When I think about what I want to build with my education, it isn’t a monument or invention that comes to mind. I want to build bridges — bridges between loss and understanding, between underserved communities and the healthcare they deserve, between grief and healing. My path toward becoming a Pathologists’ Assistant is grounded in this vision: to create space where science, compassion, and advocacy meet. This dream began with my own family’s story. I was three years old when my father battled leukemia, and I watched how every lab result carried weight, not just for him, but for all of us. Later, during high school, I experienced a season of struggle myself when my parents separated, the pandemic hit, and I fell behind in school. At one point, I had more than thirty overdue assignments and wondered if my future was slipping away. Choosing to push forward, supported by faith and perseverance, taught me something important: life is fragile, but it is worth fighting for. That belief shapes the kind of work I want to build in medicine. At Bakersfield College, I invested not only in my academics but also in others. As a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader in General Biology II, I supported more than thirty students across three semesters, many of them first-generation college students or children of immigrants like myself. I discovered that building knowledge was about more than explaining concepts. It was about building confidence, helping students believe they belonged in the sciences. That same commitment carried into my research experience with microbial communities, where I strengthened the skills of patience, attention to detail, and problem-solving that will be crucial in pathology. Looking ahead, I want to build a career that uses science as a tool for justice. In pathology, every tissue sample or autopsy is a story waiting to be told. A story that can help grieving families find closure, guide doctors toward better treatments, or uncover preventable health risks in communities like mine. My long-term vision is to serve in under-served areas, where too often preventable illnesses go unnoticed until it is too late. By combining education, research, and advocacy, I hope to shine light on those stories and work toward solutions that improve public health. Education is more than a personal achievement; it is a responsibility. With this scholarship, I will aim higher, not just for myself, but for the families waiting for answers and the communities whose stories deserve to be heard through science.

I was three years old when I watched my father fight leukemia in a hospital bed at UCLA Medical Center. I didn’t understand the medical terms, but I knew life was fragile, and worth fighting for. My uncle’s blood transfusion helped keep my father alive. That memory is my earliest lesson in God’s truth: every life is a gift, no matter how fragile, and it is worth protecting. My faith became personal years later, during my sophomore year. My parents had separated, our family had moved, and the pandemic shut down in-person schooling. With no live classes or teachers, I fell behind. At one point, facing over thirty overdue assignments. I felt tired and discouraged, wondering if my life even mattered. That was when I decided I needed to channel this struggle into something positive. I began to pray more, focus on what I could do each day, and slowly found my way back. That decision changed me. My faith gave me the strength to re-engage in school, to rebuild my grades, and to graduate summa cum laude from Bakersfield College. It also deepened my conviction to be pro-life. If my life was worth fighting for in my lowest moment, then so is every life - the unborn, the ill, the elderly, and the overlooked. Being pro-life is not just a belief I hold; it is something I practice. My mother’s life is a testament to that. She has worked long days in agriculture to provide for her children, often carrying her struggles in silence. She taught me that protecting life means showing up for others in tangible ways, even when it’s hard. I’ve taken that into my work as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader for General Biology II, where I supported over thirty students across three semesters. Many were children of immigrants or first-generation college students who doubted they belonged in science. I tried to be the kind of encouragement I once needed, helping them believe they were capable and belonged there. I also brought that mindset to the BC/CSUB Summer Research Program, where I studied microbial communities and ecosystem health. While the research wasn’t directly in medicine, it strengthened the same skills I will use as a Pathologists’ Assistant, paying attention to details, asking good questions, and looking for solutions. In that role, I hope to preserve dignity, bring answers to grieving families, and help address preventable causes of death, especially in underserved communities like mine. Faith is my foundation for this work. I believe God calls us to speak for the voiceless, and in pathology, I can do that literally. Whether it’s honoring the life of a child who never took a first breath, advocating for public health changes, or giving closure to a family, I see my career as part of my calling to protect life from its beginning to its final breath. This scholarship would not only relieve a financial burden. It would affirm the belief that has carried me from a hospital room as a child to the doorstep of my career: that every life, no matter how short, is a reflection of God’s image. I am committed to honoring that truth through my studies, my work, and my life. Every life is sacred. Every story matters. And with God’s help, I will spend mine protecting them.

My laptop screen glowed with 30 overdue assignments. I sat in the dark, wondering if finishing them, or finishing at all, was worth it. The pandemic had shrunk my world to four walls. My parents had separated. School was a string of prerecorded videos with no faces, no voices. My chest stayed tight for weeks. When I told my mother, she said I was just tired. We didn’t have words for anything else. Medication helped, but the turning point wasn’t a prescription; it was a choice. One night, I decided to commit to myself through academics. At first, it was obsessive: rereading chapters until I could recite them, studying for hours without leaving my room. Eventually, obsession became discipline. By senior year, I was thriving, not for the grades themselves, but because I understood the cost of each one. Then, just before graduation, someone I knew died by suicide. The grief was sharp and familiar. It reminded me how easily pain hides behind a smile, how stigma keeps people silent. I couldn’t save her, but I could become someone who notices, someone who stays. At Bakersfield College, I became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II. Over three semesters, I supported more than 30 students, many of whom were first-generation, soft-spoken, or unsure they belonged in STEM. I recognized the look in their eyes because I had worn it myself. I remembered their names, encouraged their mistakes, and celebrated their growth. Some became tutors themselves, passing forward the support they once received. I plan to carry those skills into programs like ACE or LSS at UC Santa Cruz, further supporting students who feel unseen or unwelcome in academic spaces. My own family never talked about mental health, but breaking that silence has shaped me as a student, a mentor, and a future Pathologists’ Assistant. In that role, I will meet patients and grieving families at some of their most vulnerable moments. While my work will be grounded in science, my approach will be rooted in compassion, treating people not just as cases, but as whole human beings with invisible battles. Mental illness is invisible, but so is the decision to stay. This scholarship would not only support my education at UC Santa Cruz, it would carry forward the choice I made in that dark room years ago: to fight for my life, to fight for others, and to turn my survival into someone else’s lifeline.

I was drowning in silence. Sophomore year, the world outside shut down, and inside, I shut down too. My family had just moved again after my parents’ separation, and the pandemic left my small agricultural city of Delano in limbo. Classes went virtual, but there were no Zoom calls or live instruction—just pages of faceless assignments. I had over 30 overdue tasks, and I remember lying in bed, unable to eat, unable to sleep, just... unable. What began as exhaustion spiraled into something darker. I felt my chest constantly tight. I stopped talking to friends. I entertained thoughts I never thought I would, thoughts about disappearing. I didn’t know what to call it at the time. But now, I know: it was depression. A doctor prescribed medication, and it helped. But what changed everything was a quiet moment when I told myself: I am going to commit to something. I chose academics—not because I believed in myself yet, but because I needed something to believe in. At first, I overcompensated—rereading textbooks until I could recite definitions, studying for hours without breaks, chasing perfection like it could save me. It didn’t. What saved me was finding rhythm, balance, and eventually, pride. By senior year, I was dual-enrolled in college courses. I earned straight A’s. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t just surviving—I was learning, connecting, becoming. Then, shortly before graduation, someone I knew died by suicide. Her death gutted me. It threw me back into the same emotional space I had barely escaped. She was kind. Thoughtful. Funny. And like me, silently overwhelmed. Her loss reminded me how many of us suffer without being seen. I couldn’t go back and save her—but I could move forward differently. I could be someone who notices. Someone who stays. At Bakersfield College, I became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader, tutoring over 30 students across three semesters in General Biology II. Many of my students were first-generation, children of immigrants, or struggling with confidence in STEM. I saw their hesitancy. I recognized that look—the one that says, “I don’t belong here.” I didn’t have every answer, but I made space. I remembered names. I celebrated their growth. And I saw students transform—not just academically, but in how they saw themselves. Some even became tutors themselves. Mental health doesn’t just shape how I got here—it shapes how I show up for others. In my own family, we never used words like "anxiety" or "depression." However, we lived them—in my mother’s quiet exhaustion, in my teenage silence, in the invisible weight we carried but never named. That silence almost broke me. Now, I choose to break the silence for others. This fall, I will transfer to UC Santa Cruz to complete my biology degree. My dream is to become a pathologist assistant—someone who brings answers to grieving families. I want to work in county medical examiner’s offices, particularly in underserved communities, where preventable deaths often go unexamined or unnamed. Receiving the Elijah’s Helping Hand Scholarship wouldn’t just ease a financial burden. It would honor the journey I’ve walked through mental illness. It would reflect the mission I’ve taken on—to notice those who feel invisible, to show up for them in ways I once needed, and to carry the memory of those we’ve lost with purpose. Mental illness is often hidden. But so is the courage to stay. So is the strength to begin again. I didn’t need a miracle—I needed someone to believe I was worth the effort. So I became that person. First, for myself. And now, for others, too.

When it comes to Love Island, no relationship is safe from a bit of heat, and that's precisely what makes it irresistible. Between confessions, coupling, and chaos, viewers stay hooked not only for the romance, but for the moments where things combust. That's why I propose a bold, messy, and revealing new segment: "Toxic or Not? The Chemical Compatibility Challenge." This challenge blends relationship drama with actual chemistry—yes, the science kind. As someone who's researched microbial communities and environmental stressors, I know that not all reactions are predictable. The same goes for love. Inspired by my experience in field and laboratory biology, this challenge is part experiment, part emotional roller coaster. Here's how it works: before the challenge, each Islander answers a series of spicy, emotionally charged questions about their partner—privately, in the Beach Hut, or on written cards. Then, during the challenge, the couple is instructed to mix specific substances from a "Love Lab Kit"—colorful, safe compounds like pH indicators, baking soda, or vinegar gels. The results are immediate and dramatic: when answers align, the mixture turns vibrant pink or purple and stays stable. When they clash, like when one person says "I trust them completely" and the other admits they've been flirting, the liquid turns fizzy green, bubbles up, or even erupts. Here's the twist: the audience and the partner don't see the answers until after the reaction happens. That creates a dramatic moment of mystery. Did they lie? Were they hiding something? The chemical reaction becomes the first clue, and the answer reveals the emotional punch. It's a metaphor in motion: sometimes you see the fallout before you understand the truth. And if both partners answer truthfully but negatively, say, they both don't see a future, the mix might stabilize. Because even disappointment, when shared openly, is a form of compatibility. That unexpected twist makes it clear: this isn't about being the most romantic, it's about being the most aligned. To raise the stakes, the most "chemically compatible" couple wins a private villa escape. The least? They're sent to the Reevaluation Room, where they must confront their answers and each other, no fluff, no evasion, just real talk. This challenge adds scientific flair to the emotional storm that defines Love Island. And for fans like me, who grew up balancing heartache, hard truths, and high expectations, it hits close to home. I come from a rural, agricultural town where I commuted hours to attend college, supported classmates as a biology tutor, and took pride in uncovering real data in summer research programs. Toxic or Not? is more than a fun concept. It's rooted in something I've lived: that honesty, even when messy, is what makes a real connection possible. In short, this challenge is unpredictable, heartfelt, and delightfully explosive. Which is to say, it's pure Love Island.

When I think about what gives me an advantage, it’s not just my GPA, my research experience, or even the three semesters I spent as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader for General Biology II. It’s that I’ve been walking a new path all along—one I had to carve myself, from the fields of Delano to the classrooms of Bakersfield College, and now to UC Santa Cruz. It’s a path shaped not just by books and biology, but by sacrifice, silence, and an unwavering belief that where you begin doesn’t have to determine where you end up. My parents are immigrant agricultural workers. My mom raised us alone after years of emotional turmoil, which fractured our family during my middle school years. As the youngest, I witnessed the quiet sacrifices—the 4 a.m. wake-ups, the aching backs, the exhaustion that couldn't be put into words. I’ve worked in the fields too, side by side with her, and in those rows of crops, I learned resilience not as a concept, but as a way of life. At Bakersfield College, I didn’t just study—I immersed myself. I took courses like Human Anatomy & Physiology I & II, as well as Microbiology, not because they were required, but because I was genuinely fascinated by the inner workings of the body and disease. General Biology II was needed, and it was one of the most rigorous courses I faced, but also the one that sparked my deep interest in forensic science and pathology. It later became the same course I would go on to support as a PAL Leader. However, before that, I wasn’t the best student, either socially or academically. During my early high school years, I struggled to stay engaged. The pandemic only amplified this. When classes went remote during my sophomore year, I drifted further into isolation. There were no Zoom calls, no real-time teachers—just silence. I was technically showing up, but emotionally absent. I rarely slept. I skipped meals. I wasn’t learning; I was surviving. Eventually, suicidal thoughts crept in. I began treatment and made a quiet decision to commit—to myself, to my future. By senior year, I was earning straight A’s and taking dual enrollment college courses. For the first time, I felt proud of who I was becoming. At BC, I became a PAL Leader for General Biology II, a course known for its difficulty. For three semesters, I facilitated weekly support sessions for over 30 students, many of them first-generation, lacking academic support at home, and unsure about their success in STEM. I knew that feeling well. I wasn’t just a tutor, I was a bridge. Bilingual in Spanish and English, I helped connect students not only to the material, but also to each other and their professors. I celebrated small wins, encouraged mistakes, and validated growth. Some of those students even went on to become tutors themselves. That ripple effect is one of my proudest accomplishments. I also participated in the BC/CSUB Summer Research Program, where I studied microbial communities and river ecology. Under the mentorship of Professors Lilles and Dr. McNeish, I conducted transect surveys, collected data on macroinvertebrates, and analyzed water quality. The work sharpened my lab techniques and strengthened my ability to analyze complex biological systems. Just as important, it allowed me to make meaningful contributions to community and environmental health. Our findings have implications for water quality monitoring and conservation, and I presented them in a formal poster presentation, practicing how to make science accessible to both technical and lay audiences. I was proud to be part of a project that not only advanced scientific understanding but also served the well-being of local ecosystems and the people who depend on them. Looking ahead, I plan to become a Pathologists’ Assistant (PathA). This profession merges science, medicine, and service to the deceased and their families. I’ve already outlined the coursework, clinical hours, and application materials needed for top programs. I’ve applied to jobs and internships for the Fall quarter that align with my goals, and I’m currently researching shadowing opportunities at local morgues and hospitals in the San Jose and Santa Cruz areas. After earning my bachelor’s degree at UC Santa Cruz, I hope to either attend graduate school immediately, ideally at Loma Linda University or work as a forensic autopsy technician and apply shortly after. While I’m the first in my family to graduate from community college, some of my siblings enrolled but dropped out. That reality drives me. My current expected family contribution is negative, and every semester is a financial challenge. But I’ve stayed focused—I opened a savings account and an investment account, applied to over 100 scholarships, and committed to academic excellence, finishing Bakersfield College with a 3.92 GPA. This scholarship wouldn’t just ease a financial burden. It would carry the weight of every quiet moment I chose to keep going. It would honor my mother’s sacrifices, validate the resilience I’ve built through mental health struggles, and support the academic bridge I’ve built for others. It would help me continue toward a career that gives voice to the voiceless, dignity to the deceased, and answers to families who deserve them. Thank you for considering my application. I’m not just asking for your investment. I’m inviting you to be part of a story that began with hardship and continues with purpose. With your support, I will carry this mission forward, through UCSC and beyond, one step closer to becoming the kind of scientist, mentor, and advocate I once needed and now strive to be for others.

During the pandemic, like many others, I struggled. Isolation, exhaustion, and depression shaped my daily life. Mental health wasn’t something my immigrant, first-generation household talked about—support was limited, and therapy was out of reach. What pulled me through wasn’t a miracle; it was choosing to dedicate myself fully to education. I found healing in structure, learning, and eventually, in service. At Bakersfield College, I earned a 3.92 GPA and became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader for General Biology II. Over three semesters, I supported more than thirty students—many from immigrant families, first-generation backgrounds, and homes without access to academic guidance. I recognized their uncertainty because I had experienced it myself. I treated education as an art—creating welcoming spaces where questions weren’t feared, mistakes weren’t judged, and growth was possible. My role wasn’t just academic—I became someone who noticed when students fell silent, someone who stayed when others might have looked away. One of my former students even became a tutor themselves, continuing the cycle of support. This scholarship would ease the financial weight my family still carries. However, more than that, it would recognize the resilience I’ve cultivated—turning personal struggle into leadership. I’m transferring to UC Santa Cruz to pursue a degree in biology and a career as a Pathologist’s Assistant, where I can continue to serve communities often overlooked in life and death. I believe healing is an art—and through service, I’ve learned it can ripple outward and change lives.

Book 12, The Odyssey - Sirens' Song: “Come here, Odysseus, you famous man, you great glory of the Achaeans! Stop your ship and listen to our song. Never has any man passed by in his black ship until he heard the honeyed voices from our lips. Then he goes on, full of knowledge, and we sing to him, with joy, all that happened on the fertile earth. We know all things that shall be upon the fruitful earth.” The Sirens’ song in The Odyssey tempts Odysseus with more than knowledge; it offers him the illusion of immortality through memory — the promise that he might transcend mortal limits by knowing all things, past and future. This passage, rich with seductive lyricism and paradox, reveals Homer’s more profound commentary on the human desire not merely to survive but to endure through remembrance and understanding. The Sirens do not tempt Odysseus with pleasures of the flesh, but with something far more dangerous: the false promise of timeless comprehension and eternal renown. Through this temptation, Homer positions the Sirens at the heart of The Odyssey’s meditation on pride, restraint, and the fragile limits of human existence. The Sirens open with deliberate flattery: “Come here, Odysseus, you famous man, you great glory of the Achaeans!” That is no empty compliment. It speaks directly to Odysseus’s kleos — his fame, his legacy — which in ancient Greek thought is a form of immortality. The Sirens understand that for a hero like Odysseus, whose journey is driven as much by ego as by survival, recognition holds irresistible power. The Sirens flatter not only his reputation but his deepest fear: that without remembrance, his struggles might vanish into obscurity. They suggest he alone is worthy of their secrets, feeding his desire for exceptionalism. Yet the heart of their temptation lies in their promise of effortless knowledge. “Never has any man passed by… until he heard the honeyed voices… Then he goes on, full of knowledge.” This phrasing is paradoxical; no one survives the Sirens, and yet they claim men continue onward wiser. Their speech embodies their danger: words that seem sweet, truthful, even harmless, yet conceal a deadly truth. Homer’s choice of “honeyed voices” evokes not just sweetness, but entrapment; honey lures and ensnares. The Sirens’ song is a snare of language itself, a danger made potent through art, not force. Their seduction operates through rhetoric, music, and the manipulation of desire, mirroring the very craft of Homer’s poetry. The Sirens’ claim to “know all things that shall be upon the fruitful earth” furthers this deception. They offer a counterfeit omniscience, positioning themselves as gatekeepers of the past and future. In a mortal world shaped by the whims of gods and the uncertainty of fate, this is the ultimate temptation: mastery over time and the unknown. Yet the imagery of “fertile earth”—life, growth, abundance—contrasts with the grim reality of their domain: a barren island littered with bones. Their knowledge leads not to life, but to ruin. The Sirens embody the dangers of unchecked intellectual ambition, the belief that all knowledge can or should be possessed without consequence. Odysseus’s response is revealing. Earlier in his journey, he might have yielded, driven by pride and a desire for curiosity. Here, forewarned by Circe, he devises a strategy: he binds himself to the mast so he may listen without surrendering. That is not pure heroism; it is self-awareness. Odysseus recognizes his flaw, his hunger for understanding, for recognition, and counters it with foresight. His survival hinges not on rejecting temptation outright but on mastering it through boundaries. Homer suggests through this that true wisdom lies not in possessing all knowledge but in knowing oneself and one’s limits. Moreover, the Sirens’ seductive language invites reflection on the nature of song and storytelling itself. Their voices echo the structure of epic poetry, offering promises of knowledge, legacy, and eternal truth. In this way, the Sirens become a meta-commentary on the power of art: songs that preserve memory, words that shape legacy, stories that tempt with their sweetness. Homer acknowledges that such stories are double-edged; they can elevate but also deceive. Their song flatters, ensnares, and entices, just as any well-told tale might. Yet The Odyssey draws a clear boundary: not all stories are worth hearing, not all knowledge worth seeking. The broader resonance of this passage speaks to a timeless human condition. Even now, the allure of forbidden knowledge persists. Whether through technological ambition, scientific discovery without restraint, or the obsessive pursuit of legacy, humanity continues to grapple with the limits of knowing. The Sirens offer a shortcut to effortless wisdom and eternal remembrance, but Homer warns against such hubris. Knowledge without struggle, fame without virtue, leads only to emptiness. Odysseus survives because he learns this truth: wisdom is earned, not given; boundaries safeguard us where desire might not. This moment with the Sirens reflects a larger arc in Odysseus’s journey. Like his eventual refusal of Calypso’s immortality, his restraint here signals growth. He no longer seeks to transcend his humanity but to embrace it, to return home, to accept mortality, to live within the bounds of human experience. The Sirens’ false promise of survival through knowledge parallels Calypso’s false offer of eternity through pleasure. In both, Odysseus learns to choose limits over illusions. Ultimately, the Sirens’ passage encapsulates The Odyssey’s enduring wisdom: the perils of unchecked desire, the deceptive sweetness of words, and the necessity of self-knowledge. Through Odysseus’s survival, Homer argues for a humility before the unknown, a reverence for the boundaries that keep us human. The Sirens’ song endures because it sings to something ancient and unchanging, our longing for certainty, for remembrance, for truths beyond our reach. Yet wisdom lies not in listening without caution but in knowing when to turn away. In the end, Odysseus teaches us that the greatest triumph is not in knowing all things but in knowing enough. Homer. The Odyssey. Translated by Robert Fagles, Penguin Classics, 1996.

Some people learn compassion from textbooks. I learned it in the fields of Delano, California, watching my mother work long hours beneath the sun so that I could have a chance at something better. My parents immigrated from Mexico and worked as agricultural laborers. After their separation during my middle school years, my mother raised me alone in a home marked by both love and silent struggle. It wasn’t easy for her, nor for me. But through those years, I began to understand what care looks like: persistence, sacrifice, and showing up, even when you’re exhausted. That understanding shaped my path forward. Education became my way of honoring her resilience. I commuted nearly two hours each day to attend Bakersfield College, studied alone for countless hours, and took on some of the most demanding science courses — not just to earn good grades, but to prove to myself that I could rise beyond my circumstances. I graduated with a 3.92 GPA, an Associate of Science degree in Biology, and the distinction of becoming the first in my family to attend college and transfer to a four-year university. But my journey wasn’t just academic. It was rooted in service. Over three semesters, I supported more than thirty students as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader for General Biology II. Many were first-generation children of immigrants and uncertain of their place in STEM. I recognized their hesitation because I had experienced it myself. My role was more than tutoring; it was about listening, encouraging, and creating spaces where students could find confidence in themselves. I shared my experiences navigating transfer pathways, financial aid, and self-doubt because I understood how isolating those challenges can feel without guidance. Alongside my academic and mentoring efforts, I participated in the Bakersfield College and CSU Bakersfield Summer Research Program, contributing to research on the freshwater ecosystems of the Kern River. Our work provided insights into how human activity and environmental factors affect local water quality and biodiversity, findings that support future conservation efforts. This research not only benefits future ecological studies but also helps protect a resource vital to the Bakersfield community, surrounding wildlife, and public health. I took pride in knowing that my work contributed to something larger than myself. These experiences have shaped my long-term goal of becoming a Pathologists’ Assistant (PathA). I am drawn to this field not only for its scientific rigor but because it allows me to serve families, often from communities like my own, with dignity, precision, and compassion. Like Frederick Beretta’s legacy of house calls and late-night visits, I want to offer answers and comfort to those who might otherwise be overlooked. This scholarship would alleviate financial burdens, but more importantly, it would affirm the values my mother instilled in me: kindness, perseverance, and the quiet, daily acts of care that shape lives. I hope to carry forward that same legacy — one patient, one family, one community at a time. Thank you for considering my story.

My mother taught me about strength, not through words, but through the way she lived her life. She immigrated from Michoacán, Mexico, with my father, bringing with her little to no education but an unshakable belief that her children deserved something better. While my father carried the weight of machismo, believing discipline built character, my mother built something quieter and far more lasting — a home defined by love, patience, and resilience. By the time I reached middle school, my parents had separated. My mother became the foundation of our home, carrying responsibilities both financial and emotional while working long hours as an agricultural laborer. Even in exhaustion, she showed up for us — ironing clothes at dawn, making meals before work, reminding us that hardship didn’t excuse giving up. She was there, steady and unwavering, even when we faltered. We all did, in different ways. My eldest sister left home at 19 to start a new life with her soon-to-be husband. In the process, she left her education at the community college behind. My mother protested, but never abandoned her. When my sister’s relationship fell apart, my mother was there to help her pick up the pieces. She encouraged her to return to school, and today my sister works at Niagara Water, raising her daughter with the same persistence she learned from our mother. My brother struggled too. After dropping out of college, he found work in agriculture and later transitioned into construction. He eventually secured a stable job in Bakersfield, working in the maintenance and operation of the city’s water systems. My mother supported him not by lecturing, but through quiet acts of care: breakfast at 4:30 a.m., freshly ironed uniforms, and reminders that dignity isn’t tied to titles but to how you carry yourself through life. He now has a home, a wife, and three children — stability built on those small acts of faith my mother never stopped offering. My younger sister made mistakes of her own — choices that led to an arrest for DUI and a brutal reckoning. Even then, my mother reminded her that mistakes didn’t define a life. Today, my sister works part-time, runs her own small business, and is raising two young boys with a more profound sense of responsibility, thanks to someone who believed she could still grow. Through all of this, my mother showed us what real strength looks like: showing up, loving unconditionally, and never allowing hardship to harden the heart. She didn’t support laziness, but she understood struggle. For me, her example became my foundation. I studied alone for long hours, determined to honor her sacrifices. I graduated summa cum laude from Bakersfield College with my Associate of Science in Biology and am now transferring to UC Santa Cruz to complete my bachelor’s degree. My long-term goal is to become a Pathologist’s Assistant (PA) — a career rooted in precision, science, and service. I am drawn to it not only for the work itself, but also because it honors the values my mother lived by: providing answers, helping others through difficult moments, and giving dignity where it’s often overlooked. This scholarship honors women like my mother — those who quietly build their children’s futures through perseverance, sacrifice, and unwavering love. Her strength carried me here. My success will carry her legacy forward, one step at a time.

I wasn’t always a good student. For most of my early high school years, I floated through classes without direction or care. I didn’t study. I didn’t engage. I just existed—half-asleep in classrooms, half-aware of what I was giving up. Then the pandemic hit. Everything moved online, and with it, any structure I had left disappeared. My screen filled with silent assignments, and so did my mind, with anxiety, with dread, with over 40 missing tasks piling up. I remember staring at the list and realizing I had let everything around me decay. For the first time, I couldn’t ignore it. I finished that semester, but I wasn’t proud of it. I was deeply unhappy—not just with school, but with how small I had let myself become. I wasn’t learning. I wasn’t growing. I was watching myself drift into nothing. That’s when I made a choice: to commit to myself, fully. I changed my habits. I enrolled in dual enrollment courses in my senior year. I built a work ethic from scratch. And when I started college at Bakersfield College, I carried that momentum forward. I went on to earn an Associate of Science degree in Biology with a 3.92 GPA, taking some of the most challenging courses offered, including Anatomy and Physiology I and II, Microbiology, Organic Chemistry, and General Biology I and II. I didn’t just do well; I found pride in doing something difficult and doing it right. I finally felt like I had something that was mine—something I had built, not drifted into. That shift led to opportunity. The biology department chair selected me to serve as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader for General Biology II, a notoriously rigorous course. Over the course of three semesters, I led study sessions for more than 30 students, many of whom were first-generation college students, like myself. I built interactive lesson plans, created recall-based study guides, and helped students find confidence in classrooms where they once felt invisible. Some improved by full letter grades. Others became mentors themselves. As a bilingual mentor fluent in both English and Spanish, I also supported students who felt disconnected due to language barriers. I helped translate scientific terms and walked peers through transfer plans, financial aid, and academic resources—things I once struggled to navigate on my own. It wasn’t just tutoring—it was mentorship rooted in understanding, and it transformed my perspective on leadership. Just this summer, I was selected for the BC/CSUB Summer Research Program, where I conducted fieldwork on microbial and ecological health in local river systems. The focus was on environmental biology, and it was an experience that sharpened my research and communication skills—tools that will serve me well in my next chapter. This fall, I’ll transfer to UC Santa Cruz as a biology major with plans to participate in programs like ACE and EOP, where I can continue to support students from underrepresented backgrounds. My long-term goal is to become a forensic pathologist—using science not just to understand death, but to give voice to the silenced and deliver truth to families seeking closure. This scholarship isn’t just financial relief. It’s a chance to honor the turning point I created for myself—proof that even those who start off lost can choose to lead. I’m no longer drifting. I’m building. And now, I’m helping others do the same.

In Delano, California—a rural, agricultural town where opportunity often skips generations—my parents worked the fields so their children wouldn’t have to. We all helped when needed, shoulders burning under the sun, learning that resilience isn’t something you say—it’s something you do. When my parents separated in middle school, the emotional undercurrent of our home shifted. Silence replaced laughter. I was the youngest, watching everyone else cope quietly. That year marked our fourth move, a reset into single-parent life. My mother became our center. Even when emotionally spent, she continued to show up. So did I-until I couldn’t. The pandemic took away more than in-person classes. It took away the connection. With no live instruction, I spiraled into isolation. I wasn’t failing, but I wasn’t present either. Anxiety took hold, and eventually, suicidal thoughts followed. Medication helped, but what truly saved me was a quiet, stubborn decision: I chose to fight for myself through education. Step by step, I reclaimed purpose. I poured myself into science, especially biology, where the human body became a puzzle I wanted to understand. I ended high school with straight A’s. At Bakersfield College, I thrived, earning a 3.92 GPA and seizing every opportunity I once thought was beyond me. When I was selected to become a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader for General Biology II, I didn’t feel like a leader. I was still the quiet kid, the first-generation student, the only one in my family to attend college. However, over the course of three semesters, I provided academic support to more than 30 students, many of whom were like me: children of immigrants, lacking academic support at home, unsure if they belonged in STEM. In those moments, I realized how service and science are intertwined. I wasn’t just tutoring—I was affirming students’ worth. I built bridges for bilingual learners, demystified transfer pathways, and helped students develop confidence in themselves academically, emotionally, and culturally. Outside the classroom, I was accepted into the BC/CSUB Summer Research Program, where I studied microbial responses and environmental stress in local rivers. I conducted fieldwork, identified macroinvertebrates, and assessed water quality using professional-grade instrumentation. The work wasn’t directly medical, but it refined the lab techniques, data analysis, and persistence I’ll need as a forensic pathologist. That career goal began at age three, when I visited my father in the hospital during his battle with leukemia. Though too young to grasp the diagnosis, I felt the weight of it. I watched as my uncle donated blood to help save his brother’s life. That was my first glimpse of science as a means of salvation. Now, I want to become a forensic pathologist—someone who speaks for the voiceless and brings answers to grieving families. Too often, underserved or undocumented individuals are misrepresented in death as they were in life. I want to change that. I want to humanize the forgotten. Receiving the Sloane Stephens Doc & Glo Scholarship would not just lift a financial burden—it would honor my mother’s sacrifice, affirm my community’s worth, and reflect the core of Doc & Glo: resilience, belief, and showing up for life every day with intention. Like Sloane, I know what it means to compete—for time, for space, for opportunity. But I also see the power of giving back. Mentorship isn’t something I do—it’s who I’ve become. And like Doc & Glo, I carry my story into every room, every decision, every dream. I’m not just in motion—I’m moving forward with purpose.

The story of my family split in two during my middle school years, when my parents separated after long-standing conflict and emotional tension at home. By then, my siblings were already working and contributing to the household in their ways, each coping with the circumstances in silence. As the youngest, I often felt the ripple effects of everything—the arguments, the silence that followed, and the emotional toll that no one talked about. It was during this time that our family moved for the fourth time, a shift that marked more than an address change; it was the beginning of our journey as a single-parent household. Though rent and electricity weren't our primary worries, the instability within our home weighed heavily. My mother became our anchor. She worked in agriculture, often relying on my older siblings for support when she was emotionally or physically exhausted. We all had the opportunity to work alongside our parents in the fields at some point in our lives. In those rows of crops under the sun, I learned early what resilience looks like—what it means to work through pain, without complaint, because others depend on you. Rather than let those experiences harden me, I channeled that energy into something constructive: education and service. I wasn't a perfect student, but I was determined. My GPA is 3.92, a reflection of both my dedication and my passion for learning. I gravitated toward the sciences, especially biology, where courses like General Biology II challenged me and solidified my fascination with human anatomy and forensic science. That same course later became the one I supported as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader at Bakersfield College. There, I tutored students—many of whom were children of immigrants, first-generation, and lacked academic support at home. I saw myself in them, and I made it my mission to be the helping hand I once wished I had. My neighborhood wasn't picturesque, but it was full of life. It's where my family hosted birthday parties with balloon arches, loud music, and the infamous "¡que lo muerda!" cake-smash tradition. I still laugh when I look at the photo of my sister's face covered in frosting. Those moments—simple, messy, joyful—ground me in who I am. More recently, I looked at another photo: my mom and I at my brother's wedding. Her strength got us there. Her sacrifice gave me this chance. I'm now transferring to UC Santa Cruz to pursue my degree in biology, with the long-term goal of becoming a forensic pathologist. I want to use science to give answers, to bring clarity to grieving families, and to represent those who come from overlooked communities like mine. This scholarship wouldn't just ease a financial burden—it would validate every quiet sacrifice my mother made, every step I've taken to rise beyond circumstance, and every student I've mentored along the way. Thank you for considering my story. I carry it with pride, and I hope it resonates with the mission of this scholarship: to open doors for students who have always had to find their way through.

I was only three years old when I watched my father confined to a hospital bed at UCLA Medical Center. Though I couldn't understand the science behind his leukemia diagnosis, I understood the seriousness. I remember walking through sleek, sterile hallways, feeling overwhelmed by the scale of it all, but also strangely drawn to it, like a magnet. That hospital, both beautiful and intimidating, was the space where people fought to keep him alive. I later learned that my uncle—my father's brother—donated blood to help save him. Even then, I felt something profound was happening. That early exposure sparked something in me I couldn't yet name. Over time, that something took shape. I became fascinated by the human body and its mysteries—why it fails, what it reveals, and how it connects to justice and healing. Eventually, this led me to a career in forensic pathology. While many shy away from its darker elements, I see purpose and dignity in it. It's not just about understanding death—it's about uncovering truths, serving grieving families, and holding systems accountable. It's where medicine, science, and compassion intersect, often for those who can no longer speak for themselves. My commitment to this path has deepened through both academic and real-world experience. I served as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader for three semesters, supporting over 30 students in General Biology II at Bakersfield College. Many of these students were just like me—first-generation, children of immigrants, and lacking academic support at home. In this role, I wasn't just a tutor—I was a mentor, a guide, and sometimes the only source of encouragement a student received in their pursuit of a STEM career. Through this, I learned how to listen deeply, meet people where they are, and explain complex concepts with clarity—skills that I will carry into patient care, family conversations during grief, and every medical interaction I encounter. I also participated in the BC/CSUB Summer Research Program, where I joined a project investigating microbial communities and ecosystem health in the Kern River. While not directly related to medicine, this research sharpened my critical thinking, laboratory techniques, and ability to analyze complex biological systems—skills that will be vital in pathology. It also reminded me that the pursuit of truth—whether in nature or the human body—is a universal goal in science. Looking ahead, I plan to attend medical school and specialize in forensic pathology. I hope to work in county coroner's offices or with public health departments to identify patterns in preventable deaths, particularly in underrepresented or low-income communities. Too often, the deceased are forgotten or misrepresented, especially if they were undocumented, homeless, or voiceless in life. I want to change that. Whether working on a cold case, testifying in court, or comforting a family with long-sought answers, I intend to bring both rigor and humanity to every case. Receiving the Maxwell Tuan Nguyen Memorial Scholarship would be an honor not only because of the financial support, but because of what it represents—a belief in students who want to make a difference through medicine. My journey began in a hospital room, watching my father fight for his life. It continues now with a clear purpose: to serve others, even when they can no longer speak for themselves. This is more than a profession—it's a promise to speak for the silenced, to comfort the grieving, and to honor every life through truth. And I'm ready to fulfill it.

Legacy is often imagined as something passed down—a name, a profession, a path carefully laid by the generations before. But for people like me, legacy is something you build from scratch. It's shaped not by inheritance but by intention. It's how we choose to respond to the sacrifices made on our behalf. My parents are from Michoacán, Mexico. They never finished school, but they taught me more about resilience than any textbook could. As children, my siblings and I worked in the Central Valley fields alongside them. Under the sun, I learned about the importance of effort, humility, and the urgency of building something better—not just for myself but for all of us. We didn't have wealth, academic lineage, or professional networks. However, we had faith and an unspoken understanding that education was our best shot at change. That upbringing shaped everything. At Bakersfield College, I pursued biology with the hunger of someone who knew what was at stake. I became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader for General Biology II, tutoring students who reminded me of myself: first-generation, from immigrant households, lacking academic support at home. I saw in them the same uncertainty I once carried—the kind that comes not from lack of ability but from lack of guidance. Through that role, I offered more than content review; I provided encouragement, direction, and proof that they could succeed in spaces that never seemed built for them. Recently, I was selected for the BC/CSUB Summer Research Program, where I worked alongside faculty to study the ecological impacts on the Kern River. It was my first immersive research experience, and it helped me see science as more than academics—it became a way to advocate for communities like mine. But beyond environmental science, I realized that my passion lies in forensic pathology, a field where biology meets justice. I hope to one day serve in a lab or coroner's office, bringing answers to families and dignity to victims, particularly in underrepresented communities. Legacy is becoming the person I never had and creating the opportunities I never had. It's about mentorship, visibility, and making sure the ladder I climbed is left intact for others. While I may be the first in my family to pursue a STEM field, I refuse to be the last. The cycle I'm breaking is not just underrepresentation—it's the silence that comes from not knowing who to ask, what to study, or how to dream big. The cycle I'm beginning is one where students of color, children of farmworkers, and first-generation college students are no longer exceptions in science but examples. I may not have grown up surrounded by academics like Dr. Attoh did. However, I've come to share in that same reverence for education and its power to transform lives. This scholarship not only honors Dr. Attoh's legacy but also extends it. If chosen, I will carry forward his vision through every student I mentor, every truth I help uncover, and every underserved community I uplift through the power of science.

My name is Reynaldo Zavala Solorio, a first-generation undergraduate student and the proud son of immigrant parents who have spent their lives working in the fields of California’s Central Valley. This fall, I will be transferring to UC Santa Cruz to complete my bachelor’s degree in biology. My ultimate goal is to attend medical school and become a forensic pathologist—a physician who speaks for the voiceless, brings justice to the overlooked, and bridges the worlds of medicine and truth. My interest in healthcare didn’t begin with textbooks or TV shows—it started in the hushed corridors of a hospital. When I was three years old, my father was diagnosed with leukemia. I don’t remember the diagnosis itself, but I remember the feeling of that place. My father was confined to bed rest. My uncle had donated blood to help. And I remember walking through those long, glowing hallways that seemed to stretch endlessly. Even at that age, something about that environment stayed with me—not fear, but a strange kind of draw. Looking back, I realize I was pulled toward that place for a reason. It planted the first seed of curiosity and compassion that would grow into a passion for the medical field. Throughout my college experience, that calling has only strengthened. At Bakersfield College, I served as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II, mentoring students—most of whom were also first-generation students. These weren’t just tutoring sessions; they were moments of connection, encouragement, and mutual growth. I saw how access to knowledge can change lives, just as it changed mine. Helping others succeed in STEM made me more certain that I belong in healthcare—not just because I enjoy science, but because I care deeply about people. As I continue my education at UC Santa Cruz, every step I take is a step toward entering medical school and specializing in forensic pathology. It is a field that combines my love of biology, my sense of justice, and my desire to serve those who are most vulnerable. Forensic pathologists are not just physicians—they are advocates for the deceased, healers for grieving families, and investigators for the truth. In underserved communities like the one I grew up in, an accurate and compassionate death investigation can mean the difference between justice and silence. What inspires me most about Catrina Celestine Aquilino is her belief that justice and care should never depend on where someone was born or what resources they have. Her work across borders and cultures showed that compassion is limitless. She brought light to the forgotten corners of the world—and the forgotten people. That is precisely the kind of physician I want to be. Whether I’m working in a public health setting, a hospital, or a county coroner’s office, I want my work to reflect that same commitment: that every life has value, every story deserves truth, and every person is worth fighting for. Receiving this scholarship would be more than financial support—it would be a sign that someone believes in my purpose. I am ready to carry forward Catrina’s legacy by blending science, service, and empathy in my medical journey. I promise to honor that legacy every step of the way—not just by becoming a doctor, but by becoming the kind of doctor who never forgets why he started.

When I was three years old, my father was diagnosed with leukemia. I was too young to understand the science behind it. However, I remember the drives from Delano to UCLA Medical Center, the smell of antiseptic, the quiet prayers in the waiting room, and the look in my mother’s eyes when she tried to stay strong. My father survived, and for that, I’m endlessly grateful. But what stayed with me was the uncertainty—how we didn’t always know what was happening or why. That need for understanding has followed me into adulthood. It’s what led me to pursue a career in medicine, and more specifically, forensic pathology. I come from a close-knit Mexican immigrant family where hard work is an everyday act of love. Growing up bilingual and bicultural, I learned early the importance of empathy and resilience—not only from my parents’ sacrifices as agricultural workers but from navigating two worlds. There were no tutors, college savings, or academic role models—just a deep belief that if I worked hard enough, I could build a better future. And so, I became the first in my family to graduate from college, earning an Associate in Science for Transfer in Biology from Bakersfield College. I’ll be transferring to the University of California, Santa Cruz, this fall to complete my bachelor’s degree. My dream is to become a forensic pathologist, a physician who investigates unexplained deaths and brings answers to grieving families. What draws me to this field isn’t morbidity—it’s the mission. Forensic pathologists speak for the voiceless. They reveal hidden causes, uncover medical truths, and often provide families with the only closure they’ll ever receive. In communities like mine, where language barriers and medical mistrust are common, that kind of clarity can mean everything. For three semesters, I served as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader for General Biology II, assisting students from backgrounds similar to my own—first-generation, under-resourced, and often unsure if they belonged in STEM. I didn’t just help them with biology; I helped them believe they belonged here. That role taught me that medicine isn’t just about science—it’s about compassion, mentorship, and community. This summer, I was accepted and recently completed the BC/CSUB Summer Research Program, where I investigated environmental stressors on river ecosystems. It’s not clinical work, but it’s sharpening my scientific thinking and training me to ask better questions—skills I’ll carry into medical school and pathology. I’ve also come to appreciate how environmental and public health intersect, especially in vulnerable communities. What makes me different is not just my GPA or my goals—it’s my story. I’ve lived through the helplessness that comes with a terminal diagnosis. I know what it feels like to wait for answers that never come. As a future forensic pathologist, I want to be the one who brings those answers—not just for science but for families like mine. I want to offer them clarity, compassion, and knowledge, even in their darkest moments. The Tamurai’s Adventure Scholarship would alleviate the financial burden of my journey, enabling me to focus entirely on preparing for medical school. But more than that, it would be a reminder that people like Tamurai—who faced terminal illness with courage and purpose—can inspire those of us still walking our path. In every life I study and every report I write, I will carry forward that legacy: to serve, to reveal, and to heal in my way.

During my sophomore year, everything shifted. My parents separated. My family moved. The pandemic reached my city of Delano, forcing schools to transition to remote instruction. There were no Zoom calls, no live teachers or classmates—just a screen filled with videos, assignments, and silence. That’s when I began to disappear. I still turned things in. I showed up digitally. But inside, I was unrecognizable. I rarely slept. I skipped meals. I felt my chest tighten constantly, like I was carrying something I couldn’t name. I wasn’t failing—but I wasn’t really there. I wasn’t learning. I was surviving. Eventually, suicidal thoughts crept in. I was prescribed medication, and it helped. But what made the real difference wasn’t a prescription—it was a quiet, intensely personal decision: I chose to commit to myself through academics. That meant facing everything I had been avoiding. I started showing up—not just technically, but intentionally. Slowly, things changed. By my senior year, I enrolled in dual enrollment courses and made it my mission to prove to myself that I could excel. And I did. I became a straight-A student. For the first time in years, I felt proud of myself—not because of any external praise, but because I knew what it had cost me to get there. I had fought for every grade, every moment of clarity, every peaceful breath. I was no longer just surviving. I was thriving. Then, just before graduation, someone I knew died by suicide. Her death gutted me. It brought everything back: the numbness, the isolation, the way pain hides in plain sight. I realized how close I had been to that edge—and how many people still stood on it. I couldn’t go back and save her. But I could move forward differently. I could be someone who notices. Someone who stays. At Bakersfield College, I became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II. Over the course of three semesters, I supported more than 30 students—many of whom were first-generation, like me. Some whispered their questions, afraid to be wrong. Others weren’t sure they belonged. I recognized that look in their eyes—because I had worn it myself. I didn’t have every answer, but I made space. I remembered names. I encouraged mistakes and celebrated growth. Slowly, those students transformed. Some of them became tutors themselves. Mental health doesn’t just shape my story—it defines how I show up for others. My mother carried her silent struggles after the separation. We never used the words “mental health,” but we lived it—in her quiet exhaustion, in my learned silence, in the invisible weight we both carried. As I prepare to transfer to UC Santa Cruz as a biology major, I plan to continue mentoring underserved students through ACE or EOP and pursue research that combines science with compassion. I recently completed the BC/CSUB Summer Research Program, where I was mentored by individuals who model the kind of environment I aspire to create. The Elizabeth Schalk Memorial Scholarship honors someone who lives with mental illness. I carry that legacy—not just in memory of my struggles or hers—but in how I rise and how I help others rise, too. Mental illness is often invisible. But so is resilience. So is growth. So is choosing, day by day, to stay. I didn’t need a miracle. I needed someone to believe I was worth the effort. So, I became that person—for myself and now for others.

When I was younger, I didn't dream about college—I dreamed about stability. I dreamed about a fridge that stayed full, about lights that didn't flicker before payday, and about parents who didn't come home with aching backs and sunburnt skin from the fields. College was never discussed in my household. My parents, Mexican immigrants who labored endlessly in California's Central Valley, taught me resilience through their actions—but pursuing higher education was foreign territory. For a long time, it felt like something meant for other people. I'm proud to say that I'm no longer one of those kids who silently assumed that college wasn't for them. I graduated from Bakersfield College with an Associate in Science for Transfer in Biology and am now on my way to UC Santa Cruz to earn a bachelor's degree in Biology. My dream is to become a forensic pathologist. This role would enable me to utilize science as a voice for the voiceless, investigate unexplained deaths, and serve families who deserve answers and closure. I want to work in communities like the one I grew up in: underserved, often overlooked, but filled with people who deserve justice and care. The turning point came when I finally committed to myself through academics. For years, I carried the weight of self-doubt, shaped by a system that didn't expect me to succeed. However, in my senior year of high school, I enrolled in dual enrollment courses—English B1A and B1B, economics, and others that earned college credit. Other high school students surrounded me, but the rigor of these courses pushed me in ways I hadn't experienced before. I challenged myself, earned straight A's, and began to see a version of myself I didn't know existed: someone capable, focused, and worthy of higher education. Those grades weren't just marks—they were evidence that I could thrive in college if I kept showing up for myself. At Bakersfield College, I became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader, tutoring students in General Biology II—a course that intimidates many due to its complexity. Week after week, I worked with students to break down complex topics such as plant physiology, animal systems, and ecological dynamics. Most of them, like me, were first-generation or underrepresented in STEM fields. Watching their confidence grow reminded me of my evolution. That experience taught me that mentorship isn't just valuable—it's necessary. At UC Santa Cruz, I plan to continue this work through support programs like EOP and ACE, helping other students navigate a system that often overlooks them. However, the reality is that walking this path requires more than just grit—it takes resources. As someone from a low-income household, the costs of textbooks, lab fees, transportation, and housing weigh heavily. The Bright Lights Scholarship would not just lighten that load—it would illuminate the road ahead. It would mean fewer nights choosing between work shifts and studying for organic chemistry exams. It would mean saying "yes" to research opportunities without worrying about how I'll pay for bus fare to campus. It would mean I could give my whole self to the future I've fought so hard to reach. To the donor reading this: Your support isn't just financial—it's symbolic. It tells students like me that our dreams are valid, that our struggles are seen, and that our futures are worth investing in. If I'm awarded this scholarship, I won't take it lightly. I'll carry it with me through every exam, every mentorship session, and eventually, every autopsy room, where I'll help speak for those who can no longer do so. Thank you—for believing in our light before it's evident.

I was three years old when my father was diagnosed with leukemia. I still remember the sterile hospital lights and my mother gripping my hand. At the same time, my uncle donated blood to help keep my father alive. That memory became the earliest marker of a truth I carry with me today: that science, at its best, serves people. It's what first drew me toward medicine—and ultimately to forensic pathology, where truth-telling and service intersect in powerful ways. In Chapter Two of Real Insights, John Graff outlines what makes a professional not only successful but trustworthy: integrity, adaptability, and service. Although we work in vastly different fields—his in real estate, mine in forensic pathology—the moral foundation he outlines reflects the kind of career I want to build. Graff's emphasis on integrity—the courage to do what's right, especially when no one is watching—is vital in forensic pathology. My work will one day be used in courtrooms, investigations, and the lives of grieving families. A misstep or bias doesn't just compromise the science—it can unravel justice. Like Graff's clients entrusting agents with major life decisions, the public will depend on me to investigate death with accuracy and compassion. His words reminded me that careers built on truth have the most enduring impact. Graff also stresses adaptability in the face of change. In my field, science constantly evolves—advances in DNA sequencing, virtual autopsies, and bioinformatics all demand professionals who can learn quickly and apply new tools responsibly. During my time in community college, I balanced STEM coursework, tutoring, and caregiving for my family. That period wasn't easy, but it taught me how to pivot, solve problems under pressure, and keep going even when I felt overwhelmed. Adaptability helped me survive then—and it will help me excel in the challenges of the medical field. What moved me most, though, was Graff's insistence on service. As a first-generation college student from a low-income Hispanic background, I know how easy it is to be left behind. For the past three semesters, I've worked as a STEM tutor, helping other students—many of whom share my background—gain confidence and academic support. My success isn't just mine—it's my community's, and I carry that with me. Just as Graff uses his business to uplift others, I hope to use science not just to uncover the truth but to mentor and empower. I plan to give back through UCSC programs, such as ACE and EOP, by guiding other underrepresented students to pursue STEM fields that once felt out of reach. Graff's chapter didn't just offer insight—it provided affirmation. Integrity, adaptability, and service aren't just professional values. They're the reason I'll become a forensic pathologist: to pursue truth, to grow with every challenge, and to serve those who need it most. The younger person I was in that hospital room wouldn't have understood that yet—but I think he'd be proud of where I'm going.

Being a first-generation college student means walking into every classroom with no blueprint—only hope, resilience, and the silent prayers of those who sacrificed everything so I could be there. My parents, immigrant farmworkers with no formal education, worked from sunrise to sunset, planting in fields so I could grow something greater: a future grounded in purpose. I found that purpose through science, justice, and personal loss. When my father was diagnosed with leukemia, I witnessed how illness can fracture a family—especially one battling language barriers and financial hardship. I remember sitting in the back of the hospital room, watching my uncle donate blood, unable to understand the terms the doctors used but feeling the urgency in the air. That experience planted the seed for my career in forensic pathology. I want to bring answers to families who face loss in silence, just as mine once did. At Bakersfield College, I supported other first-generation students through the Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) program in General Biology II. I deepened my scientific training through the BC/CSUB Summer Research Program, where I studied ecological health and biological systems. These experiences were more than academic—they taught me how to lead, uplift, and persist. I envision myself conducting autopsies that uncover overlooked truths—bringing closure to families and accountability to systems that often fail the vulnerable. Forensic pathology may be my profession, but justice and dignity are my mission. At UC Santa Cruz, I plan to give back through ACE and EOP, mentoring students navigating the same maze I once faced. Whether leading biology study groups or organizing research application workshops, I want to help others gain the confidence and tools to thrive in spaces they were told weren’t made for them. Being a first-generation student isn’t just a label—it’s a lens. It teaches me to identify equity gaps, approach science with compassion, and utilize knowledge to promote healing and well-being. The Phoenix Opportunity Award would lighten the financial load I carry—but more than that, it would help turn my vision into reality: serving others through science and lifting as I rise.

In Delano, California—where dusty fields stretch for miles and families like mine harvest the food that feeds this country—my parents planted something far less visible but far more lasting than crops. Though they were migrant farmworkers with little formal education, they cultivated a love for learning in our home. We were far from wealthy, yet we had a bookshelf. And not just any bookshelf—a modest wooden case, sagging under the weight of borrowed and gifted books. It stood tall in our living room, a quiet monument to hope. I was the youngest of four, and while my siblings cracked open stories of pirates, pioneers, and planets, I sat beside them, running my fingers along the pages I didn't yet know how to read. When they went to the library, I tagged along. I still remember the cool hush of those visits—the way the fluorescent lights reflected off laminated covers, the smell of worn pages, and the steady presence of librarians who made us feel like the world of books belonged to us, too. That library was more than a building. It was the first space where I felt possibility unfolding. Books were my first mentors. Through them, I learned that being from a low-income, Hispanic household didn't mean I had to be confined by it. The stories I read helped me translate struggle into strength. As I grew, my reading evolved from escapism to exploration. Memoirs like "Working Stiff " by Dr. Judy Melinek and "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes " by Caitlin Doughty opened my eyes to the fascinating and often unseen world of forensic science. Far from being morbid curiosities, these books gave voice to lives that might otherwise be forgotten. They showed me how science can uncover truth—and how compassion, even after death, is possible. I realized then that I wanted to pursue a career where I could do just that: honor lives, seek truth, and serve others through biology and forensics. But not all the books I read were tied to career ambitions. Some saved me in other ways. Dale Carnegie's "How to Stop Worrying and Start Living " and "How to Win Friends and Influence People " provided me with tools for emotional resilience. When college applications, financial burdens, and the uncertainty of being the first in my family to pursue higher education overwhelmed me, these books reminded me that mindset is a muscle—and reading is an exercise. Today, I make time to read daily—not out of obligation, but out of reverence. Whether it's a dense academic article or a dog-eared novel I've read ten times, each page helps me grow. I've also committed to passing this gift along: as a tutor, I help first-generation students like me navigate academic challenges. I've volunteered in local literacy programs and am always the first to recommend a book that changed my life. Barbara Cain's legacy lives in people like me—those who were given the chance to fall in love with reading because someone made that space for them. This scholarship would not only support my education but allow me to carry forward the quiet, powerful work she championed. I want to be the kind of person who leaves that same legacy: someone who helps others see books not just as entertainment but as bridges—between hardship and hope, curiosity, career, story, and self.

During my junior year, amid the pandemic's quiet, I started unraveling. Not publicly—no skipped Zooms or missing grades—but inside, I was vanishing. My family had just moved. My parents separated. My classroom was a laptop surrounded by muted rectangles and floating names. Every day blurred into the next. I wasn't failing—but I wasn't really there either. Assignments piled up. I crammed through them with little sleep, barely any food, and a gnawing pressure in my chest. I turned everything in, technically on time, technically acceptable. But it felt hollow. I was not learning. I was surviving. You could say I passed, but it is not the kind of thing you would brag about in a scholarship essay. Eventually, suicidal thoughts crept in. I was prescribed medication. It helped. But what ultimately began to lift me out was not a prescription. It was a quiet yet difficult decision: I chose to start showing up for myself—no grand gesture, just a slow commitment. I enrolled in dual enrollment courses. I studied as if my life depended on it because it did. That choice became a turning point. And then, in my senior year, someone I knew died by suicide. Her absence jolted me. I realized just how close I had been to disappearing and how many people walked around carrying invisible pain. I could not change what happened to her—but I could be someone who notices. Who stays. At Bakersfield College, I became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II. Over three semesters, I supported more than 30 students—many of whom, like me, were first-generation and unsure of themselves, afraid of failure. Some whispered their questions. Others were unsure whether they belonged in the STEM field. I did not have every answer, but I made space. I remembered their names. I welcomed their doubts. And slowly, something remarkable happened. The student who feared failing became the one helping their peers. A few even became tutors themselves. That kind of growth does not always show up on a transcript—but it is real, and it matters. Mental health does not just shape my story—it shapes how I show up for others. My mother, who raised me after the separation, carried her quiet struggles. We did not talk about "mental health" growing up. But we lived it—in the long silences, in the emotional weight she carried without complaint. I was impacted by my mental health but also by hers. It made me more attuned to the pain others don't always speak about. Now, I am preparing to transfer to UC Santa Cruz as a biology major. I will participate in support programs like ACE or EOP, continue mentoring students, and engage in research that combines scientific rigor with compassion. I currently work with faculty through a research internship with Bakersfield College and CSU Bakersfield—people who model the kind of environment I want to help build. If this scholarship affirms anything, it is that persistence is powerful. That quiet care is revolutionary. That success is not always loud. I did not need a miracle. I needed someone to believe I was worth the effort. So, I became that person—for myself and others. That is what healing looks like: not being rescued but rising slowly and on purpose. I can. And I will.

I was raised in a two-parent household—until I wasn’t. During middle school, my parents’ relationship unraveled abruptly after years of tension. I was the youngest of four, and the sudden shift left a silence in our home that I didn’t yet know how to name. My mother became a single parent overnight, and while she carried the weight of our new reality, I quietly watched and learned how to adapt. But adversity wasn’t new to our family. When I was three, my father was diagnosed with leukemia. I was too young to understand the disease. However, specific memories have never left me: seeing him confined to bed rest, walking through what felt like endless, glowing hospital hallways, and watching my uncle donate blood to help save his life. During that time, my mother leaned heavily on my aunt for support while trying to maintain a sense of normalcy at home. That period marked my earliest understanding of medicine—not just as a treatment but as a source of hope, vulnerability, and community. Years later, I found my purpose as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II at Bakersfield College. Many of the students I worked with shared aspects of my background—first-generation college students and children of immigrants navigating higher education without academic support at home. Over the course of three semesters, I didn’t just review cellular respiration or DNA replication—I encouraged students who initially doubted their ability to succeed. I saw them transform, not just in grades but in confidence. Some even became tutors themselves. Through this work, I realized the kind of care I wanted to offer wasn’t limited to labs or clinics—it included mentorship, patience, and the ability to uplift others facing unseen battles. These experiences have shaped my path toward a career in forensic pathology. Some might see it as a field focused on death—but I see it as one rooted in dignity and truth. In a home where questions often went unanswered and emotions were left unspoken, I learned how painful uncertainty can be. I want to be the person who provides clarity when no one else can. Whether uncovering causes of death or offering answers to grieving families, I believe that healing sometimes begins with understanding what went wrong. It’s my way of turning silence into resolution. Every hardship I’ve faced—from navigating my parents’ separation to walking those hospital corridors as a child to standing in front of students unsure of their place in science—has led me here. These experiences haven’t just prepared me to enter healthcare; they’ve instilled in me the empathy and perseverance to reshape it. I carry them not as a weight but as tools: to listen more deeply, explain more clearly, and serve more fully. The RELEVANCE Scholarship believes that every struggle shapes our purpose. I think that, too. My scars don’t hold me back—they lead me forward. One day, when I stand in a lab, testify in court, or help a family find closure, I’ll remember how this journey began: not with certainty but with resilience, shaped by love, loss, and a deep desire to make meaning out of every experience.

Growing up in a household shaped by the rigors of migrant agricultural work, I witnessed how physical strain, emotional fatigue, and spiritual burden often went untreated. My parents—immigrants who worked sunrise to sunset in the fields—endured these challenges silently. Doctors were only visited when absolutely necessary. Instead, they leaned on prayer, herbal remedies, and the healing power of community. While I did not know it at the time, this was my first exposure to holistic health: care that honors the body, mind, and spirit as one. As a first-generation college student pursuing a degree in biology, I was drawn to the field of science. However, it was not until I became a tutor through the Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) program that my path truly aligned with my purpose. I supported students in a demanding biology course—many of whom, like me, were the children of immigrants, juggling school, work, and family responsibilities. Some were painfully timid, whispering their responses, avoiding the board, and too scared to ask questions. The students lacked confidence not because they lacked intelligence but because they had never been nurtured in spaces where their voices mattered. Over three semesters, I witnessed their growth. I watched these students begin to believe in themselves, study harder, ask for help, and eventually succeed—some even becoming tutors themselves. In those moments, I understood that healing is not always clinical. Sometimes, it is about restoring faith in oneself. This experience solidified my conviction that healing is holistic and that true wellness must encompass both emotional and mental health, which are often overlooked in our communities. This scholarship would allow me to carry these values into the next chapter of my journey. As I transfer to UC Santa Cruz, I plan to join support networks like the Educational Opportunity Program (EOP) and ACE to continue empowering underserved students. I want to help them find healing through education, community, and self-belief—just as I did. The funding will help me offset living expenses and academic costs, giving me the stability to continue this mission without needing to take on multiple jobs. In the long term, I aspire to pursue a career in forensic pathology, a field often perceived as clinical and detached. Though not traditionally associated with holistic health, it embodies the same core values: restoring balance, uncovering truth, and bringing peace to those left behind. Even in death, there are stories to be told, truths to be revealed, and closure to be given. Through my work, I aim to bring clarity, compassion, and dignity to families—especially those from underrepresented communities—because healing extends beyond the physical life. I want to honor the legacy of Jim Coots by being a source of holistic healing wherever I go, not just through science but by helping others feel seen, supported, and whole.

During spring break, while most students rested, I led voluntary biology review sessions on Zoom with students who were concerned about failing their exams. They joined not out of obligation but out of hope—whispering their answers, hesitating to ask questions, and reluctant to take the virtual "board" to explain their reasoning. But they showed up. And so did I. That is when I learned that leadership is not about authority. It is about consistency, patience, and believing in others before they believe in themselves. For three consecutive semesters at Bakersfield College, I served as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II—a rigorous course known for its complexities. I, along with other PALs, provided review guides for students who attended at least three sessions; however, I knew they needed more than just supplemental material. I created thought-provoking warm-up questions and custom PowerPoint slides that visually break down the most challenging concepts. These were not just slides—they were tools designed to simplify metabolic pathways, DNA replication, and cellular respiration in ways that stuck. I collaborated closely with the course professor, who also served as the chair of the Biology Department, to ensure that my content highlighted what students truly needed to master. Over time, I watched once-timid students find their voice. They studied harder, asked more questions, and slowly stopped shrinking back. Some began voluntarily solving problems in front of their peers. Their performance on exams improved. And for some, it changed their path entirely—several former students went on to become tutors for the same course. I had once guided them; now, they would guide others. Among the 30+ students I supported across those semesters, many showed measurable improvement—often by a full letter grade. But the more profound impact was not academic. It was evident in their posture, tone, and belief in their ability to succeed. They did not become "science people"—they became themselves, with conviction. The biggest challenge I faced was building trust in a virtual environment—connecting across a screen with students who barely had their cameras on, who feared being wrong, and who had likely never seen a peer tutor who looked or spoke like them. I met that challenge not by demanding participation but by modeling vulnerability, patience, and presence. I asked questions that were invited rather than tested. I designed sessions that made it okay to make mistakes. As I prepare to continue my studies in biology at the University of California, Santa Cruz, and pursue a career in forensic pathology, I carry those same values with me. In that field, I will be tasked with uncovering truths through science—helping families find clarity after tragedy, ensuring that evidence is not lost and that every story is told, even when the person can no longer speak. Leadership, for me, is not about spotlight moments. It's about creating spaces where others can grow—even after you've moved on. The students I once mentored now fill the role I left behind, and I hope they, too, lead with empathy and intention. That, to me, is the kind of leadership that lasts.

At some point during junior year, I stopped recognizing myself. I wasn't failing in the traditional sense—no dramatic outbursts, no letters home—but I was drifting. Friends were there, but we barely spoke to each other. Teachers floated on Zoom, surrounded by gray rectangles labeled with names. It's amusing how we were all technically present yet so absent. My family had just moved homes, my parents had separated, and I spent most days staring at a screen in silence, wondering if anything I did mattered. Eventually, suicidal thoughts crept in. I was prescribed medication and took it for a while, but what pulled me out of that fog was not medicine alone—it was commitment. I committed to showing up for myself, to trying. I applied myself in school—not halfway, not for anyone else, but fully. It was not a magical shift. It was slow and steady. I went from being disengaged to becoming a straight-A student. I advocated for myself, sought out support, and enrolled in dual enrollment courses—not as a cure, but as proof that I could do better. And I did. Then, during senior year, someone I knew died by suicide. Her passing shook me. I had already begun healing, but her absence reminded me how easy it is to feel invisible—and how close I once came to disappearing. I could not save her, but I realized I could be a steady presence for someone else. At Bakersfield College, I became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor in General Biology II. For three consecutive semesters, I supported over 30 students—many of whom were just like I was: first-generation, unsure of their place, anxious about exams, and questioning their ability to succeed. Some came in convinced they would fail. Others asked question after question, fearing they would never understand the material. I do not fix everything, but I stay. I make space. I learn their names, welcome their doubts, and treat every concern as valid. Slowly, together, we find a rhythm. We build confidence. And then something beautiful happens. The student who once feared failing becomes the student encouraging others. A few have even gone on to become tutors themselves. That kind of transformation does not always show up in GPA—but it is real, and it matters. Outside of tutoring, I was selected for a summer research internship through the collaboration between Bakersfield College and CSU Bakersfield. There, I work alongside faculty mentors who strike a balance between academic intensity and genuine compassion. In the fall, I will be transferring to UC Santa Cruz, where I plan to join ACE or EOP to continue supporting underrepresented students like myself. Mental health is essential to me because I have lived what it is like to go unnoticed—until I decided to notice myself. I did not need grand interventions; I needed someone to believe I was capable. Now, I offer that belief to others—not as a savior but as a consistent presence in their academic lives. This scholarship would not just fund my education. It would affirm that quiet forms of advocacy matter—that showing up, listening closely, and sticking around are sometimes the most powerful ways to empower others. And if I have learned anything, it is that no one makes it alone. We make it together.

During my junior year, amid the pandemic, I began to lose sight of myself. I was not failing in the traditional sense—no dramatic outbursts, no letters home—but I was drifting. Friends were around, but we barely spoke to each other. Teachers floated on Zoom, surrounded by gray rectangles labeled with names. It is strange how we were all technically present yet completely absent. My family had just moved, and my parents had separated. I spent most days staring at a screen in silence, wondering if anything I did mattered. Eventually, suicidal thoughts crept in. I was prescribed medication and took it for a time, but what ultimately pulled me out was not medicine alone—it was commitment. I made the conscious choice to show up for myself. I started applying myself in school—not halfway, not for anyone else, but fully. The shift was not magical. It was slow, steady, and challenging. I enrolled in dual enrollment courses—not as a cure, but as proof that I could do better. And I did. Then, during senior year, someone I knew died by suicide. Her passing made me pause and reflect—on the ways I had once dismissed my pain, on how easy it is to feel invisible, and how close I had come to disappearing. I had already begun healing, but her absence deepened my understanding of the situation. I could not change what happened to her, but I realized I could make a difference in someone else’s story simply by being present. At Bakersfield College, I became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II. Over three semesters, I supported more than 30 students—many of whom were just like I once was: first-generation, unsure of their place, anxious about exams, and questioning whether they belonged. Some came in convinced they would fail. Others asked the same question five times, ashamed of not understanding. I did not have all the answers, but I stayed. I made space. I learned their names, welcomed their doubts, and treated every concern as valid and legitimate. And slowly, something beautiful happened. The student who once feared failing became the one encouraging others. A few even became tutors themselves. That kind of growth does not always show up in a GPA—but it is real, and it matters. In addition to outside tutoring, I was selected for a summer research internship through Bakersfield College and California State University, Bakersfield. I now work alongside faculty who balance academic rigor with compassion—precisely the kind of environment I am learning to model. In the fall, I will transfer to the University of California, Santa Cruz, where I plan to join the ACE or EOP program and continue supporting underrepresented students in STEM. Mental health is central to everything I do because I have lived what it is like to feel unnoticed—until I chose to notice myself. I did not need a grand intervention; I needed someone to believe in my capabilities. Now, I offer that belief to others—not as a savior, but as a steady hand in uncertain moments. This scholarship would do more than fund my education. It would affirm that quiet forms of care matter—that showing up, listening closely, and sticking around are some of the most potent ways we heal. If I have learned anything, it is that no one makes it alone. We make it together—and we keep choosing to stay.

My journey into Christianity did not begin with a sudden revelation. It started in the small, quiet routines of a low-income, immigrant household where faith was woven into the fabric of our everyday lives. My parents, Mexican agricultural workers, raised my siblings and me in the Catholic Church. Despite the long hours they worked under the Central Valley sun, each Sunday, they brought us to Mass, our hands folded and hearts open. Our home was a sanctuary of faith. Crosses adorned the walls, a portrait of La Virgen de Guadalupe watched over us at the dinner table, and a weathered Bible rested within reach. When storms passed over the fields or illness struck our family, my mother would gently whisper, “Persígnate.” Make the sign of the cross. Pray. Trust God. This ritual, taught to me before I fully understood its meaning, became a habit I still carry. That simple gesture grounded us in the belief that God was with us—especially when we had nothing else to hold onto. I was baptized in the Catholic Church and attended catechism classes. As a child, I recited prayers before bed and memorized stories of saints and miracles. But over time, I realized that faith was not limited to prayer or tradition. It meant love in action. My parents would give rides to neighbors, share food, and pray more for others than for themselves despite having limited means. Christianity wasn’t something we only practiced on Sundays; it was the guiding light of our daily decisions. That light became especially important when my father was diagnosed with leukemia. I was young—old enough to sense fear but too young to fully understand the gravity. I remember sitting quietly beside his hospital bed, watching machines blink and beep. At the same time, my mother prayed the Rosary in Spanish. My uncle stepped in as a blood donor, his sacrifice offering not just life-saving support but a reflection of Christ’s love. In those hospital rooms, I began to see faith not only as a comfort but as an active force working through people. My father’s recovery felt like grace—a divine answer channeled through human hands. That experience ignited a deeper calling in me: to understand the human body, to confront death, and to bring truth and compassion to families in their darkest moments. As I continued in my studies, I discovered the field of forensic pathology. I was drawn to the unique intersection of medicine, biology, and the pursuit of justice. I want to become a forensic pathologist—a doctor who performs autopsies to determine the cause of death, particularly in complex or criminal cases. To many, this might seem grim. But to me, it is a sacred responsibility. Forensic pathologists restore dignity to the dead, bring clarity to the living, and uphold the truth when others turn away. That is how I live out my faith—not only through prayer but through my desire to serve others with compassion and integrity, even when the work is difficult or uncomfortable. I believe in honoring life, even after it has ended. In death, I find a more profound commitment to justice, truth, and service—values deeply rooted in my Catholic upbringing and inspired by the legacy of Pastor Thomas Rorie Jr. Like Pastor Rorie, whose life was devoted to faith and service, I see Christianity not as a title but as a calling. He did not wait to be asked to help—he showed up for people. In my way, I strive to do the same. During my time at Bakersfield College, I served as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II, where I mentored students—many of whom were first-generation, children of immigrants or students without academic support at home. These were students like me. I didn’t just teach cell respiration or genetics. I listened when students broke down over stress, I encouraged them when they doubted their abilities, and I celebrated their successes as if they were my own. In those classrooms, I saw the impact of showing up for someone. I saw how being present—just as my parents were present in their faith—could change someone’s path. That is faith in action. That is love lived out loud. At times, tutoring felt like ministry. I didn’t always have the answers, but I carried patience, humility, and hope into each session. When a student grasped a difficult concept or passed a test they once feared, I felt the presence of God in that moment—not in thunder or light, but in growth, resilience, and community. Now, as I prepare to transfer to the University of California, Santa Cruz, I carry my faith and values with me. I will continue studying biology, complete pre-med requirements, and eventually apply to medical school to become a forensic pathologist. I also plan to join supportive communities such as ACE or EOP to mentor others like myself. But none of this comes easy. My parents continue to work tirelessly, and financial hardship remains a persistent challenge. This scholarship would alleviate some of that burden—allowing me to focus on my studies, cover transportation costs, and access the resources I need to succeed. But more than financial relief, the Pastor Thomas Rorie Jr. Christian Values Scholarship would be a spiritual affirmation. It would show that there is value in faith-based service, in striving to honor God through one’s chosen vocation. Pastor Rorie’s life reminds me that faith has no single look or location. Whether through ministry, tutoring, or medicine, we are all called to serve. And though our paths may differ, we walk toward the same purpose: loving God and loving others. I’ve often asked God why life for families like mine must be so hard, why my parents must sacrifice so much, and why some suffer while others thrive. In my loneliest moments, I opened the Bible not for homework but for hope. I didn’t hear God speak aloud, but I felt His presence in the strength to keep going. I felt Him in every kind professor who believed in me, every student who thanked me after a tutoring session, every moment of stillness when I remembered my mother’s words—“Persígnate. God está contigo.” My Catholic faith is the compass that has guided me through poverty, grief, and uncertainty. It has shown me that God is not distant or abstract. He is present in the dirt beneath my parents’ boots, in the science textbook I annotate late at night, and in the silent dignity of the deceased waiting to have their story told. I want to tell those stories. I want to serve the living and the dead with truth, grace, and faith. In the same way that Pastor Rorie served his congregation, I hope to serve my community—through science, mentorship, and unwavering faith. This scholarship would not just help me reach my goals; it would help me honor a life of service that mirrors the one I aspire to live. With God’s grace and your support, I will continue forward—cross around my neck, stethoscope one day in hand, and a heart committed to compassion and justice. I will carry the lessons of my faith, my family, and Pastor Rorie’s legacy into every life I touch.

My parents are migrant agricultural workers. My siblings and I grew up in a world measured by seasons, harvests, and hard labor. From a young age, we worked alongside our parents in the fields—pulling weeds, sorting grapes, enduring the scorching sun. It was a life of survival, where each day was about making it to the next. My older siblings entered the workforce immediately after high school to help support our family. College was never part of the plan—it felt like a luxury reserved for others. But even amid that world, I felt something calling me toward more, not out of arrogance or superiority, but out of purpose. I am the youngest of three and the first in my family to graduate college. I earned my Associate in Science for transfer (AS-T) degree in Biology with honors and a 3.92 GPA. I am now a biology major transfer student at the University of California, Santa Cruz. My ultimate goal is to become a forensic pathologist, serving as the voice of those who cannot speak for themselves and bringing clarity to families during their most painful moments. The road here has not been easy—but every obstacle has sharpened my resolve. My calling began to take form when I was a child, and my father was diagnosed with leukemia. I did not understand the biology of it then—I just knew fear. I saw the worry in my mother's eyes, the fatigue in my father's body, and the silence that surrounded us when we did not have answers. My uncle donated blood to help save my father's life. The experience was deeply formative. It made me realize how powerful science could be—not just to cure but to comfort. It could restore dignity and offer understanding. It could bring peace. That sense of purpose deepened when I entered college. I found myself drawn to subjects like microbiology, anatomy, and physiology—not just because I enjoyed learning but because each new concept helped me understand how the human body tells a story. In life, that story can be one of healing. In death, it can be one of truth. I became captivated by forensic pathology—the medical science of determining the cause of death, often in complex or traumatic cases. To many, the idea of working with the dead seems grim. To me, it is sacred work. It is a way to ensure that no life ends without a witness. That no family is left in the dark. That the truth prevails. While pursuing my AS-T in Biology, I worked as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for three consecutive semesters. I mentored other first-generation and low-income students in STEM courses—students who, like me, often doubted whether they belonged in academia. I taught General Biology II, but I also modeled persistence. I reminded them that their backgrounds were not weaknesses but sources of strength. I collaborated with faculty from across biology, chemistry, and math, building a supportive academic network that extended beyond the classroom. Through PAL, I learned how to uplift others not just through teaching but through empathy. That is a skill I will carry with me as a future scientist. I plan to continue applying through student support programs, such as the Academic Excellence Program (ACE) or the Educational Opportunity Program (EOP), at the University of California, Santa Cruz. I do not just want to succeed—I want to help others do the same. This summer, I was selected for the BC/CSUB Summer Research Program, where I worked under the mentorship of Professors Milena Lilles and Rae McNeish. Our project, "Kern River in Crisis," examined the ecological impacts on microbial communities under varying water conditions. I conducted fieldwork, analyzed samples, and presented findings alongside a diverse team of researchers. This experience honed my skills in research design, collaboration, and scientific communication. It confirmed that I am capable of excelling in research environments and helped me envision the type of future I want—one grounded in science, service, and integrity. After earning my bachelor's degree, I plan to pursue two concurrent paths: medical school and a master's in forensic science. My goal is to become a forensic pathologist, a medical doctor who determines the causes of death and testifies in court cases. Medical school is the primary route, but I also recognize that acceptance is highly competitive and often inaccessible to those without financial means. That is why I am also pursuing a master's degree in forensic science. So I can continue to build forensic expertise, stay connected to the field, and remain a competitive candidate while expanding my toolkit. Either path keeps me aligned with my purpose: to bring justice, clarity, and dignity to families and communities. My passion for forensic science is not abstract. It is deeply rooted in real moments, real families, real stakes. It is in the way I watched my own family suffer when medical answers were uncertain. It is in the way so many marginalized communities go unheard in death, just as they are overlooked in life. I want to be a professional who brings truth to those stories and offers compassion to those left behind. I want to work with coroners, investigators, and community health advocates to improve how we understand and respond to deaths—particularly those that are sudden, violent, or unresolved. However, pursuing this path is not only emotionally and academically demanding—it is also financially daunting. As a full-time student, I face the rising costs of tuition, housing, transportation, application fees, and everyday living expenses. Despite working, budgeting, and applying for financial aid, the gap remains. This scholarship would not only relieve financial pressure—it would allow me to focus more fully on my academics, volunteer experiences, and preparation for medical school and graduate programs. It would allow me to invest time into internships or shadowing opportunities that are otherwise inaccessible due to travel and unpaid commitments. It would provide me not just with stability but momentum. More importantly, receiving the Pastor Thomas Rorie Jr. Furthering Education Scholarship would be a profound affirmation. It would signal that someone believes in my ability to turn hardship into healing, labor into leadership, and grief into growth. It would validate not just my ambition but the values I carry with me from the fields, from my family, and from every tutoring session and research lab I have stepped into. My siblings taught me strength. The fields taught me discipline. Science taught me how to ask questions that matter. But it is this community—of mentors, of students, of families—that has taught me what it means to serve. And that is precisely what I will do. With your support, I will not only become a forensic pathologist, but I will become an advocate, a mentor, and a lifelong student of truth.

In forensic pathology, we cut open what others bury — not to desecrate but to divine. To some, that may sound cold. However, to me, it is a calling. Long after its living story has ended, the descent into the body is not grotesque. It is instruction. Heraclitus, the Greek philosopher of flux and fire, captured this paradox in a single line: "The way up and the way down are one and the same." On the surface, it reads like a riddle. But in the mortuary lab and the broader architecture of human experience, it is a profound blueprint for seeking truth where others avert their eyes. Heraclitus was a philosopher of paradoxes. He believed that reality was not fixed but constantly changing — a river in motion. He wrote in fragments and riddles because he felt that truth was not linear. To understand anything meaningful, you had to be willing to enter contradiction. He argued that opposites are not just opposites; they are part of the same cycle. Life and death. Suffering and growth. Fire consumes, but it also transforms. So when he says the way up and the way down are the same, he is not being clever. He is being honest about the shape of reality. His sentence resists closure. "The way up and the way down are one and the same." There is no ornament, explicit subject, or easing into the statement. It is not a suggestion — it is a proclamation. A quiet one, but no less commanding. It reads like an autopsy report: emotionless, taut, clinical. And yet, within that objectivity lies immense philosophical weight. The structure of the sentence reinforces its point. Circular. A loop. If mapped visually, it would not be a line but a Möbius strip — a single surface twisted in on itself. To ascend, one must descend. To learn, one must unlearn. One must often move through what feels like a ruin to find the truth. Forensic pathology lives in this spiral. We take bodies — anonymous, broken, decomposed — and try to reconstruct the final moments they cannot tell. It is not glamorous. It does not look like the TV shows. It is blood and decay and silence. And still do it — not for spectacle, but for closure. For families. For the record. For truth. The job is paradoxical: to know life through death. We descend so others may rise. Heraclitus knew this long before scalpels and autopsy saws existed. I feel that this fragment is less like philosophy and more like memory. When I was three, I watched my father go through leukemia treatment. My most explicit memory is not of IV drips or sterile halls — it is of my uncle donating blood and the way the nurses said, "This could make a difference." That was the first time I realized science could touch death without recoiling and engage with mortality not as a failure but as a puzzle. That moment rewired me. I was not scared. I was fascinated — not with death but with what remained after. The mystery of it. The opportunity to ask questions when no one else could. As I grew older and began my studies in biology, I gravitated toward anatomy, microbiology, and eventually pathology. I was drawn to what others found unsettling. The human body, in all its stages — living, dying, decomposed — held a kind of brutal honesty. It did not lie. And I was hungry to understand it. I wanted to ask questions of the dead, not out of morbid fascination, but out of responsibility because someone had to. Because silence, in the face of unexplained death, is a kind of violence. That is the same path Heraclitus mapped in one brutal sentence. He dismantles the fantasy of separation between opposing states. Living and dying. Learning and grieving. Success and failure. To rise, you must fall — and sometimes fall again. In my studies, I have seen this pattern echoed in anatomy and physiology, where cellular breakdown precedes renewal. In psychology, where trauma can either harden or humanize. And in literature, where Dante's inferno must be traversed before paradise is even visible on the horizon. We carry the fallen with us, not as weight, but as instruction. Even Heraclitus's method supports his meaning. His truths are not delivered in essays but in fragments—half-sentences—oracular flashes. That mirrors trauma itself—nonlinear, echoing, and disruptive. There's no single argument to be extracted. Instead, we're left with pieces we must revisit and interpret again and again, much like a forensic pathologist returning to a body, a detail, a discrepancy. Reading Heraclitus is its own kind of postmortem. Close reading, like forensic pathology, asks us to move past appearances. To peel back layers. Not to be grotesque, but to be honest. It is not about passive observation — it is about interrogation. What others see as final, we see as fertile — intellectually, emotionally, ethically. "The way up and the way down are one and the same" does not tell you how to live. It tells you how to learn. And for those of us whose lives orbit around death — not as obsession, but as inquiry — it is both a warning and a reassurance. So yes. I have chosen a path that descends. But I do not descend to disappear. I descend to discover. And Heraclitus, in his quiet, brutal way, assures me that I am still rising. Or perhaps he would say I never stopped.

When I walk into a classroom, I carry more than just a backpack—I carry my family’s dreams, my culture’s resilience, and a responsibility to succeed in a space no one before me could enter. My parents immigrated from Michoacán, Mexico, with little education and no roadmap for navigating the American college system. They worked tirelessly in labor-intensive jobs, often reminding me, “El estudio es tu camino”—education is your way forward. No one in my immediate or extended family had graduated from college before. My siblings, each remarkable in their own way, either chose different paths or faced pressing life circumstances that led them to leave college. As the youngest in my family, I didn’t have a clear academic example to follow, so I took the initiative. I enrolled in dual enrollment courses in high school to prepare for college rigor and give myself a head start. Still, despite my preparation, I often felt like I didn’t belong. Imposter syndrome crept in as I took full-time courses like Anatomy & Physiology, Biology, and Calculus. I remember one day when I was speaking with a counselor, deeply overwhelmed and uncertain about continuing. Moments later, I stepped into my A&P lecture, seriously considering walking out. But I didn’t. I stayed. I told myself that leaving wasn’t an option—not after how far I’d come. That moment became a quiet act of resistance. I kept showing up—every day—and eventually, I gained traction. I graduated from Bakersfield College with an Associate in Science for Transfer this spring and will attend UC Santa Cruz this fall as a Biology major. Wanting to support others in similar situations, I became a Peer-Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II. I not only mentored students but also collaborated with faculty—especially Dr. Saldivar, the department chair and my former professor. We analyzed course data to identify areas needing improvement and worked toward greater student success. Through this experience, I developed confidence in my leadership, a love for mentorship, and a deep respect for collaborative learning. My long-term goal is to become a forensic pathologist, using science to speak for those who no longer can and to bring justice to underserved communities. But I also believe education itself is a form of justice. At UC Santa Cruz, I plan to continue mentoring through programs like EOP or ACE, bringing the skills I honed in PAL to empower others from first-generation or underrepresented backgrounds. I want to show students like me that they are not alone—they can survive in college and thrive and lead. Being a first-generation college student has shaped how I see higher education. It’s not just a personal milestone; it’s a collective victory. I am here because my parents labored while I studied. I stayed when it would’ve been easier to walk away. I am the youngest in my family and the first to graduate from college—but I won’t be the last. This scholarship would not just lessen a financial burden—it would validate my work and the mission I carry forward. Your investment would extend beyond me. It would help open doors for the next first-generation student just looking for someone to tell them they belong.

I was 18 the first time I sat alone at the kitchen table applying for FAFSA. My parents didn’t know what it was, and I didn’t fully understand it either. I translated every question aloud—English to Spanish, then back again—carefully checking each box, hoping I wasn’t making a costly mistake. That moment defined what it means to be first-generation: navigating systems no one understands while carrying the weight of everyone’s hopes on your shoulders. To me, earning a college degree as the first in my family means reshaping the path ahead. I’m the youngest of four siblings and the only one to attend and complete college. My siblings took different paths, and while I admire their resilience, I had to carve out my academic journey—drawing strength from my parents’ grit and determination. College wasn’t expected in my family, but I chose to pursue it because I wanted more than just survival—I wanted purpose. I’m transferring from Bakersfield College to UC Santa Cruz this fall, where I’ll complete a Bachelor’s in Biology. My academic goal is to apply to medical school and a master’s program in forensic science. It’s a strategy that allows me to pursue forensic pathology while deepening my scientific and investigative expertise. Though unconventional, this path is intentional. I want to serve in a field where medicine meets justice—giving a voice to those who can no longer speak for themselves and bringing clarity to the families left behind. My desire to enter this field became personal after my father was diagnosed with leukemia during my childhood. I remember sitting in hospital rooms, not understanding the medical jargon, only knowing that someone’s knowledge and care were keeping him alive. I also remember watching my uncle donate blood to save him. That moment taught me that medicine is more than science—it's compassion, clarity, and community. While forensic pathology doesn’t involve saving lives in the traditional sense, it still serves the living by delivering truth, accountability, and dignity. Over the past three semesters, I worked as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II. Many of the students I supported came from backgrounds similar to mine—first-generation, limited academic support at home, and unsure if they belonged in STEM. I didn’t just help them learn about cellular respiration or evolution; I helped them see they were capable and belonged. That work made me realize how transformative mentorship is—especially from someone who has lived through those similar barriers. I plan to continue this support at UC Santa Cruz through programs like ACE and EOP. I want to prove that success in science is possible, regardless of where you start. I aim to stay involved in outreach efforts for first-gen and BIPOC students, ensuring no one feels as alone as I did when I started this journey. Receiving the Dr. Christine Lawther First in the Family Scholarship would not only ease the financial pressure of transferring but also affirm that stories like mine belong in higher education. I’m not just earning a degree; I’m dismantling generational barriers and becoming part of a system I intend to improve. Now that I’ve opened this door, I don’t just plan to hold it open—I plan to rebuild the room so others like me are no longer seen as exceptions but as the rule.

My most outstanding achievement to date is graduating from Bakersfield College with honors as the first in my family to earn a college degree. That moment marked a personal milestone and a generational turning point. As the youngest child of immigrant parents from Michoacán, Mexico, I grew up in a working-class household where higher education wasn’t just uncommon—it felt distant. My three older siblings, each remarkable in their ways, never attended or completed college. With no academic role models and no road map, I had to find my way forward. In high school, I enrolled in dual enrollment courses to challenge myself and bridge the gap between uncertainty and ambition. These courses taught me college rigor and helped me develop the discipline needed to succeed. At Bakersfield College, I maintained a 3.92 GPA and earned a spot on the Dean’s List for three consecutive semesters. But more than grades, what changed me was the purpose. After establishing myself academically, I became a tutor for General Biology II through the Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) program. Many of the students I supported came from similar backgrounds—low-income families, children of immigrants, and first-generation students. At home, they lacked academic support. Through tutoring, I saw how much just one person believing in them could change everything. I watched them become more confident, raise their grades, and find community among their peers and faculty. And in the process, I found my calling—not just in science, but in service. That experience also opened doors for me. Faculty mentors like Dr. Saldivar saw potential in me and encouraged me to think beyond what I thought was possible. They showed me that mentorship could go both ways—when you uplift others, you rise. I’ll transfer to UC Santa Cruz this fall to complete my biology degree. I plan to join ACE and EOP, where I can receive and provide mentorship. I want to continue supporting students navigating the same challenges I did. In the long term, I plan to apply to both a master’s program in forensic science and to medical school. It’s a strategic decision: if I’m not accepted to medical school on the first try, earning a master’s will sharpen my expertise and make me a stronger applicant. My ultimate goal is to become a forensic pathologist who can bring clarity, closure, and compassion during the most difficult times in people’s lives. This path is deeply personal. When I was young, my father was diagnosed with leukemia. The medical professionals who cared for him didn’t just treat a disease—they gave our family strength through knowledge. I want to be that source of strength for others. This scholarship would ease my financial burdens and allow me to continue focusing on academics, mentorship, and service. It also reinforces the values that got me here: perseverance, purpose, and the power of giving back. I’ve already rewritten what’s possible in my family, but I’m not done. My story is still being written, and with your support, the next chapter will be even stronger.

When I was three, my father was diagnosed with leukemia. I didn't understand the science—but I understood fear. I remember my family holding its breath during hospital visits and how the kindness and clarity of doctors gave us hope. That experience lit a spark in me. Years later, that spark has grown into a purpose: to become a forensic pathologist who brings answers to families in moments of darkness, just as those physicians did for mine. As a first-generation Latino college student, the journey hasn't been easy. My parents immigrated from Mexico with little formal education but big dreams for their children. I recently graduated from Bakersfield College with an Associate in Science for Transfer in Biology and will transfer to UC Santa Cruz this fall. Along the way, I've independently navigated complex systems—college applications, financial aid, and scientific research. These barriers mirror the larger systemic challenges BIPOC students face. But I've also seen the power of representation and mentorship in overcoming them. I initially pursued anesthesiology. However, my exposure to biology and justice systems opened my eyes to forensic pathology—a field where science meets advocacy. It intersects my curiosity, compassion, and lived experience. However, I also noticed how few Latinos are in forensic science and medicine. We represent less than 6% of biological and life scientists in the U.S. That underrepresentation didn't discourage me—it motivated me to lead. That commitment led me to become a PAL (Peer Assisted Learning) tutor in General Biology II. Over three semesters, I've supported more than 30 students, many of whom are first-generation and low-income. One student said, "You're the first tutor who made me feel like I could pass science." They eventually became a tutor, and that stuck with me. I'm not just teaching biology but helping build confidence, identity, and possibility. This summer, I was selected for the BC/CSUB Summer Research Program, where I'm contributing to a study on the Kern River's changing ecosystem. It's hands-on science with real-world community impact—an opportunity I never imagined having and one I hope to pay forward. In the long term, I want to serve as a forensic pathologist in underserved communities, ensuring that no case is overlooked because of a person’s background. As I transfer to UC Santa Cruz, I plan to join programs like ACE (Academic Excellence) or EOP (Educational Opportunity Program) to continue engaging in academic outreach and mentorship. Through these programs, I hope to support Latino and BIPOC youth in STEM—showing them that science isn’t just for “other people.” It’s for all of us. I know what it's like to grow up without a clear map. I want to be the one holding the flashlight, helping others find their way forward. Supporting BIPOC students isn't just about education—it's about equity, access, and building a future where our communities are seen, heard, and represented. That's the difference I intend to make.

As a first-generation college undergraduate from a low-income Hispanic family in a rural agricultural city called Delano, my healthcare journey began with long drives to UCLA Medical Center when I was three. My father had been diagnosed with leukemia, and our family would travel hours each week for his treatment. Even at that young age, I sensed the fear and exhaustion in the air—but I also witnessed the calm, steady hands of healthcare workers who brought my family hope. They didn’t just care for my father; they gave us something to hold onto when everything else felt uncertain. Growing up, that early experience became a quiet source of direction. Though financial hardship was always present, I clung to education as my way forward. I challenged myself with dual enrollment courses in high school, became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II for three semesters, and graduated with an Associate in Science for Transfer in Biology from Bakersfield College. Mentoring fellow STEM students—many from similar backgrounds—taught me how transformative it is to be seen and supported. I remember one student in particular who struggled with confidence. After weeks of working together, she passed the course and became a tutor. That kind of ripple effect is what inspires me most. As I transfer to UC Santa Cruz this fall, I plan to carry the mentorship values I developed through PAL into programs like ACE or EOP, where I can continue uplifting underrepresented students. I also intend to pursue internships and research aligned with medicine and forensic science to deepen my understanding and actively contribute to communities beyond my own. This summer, I was selected for the BC/CSUB summer research program to study the ecological health of the Kern River. Through fieldwork and lab analysis, I learned how environmental factors intersect with public health and how science can inform policy and healing. These experiences have strengthened my desire to combine biology with service and further confirmed my long-term goals. After earning my bachelor’s degree, I plan to apply to medical school and a master’s program in forensic science. Though these fields may seem different—one centered on preserving life, the other on understanding death—they both bring hope and clarity to families in crisis. Whether helping a patient through recovery or guiding a grieving family toward answers, I want to be the person who shows up with compassion, science, and truth. My upbringing has shown me how easily people can fall through the cracks—especially those who don’t speak English, lack financial resources, or fear asking for help. I’ve been the child interpreting for my parents at medical appointments. I’ve watched relatives suffer in silence. These experiences have fueled my determination to become the kind of healthcare professional who listens, advocates, and makes space for dignity. The Dr. Tien Vo Healthcare Hope Scholarship would offer vital financial support at a time when I’m fully committing to this path. But more than that, it would symbolize something deeply personal: a continuation of the hope that once carried my family through our darkest days. Years ago, a team of strangers helped save my father’s life and gave us peace when we needed it most. Now, I’m working toward becoming that person for others—someone who stands beside families with knowledge, compassion, and truth. Whether it’s through healing the living or speaking for the lost, I will carry that hope forward.

As a first-generation Latino student, I felt that the path to higher education was less like a staircase and more like a maze. My parents, who came to this country with grit but no roadmap for college, taught me the value of hard work—but not how to navigate FAFSA, class registration, or the loneliness of being “the first.” That burden of forging ahead while carrying generations of hope is something many BIPOC students know well. Despite these challenges, I graduated from Bakersfield College with a 3.92 GPA and an Associate in Science for Transfer in Biology. I will transfer to UC Santa Cruz this fall to continue my studies. Along the way, I became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor, mentoring over 30 students across three semesters. Many of them, like me, came from low-income, first-generation backgrounds and questioned whether they belonged in STEM. I saw in them what I once felt in myself—and I made it my goal to help them believe otherwise. Tutoring became more than just an academic role; it became my way of addressing a deeper social issue: the lack of representation and support for underrepresented students in science. Through weekly sessions, group study guides, and one-on-one conversations, I helped students improve their grades—but more importantly, I watched them grow in confidence. Some went on to transfer, apply for research programs, or develop that success in other STEM courses. That belief is powerful. It changes trajectories. The impact of mentorship doesn’t stop in the classroom. I’ve learned that success isn’t just about individual achievement but collective uplift. At UC Santa Cruz, I plan to join programs like ACE (Academic Excellence) or EOP (Educational Opportunity Program), where I can continue supporting students navigating the same unfamiliar systems I once faced. I want to serve as a mentor, a resource, and a reminder that they don’t have to walk this path alone. My long-term goal is to become a forensic pathologist, a field where science meets justice. I’m drawn to the precision of biology and the stories behind each case—especially in communities where violence, health disparities, and misrepresentation often go unanswered. I want to be someone who brings clarity and truth, both in the lab and in my community. Pursuing this career will require continued education, resilience, and sacrifice—but I’m ready. The West Family Scholarship would ease the financial burden of that journey and help me stay focused on what matters most: making higher education more inclusive and accessible. With this support, I can devote more time to mentoring, research, and building the community I wish I had when I first started. I don’t just want to succeed—I want to create systems that help others do the same. College opened a door for me. Mentorship taught me to hold that door open for others. With your support, I will continue that work—uplifting, empowering, and creating a lasting impact in every space I enter.

I was only three years old when my father was diagnosed with leukemia. Too young to fully understand what was happening, I remember seeing him confined to bedrest and hearing words like "transfusion" and "donor" in hushed, urgent tones. One of those donors was my uncle. Though I couldn't grasp the science, I felt the gravity in the room—fear, hope, and the quiet power of medicine. Those early memories sparked a fascination with the human body. They planted a question that's guided me since: What allows someone to heal—or not? When I entered Bakersfield College, I planned to become an anesthesiologist, drawn to the life-preserving, precise nature of the field. But that changed during my second semester. I began tutoring General Biology II through the Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) program—a course taught by Dr. Saldivar, who also serves as the Chair of the Biology Department. Our conversations during and after class broadened my understanding of what science could do. We discussed forensic science, its demand for meticulous detail, its role in the justice system, and its profound humanity. Through those dialogues and my reflection, I shifted paths. I no longer wanted to preserve life simply—I wanted to help tell the stories left behind. I found my calling in forensic pathology. To me, going to college isn't just about earning a degree—it's about fulfilling a responsibility. As a first-generation, low-income Hispanic student, I carry the hopes of my family and community. At Bakersfield College, I maintained a 3.92 GPA while mentoring over 30 biology students across three semesters. Many of them struggled academically or felt disconnected from their studies. I helped them improve their grades, build networks with faculty and peers, and develop confidence as future professionals. That experience confirmed for me that education is about connection—and that I thrive when I help others succeed. This fall, I'll transfer to UC Santa Cruz to pursue a bachelor's in biology. I plan to join the Educational Opportunity Program (EOP) and Academic Excellence (ACE), two communities that reflect the values I believe in: access, empowerment, and equity. I don't just want to benefit from these resources—I want to contribute to them as well. My tutoring experience taught me how to break down complex topics with patience and empathy. At UCSC, I'll continue to mentor, support, and uplift other first-generation students in STEM. I'm preparing to apply to both medical school and master's programs in forensic science, keeping both doors open to reach my ultimate goal: becoming a forensic pathologist. My coursework in microbiology, physiology, and anatomy has taught me how the human body works—but more importantly, it's shown me how much we can learn from it even after life ends. Every injury, trace, or tissue tells a story. I want to be the person who uncovers those stories—not just for justice but to give grieving families the answers they deserve. The Hines Scholarship would allow me to continue this path without the weight of financial strain. But more than that, it would be an investment in a future of service. With your support, I will continue to lead, mentor, and study—not just to become a scientist but to become someone who brings truth and dignity to the stories that would otherwise remain untold.

As a Latino student from a low-income immigrant family, I was raised to believe that success isn’t handed to people like us—it’s built through grit, resilience, and relentless effort. My parents, who spent long hours laboring in the fields, never had the opportunity to pursue higher education. But they passed down something even more powerful: humility, perseverance, and the unwavering belief that our circumstances do not define our future. When I entered college, I had no roadmap. Navigating FAFSA, time management, academic planning, and imposter syndrome as a first-generation student meant teaching myself what others often learn from family. My siblings, who hadn’t completed college, encouraged me as best they could—but the responsibility fell on me. Despite this, I earned a 3.92 GPA and graduated from Bakersfield College with an Associate in Science for Transfer in Biology. One turning point in my journey was when my biology professor and department chair, Dr. Saldivar, invited me to become a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II. I saw this not just as a job but as a responsibility to uplift students who, like me, came from underrepresented backgrounds and lacked academic guidance. Over the course of three semesters, I mentored over a dozen students each term. I led weekly study sessions, broke down complex biological topics such as cellular respiration and population dynamics, and coached students on how to build effective study habits in STEM. But my role went beyond academics. I encouraged students to speak up in class, engage with faculty, and find support in one another. Watching their grades improve was rewarding, but seeing them grow in confidence and self-belief was transformative. This work reshaped my definition of leadership. It’s not just about standing out—it’s about showing up for others. That philosophy carries into everything I do, whether volunteering at outreach events on campus, translating medical paperwork for my family, or mentoring peers informally. Service is not a side project in my life—it’s an integral part of my identity. This summer, I’m participating in the BC/CSUB summer research program, which focuses on ecological resilience. That deepens my scientific knowledge and prepares me to address urgent environmental issues. In Fall 2025, I will transfer to the University of California, Santa Cruz, to pursue a Bachelor’s degree in Biology. There, I plan to join the Academic Excellence (ACE) or Educational Opportunity Program (EOP) communities as a peer mentor, student advocate, and workshop facilitator. These programs reflect the mission I’ve carried since I began my college journey: to empower students who’ve been historically excluded from academic spaces and help them thrive. The Alger Scholarship represents a legacy of selfless guidance and enduring community impact. I see myself in that mission. My academic success, peer mentorship, and community service aren’t just accomplishments—they are a reflection of the values I was raised with and the ones I plan to carry forward. I want to honor my family’s sacrifices, the students I’ve mentored, and the educators who believed in me—by becoming that support for others. Resilience is more than surviving adversity—it’s using adversity as fuel to build something greater. With your support, I will continue to do just that in the lab, the classroom, and every community I serve.

As a proud Mexican-American and first-generation college student, my journey has been one of persistence, purpose, and gratitude. I come from a family of immigrants who have worked endlessly—without titles, degrees, or recognition—to ensure that my siblings and I could have choices they never had. Though none of my siblings completed college, and despite having no role models to guide me, I refused to let that define my future. Instead, I saw it as a challenge: to be the first, not the only. From a young age, I understood that education could be a lifeline. But pursuing it as a first-generation student meant navigating unfamiliar territory. I had to learn the language of college applications, financial aid, and transfer requirements on my own—often by trial and error. It was isolating, but it taught me how to advocate for myself and stay focused even when the path wasn’t clear. That mindset carried me through Bakersfield College, where I earned an Associate in Science for Transfer in Biology while also balancing work and mentoring other students. Through the Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) program, I became a biology tutor and mentor, guiding students who, like me, often felt unseen in academic spaces. Watching them grow in confidence reminded me that even the smallest support systems can transform lives. That experience deepened my passion for educational equity. As I transition to UC Santa Cruz, I plan to join programs like ACE and EOP, where I can continue to support and uplift first-generation and underrepresented students in STEM. Currently, I contribute to the Kern River Ecology Research Project, where I study how changing water conditions impact ecosystems and agricultural communities like mine. This work combines science and advocacy, protecting both the environment and the people who rely on it. Whether I’m in the field, lab, or tutoring center, I strive to use my knowledge to create tangible benefits for my community. My goal is to become a forensic pathologist, a field not often associated with healing—but I see it differently. When I was three years old, my father was diagnosed with leukemia. My family entered a world of uncertainty, depending on the expertise and empathy of strangers to help us understand what was happening. That experience stayed with me. I want to be the person who brings clarity, compassion, and dignity to families in moments of loss. Although often viewed as clinical, forensic pathology can offer profound closure and uncover the truth. I aim to blend science with empathy and justice—serving not only the deceased but also the living who are left behind. The barriers I’ve faced—financial strain, lack of role models, cultural isolation—could have stopped me. But instead, they became the roots of my determination. I didn’t just want to go to college. I wanted to prove that I could change the narrative for my family and community. That’s why becoming a first-generation college graduate means everything to me. It means breaking generational cycles and opening doors for others. Above all, this journey is a tribute to my parents. They never had the opportunity to pursue higher education. My mother sacrificed her dreams so I could chase mine. My father worked long hours doing labor that others often overlook—yet never once complained. Their sacrifices are the foundation of my success. Every late night I spend studying, every class I pass, and every student I help is, in part, for them. Thank you for considering my application. I would be honored to carry forward the legacy of José Melendez by using my education to uplift others—just as he did, through love, determination, and unwavering support.

The reason I chose to pursue a career in STEM began long before I understood what science truly was. I was only three years old when my father was diagnosed with leukemia and admitted to UCLA Medical Center. At that age, I couldn't grasp the biology of his illness—but I understood fear. I remember my father confined to bed rest, my uncle donating blood, and the sterile, endless halls. For most, hospitals bring anxiety or grief. But for me, they held something else entirely. Amid the uncertainty, I witnessed life-saving care, sacrifice, and healing. I didn't have the words for it then, but I knew I wanted to be a part of that kind of impact. Years later, my father—healthy and strong—stood in the crowd at my graduation from Bakersfield College, watching his youngest child become the first in the family to earn a college degree. That moment marked not only a personal milestone but the culmination of everything my family had fought for. I am now preparing to transfer to the University of California, Santa Cruz, to pursue my bachelor's degree in biology to become a forensic pathologist. This journey has never been easy, but every challenge has shaped my commitment to science, service, and justice. As a Latino student from the rural city of Delano, raised in a low-income household by immigrant agricultural workers, I grew up surrounded by quiet strength. My parents worked long hours to support four children. Though they had little formal education, they made it clear that education was our bridge to a better future. Their sacrifices taught me that success is not only measured by personal accomplishments but also by how we uplift those around us. To support my peers, I became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II at Bakersfield College. I helped students master complex topics, improve their grades, and develop lasting academic and professional networks with their peers and professors. I also offered insight into the process of transferring to four-year universities, including how I navigated the financial aid system as a low-income student. This role became more than academic support; it was a way to show students from similar backgrounds that they belonged in STEM. This summer, I'm honored to participate in the BC/CSUB Research Experience for Undergraduates, contributing to an interdisciplinary study of the Kern River's ecological and microbiological health. It's an opportunity to apply what I've learned in real-world settings—and to give back to the Central Valley community that raised me. Every day in this program reinforces the values that guide me: collaboration, curiosity, and using science to serve others. My long-term goal is to become a forensic pathologist—a field not often associated with healing, but I see it differently. When my father was treated for leukemia, my family didn't just need treatment; we needed clarity, compassion, and dignity. I want to offer that to families experiencing the unimaginable. In moments of loss, science becomes a tool for uncovering truth, promoting justice, and fostering peace. Although forensic pathology is a clinical field, it holds the power to bring closure and even healing when conducted with care. This scholarship would not only support me financially as I transition to a four-year university—it would also enable me to continue mentoring underserved students, engaging in meaningful research, and pursuing a future where science and service are combined. Thank you for considering my application and for investing in students like me who are committed to lifting others as we climb.

As a Latino student from the rural city of Delano, raised in a low-income household by immigrant agricultural workers, I grew up surrounded by perseverance. My parents worked long hours to support four children, and from them, I learned that education was our bridge to a better future. Their sacrifices inspired me not only to pursue higher education but also to support others navigating similar paths. In my community, especially among STEM students, many come from underrepresented backgrounds—children of immigrants, often without academic guidance at home, yet full of untapped potential. To uplift this community, I became a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for General Biology II. I helped students master complex topics, grow in confidence, and build lasting academic networks. This role went beyond coursework—it was about fostering connection and belief. After transferring to UC Santa Cruz, I plan to carry this spirit into programs like ACE or EOP, continuing to mentor and empower those around me. Currently, I contribute to the BC/CSUB Kern River Ecology Research Project, where I study how changing water conditions impact ecosystems and agricultural communities like mine. This work combines science and advocacy, protecting both the environment and the people who rely on it. My goal is to become a forensic pathologist, a field not often associated with healing—but I see it differently. When my father was treated for leukemia, my family needed clarity, compassion, and dignity. I want to provide that in moments of loss, combining science with empathy and justice. Though often viewed as clinical, forensic pathology can offer profound closure and truth. Through these efforts, I aim to break cycles of poverty, empower communities, and create opportunities for others to thrive. My life has taught me that perseverance transforms lives—and I’m committed to being that force for change.

I was raised in a low-income, immigrant household where my parents spent long hours laboring in the fields, enduring physical hardship without complaint. Though they had little formal education, they taught me lessons in perseverance, humility, and the importance of community through their actions. We lived simply, sometimes unsure of how to make ends meet, but my parents always made it clear: the way forward was through education. As I got older, I joined them in the fields—an experience that further deepened my respect for their sacrifices and fueled my drive to pursue something different. Still, the path was far from easy. I had no academic role models. My three older siblings, each talented in their way, never attended or completed college. I had to carve my way forward with no blueprint to follow. I wasn’t just trying to get into college—I was trying to redefine what was possible for my family. That purpose started taking shape when I was three years old. My father had been diagnosed with leukemia and admitted to UCLA Medical Center. I didn’t understand what leukemia meant at the time, but I understood fear. I remember the smell of antiseptic, my father confined to bedrest, and the quiet strength of my uncle as he donated blood to help keep my father alive. In those sterile halls, many would only see grief and anxiety. But I noticed something else. I saw healing. I saw science, compassion, and selflessness unite to fight for someone I loved. Even then, I felt something pull at me—a desire to be part of a world where that impact was possible. That spark stayed with me. In school, I became more than a student—a mentor, a tutor, and a source of support for others who felt like they didn’t belong in STEM. At Bakersfield College, I worked as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor in biology for three semesters, helping students from similar backgrounds succeed in General Biology II. I watched my peers grow confident, reclaim their belief in themselves, improve their grades, and form a strong professional network. What I once lacked in role models, I now strive to become for others. In the summer of 2025, I was selected for the BC/CSUB Research Experience for Undergraduates (REU) program, where I’ll collaborate on ecological and microbiological research exploring the health of the Kern River. This experience will prepare me for UC Santa Cruz this fall, where I’ll pursue a bachelor’s in biology to become a forensic pathologist. Though often associated with loss and tragedy, I see forensic pathology as a way to bring answers to families in their most painful moments—a form of healing that demands both scientific skill and deep compassion. Like the medical professionals who gave my family hope, I want to bring truth and closure to those who need it most. But I also see science as a way to give back. I plan to continue mentoring students of similar background through UCSC programs like ACE and EOP. For me, the future isn’t just about achieving personal goals—it’s about lifting others as I climb. That’s how I pay it forward. Years after my father’s illness, he stood tall and healthy at my graduation, watching his youngest child become the first in the family to earn a college degree. That moment meant everything. This scholarship would help ensure that moments like that continue—not just for me but for every student I uplift, every community I serve, and every life my work may one day touch.

I was raised in a low-income, immigrant household where my parents spent long hours laboring in the fields, enduring physical hardship without complaint. Through their quiet strength and sacrifice, they instilled in me the values of perseverance, humility, and the belief that a better future could be earned through hard work. Though I had no academic role models—my three older siblings never attended or completed college—I became determined to be the first. I wasn’t just chasing higher education; I was chasing purpose. That pursuit began when I was three years old and my father was diagnosed with leukemia. He was admitted to UCLA Medical Center, and though I couldn’t fully grasp what was happening, I remember how frightening it all felt—his body weakened in a hospital bed, my uncle donating blood, and the sterile, endless halls. For most, hospitals bring anxiety or grief. But for me, they held something else entirely. Amid the uncertainty, I witnessed life-saving care, sacrifice, and healing. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I knew I wanted to be part of a world where that impact was possible. Years later, my father—once confined to that hospital bed—stood proudly in the audience as I became the first in our family to graduate college. That moment represented more than academic success; it was a testament to how far we had come together. I am now transferring to UC Santa Cruz to pursue a bachelor’s degree in biology, with the long-term goal of earning a master’s in forensic science and becoming a forensic pathologist. Forensic pathology is not a field often associated with hope. It deals with loss, tragedy, and unanswered questions. But I see it differently. I want to bring answers to families in their most painful moments—to be a source of closure, truth, and peace. To me, that is still a form of healing. It’s a career that demands scientific skill and human compassion, and I am committed to bringing both. I’ve worked hard to prepare for this path. I challenged myself early by taking dual enrollment courses in high school, which exposed me to rigorous college-level expectations and gave me the foundation to thrive at Bakersfield College. I made the Dean’s List for three consecutive semesters. I was selected by the biology department chair, Dr. Saldivar, to serve as a tutor for General Biology II. That opportunity evolved into three semesters as a PAL (Peer Assisted Learning) tutor, where I supported students from backgrounds like mine—first-generation, low-income, and often uncertain of their place in STEM. I helped them improve academically, develop confidence, and realize they belonged in science. Watching them build community, ask questions fearlessly, and push through self-doubt reminded me how meaningful it is to lift others as I climb. This summer, I was selected for the BC/CSUB Summer Research Experience, where I’ll be working on a project examining the ecology of the Kern River. This opportunity allows me to continue sharpening my scientific skills while contributing to environmental understanding—a testament to my value of learning and service. To be recognized by a scholarship rooted in the legacy of someone who dedicated his life to helping others would be a profound honor. Like Robert F. Lawson, I strive to dedicate my life to meaningful service—whether through science, mentorship, or advocacy. This support would not only ease the financial burdens I carry as a low-income, first-generation student but also reaffirm that I am walking the right path. One built on compassion, resilience, and the drive to make a difference in the lives of others—even in the most unexpected ways.

When I was three years old, my father was diagnosed with leukemia. I was too young to understand what cancer meant, but I remember the fear in my family's eyes—and the hope when my uncle donated blood to help save my dad's life. That experience planted the seed of my purpose. I grew up knowing that science had saved someone I loved and wanted to be a part of that impact. Now, as a first-generation Hispanic student and recent graduate of Bakersfield College, I'm transferring to UC Santa Cruz to pursue a degree in biology with the long-term goal of entering the field of forensic science. Being a purposeful community member means using every opportunity I've been given to uplift others, especially those whose struggles mirror my own. I've worked as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor at Bakersfield College for three consecutive semesters. I've supported fellow biology students—many of them also first-generation or BIPOC—through academic challenges that I once faced alone. Mentoring has been more than a job; it's been a way to live my purpose out loud. Every session is a chance to build confidence, strengthen understanding, and show someone they belong in science. My students are not just passing classes—they're learning to see themselves as future biologists, doctors, and researchers. Being responsible means understanding that education is for self-advancement and community transformation. I carry that responsibility with pride. At UC Santa Cruz, I plan to continue mentoring and supporting underrepresented students in STEM through programs like the Academic Excellence (ACE) Program or the Educational Opportunity Program (EOP). These spaces reflect my values—community, equity, and resilience—and I want to be part of creating an environment where every student, regardless of background, has the tools to succeed. This summer, I've been selected for a competitive research opportunity under Professors Rae McNeish and Milena Lilles, where we'll examine the ecology of the Kern River during periods of water variability. It's more than a research project—it's a hands-on way to develop skills I'll carry into forensic science, where my goal is to bring clarity and justice through biological investigation. To be productive is to channel your knowledge into meaningful, real-world change—exactly what I intend to do. Every step of my educational journey has been shaped by financial hardship. With a negative FAFSA Expected Family Contribution, I've often had to balance academics with work to make ends meet. Yet, I've persevered, earning an Associate in Science for Transfer in Biology and securing admission to a prestigious university. I've never lost sight of the students following in my footsteps. I am determined to be the mentor I didn't have, the voice that says, 'You can do this,' and the living proof that it's possible. To be purposeful, responsible, and productive is to turn adversity into action. With the support of the CEW IV Foundation, I will continue breaking barriers—not only for myself but for every student who sees their future in mine. This scholarship will ease the burden of financial stress and empower me to invest even more deeply in the communities that have shaped me. I am ready to rise—and to help others rise with me.

Faith has been the steady light guiding me through life’s uncertainties, struggles, and triumphs. As a Catholic, I was raised to value compassion, service, and perseverance as virtues and daily practices. More than a belief system, my faith is the foundation that shapes my goals, guides my decisions, and inspires me to uplift others, primarily through education and science. My journey wasn’t always focused. During high school, especially amid the pandemic, I often rushed assignments and relied on last-minute help. I wasn’t proud of how I approached learning, and that frustration sparked a turning point. I committed to change to raise my grades and honor my education with the care it deserved. I became an A student, enrolled in dual enrollment classes, and later transferred to Bakersfield College, where I embraced a more profound sense of purpose grounded in faith and service. As a first-generation college student from a Hispanic immigrant family, the road often felt uncertain—but faith reminded me that I was placed on this path with intention and responsibility. Matthew 5:16 says, “Let your light shine before others, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.” This verse captures how I strive to lead—not by seeking recognition but by quietly serving others with humility and conviction. That light guided me through three semesters as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor in General Biology II. Many students I worked with shared my background—first-generation, underrepresented, and navigating STEM with limited support. Recognizing our shared struggles, I made it a priority to create an inclusive and supportive learning space. I learned students’ names, offered accommodations, created supplemental worksheets, and encouraged active participation. I promoted evidence-based techniques like spaced repetition and led collaborative discussions to deepen understanding. My role became more than academic support—it was spiritual leadership through consistent, compassionate action. This experience reshaped my definition of leadership: not as perfection but as the courage to lift others, even while climbing. I showed up weekly, believing in my students until they could believe in themselves. Seeing their confidence grow, watching them find their voice in the classroom, and knowing I played a small part in that transformation was deeply fulfilling. I also hope to continue mentoring first-generation students like myself, especially those navigating STEM and higher education with limited support. Leadership, to me, is faith in motion—steady, sincere, and driven by purpose. As I transfer to UC Santa Cruz to pursue a Bachelor’s degree in Biology, I plan to carry that same spirit forward. I look forward to joining programs like EOPS or ACE, where I can continue tutoring, mentoring, and helping students expand their academic potential and professional networks. I want to help build a culture of belonging that honors where we come from and where we are going. Ultimately, I hope to enter the field of forensic science—not just to uncover scientific truth but to uphold human dignity. I want to help families find closure and offer clarity in moments of tragedy, just as my own family was supported when my father battled leukemia. Scripture reminds us in Matthew 20:26, “Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant.” I strive to be that kind of leader—one who uplifts others through faith, empathy, and service. With your support, I will continue to build spaces where others can rise, lead with grace, and bless their communities through action grounded in belief.

Faith has been the steady light guiding me through life's uncertainties, struggles, and triumphs. As a Catholic, I was raised to value compassion, service, and perseverance as virtues and daily practices. More than a belief system, my faith is the foundation that shapes my goals, guides my decisions, and inspires me to uplift others. When I was around three years old, my father was diagnosed with leukemia. It was a time of confusion and fear that I didn't fully understand, but one thing I did recognize was my mother's strength. She became a significant figure in our home, praying faithfully for our family's well-being while selflessly serving her children through our uncertainty. Her quiet devotion, grounded in trust in God, taught me early on what faith in action looks like: showing up daily with courage and love, even when things feel out of control. Years later, when I crossed the stage at my graduation from Bakersfield College, my father sat proudly in the audience — alive, well, and cheering me on. That moment wasn't just a personal milestone but a living testament to years of hope, resilience, and answered prayers. As a first-generation college student from a Hispanic immigrant family, my path to higher education has not always felt guaranteed — it often felt like a distant dream. I chose biology because I love science and believe in its potential to do good when paired with service and integrity. Faith fuels my commitment to keep moving forward, especially when the road is challenging, unfamiliar, or filled with self-doubt. My continued motivation is grounded in a deep belief that I was placed on this path for a reason. That sense of purpose deepened as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor at Bakersfield College, where I supported students in General Biology II. Many of the students I worked with came from similar backgrounds — first-generation, underrepresented, or navigating the sciences with little guidance. Over three semesters, I witnessed students grow more confident, raise their grades, and connect with faculty and peers. It was incredibly fulfilling to know that my presence impacted their coursework and how they viewed themselves as future scientists. They're so excited when they figure things out — it's contagious and reminds me why this work matters. As I prepare to transfer to UC Santa Cruz to pursue a Bachelor's degree in Biology, I intend to carry that spirit of service forward. I look forward to getting involved in programs like EOPS or ACE, where I can continue mentoring and tutoring students, using the experience I've gained to uplift another campus community. My goal is to create the same kind of supportive environment that helped me thrive — one that makes space for people like me to grow, lead, and give back. Ultimately, I aim to enter the field of forensic science — a discipline centered on uncovering truth and delivering justice. But for me, it's about more than science — it's about giving back. I want to help families seek closure, truth, and dignity during some of their darkest moments — just as my own family was supported when we faced a life-threatening diagnosis. My faith compels me to pursue a path where I can bring light to others, especially when they are searching for answers or healing. Like Eva Mae Jackson, I believe deeply in the power of education to change lives — a truth I see every time students find confidence in themselves. Faith encourages us to reach higher and move forward even when the odds feel stacked against us. In my family, pursuing higher education was never typical — it felt like a dream that belonged to someone else. But today, I am living and working toward that dream, guided by the purpose and values faith instilled in me. I believe that with dedication, compassion, and grace, I can continue building a life that honors where I came from and brings that same hope to others. I'm deeply grateful for scholarships like this one, which honor the legacies of Patricia Lindsey and Eva Mae Jackson. They exemplified what it means to lead with integrity, faith, and purpose. Their example inspires me to keep putting my faith into action by making a meaningful impact in science, in service, and the lives of others.

Hospitals exist at the extremes of hope and heartbreak, healing and finality. I learned this early in life, not as a patient, but as a quiet observer walking through the endless white corridors of UCLA Medical Center. Though I was very young then, those visits left a lasting impression. I remember the sterile smell, the tense but hopeful expressions on my family’s faces, and the seriousness with which life and death were handled. That atmosphere — where care, science, and purpose intersected — left an imprint that still guides me today. Initially, I was drawn to anesthesiology. But as I matured and better understood myself, I found an unexpected pull toward forensic pathology — a field many avoid because it deals so directly with death. But death is not taboo to me — it’s a fundamental part of life and society. In it, I see both science and service: the opportunity to bring clarity, closure, and dignity to those affected by trauma. In a society where the dead cannot speak, forensic pathologists give them a voice — a responsibility I feel deeply called to. To prepare for this field, I’ve immersed myself in biology, anatomy, and microbiology through coursework and hands-on teaching. At Bakersfield College, I served as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for three semesters, supporting students in General Biology II. Many of them, like me, were first-generation students navigating STEM for the first time without much academic support at home. Through tutoring, I didn’t just reinforce my foundational knowledge — I sharpened my ability to communicate complex topics, empathetically, and accessibly. These are the same skills I’ll carry into medicine, where understanding and compassion go hand in hand. Outside the classroom, I’ve stayed engaged with forensic science through books like Stiff by Mary Roach and Working Stiff by Dr. Judy Melinek. These texts explore the emotional and technical realities of forensic work. They challenge and excite me, reminding me this career demands scientific competence and emotional resilience — qualities I’m actively building. This summer, I was selected for a competitive Research Experience for Undergraduates (REU), led by Dr. Milena Lilles of Bakersfield College and Dr. Rae McNeish of CSU Bakersfield. Our project investigates the ecological effects of variable water conditions on the Kern River. Though rooted in environmental biology, the experience requires precision, ethical research, and critical thinking — vital qualities in forensic pathology. It has affirmed that I belong in rigorous scientific environments and strengthened my confidence in pursuing graduate education. Ultimately, I hope to earn a master’s in forensic science, focusing on forensic pathology. I want to be the person who provides families with answers, dignity, and peace, especially in underserved communities where truth is not always easily accessible. In many ways, I hope to become part of the beacon of hope I once sensed walking those white corridors, when my family needed answers. Receiving the Dr. Michael Paglia Scholarship would ease the financial burdens I face as a first-generation student from a low-income background. More importantly, it would affirm that my ambition — to stand where science meets justice — is worth believing in. With your support, I will step into a career that treats death not as an end, but as a final opportunity to serve the living.

Growing up in the rural agricultural city of Delano, I witnessed firsthand the resilience and sacrifice it takes to build a better future. As a first-generation Latino and the child of immigrants from Michoacán, I watched my parents labor in the fields under the relentless sun, working long hours to provide our family with stability and opportunity. Though they had little formal education, they instilled in me a strong work ethic and an unwavering belief in perseverance. Those values continue to guide everything I do. Navigating higher education without role models or academic guidance at home brought many challenges. My siblings did not attend or complete college, and financial struggles constantly existed. There were moments when I doubted whether college was even an option for someone like me. But rather than let these obstacles hold me back, I used them as fuel. I became determined to succeed in higher education and help others from similar backgrounds realize that they belong in these spaces. My interest in biology—and ultimately forensic pathology—was ignited at a young age. When I was just three years old, my father was diagnosed with leukemia and admitted to UCLA Medical Center. While I was too young to understand the full gravity of his condition, I vividly remember the sterile brightness of the hospital, the fear in my family’s eyes, and my uncle donating blood to help keep my father alive. Those memories shaped my curiosity about the human body, medicine, and the unseen forces that preserve life. Today, my father proudly watches as I become the first in my family to graduate, earning my Associate in Science for Transfer (AS-T) in Biology from Bakersfield College. This fall, I will transfer to the University of California, Santa Cruz, to complete my bachelor’s degree in biology. My long-term goal is to pursue a master’s degree in forensic science and build a career in forensic pathology, investigating causes of death and bringing truth and closure to families in need. At Bakersfield College, I served as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor for three semesters, supporting students in General Biology II. Most of the students I mentored came from backgrounds similar to mine—first-generation, Latinx, or low-income. The role deepened my scientific foundation and my sense of purpose through service. I watched my peers grow in confidence, improve academically, and build support networks that helped them persist. That experience strengthened my resolve to pursue higher education and to uplift students who, like me, once questioned whether they belonged in science. I carry my heritage with pride—not just as a reminder of where I come from, but as the foundation for who I’m becoming. As a first-generation Latino student, I’ve learned to lead purposefully, navigate unfamiliar spaces confidently, and use education to uplift others. My journey is about more than earning a degree—it’s about opening doors and creating lasting change for families like mine. Receiving the Jose Prado Memorial Scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of my academic journey but also affirm that stories like mine and those of other first-generation Latinx students matter. I am committed to turning my passion into a career that brings justice, healing, and representation to forensic science. And as I move forward, I carry with me the values that my parents, Sergio Zavala and Esperanza Solorio, instilled through their quiet strength and endless sacrifice. Their perseverance, ambition, and service legacy will continue to guide me into spaces we once only dreamed of reaching.

The earliest moment I knew I belonged in the medical field was when my father was admitted to UCLA Medical Center for leukemia treatment. What some might consider a traumatic event instead sparked a passion that continues to guide me today. Witnessing the life-saving procedures—my uncle's blood donation, the tireless medical staff, and walking the hospital's bustling halls—I felt an undeniable connection to the environment where scientific theory met real-world application in profound and life-altering ways. Today is my father's birthday, and he proudly watched me graduate from Bakersfield College. Soon, I'll begin my next chapter at UC Santa Cruz, where I'll pursue a Bachelor's in Biology. That moment marked more than a personal milestone—it was a celebration of resilience, shaped by my upbringing and the sacrifices of those who came before me. As a first-generation Latino student, I grew up in Delano, a small agricultural town. My parents, immigrants with little formal education, worked tirelessly to provide for our family. From them, I inherited values of dedication, perseverance, and self-improvement. Yet, navigating higher education without academic guidance at home presented its challenges. Instead of discouraging me, these obstacles fueled my determination to succeed—and to support others facing similar barriers. In high school, I enrolled in and excelled at dual-enrollment college courses that exposed me to rigorous academic expectations. I built on that foundation at Bakersfield College and earned my Associate in Science for Transfer in Biology. While there, Dr. Saldivar—the Biology Department Chair and my former professor—invited me to become a tutor for General Biology II. In this role, I worked with students from diverse backgrounds—many of whom, like me, were first-generation college students or children of immigrants. Recognizing our shared struggles, I made it a priority to create an inclusive and supportive learning environment. I learned students' names, offered accommodations, encouraged active participation, and developed supplemental worksheets. I emphasized evidence-based study techniques like spaced repetition and led discussions to deepen understanding. Over three semesters, I've seen students grow in confidence, improve their grades, and build valuable peer networks. Through this experience, I discovered how empowering science can be when made accessible. I found purpose in helping others overcome the same barriers I once faced. I plan to continue this mission through medicine, education, and scientific research. Being considered for the Frederick and Bernice Beretta Scholarship is a profound honor. I am committed to bettering myself through education, not just for personal growth, but to uplift others as I have been uplifted. This scholarship would support my next steps and stand as a lasting reminder that perseverance, purpose, and community can open doors for me and those I strive to uplift.

When I was three years old, my father underwent treatment for leukemia. I don't vividly remember the details, but sensed the uncertainty and fear around me. I remember the bright hospital rooms, the image of my father confined to bed rest, and the moment my uncle donated blood that helped keep him alive. That experience left a lasting impression on me—my first glimpse into how science could bring hope, healing, and answers. Years later, it became the foundation of my passion for biology and inspired my pursuit of forensic pathology. A field where science doesn't just save lives but can also speak for those who can no longer speak for themselves. My father's recovery was long and complex. However, he lived to attend my graduation—an emotional milestone for both of us. It reminded me how transformative science can be. That sense of purpose continues to shape my academic journey and professional aspirations. Today, I am proud to be a first-generation, Latino college student majoring in biology, preparing to transfer from Bakersfield College to the University of California, Santa Cruz. I aim to earn a bachelor's degree in biology and pursue a master's in forensic science. I'm especially drawn to investigative work—helping identify victims, solving crimes, and contributing to justice through scientific analysis. Forensic pathology is a powerful intersection of truth, empathy, and biology. I want to use it to uncover facts, restore dignity to the deceased, and offer closure to families, just as I once hoped for my own. My academic journey has not been easy. As the first in my family to attend college, I've had to navigate the educational system primarily independently. I've worked hard to support myself while maintaining strong academic performance. I've embraced every opportunity to grow, from taking dual-enrollment and upper-level biology courses to becoming a PAL (Peer Assisted Learning) tutor for General Biology II over the past three semesters. In this role, I support STEM students—many from underrepresented backgrounds like mine—and help them build confidence, improve their grades, and develop a support network. This experience has shown me the lasting impact of representation and mentorship. It reminds me that success in STEM should not be determined by race, income, or background. Being an underrepresented minority in STEM has shaped my goals in profound ways. It has pushed me to succeed for myself and others who have felt out of place in science. I know what it's like to question whether you belong, face imposter syndrome, or be the only person in a room who shares your story. But those challenges have taught me resilience, compassion, and the importance of uplifting others. When I transfer to UCSC, I plan to continue mentoring because diversity of thought, background, and experience makes science more inclusive, innovative, and just. This summer, I was selected for a competitive Research Experience for Undergraduates (REU) program led by Bakersfield College and CSU Bakersfield faculty revolving around the ecological changes in the Kern River, gaining valuable research skills that will prepare me for forensic science work and allow me to contribute to environmental justice in my community. Opportunities like this are significant but also bring financial strain. Scholarships allow students like me to stay focused on education and research, rather than worrying about how to afford them. This scholarship would provide essential financial relief and affirm that my journey and aspirations are significant. I aim to be a voice for the overlooked and show that one's background doesn't dictate one's potential. I'm passionately pursuing a path to make a lasting impact in forensic science.

When I was three years old, my father was diagnosed with leukemia. I didn't understand its full gravity then. However, I remember the hospital visits, the beeping machines, and the sterile hallways of UCLA Hospital. Most of all, I remember my uncle donating blood to help keep my dad alive. That image stuck with me — a simple act backed by science that meant the world to my family. In those moments, I first felt biology's impact beyond the classroom. I saw how science could save lives, bring clarity, and restore hope. It planted the seed for my interest in medicine and currently forensic pathology. As a first-generation Hispanic student, I know that the path to higher education has not been straightforward. My parents never attended college, and guidance was limited. Financial hardship and a lack of educational role models could have held me back, but I refused to let them. I enrolled in dual-enrollment classes during high school and worked tirelessly to earn a place at Bakersfield College. I became the first in my family to graduate from community college and transfer to a four-year university. I'm proud to head to the University of California, Santa Cruz this fall as a biology major, with aspirations of continuing to graduate school in forensic science. I've been a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) tutor at Bakersfield College for three consecutive semesters. I've mentored students in general biology II, many of whom come from backgrounds like mine — first-generation, low-income, and passionate about STEM. Through this experience, I've seen students transform: they grew more confident, scored higher, and developed strong support networks. Tutoring didn't just reinforce my knowledge; it strengthened my desire to build up others through education and mentorship. I plan to carry those values to UCSC, where I hope to continue working with students from underrepresented communities. This summer, I've been selected to participate in a competitive undergraduate research program (REU) led by Dr. Milena Lilles of Bakersfield College and Dr. Rae McNeish of California State University, Bakersfield. Our project will explore the ecological impacts of changing water conditions on the Kern River. This opportunity is more than just research — it's a chance to deepen my skills in applied biology, contribute to environmental understanding, support the surrounding community, and work directly with scientists. It also affirms that my hard work is paying off and that I belong in these academic spaces. What draws me to STEM is its ability to uncover truth and create change. I want to become a forensic pathologist who uses biology, chemistry, and compassion to bring answers after tragedy. Whether I identify causes of death, assist in legal cases, or provide families with long-overdue closure, I want my work to have meaning. Science should serve people, especially those who often go unheard. The challenges I've faced—from growing up without academic guidance to enduring financial hardship—have shaped me into someone driven not by prestige but by purpose. I've learned that real impact doesn't just come from intelligence; it comes from persistence, empathy, and a willingness to serve others. This scholarship would ease the financial burden of my continued education and allow me to focus entirely on my studies, research, and community involvement. More than anything, it would be a vote of confidence in a student determined to make a difference, not just for themselves, but for everyone who's ever been told they don't belong in science.