane or any similar mobility aid, and I did not know I could reach out to the accessibility office without a formal diagnosis. It took one of my professors pressuring me to at least try talking to the aid office at the start of my sophomore year for me to start advocating for myself. I stopped being angry at myself and my university, and I became less anxious when I realized that most people aren't staring because they're being rude, but because they want to help. Being able to form a support system has not only helped my mental health improve but has also contributed to my being able to focus on my educational goals. I am a Historic Preservation major with a focus on Linguistics and Anthropology. I want to use my knowledge to help preserve languages that are dying out and make the world more accessible. As for recovery, I have to take things one day at a time. I don't know what I have, I just know something is wrong. I have support through my university and through my close friends, which makes it easier to manage my symptoms. One day, I hope that I can move on from lecture hall accommodations and heating pads and be able to see a doctor and finally get an answer, but for now, being supported and remembering that I'm trying my best are all I can do, and that's enough for now.

There is something wrong with me and I can't afford to find out what it is. For years, I have dealt with recurring issues related to my joints. They stiffen, lock up, fall out of place and make movement hard. I also get dizzy easily, oftentimes finding myself overly sensitive to temperature changes, and I sometimes black out if I stand up too fast. I never said anything to my family because I knew we didn't have the money to see a doctor and that they would most likely tell me I was being dramatic. I suffered in silence for years, and it wasn't until I got to college that I began to take my health into my own hands. Part of how I overcame this was using my newfound freedom to get myself a cane, sprain wrap and salt packets. Things that I had always felt that I needed but never let myself have. I also talked to the accessibility office at my college, and I was able to get accommodations to make living with my undiagnosed issues easier. This scholarship will help me give back to the community by helping me stay in school. I have always had a passion for history and languages. Right now, I am in the first portion of working toward what I want to do, as I am a student studying Historic Preservation and Anthropology. I would like to get a graduate degree in Linguistics or Linguistic Anthropology so that I can help to preserve endangered languages and cultures, but that relies on me being able to finish my first degree. This is something that looks increasingly out of my reach as tuition prices rise, and aids and grants get cut. Every scholarship I am able to get helps me be one step closer to achieving these career goals and being able to help people. Stamp collecting has influenced my life by giving me a healthy hobby. I used to stay locked up in my room not doing anything or writing twisted things that didn't need to see the light of day because I was struggling. I didn't mean to start collecting stamps, I just had a small hoard of them so I could mail things like letters, cards and gifts back home my first year of college. Eventually, I started getting interested in the designs, pictures and how rare stamps could be worth so much money. At first I started keeping a small scrapbook of stamps I found interesting, but it has grown significantly and now I go out of my way to look for unique stamps.

When I think about how I have learned character, sportsmanship, and work ethic, my mind often returns to two places: the quiet waters where I fished with my dad when I was younger, and the shelves and archives of my community library and university. These two seemingly different environments have shaped the same core values in me—the patience to wait, the humility to learn, and the drive to contribute to something bigger than myself. Fishing with my dad was never just about catching fish. Many mornings we would rise before the sun, pack our rods and bait, and drive to a lake or river with the mist still rising from the water. At first, I struggled with the patience it required. It seemed unfair that we could sit for hours with little to show for it. But my dad reminded me that fishing is less about what you take home and more about the discipline of waiting, the respect you show to the natural world, and the quiet time spent together. I learned that character means handling disappointment without complaint and celebrating success without arrogance. When I did catch a fish, I always remembered to treat it with care—another lesson in sportsmanship, in respecting both the process and the living creatures involved. Those early mornings taught me that hard work does not always bring instant results, but it builds resilience. This lesson carried into my community life, particularly my volunteer work at my local library and at the university archive. Just as fishing required patience and respect, so does organizing collections and helping patrons. At the library, I assisted in shelving books, guiding people to resources, and ensuring materials were available to everyone. At the archive, my work often involved careful handling of fragile documents and the meticulous cataloging of materials for researchers. These tasks demanded consistency, accuracy, and an understanding that even small contributions matter to the larger whole. Sportsmanship, in this context, looked like teamwork. In the archive, I collaborated with staff and other volunteers, recognizing that my role—though small in scale—was vital to the success of the group. I had to be open to instruction and willing to admit mistakes, much like on the water with my dad, where every cast was a chance to improve. By working steadily and respectfully, I showed that I valued not only my own growth but also the collective good of the community I served. Most importantly, these experiences instilled in me a work ethic rooted in respect and perseverance. Whether untangling a line on the water or carefully labeling a collection box in the archive, I learned that dedication to the process is just as important as the outcome. My character is defined by my willingness to commit fully, even when the reward is not immediate or visible. Fishing with my dad and volunteering in my community may seem worlds apart, but both shaped me into someone who values patience, humility, and responsibility. In the water and in my community, I strive to live out those values daily, knowing that true character is revealed not in moments of triumph, but in the quiet, consistent work behind them.

When I was five years old, I faced something that few children—and even many adults—ever experience: I survived sepsis caused by a bacterial stomach infection. At the time, I didn’t understand the gravity of what was happening. To me, it began as a stomachache that wouldn’t go away. I remember feeling weak, feverish, and unable to keep food down. My parents thought it might be the flu, but very quickly my condition worsened. What none of us realized at the time was that the infection in my stomach was spreading through my bloodstream, triggering sepsis—a life-threatening response by the body to infection. The memories are hazy, but I know that I was rushed to the hospital when my fever spiked and I became lethargic. Doctors and nurses immediately began working on me, placing IVs in my small arms, giving me fluids, and starting powerful antibiotics. For my parents, the situation was terrifying. They were told that sepsis can progress quickly and that early treatment was critical. For me, much of it felt like a blur of bright lights, masked faces, and the beeping of machines. I do recall the overwhelming exhaustion, as if even keeping my eyes open required more strength than I had. The doctors fought to stabilize me, and little by little my body began to respond to the treatments. The antibiotics started killing the bacteria that had caused the infection, and the IV fluids supported my body while I was too sick to eat or drink properly. I was kept in the hospital for days, monitored closely to make sure my organs weren’t shutting down and that the infection was clearing. Slowly, the fever broke. My strength returned, first in small ways—sitting up in bed, drinking water, nibbling at food—and then more steadily as my body healed. What stands out most from that experience is the resilience I didn’t know I had. At five years old, I didn’t fully understand that I had been in a life-or-death situation, but I now recognize how serious it was. I also recognize how lucky I am: not everyone who develops sepsis survives, especially young children. Thanks to quick action from my parents and the medical team, I recovered. Surviving sepsis taught me, even at a young age, how fragile life can be and how strong the human body can also be when given the right care. It is a reminder I carry with me: that even in the face of overwhelming odds, survival is possible.

I find the performance of "My Tears Ricochet" from the Eras tour the most moving because I relate to it. Not only do I relate to the lyrics like "I can go anywhere I want, just not home" and "cursing my name, wishing I stayed, look at how my tears ricochet," but I also relate to the performance, particularly when it was done in rain shows. There is and was something about seeing someone dressed their best in front of thousands of people pouring their heart out through song that stayed with me when I saw the performance, because it was how I felt on so many levels. The lyrics mirrored the way I felt about planning to leave my home country because the environment is harmful and I don't feel safe anymore. The rain and thousands of cameras mirrored what it was like to pretend everything was fine when I was really drowning in tuition payments and half laid plans and dreams that I knew I couldn't accomplish if I stayed stuck where I was. The act of falling to your knees and almost hiding under clothes mirrored everything I wanted to do- the way I wanted to cry and scream and hide.

My name is Rachel Presswood and I am a Historic Preservation major planning to attend graduate school for Cultural Anthropology and move up to a PhD in linguistics. After I finish my undergraduate degree, I plan to relocate permanently to Germany or Austria and continue my education. My career goals involve working with a museum, university or preservation foundation to go out into the field and record the history, culture and stories of cultures and languages that are at risk of dying out. Myself and my family are all too familiar with what it feels like to lose a language. Languages have always meant a lot to me, and although it took a while for me to decide to make it my career, I knew I wanted to preserve them. I was raised in a bilingual household where my dad and grandparents spoke a nameless combination of Yiddish and Dutch picked up in the village my ancestors were driven out of in the 1930s. It's very likely that there is no one left who speaks it fluently. That strange Creole language is what I picked up when I was little. I could speak English but not as well as my first language, so I struggled my first couple years of school until I got fluent. Like many others in a similar situation to me, my family spoke English more as the times and demands of living in the U.S changed. By the time I was in middle school, I was no longer fluent in what had once been my first language. It didn't leave me fully, but it'll never be the way it once was. The benefit to the mixed language was that when I decided to learn another language in high school, and picked German, it came easy because both Yiddish and Dutch were closely related. I now say that I speak three and a half languages. English, German, ASL and what I can recall of my first language. Speaking multiple languages can be beneficial for a number of reasons. it can improve job and education opportunities by being a valuable skillset, especially in situations where translation may be a need. However, it can also be a challenge due to varying fluency across the languages being used and stigmatization from others, as well as fear of cultural erasure or mixing things together due to knoowing multiple languages, especially if it has been since earlier in life.

Knowing that you have an illness but being financially unable to confirm that you have it is a horrible feeling. I first started looking into what was going on with me when I was fourteen because I knew what was happening to my body wasn't normal. I knew it wasn't normal to feel searing pain when I walked, or for it to feel like there were knives in my back. I knew I wasn't supposed to be able to feel my ribs bouncing when I ran and I knew I wasn't supposed to feel my joints sliding and grinding when I moved in certain ways. I never said anything to my parents, not just out of fear that I was self-diagnosing and that they would call me dramatic or claim it was growing pains even though I had been the same height for three years. I also didn't tell them because I knew the testing was extensive and expensive, and that we didn't have that kind of money. No matter what I did, the pain kept getting worse and I kept having to find different ways to hide it while knowing in my soul that it wasn't normal. I bought sprain wraps and knee braces on the way home from work and hid them in my closet. I took Advil before every shift so I could get through the standing and constant movement without feeling like my legs were going to snap. I gave up soccer, marching band and dancing, blaming it on academics, finals and time I needed to fill out scholarship applications when really, it was because everything hurt. I knew college would be hard, not just financially, but also physically. I went to the cheapest college I got into. It meant that I could potentially finish my undergraduate, but it also meant a lot of stairs and hills. I was able to tough it out my first year, using my distance from home and anyone who knew me for that matter to wrap my aching joints, to walk slow, to rely on the shuttles and exercise on the dorm floor so I didn't have to worry about fainting on the treadmill. This current year has been different. With the way my classes work, I have little time to get to them and long distances to cover. It is hard enough for ordinary people to do, but within the first day, I found myself limping bad enough to develop blisters that didn't heal because of my gait. I eventually caved and ordered myself a cane. I also got temporary accommodations from the accessibility office, but I cannot keep them without paperwork. Receiving this scholarship will help me pursue my goals of having enough money to finish my undergraduate degree. On top of this, the financial cushion of scholarships will also allow me to save up from my student job. Maybe one day I will have enough to see the doctors and specialists that I need to, and I will finally feel safe enough to say that this isn't in my head.

My name is Rachel Presswood, and I'm going to save languages. I was raised in a small town by my immigrant grandparents because my mother wasn't good at being a mom and my dad was at work all the time. Through them, I developed an interest in history. It came from the old maps with countries that didn't exist anymore on them, and the dinosaur movies they played on their VCR machine to keep me and my younger sister entertained, and through the stories they told with thick accents and a tone I never quite learned to understand because they both spoke a peculiar mix of Schweizerdeutsch and Yiddish at home. Due to my family being so financially challenged due to my mother's drinking, and the damage it did to what little my dad had after she left, I wasn't sure I would be able to go to college. I went with the cheapest one I got into and crossed my fingers that I would get enough financial aid. I was able to go and start my undergraduate in Historic Preservation and Anthropology, but every day is a struggle. I get financial aid, but with the changes being made by the current administration and the predatory interest rates, I can only cross my fingers and hope that it doesn't get cut in half when I'm right at the finish line. I also rely on grants and scholarships that can easily be cut in a budget plan and often favor students who had the time and resources to volunteer that I didn't because I was in the back of a Taco Bell until two in the morning four nights a week in high school to help with bills. I have a much better job now, and it also helps me with school, however slightly. I'm very passionate about writing and music, both of which shaped me into who I am today. Part of this is because I used them both to distract myself from the family issues going on around me in my youth. I want to somehow combine my degree interests with my love for writing and other creative fields to share history through the form of a play, musicals, or concept albums. In my free time, I work on a fantasy series that is currently four novel length manuscripts deep. I would like to be able to finish my undergraduate, and if I can, I want to go overseas for my master's degree and work on getting citizenship while I get my graduate in linguistic anthropology or a similar field. I have planned to move to another country for nearly seven years, and I settled on Germany when I was still in high school. I now speak the language with near fluency. After I get my masters, I plan to get a PhD in linguistic and cultural preservation. Other than teaching history through creative means, my dream job would be to travel the world helping record the language and histories of people and cultures at risk of fading away.

I am passionate about protecting the environment because the planet can survive without us, but we cannot survive without the planet. It feels like we are destroying the environment and making it inhospitable for the future generations, just like the generations previous did for us. In the day and age of advanced science and exponential resources, we continue to have species rapidly going extinct, countries experiencing massive levels of deforestation, ice caps melting, and rising sea levels putting small island nations at such a risk of sinking that their citizens have been promised residence in nearby nations. We cannot sustain ourselves if this continues, but the people and corporations with the power to change it won't. It will not be until the air is too hot to breathe, the trees are few and far between, many nations are underwater and we are out of fresh water to drink that we will look up to the stars and realize we destroyed the only place we have to go. My studies will help me indirectly combat climate change through preservation and education. I am not in the environmental sciences or any adjacent field. I am, however, a Historic Preservation major with a focus on Linguistic anthropology. This will equip me with the skills needed to preserve the languages and histories of people who have dwindling populations, are losing their physical artifacts, and who have been displaced, all of which can be and often are results and consequences of climate change. Through helping preserve artifacts, stories, historical knowledge and recordings, and through the preservation of language, I can help share that with others. Through that education and the passing along of firsthand accounts of people impacted by environmental upheaval and natural disasters, I can contribute to climate change education, and by extension, prevention. While telling my friends and family to take shorter showers, minimize trash, turn lights off when they're not being used, compost things and try electric vehicles or public transportation can made a small impact within my street and small hometown, it will not be as effective as targeting one of the largest contributors to environmental pollution and destruction. I am not talking about oil companies and large manufacturing plants, but AI data centers. These large data centers use excessive amounts of fresh water to keep the machines cool. The water is drawn from the supply of surrounding communities, which causes scarcity and leaves the water undrinkable. By refusing to use AI as the demand grows and teaching the people around us about the harmful effects of data centers, myself and my peers can begin making a difference in turning back the climate clock.

I define myself as a "You Got It Girl" not because everything has come easily but because I have consistently pushed forward despite the obstacles placed in front of me. Growing up, I had to learn resilience early because it was the only way to survive my mother and I found my independence in athletics, creativity and academics. My studies in Historic Preservation and Anthropology reflect that determination. I have chosen a path that requires patience, precision and passion for preserving voices and stories that would otherwise be forgotten. I believe I embody persistence, adaptability and empathy. I have faced setbacks with my health and personal life, but I've always found ways to turn those struggles into growth, whether it was through writing, education or my vision for my future, I found a way to keep moving forward. This scholarship would help me build the foundation for my long term goals. I plan to move to Germany after completing my degree where I hope to get a PhD in linguistics with a focus on preserving endangered languages and cultures. I want to dedicate my career to protecting human stories that might otherwise disappear. The scholarship will give me the support I need to focus on training, travel and education as I prepare for the next chapter. By helping me, you are not just assisting a lower class student, you are helping ensure that marginalized voices and histories continue to be heard. When I was in high school, I participated in color guard and soccer, but I had to give up both when I left for college because my health problems were getting worse. I couldn't run without my lower ribs dislocating, my legs hurt all the time and I lost my coordination. During that time, I won local competitions in band, placed second for a solo in a Winter Guard performance and went to state with the soccer team. I had to leave athletics behind my first year of college, but this fall, I have been able to get back into color guard because I'm tired of letting my health issues stop me. It is a learning curve because I have to do all the moves one handed, and learn how to dance and march with my cane acting as a third leg. This has also been a setback, but it's also teaching me how to work around my disability rather than being hindered by it.

To me, recovery means a way out, which is ironic because there once was a time that I thought my way out was stolen weight loss supplements and a pack of razors hidden under my mattress. I have learned that I was stuck in place during that time in my life. There were other factors, of course, that led me into developing those addictions, but it was refusing to ask for help and trying to do it all by myself that kept me stuck for so long. Now that I have been clean for one year, seven months and four days, I can confidently say that I see a light at the end of the tunnel. The light isn't the scale dropping down into the double digits, or blood running down my arms or a grave. It's my future and it is bright.

The environment I was raised in set me up for failure. I fell behind my peers in a lot of ways, from knowing how to tie my shoes and do chores to understanding how to do math. My self-esteem was snuffed out under the shoes of the adults around me before I started school. It only got worse when I went into school as a strange kid who didn't know things everyone else had learned and who only had junk food in the house because that was all we could afford. I tried to kill myself when I was twelve because my home life had finally gotten to me, and I was just tired. If I hadn't gotten scared and called 9-1-1, lying about accidentally taking too much expired cold medicine, I wouldn't be here. Sometimes I wonder if that would have been for the best, because now the world has gone sour and the urge to end it comes around every few months, but I never do anything because I believe in second chances. It still makes me nervous because it feels like the goals I have are unrealistic. It feels like I'll never have a meaningful relationship, and it feels like I'm watching the world end and just waiting for something bad to happen. Ever since I tried to end my life and maybe a little bit before that, I have wanted to leave the United States and flee in the night like a cheating lover. It may have started as my desire to get out of my situation, my house, and an abusive environment, but it quickly evolved into me not feeling safe in the country. It has only gotten worse as I've grown older and had a toll taken on my mental health by college, financial aid, and job loss. I am a queer woman with mental and physical health issues trying to get a higher education in a state that hates my independence and a government that treats people in my tax bracket like drones. It took me years to land on a country and language I found suitable, but now I'm planning on finishing my bachelor's and moving to Germany or one of the countries around it. There was a time when I had friends. I had people who didn't care that I couldn't go a lot of places, who didn't care that I never invited them to my house, and who didn't care that I came to school smelling like cigarettes, booze, and cat pee. I drifted away from most of them. By the time I was daydreaming about jumping in front of the train in my middle school math class, I only had one close friend. We didn't stay friends for long. We dated, and when she moved schools, we broke up. I drifted through high school with no real friends. I had acquaintances, people who asked where I was going to college and people who let me sit with them at lunch, but I never really felt close to any of them. Even now, after my first year of college, I still don't know who I'd reach out to in the event of an emergency. I have come to see the world as cruel. It seems to have a sick sense of irony where it sees someone lying down because things are bad, and it throws in more strain. A relationship ended, a job lost, an unexpected medical expense. I hate seeing people be exploited by the things set in place to help them, seeing people turn a blind eye to suffering. I know there is goodness in the world, but it's hard to see, but maybe that's just because I'm still a little bitter that no one noticed something was wrong for twelve years, or when they left me alone in the pool with a teenage boy I didn't know, or when I had to have my stomach pumped at the hospital. My experience with mental health has shaped and, in a way, warped the goals I have, the relationships I long for, and the way I see the world. I’m tired and I want to lie down and give up, but I didn’t put down the pill bottle just to give up when I finally have a fighting chance. I’m getting out of here, whether it’s to Switzerland or Liechtenstein or Germany or someplace I hadn’t even considered, I will be out and I will be free. I don’t care if I step off the plane with dirt in my teeth and blood under my nails. Maybe one day in a train station in a city I can't quite pronounce the name of, I'll lock eyes with someone who will be able to paint my gray skies blue and introduce me to friends and loved ones who would come speeding across three borders to help me just as quickly as I'd cling to them. Maybe then, I will see that there are things worth fighting for because I already believe it. There is a spark of light in this cruel world, and for me, that spark was a twelve-year-old who couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel, so she made her own.

I am interested in history because until recently, my past was a huge question mark. I wasn't entirely sure where I came from, I wasn't sure what languages my ancestors spoke and I couldn't tell where my desire to flee in general and just get away from everything was coming from. I just knew stories that my family members told, which likely weren't very accurate. It wasn't until I had already committed to a History program and a college that I took a genealogy class as a senior in high school and I finally got some clarity. However, my interest in history ran deeper and earlier than that, and I think part of what drew me to the humanities and history specifically was watching it be erased and rewritten. I was raised in a town that still referred to the Civil War as "the war of northern aggression" and family members who would swear the elections were rigged if someone progressive won at any level of office. The only reasons I know anything at all regarding the Stonewall riots, women's suffrage and ADA rights is because I educated myself since I am someone impacted by all three. Especially now that I'm in college I'm seeing it happen and it tears at me in a way I can't describe. I hate seeing people forget what the poem at Lady Liberty's feet reads, I hate seeing people erase decades of Palestinian history to justify a genocide, I hate seeing the government remove articles about Marsha P. Johnson and trans history from official webpages and I hate seeing people look at what's happening in this country, see the parallels to what we learned about WWII in high school history and still have the nerve to go "it's not that deep." As someone who is studying history and entering a historical field, I can confidently say that it is, in fact, "that deep." My own history is the best example I have of that. I know where my family came from, now. Ireland in the 1840s, the British Isles around 1700, Holy Roman Empire era Austria in the 1790s and Yugoslavia in 1917. I am German, Jewish and Irish and I know all too well why my family packed up their lives and fled across the Atlantic trying to outrun the pen writing the history books. They ran from a crumbling empire, from religious control, from a "famine" and a crumbling nation in an increasingly hostile world. Now there is me. I'm watching fascism unfold just like they did. I'm fighting an oppressive system, I'm fighting puritanical views, I'm fighting rights being stripped away and a country being split in half. I'm running back the way they came because sometimes the darkness follows you. I want to take my love of history out of this place, into a PhD program in Germany and then I want to stay there. I want to work in a museum or heritage foundation and go around recording languages, songs, stories and histories that are fading away or being snuffed out. I might not be able to outrun history, but I can preserve it and make sure it can never be rewritten, changed or snuffed out.

The name on my profile, transcript, birth certificate, and license is Rachel Elizabeth, but I haven't gone by that in years. I never wanted my family to know my new name, or to even know anything about this aspect of me, because I knew they'd hate me for it because of a choice they made, something that I had no say in, because I wasn't even born yet. They named me in memory of my grandmother's sister- Beth Rochelle- who died before I'd even been conceived. On one hand, I understand naming your baby after a dead family member, that desire to keep their memory alive, but I will never understand people who do that and then try to force their kid to be the person who died and get mad when their baby grows up to be a person with independent thought and feelings instead of a memorial drone. Call me superstitious, but I feel like naming someone after a person who died tragically is tempting fate in a way as well. I was close to my stepsisters at first. It lasted around a year, and I got comfortable and brave enough to tell them my name. I learned to never do that again as long as I lived under that roof, because they told their mom and my dad. My world ended in about a week. First, it was my dad coming home with "no kid of mine will be an it or a they or go by some silly name" as if I hadn't spent months finding one that felt like me. That wasn't enough, because they decided to lecture me a second time and make sure I felt ashamed in the eyes of God for just being different. They also decided to go through the notebooks I'd collected over the years. I knew my ability to trust them or be seen the same as the other three people in the house was over then and there. I'd had a rough few years. My beliefs were not on the same plane as my family's, and it was going to clash hard. I'd been sexually assaulted, and I was generally just an angry fourteen-year-old coming out of a global pandemic. I used my writing to work through a lot of what I was feeling because if I talked about it to my parents, they wouldn't believe me, if I told my friends I'd end up in the hospital, and if I told the counselor at school, I'd be put in foster care. I don't know if I can ever trust people with that knowledge, because even now, it could wreck my life if it got back to my family. My dad is a cosigner on my car, my grandparents help with my tuition, and I still live at home when I'm not in college. I learned three important lessons that night. I learned that I will never be fundamentally understood by the people I'm closest to, and I will always disagree with them on the most important details, the existence of queer and trans people will always be political because people are so obsessed with religion and scared of things that are different, and if I don't finish my bachelor's and get out of the country, I'm going to die- maybe not literally, but certainly spiritually.

My hair is a reminder of why I chose to go into the humanities. I always wondered where my family was from. I grew up being told we were English and Irish, which was believable for me and my sister. We're both borderline allergic to sunlight and have red-brown hair that lights up like a match when the light hits it. Everything else felt like a question mark, and it took until I had a genealogy unit in my Applied History class my senior year that I finally got to find out where I was from. Based on my old family last name, some of my ancestors are from the area that became Austria. There are also family members whose names were able to be traced back to the nations that used to make up Yugoslavia. The oldest ancestor I was able to find was a woman born in the early 18th century named Eliza J. Galbraith, an Irish last name. My family has not been in the United States for a long time, and it's often joked that we inherited the "Irish running gene." I hear it a lot, as I've talked about wanting to live in another country and explore the world. However, those always felt like childhood fantasies, things that felt out of reach. That began to change as I came into my own. I always knew I was at a disadvantage. I couldn't go to the doctor for every bump and bruise like my peers. I couldn't go on field trips because I didn't have the money, and I spent most of high school sweating over a fryer in a fast food restaurant to help my dad pay the electric bill. It felt like I was judged for being born. Judged for being too poor to do the same things as my peers, judged for having a girlfriend in the rural Midwest, judged for going by a name other than the one scrawled on my birth certificate, judged for working during school instead of volunteering, judged for applying to the scholarships that went to rich athletes, and judged for going to college in my economic situation. The judgment only goes worse, and it now feels like it's coming from the government that promised safety to the ancestors who got off the boat at Ellis Island, denied jobs for the bright red hair, heckled for their accent, and yelled slurs at as they entered synagogues. People who came here hoping for a better future for their descendants. It feels like I'm being told I don't deserve healthcare, I don't deserve higher education, I don't deserve peace of mind, I don't deserve life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I chose to go into the humanities because I'm watching history be erased in front of my very eyes and watching people be silenced and ignored, their history buried under confederate flags and "kids don't need to know that stuff." I want to do something to preserve that because as I struggle to afford to finish my bachelor's so I can make it to Germany, I know how my ancestors felt. I know how they felt leaving the Holy Roman Empire as it collapsed, how they felt watching a country pull itself apart, how they felt walking into concentration camps, how they felt starving in Ireland and fleeing English rule. They might scoff at me and my head of obnoxiously red hair going back where they ran from, but I know from my studies in the humanities that sometimes the evil follows people to places meant to be safe.

There is something wrong with my connective tissue. I can bend in ways that shouldn't be possible and it leaves my joints aching and stiff, sometimes throbbing like they're not quite in the socket the way they should be. I get tired from it, have a hard time being active and miss out on things like concerts, fairs, even work and classes on my worst days. These issues have been part of my life since I was young and when my family could afford to go to the doctor, before my dad got obscure insurance thrown at him that no one in our small town would take and my mom drank and smoked away both their paychecks, I was told I was dramatic and it was just growing pains. Even when I stopped getting taller, I was still brushed off, and it wasn't until I was fourteen that it finally registered that there might be something wrong, but by then going to the doctor was reserved for pay day and emergencies, and even then we couldn't risk it unless the pain was debilitating or there were chest pains. Although things have gotten better now that I have my own job, and my mother is out of the picture, we still can't risk going to the doctor. My step mom can't work because she has late stage MS and my dad can only afford to put small portions of his checks toward our health insurance. It is due to this that I remain undiagnosed even though I know something is wrong. This has changed my view of the world by showing me how quick doctors are to brush people off, especially if you're a female with a history of reproductive and mental health problems, and especially if you're a child. I don't want to say that I have lost faith in the medical system because I haven't. My dad who gave up everything for me and my sister is a nurse, and I think doctors are some of the most important people in the workforce. However, I am angry at insurance companies hiking up prices for people who are already disadvantaged and acting like middlemen dictating what tests can and cannot be done as if they have any say in what medical professionals think is best. It has made me very disappointed in my country and the people in power who can change things and chose not to. I want to use my experience to advocate for people like me and other individuals who have been waved off due to factors that shouldn't matter. I want to be able to speak up for people like me who stay undiagnosed wondering if they're being dramatic because tests always come back normal and going to the hospital or a specialist means working double shifts that will make painful symptoms worse than they already are. I want to take my experiences and be able to use them to speak up for people who have been left behind by a system built to cater to the grown, male and privileged.

If I could go back to when I was deciding what field to go into for college, I would pick medicine, specifically ophthalmology, the study of the eyes. I have spent nearly all of my nineteen years sitting in the chair at the eye doctor at least once a year. At first, I needed small glasses to help me read the letters on the board when I started school which wasn't strange at all. By the time I was in sixth grade, my lenses stuck out from my glasses frames, and by fifteen, I had switched to contacts because my glasses were so thick they kept falling down. Even with contact lenses, I still have a stigmatism and struggle to drive at night because of the glare caused by the contacts not sitting on my eyes properly and being just a bit off from my prescription. I know my vision will continue to get worse and will get to a point that even contacts won't work well anymore. Getting Lasik will help immensely and my eye doctor has told me that if my eyes can stay the same for at least two years, they will be able to perform the surgery when I'm 21. The issue is that I'm nineteen and my eyes have gotten worse by at least a full step every year since I was four. There is a chance my eye sight will continue progressing past the age of twenty one and i will eventually be considered legally blind. There is a history of vision loss and issues in my family, and it's entirely possible that if my eyes don't stop worsening enough for intervention, I will be blind one day. If I change my major to ophthalmology, I will be able to give back to my community with research. That type of degree could allow me not only to research and study what's wrong with my own eyes, but I will also be able to learn about conditions similar to me and people who are in the same boat. If I can do in depth research, I hope to be able to get involved in studying and testing preventative measures that would potentially improve upon or do better than Lasik, assisting people like me who are at risk of fully losing their eyesight to the point that lenses are of no assistance due to the state their eyes are in. Hopefully, I will be able to find out a way to give sight back to people who feel like they are bound to go blind, reverse extreme deterioration of vision and maybe even reverse certain types of blindness. My desire to go into ophthalmology is a selfish one born out of my fear of losing my eyesight, but that doesn't mean I can't help other people who are like me. I may still be learning and just starting out in my college career, but I know this level of eyesight loss and hopelessness is not normal, and there are surely things we can do and study to undo it.

I grew up being told I had unlucky genetics. My mother's eyesight, my father's build, my grandparents' addictive tendencies. When I looked into my family history, I wasn't surprised to find I'm some mixed bag of ancestral chaos built by running away, not that I needed to spit in a tube to know that. Jewish and Slavic, how that happened, I don't know, and I don't think I want to. Those were the largest numbers; everything else was a mixed bag of people from places with no sunlight and a history of dictators who, for some reason, decided that it was a good idea to settle in Missouri like the corn fields and rancid stench of the river could protect them from centuries of generational trauma. My Slavic ancestry was pinpointed to Ukraine and Belarus. I had always toyed with the idea of leaving the United States for somewhere I could feel safer, but it wasn't until recently that I decided that I needed to leave. I even started learning German, and I am well aware of the irony of that. If my great-grandparents were around to hear me practicing counting to ten, they'd probably knock me over the head with a rolled-up newspaper. I was a sophomore in high school when Ukraine was invaded by Russia, before I knew precisely where I was from, but it affected me deeply when I heard of it in my seventh-period history class- on my sixteenth birthday, nonetheless. I was scared of war, of course, knowing the US and the track history it has of involving itself in conflicts like that. Something in me changed over that initial week. It felt personal in a way I couldn't quite explain. It was visceral because I knew then and know even more now about why I'm here in Missouri. My ancestors ran from crumbling empires, fascists who wanted them dead, and land that couldn't feed anyone but the wealthy. In that moment, I knew I'd trace their steps back over the bones that hold me up, pulling on the strings of time as I go. My ancestors might watch in horror as I walk right back over the borders of nations that they fled from, but sometimes the tables turn. I'm a Historic Preservation major with a focus on Anthropological and cultural studies. After I finish my undergraduate, I'm going overseas to get a master's in linguistics so I can do what world leaders and war mongers are too scared to do. I'm going to preserve music, art, language, stories, culture, and history. People are so quick to crush a culture and endanger a language in a country that's being oppressed, and as someone who comes from people who have continuously been erased and crushed, I took that personally enough to take out thousands in student loans to get the qualifications for it. I hope that when my clock runs out and I have the ability to greet my ancestors in Crimean Tatar, they're proud of me.

My family doesn't come from much. I was born to a mother who cared more about getting drunk than taking care of her children and a father who constantly scrambled to pick up the pieces she left behind. My view of the world started out skewed. I thought every adult was cruel and didn't care about me. I thought the world was full of misery and couldn't see the beauty or good in anything, and more so, I thought I had no place in the world. i found I had less and less of a grasp on my future because I kept living. I survived in a house I didn't feel like I was supposed to make it out of. I lived past ten, twelve, fourteen, fifteen, seventeen. I think being raised by a family built on hate and resentment, spreading their despair down the generations like a disease is what turned me into an optimist. I had already "rebelled" in so many ways, many of which were things I had little to no control of, that it only made sense for my beliefs to expand beyond what my family had wanted me to be shaped into. They wanted Peter and got Judas. I think my family's influence on my life goes beyond the people who raised me. I can't find us beyond the seventeenth century, and if the generational curses I've been warned of are true, and I found the right person during my genealogy project in high school, then I suppose it's for the best that I can't unveil those secrets all the way back. Some things deserve to stay buried. However, the one thing I can say for certain is that my family has an affinity for running away. A large portion of my family comes from Ireland and can't trace ancestry past the early to mid 1800s, so I can infer that they left Ireland for a country that was supposed to be great when they fled from a famine that was actually systemic starvation. The other side of my family came from Germany, but the Holy Roman Empire still existed when they came over, so they could have just as easily been from Prussia, Austria, Liechtenstein or Czechia. Regardless, I have a family history of running away from things, and I think I inherited the running away gene from them. My career aspirations are not in the country I have been raised in. They sit across the Atlantic at a graduate school in Germany, in a museum in a big city and out in the mountains where the trees still whisper fairytales. My desire to travel the world as a linguist helping preserve endangered languages and cultures doesn't come from curiosity. It is not a career that will keep me in one place or in one country. I think my family being good at pushing people away and fleeing from what's uncomfortable is what made me like this, and I'm not complaining.

I have always had a rocky relationship with my mental health. I'm hesitant to name a disorder because I can't afford to see a specialist and pursue getting diagnosed. However, I can confidently say that I am oftentimes the most anxious person in the room, coming up with every "what if?" imaginable. I can also say that I still have nightmares and creeping, unwanted thoughts about things that happened years ago. I can say I don't remember much of my childhood, but I remember enough to be glad that it's blurry, and I can say that I've been at such lows that I've had conversations with untyped suicide nots that mean more than I've said to anyone. I was raised attending a Baptist church in northeastern Missouri almost every Sunday until 2020. I never felt welcome there, always cast aside and in disagreement. I think my mental health made it easy for me to drop faith and walk away from the church, but I also think the church is what contributed to some of my mental health issues. My beliefs have been further impacted by mental health because of my advocacy, and my belief that while mental illness shouldn't be an excuse, it's an explanation. It has also made me more wary of the nation's justice system. Mental health has not only impacted me, but my friends and family. I'm the reason my dad is alive. He was suicidal when I was born, but my mother was neglectful, so he had to take care of me, and a few years later, he also had my sister. I have known this for a long time, and it's given me a lot of respect for my father, but it also makes me worry. It has also made me closer and more understanding toward some of my friends. I have been talked off the edge by my friends, and I have held more than one of them through breakdowns and bandaged more wrists than I ever wanted to. Just a few short years ago, i had no career aspirations, because I didn't plan on living past the age of sixteen, but now I'm nineteen. I have more than I could have ever dreamed of when I was contemplating running away or ending my life every day. I'm holding down a job at a pizza place, I'm entering my second year of college for my undergraduate and speaking German fluently after just two years of learning. Although my mental health has given me my fair share of struggle, it is part of what got me to where I am today. It has given me the advocacy and voice to fight for what I'm passionate about- to fight to preserve language and culture because nobody deserves to fade away. It has also helped the relationships with my friends and family grow stronger, giving me a support system I couldn't image having when I was a high schooler watching the world fall apart on the news. In five years, when I am overseas getting my doctorate in Germany, I hope I can look back and thank the fifteen year old version of myself for not opening the pill bottle.

I try to be selfless in small ways that add up, instead of the big ways that happen once in a lifetime and become the subject of every scholarship application, every essay, and every speech. I don't have a well-known and influential family name that allows me to amass a large following for fundraising or charity work. I don't have the means to avoid working and give myself extra free time. However, I do have experiences and understanding that allow me to be selfless. A large reason as to why I chose the path of selflessness is spite, if I must be brutally honest. My mother was the exact opposite, a self-centered monster who only looked out for herself, and I have spent most of my natural born life striving to be the exact opposite of the woman who had CPS, knowing my sister and I by name. Despite my lack of a positive role model growing up, I was raised with the concept that you never know what day another person is having, that it could be the worst day of their life. That's something I can relate to, as someone who can't even pin down which day is "the worst day of my life." It would be too easy to go with the unspeakable act done to me when I was six. It would be digging too deep to mention when I lost my job due to a paperwork issue. It would be too first-world to say it was when I saw the 2024 election results. It would be too ego-centric to say it was when my stepsister outed me. Regardless, I try to embody selflessness, to make the world around me a little better. I was spit on and kicked and told I'm a disgrace on the worst days of my life, so I have learned to give people grace, because people are right when they say that. I don't know what other people are going through. The person who slammed the door and didn't tip me when I delivered their food might have spent the last of their money to feed their kids. The lady who cut me off on the highway might be late to her husband's funeral because she broke down crying on her front porch. The person who kept staring at me in the store might think I look too much like someone who hurt them. There have been a few small instances where i have helped someone in need. I don't embody selflessness through big, extravagant actions. I embody it through the times I have covered the balance on a declined card with the change I keep in my pocket at work. I embody it through the time I spend volunteering at my local library lowering the charges on expired library cards and extending overdue books. I embody it through holding the door for people behind me and through letting the semi drivers merge in front of me when going through a construction zone.

When I'm not at my university, I live in Elsberry, Missouri. It is a small town about an hour north of Saint Louis, separated from the Mississippi River by train tracks, a levy and Highway P. I am not a stranger to flooding, because the whole reason I live in Elsberry is because my grandparents were flooded out of their old house in Silex, Missouri. It isn't uncommon in the area I live to smell the river from the local gas station, because even if the Mississippi isn't flooding, one of the rivers that runs into it probably is. For as often as the tornado sirens get set off, what gets people biting their nails is the river. It's about three miles off the train tracks that act as a second levy for the town. Like clockwork, my town watches the river rise, swallow up the highway and climb the stilts peoples' houses are propped up, and drown the fields of the farmers who live down that highway. People lose everything to the river multiple times a year. I live on the other side of the train tracks and up on a hill, so I don't have to worry about the river, but it is still distressing to witness people lose everything they have worked for. The logical solution, and what would likely first come to mind when we tell outsiders about these issues is to "just leave." However, this is rural Missouri in an economic crisis, with an uncertain housing market and people who have built their life savings on the crops that the Mississippi simultaneously floods and feeds. There is no "just leave" for the people who rely on the farms that have been in their families for generations. There is no "just leave" for people who cannot afford to live anywhere but the run down trailers right next to the train tracks. There is no "just leave" for the people who live in their cars and park down at the river because the cops don't bother going over the railroad tracks just to hand out parking tickets. Seeing these issues in my hometown, growing up with it being an unfortunate "normal" is what has led me to my decision of starting a fundraiser through my local library. It is currently still in the early stages of drafting and finding support, but I aim to be able to raise enough money for the city of Elsberry and potentially even surrounding towns to be able to do the following; reinforce the current levees or build new ones, build a second levy between the train tracks and the old one, stilt the houses at no cost to the homeowners, build taller levees, place permanent sandbags, or create a fund to assist the farmers and low income individuals impacted by the flooding.

Currently, I give back to my community by volunteering at my hometown library when I'm not away at college or at work. I live in a small town along the Mississippi River, where the public library is the only one fully accessible to the community. I have seen it be the tool used for someone to get a job because not everyone has access to the internet and job applications are more and more frequently online, I have seen it be the shelter from rain, wind and extreme heat or cold for people who didn't have anywhere to call home, and I have seen it be the key to knowledge and learning for families that needed more than just the public school down the road. The library was also a pinnacle of my childhood, from the moment I moved to Elsberry, I became familiar with the library and the people who worked there, often going once a week. I migrated from the children's section, to the young adult section, to sitting at the computers reading online. I went there more frequently after my grandmother started working there and now, as a college student, I volunteer at the library as an assistant to the librarians not only because you don't get hired in my desired career field without volunteering, but because I enjoy it. With the positive impact my hometown library had on me, it only felt right to keep giving back and positively impact the world. In a world that continuously grows less empathetic, pushes STEM and pretends the humanities are not the backbone of human existence, I know without a shadow of a doubt that knowledge is power. That is why I have gone to college to acquire my Bachelor's of Science in Historic Preservation and Anthropology, and why I plan to go on and get my Master's in Linguistics. I want to positively impact our world by saving things, by preserving dying languages and cultures, and I have the library I volunteer at to thank for that, because without it, I don't think I would so strongly believe in the power of accessible knowledge, of sharing cultures and stories. Every word from a near forgotten language I learn how to say, every folktale from a tribe being erased I learn to pass down and every library book I hold in my hands is a testament to the power that giving back and reaching out can have, especially on those that are not born into wealth and privilege.

The reason I know I could never be a 9-1-1 dispatcher or a first responder is because I have called 9-1-1 and sat screaming in the back of an ambulance. I can't imagine what the woman who picked up my call must have thought, asking me what was wrong in a sweet southern drawl while twelve-year-old me sat on my bathroom floor saying, "I took them all, I took them all." I hadn't planned on calling emergency services that night. I hadn't planned anything at all, hadn't left a note. It was April 20th, 2018, and everything had caught up to me. All the bullying, all the harassment, and all the sexual violence. I didn't regret taking a whole bottle of allergy pills until I started to experience the symptoms of an overdose. It was the soft southern accent of the dispatcher that kept me grounded, explained that the officers and paramedics would keep me safe and reassured me that I'd be okay, and it was the paramedics who promised that they believed me, who gave me lifesaving medication to keep me holding on until the hospital and held my hands. It wasn't my own family who gave me candy when I was in the mental hospital, it was the ambulance driver who, as it turned out, had a son my age. I know without a shadow of a doubt, that if I was a dispatcher who had to pick up a call like the one I made or was a paramedic who had to see a child overdose because nobody believed them, I'd never be able to handle the weight. I have the utmost respect for first responders for that exact reason. I used to want to be a dispatcher until my sophomore year of high school when I was on the phone with my friend while he gave his six-year-old sister mouth to mouth after she had a seizure. I knew I couldn't keep my voice gentle enough to reassure someone that things would be okay even when everything was going wrong, that I wouldn't be able to level with someone to put the gun down and that I wouldn't be able to have a steady enough voice to comfort people on the worst days of their lives. Steady enough to save a life. But that dispatcher and the paramedics who helped save my life gave me the second chance I needed to see that my voice was made for a different kind of saving. I was made to save people through preservation. The hard truth is that there is always some form of genocide or ethnic cleansing happening in the world at any given time, an action that can, will, and has succeeded in erasing cultures. There are thousands of languages that have gone extinct, are in the process of going extinct, and are endangered. Language and Culture- the two things that most prominently make up a person's identity are being wiped off the map on an hourly or daily basis. I may not have what it takes to stick my hand in someone's chest and keep their heart beating, but I can study a culture and write down the folklore, the traditions, the beliefs and history so that it may be shared with the next generations. I may not have the voice to calm in a crisis, but I have one that can form the words of a language on the brink of extinction, because one speaker, even if they're an outsider, is better than none. I can extend the "saving hand" I was offered to these cultures and languages that are fading, which is exactly why I am pursuing a Bachelor's in Historic Preservation with a focus on Anthropology and why I want to continue my education through a Master's and Doctorate in Linguistics. I want to preserve community, culture and languages- to serve them as a historian because saving the facets of identity is just as important as saving a life.