To demonstrate leadership is not just to lead others, but to proclaim your own existence without shame, to make your voice heard so that it can inspire others to do the same. It might not always have the purpose to wake up a crowd, but everyone has the power, and they can use it if they choose to. Just a few weeks before the end of my junior year, I did something that had never been done before at my school: I hosted a drag show with my GSA club in honor of Pride Month. Yes, it took place in Southern California, and yes I go to an art school where half the populace is made up of LGBTQ+ identifying kids (me included), but it was still such a big risk to take. We weren't ashamed of who we were or what we stood for, and yes, we wanted to do something that would grab the attention of and teach our peers, but in a world where trans kids are still being denied their basic human rights, books that so much as mention a gay character living a normal happy life are being swept off the shelves, and drag queens are being labeled as deviants and predators just as they were in a decade that caged them in with the walls of speakeasies and clubs, we weren't sure if we would be allowed to make a difference. But we got allies on our side; with the help of one of our school's language arts teachers and the queer history club, we were able to get the people and resources we needed on our side to put our plan into action. We decorated booths with flags and stickers, constructed poster boards that would educate anyone curious enough to learn the history of the community, made costumes and planned performances that would grab anyone's attention. As co-captain of the Gender Sexuality Alliance, I oversaw it all, and it was something that I am so proud to have been a part of. It wasn't until two weeks before the performance was set to take place that we realized we didn't have an emcee. Naturally, I wasn't about to keep the show from going on, so I stepped up to the plate. I wrote and revised my script between classes- I was still studying for finals at the time, but I couldn't afford to let my team down. Rehearsals took place during lunchtime, so many of us were too busy to eat. And when the day of the performance arrived, we'd had to rush from our finals to change in the school bathrooms, our natural spotlight of the sun was hidden by June's afternoon gray, and technological difficulties with the student body had everyone fearing the worst every few seconds. But when I was handed the microphone and given the floor, I knew we were going to give it our all. The whole event couldn't have lasted more than ten minutes; I hardly remember what I even said- I know for sure that I adlibbed what the heat of the moment prevented me from remembering -because the next thing that comes to mind is the colorful, vibrant performances put on by my friends (watching a teenage drag king get a crowd of high schoolers screaming along to Lady Gaga's Born This Way truly was a formative experience). The funniest part? The show was my idea, and I wasn't sure it would be accepted. But no matter what the future becomes, I'll always be glad to have said something.

At 17, I counted calories for the first time: 53 for half a banana, hidden under the covers of my bed, in the middle of my junior year when I had so much more to worry about. I'd be lying if I said it hadn't been a long time coming, but still- I never thought it would happen to me. I've never liked to move forward without a plan for what happens next. But when I entered eleventh grade, it seemed all anyone talked about was college, their careers, the places they wanted to go for them. Some had plans, some didn't, and were completely okay with it. I didn't see how, considering everything we were doing this year led up to what we would do next year, and the year after that, when we would be supposedly mapping out what we were going to do for the rest of our lives... which, looking back on it now, was a lot to take in at once. But I wanted to be ready, and I wasn't. I couldn't predict my future, what colleges would choose me, or if I could count on my friends and family for comfort. But I could control me: the way I looked and saw myself. If I was helpless in everything else, I could at least do that. My relationship with my self-image was always a difficult one; I always felt like my body was left unfinished, with my stomach too round and waist too wide and the gap between my thighs too small. I just saw it as something I'd get over; everywhere, there were success stories of women who'd learned to love themselves despite everyone telling them that they shouldn't. But no one will ever tell you about the struggles in between- how long it takes to get to the top of a mountain and see the skyline view. That time for me consisted of measuring every food I ate, tidbits to tablespoons, transforming them into numbers that I tallied up before every meal. Instead of studying for my exams, I was calculating the calories of my lunch during class, counting the minutes before I could eat again- free myself for ten minutes until the cycle repeated. I'd go to bed knowing the meal I'd allowed myself was only a fourth of what my body required, knowing that I didn't want to live this way the rest of my life. But if I saw my stomach had shrunk, or my waist was a little slimmer, I considered it worth it. When I did find help, it wasn't because I'd gone looking; my mom and sibling had eked a confession out of me, and only when I'd managed to come clean to the rest of my family did I start on the road to recovery- one of the most challenging things I have ever done. Yet, if there's anything I've learned from my experience, it's that you can't get through some struggles alone. It's been months since then, and the healing process is still slow going, but I've been getting closer every day. The little things help the most: food channels, treats from the bakery down the street, opening up to my friends to keep people in my life rather than push them out. It took months of critiquing and criticizing every detail of my body to finally love it; if I'm going to make it through college, I'll need the energy to keep up. But I'm going to have the time of my life getting where I'm meant to go- and love the challenge.

"And all hell broke loose." It was the battle of a lifetime: swords clashing, monsters roaring their defeat as centaurs and hunters came charging from all around. Our heroes, saved in the nick of time, and then- "Sadie!" I looked up at my teacher; going by her glare, I hadn't heard my name the last few times she'd called. I stammered my sorrys, but what else could I do? Since birth it seems I've had my nose in a book: novels of fantastical worlds braved by daring young protagonists and their scrappy friends, taking me far away from reality- in the fall I'm going to SFSU with a Creative Writing major to write just that. But the books I read taught me more than my purpose; books are what taught me to dream. When classes couldn't hold my attention, recess was spent in my teachers' classroom libraries, since I preferred it to the playground jungle gym; I simply couldn't tear myself away from the life blooming in the pages. Being an autistic person, it was easier than the trial and error of actual human communication. People made me sticky, made me wonder why I felt so alien inside when on the outside I looked the same. Reading helped me understand why we fracture and flourish in our differences, and how beautiful we are because of them. The awkwardness is still a reoccurring theme in my daily interactions, but I've learned from the best written confessions that some things are better done in person. During my OCSA days, I used my favorite characters' pep talks to keep my head up; surrounded by so many talented kids, it was easy to get lost in such a multicolored sea. Every classmate I had seemed to know what colleges they wanted to go to, what degrees to pursue and the exact steps to get them there- meanwhile all I had was a laptop and a notebook full of half-baked dreams that hardly even applied as rough drafts. Thanks to COVID-19 freeze-framing the world in time for my freshman year, I'd stayed stuck in the changeover box while the rest of my peers were heading the relay race without me. The high school minefields of relationships, friend drama, and grades didn't help. I got through thanks to my favorite books centered around late bloomers: Leah on the Offbeat, Happily Ever Afters, and more. I still take a minute to remind myself that even the worst hurricanes give way for a rainbow. When it's too dark to see the light through the fog, I write to make my own light, draw from life what joy I can, since real magic comes from the beauty we find within it. With this method, I've snagged an editor position at an international literary magazine, hosted my high school's first ever drag show for Pride month, and published not one, but two original works about the story that I'd been trying so hard to avoid telling: my own. Recently I worked with author Elise Bryant on one of my ideas, further inspiring me to draft it into my first novel. In the four years I'll be spending in the Bay at SFSU, I'm going to do what I can so that I can share the magic with others- so my books can fall into the hands of a kid who doesn't know where they fit and give them somewhere to be. I may not change the world with my words, but, if given the chance, I'd like to see just who is willing to listen.

If the soul of the earth has made itself apparent through anything, it has to be art. The shapeshifter that comes to life in sculptures and paintings, the breath of poets and faces of thespians, the taste of a meal prepared by an expert hand. The epitome of all man's most passionate values, romantics howling for freedom, beauty, truth, and love. To create it takes a lifetime to master, and I am devoting my own to telling the stories of those who the world has forgotten, digging them up and showing them light. For the longest time, I didn't know what I was. I knew other kids didn't spend their weekends eating arroz con pollo y arequipe with Nana and Papa, but I didn't feel Colombian growing up in predominantly white Seal Beach. I'd been tested to drift somewhere along the autism spectrum, but I didn't understand how that made my puzzle piece fit differently. I couldn't imagine my life with a man, but I didn't know a girl could be with another girl. I would read hundreds, thousands of books before I realized I could learn the label and the definition the word carried, but what it meant was up to me. March of 2020, COVID-19 kickstarted my freshman year of high school into distanced learning, leaving me even more isolated than before. Though I preferred the shell of my home to the beach I lived simple streets away from, I was restless. Suddenly there were no excuses to make. A million daydreams were dousing gasoline over the flames of my curiosity. How else could I use my time but to learn? I'd accumulated over seventy books I'd put off reading; I devoured them all- stories of fantastical new worlds and families who found us, young protagonists who weren't the straight, white, cis heroes I was used to. I took my lessons into me with the language my grandparents had brought with them to New York, watching shows I'd convinced myself I was "too old for," shyly accepting a kinder form of love with a girl I was never supposed to meet. When I finally did see myself in a piece of art, I realized I hadn't been alone in those shadows, shining my flashlight to find a face that matched mine. There are children who have never been recognized by the media they consume, who don't know where to look outside their families and tragedies on the news, not spared a glance until the beauty they once claimed is unrecognizable. Even if our stories don't shatter the earth, they still deserve to bloom, and I will be the one to write them. Not portraying victims, but lead roles; whether the story be fantasy, romance, or action-adventure, everyone deserves to see themselves as a hero. I know my books will make some people angry, claim I'm doing it for "woke" attention, but I'm not writing for them. I'm writing for the people who will use my words to fuel their dreams and take it to heart. If I get at least one of my books out there, I want to pull at least one person out of the darkness, gift a novel with their story in its pages and whisper, "You're not alone."

"And all hell broke loose." It was the battle of a lifetime: swords clashing, monsters roaring their defeat as centaurs and hunters came charging from all around. Our heroes, saved in the nick of time, and then- "Sadie!" I looked up at my teacher; going by her glare, I hadn't heard my name the last few times she'd called. I stammered my sorrys, but what else could I do? Since birth it seems I've had my nose in a book: novels of fantastical worlds braved by daring young protagonists and their scrappy friends, taking me far away from reality- in the fall I'm going to SFSU with a Creative Writing major to write just that. But the books I read taught me more than my purpose; books are what taught me to dream. I spent recess with my teachers' classroom libraries, preferring it to the playground jungle gym; I simply couldn't tear myself away from the life blooming in the pages. Being an autistic person, it was easier than the trial and error of actual human communication. People made me sticky, made me wonder why I felt so alien inside when on the outside I looked the same. Reading helped me understand why we fracture and flourish in our differences, and how beautiful we are because of them. The awkwardness is still a reoccurring theme in my daily interactions, but I've learned from the best written confessions that some things are better done in person. During my OCSA days, I used my favorite characters' pep talks to keep my head up; surrounded by so many talented kids, it was easy to get lost in such a multicolored sea. Every classmate I had seemed to know what colleges they wanted to go to, what degrees to pursue and the exact steps to get them there- meanwhile all I had was a laptop and a notebook full of half-baked dreams that hardly even applied as rough drafts. Thanks to COVID-19 freeze-framing the world in time for my freshman year, I'd stayed stuck in the changeover box while the rest of my peers were heading the relay race without me. The high school minefields of relationships, friend drama, and grades didn't help. I got through thanks to my favorite books centered around late bloomers: Leah on the Offbeat, Happily Ever Afters, and more. I still take a minute to remind myself that even the worst hurricanes give way for a rainbow. When it's too dark to see the light through the fog, I write to make my own light, draw from life what joy I can, since real magic comes from the beauty we find within it. With this method, I've snagged an editor position at an international literary magazine, hosted my high school's first ever drag show for Pride month, and published not one, but two original works about the story that I'd been trying so hard to avoid telling: my own. Recently I worked with author Elise Bryant on one of my ideas, further inspiring me to draft it into my first novel. In the four years I'll be spending in the Bay at SFSU, I'm going to do what I can so that I can share the magic with others- so my books can fall into the hands of a kid who doesn't know where they fit and give them somewhere to be. I may not change the world with my words, but, if given the chance, I'd like to see just who is willing to listen.

At 17, I counted calories for the first time- 53 for half a banana, hidden under the covers of my bed, in the middle of my junior year when I had so much more to worry about. I'd be lying if I said it hadn't been a long time coming, but still. I never thought it would happen to me. I've never liked to move forward without a plan for what happens next. But when I entered eleventh grade, the first thing anyone talked about was college, their careers, the places they wanted to go for them. Some had plans, some didn't, and were completely okay with that. I didn't see how, considering everything we were doing this year led up to what we would do next year, and the year after that, when we would be supposedly mapping out what we were going to do for the rest of our lives... which, looking back on it now, was a lot to take in all at once. But I wanted to be ready, and I wasn't. I couldn't predict my future, what colleges would choose me, or if I could count on my friends and family for comfort. But I could control me: the way I looked and saw myself. If I was helpless in everything else, I could at least do that. My relationship with my self-image was always a difficult one; I always felt like my body was left unfinished, with my stomach too round and waist too wide and the gap between my thighs too small. I just saw it as something I'd get over; everywhere, there were success stories of women who'd learned to love themselves despite everyone telling them that they shouldn't. But no one will ever tell you about the struggles in between- how long it takes to get to the top of a mountain and see the skyline view. That time for me consisted of measuring every food I ate, tidbits to tablespoons, transforming them into numbers that I tallied up before every meal. Instead of studying for my exams, I was calculating the calories of my lunch during class, counting the minutes before I could eat again- free myself for ten minutes until the cycle repeated. I'd go to bed knowing the meal I'd allowed myself was only a fourth of what my body required, knowing that I didn't want to live this way the rest of my life. But if I saw my stomach had shrunk, or my waist was a little slimmer, I considered it worth it. When I did find help, it wasn't because I'd gone looking; my mom and sister had eked a confession out of me, and only when I'd managed to come clean to the rest of my family did I start on the road to recovery- one of the most challenging things I would ever do. Yet, if there's anything I've learned from my experience, it's that there are some struggles you can't get through alone. It's been months since then, and the healing process is still slow going, but I've been getting closer every day. The little things help the most: food channels, treats from the bakery down the street, opening up to my friends to keep people in my life rather than push them out. It took months of critiquing and criticizing every detail of my body to finally love it; if I'm going to get into my dream school, I'll need the energy to keep up. But I'm going to get there, and I'm going to love every bit- imperfections and all.

I'm not even going to pretend to be unbiased when I write this; if I were to be asked to recommend a book to everyone in the world, I would run up to their doorstep, paperback in hand, and beg them with all my heart to read Fannie Flagg's Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe. Many of them would look at me like I'm crazy. I'm going to go ahead and assume some would slam the door in my face. I still have yet to meet one person who has any idea what I'm talking about when I bring it up in conversation. But for the people who would be willing to take a shot and accept it out of my hands, I'd be willing to try it out. Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe is a book that takes place down in 1980's Alabama, kicked off when our down-in-the-dumps protagonist Evelyn Couch meets Virginia Threadegoode in a nursing home, continuing to visit her so she can hear the stories of the whimsical Threadegoode family- the people that took Virginia in long ago when her parents died, who lived in the old ramshackle house down the road when it was painted pristine white, lattice fence covered in wisteria vines, cherry tree bursting with ripe fruit, walls teeming with life. The story takes place between multiple generations, teaching about love in all its forms- whether it be romantic, forbidden, familial, or the ever-so-rare gift of true friendship -all punctuated by the occasional small-town murder. It may sound fit to be underestimated, but it's a book that offers good coffee, Southern barbecue, and all kinds of lifelong lessons. And as the past unfolds, the present will never be quite the same again. I found it myself when I wasn't sure where I fit in with the world- much like Evelyn herself. When I started reading, I became enamored with the story I found inside, wanting to be as brave as Idgie, as kind as Ruth, as giving as Ms. Threadegoode, to take a seat at a worn-down cafe and enjoy the world in all its simple wonders. Maybe it's a lesson you can learn all by yourself. But if anyone asks me, this book is the perfect way to start.

At 17, I counted calories for the first time- 53 for half a banana, hidden under the covers of my bed, in the middle of my junior year when I had so much more to worry about. I'd be lying if I said it hadn't been a long time coming, but still. I never thought it would happen to me. I've never liked to move forward without a plan for what happens next. But when I entered eleventh grade, the first thing anyone talked about was college, their careers, the places they wanted to go for them. Some had plans, some didn't, and were completely okay with that. I didn't see how, considering everything we were doing this year led up to what we would do next year, and the year after that, when we would be supposedly mapping out what we were going to do for the rest of our lives... which, looking back on it now, was a lot to take in all at once. But I wanted to be ready, and I wasn't. I couldn't predict my future, what colleges would choose me, or if I could count on my friends and family for comfort. But I could control me: the way I looked and saw myself. If I was helpless in everything else, I could at least do that. My relationship with my self-image was always a difficult one; I always felt like my body was left unfinished, with my stomach too round and waist too wide and the gap between my thighs too small. I just saw it as something I'd get over; everywhere, there were success stories of women who'd learned to love themselves despite everyone telling them that they shouldn't. But no one will ever tell you about the struggles in between- how long it takes to get to the top of a mountain and see the skyline view. That time for me consisted of measuring every food I ate, tidbits to tablespoons, transforming them into numbers that I tallied up before every meal. Instead of studying for my exams, I was calculating the calories of my lunch during class, counting the minutes before I could eat again- free myself for ten minutes until the cycle repeated. I'd go to bed knowing the meal I'd allowed myself was only a fourth of what my body required, knowing that I didn't want to live this way the rest of my life. But if I saw my stomach had shrunk, or my waist was a little slimmer, I considered it worth it. When I did find help, it wasn't because I'd gone looking; my mom and sister had eked a confession out of me, and only when I'd managed to come clean to the rest of my family did I start on the road to recovery- one of the most challenging things I would ever do. Yet, if there's anything I've learned from my experience, it's that there are some struggles you can't get through alone. It's been months since then, and the healing process is still slow going, but I've been getting closer every day. The little things help the most: food channels, treats from the bakery down the street, opening up to my friends to keep people in my life rather than push them out. It took months of critiquing and criticizing every detail of my body to finally love it; if I'm going to get into my dream school, I'll need the energy to keep up. But I know I'm going to get there, and I'm going to love every bit- imperfections and all.

At 17, I counted calories for the first time- 53 for half a banana, hidden under the covers of my bed, in the middle of my junior year when I had so much more to worry about. I'd be lying if I said it hadn't been a long time coming, but still. I never thought it would happen to me. I've never liked to move forward without a plan for what happens next. But when I entered eleventh grade, the first thing anyone talked about was college, their careers, the places they wanted to go for them. Some had plans, some didn't, and were completely okay with it. I didn't see how, considering everything we were doing this year led up to what we would do next year, and the year after that, when we would be supposedly mapping out what we were going to do for the rest of our lives... which, looking back on it now, was a lot to take in at once. But I wanted to be ready, and I wasn't. I couldn't predict my future, what colleges would choose me, or if I could count on my friends and family for comfort. But I could control me: the way I looked and saw myself. If I was helpless in everything else, I could at least do that. My relationship with my self-image was always a difficult one; I always felt like my body was left unfinished, with my stomach too round and waist too wide and the gap between my thighs too small. I just saw it as something I'd get over; everywhere, there were success stories of women who'd learned to love themselves despite everyone telling them that they shouldn't. But no one will ever tell you about the struggles in between- how long it takes to get to the top of a mountain and see the skyline view. That time for me consisted of measuring every food I ate, tidbits to tablespoons, transforming them into numbers that I tallied up before every meal. Instead of studying for my exams, I was calculating the calories of my lunch during class, counting the minutes before I could eat again- free myself for ten minutes until the cycle repeated. I'd go to bed knowing the meal I'd allowed myself was only a fourth of what my body required, knowing that I didn't want to live this way the rest of my life. But if I saw my stomach had shrunk, or my waist was a little slimmer, I considered it worth it. When I did find help, it wasn't because I'd gone looking; my mom and sister had eked a confession out of me, and only when I'd managed to come clean to the rest of my family did I start on the road to recovery- one of the most challenging things I would ever do. Yet, if there's anything I've learned from my experience, it's that there's some struggles you can't get through alone. It's been months since then, and the healing process is still slow going, but I've been getting closer every day. The little things help the most: food channels, treats from the bakery down the street, opening up to my friends to keep people in my life rather than push them out. It took months of critiquing and criticizing every detail of my body to finally love it; if I'm going to get into my dream school, I'll need the energy to keep up. But I know I'm going to get there, and I'm going to love every bit- imperfections and all.

To be driven is not just to strive for your goals, but to be willing to work hard to achieve them and keep them in your sight, even when they seem out of reach. It can be difficult to be our own personal cheerleaders, but with every step we take towards it, we come closer to making a difference in not just our lives, but the lives of others. Just a few weeks before the end of my junior year, I did something that had never been done before at my school: I hosted a drag show with my GSA club in honor of Pride Month. Yes, it took place in Southern California, and yes I go to an art school where half the populace is made up of LGBTQ+ identifying kids (me included), but it was still such a big risk. No, we weren't ashamed of who we are or what we stood for, and yes, we wanted to do something that would grab the attention of and teach our peers, but in a world where trans kids are still being denied their basic human rights, books that so much as mention a queer character living a normal happy life are being swept off the shelves, and drag queens are being labeled as deviants and predators just as they were in a decade that caged them within the walls of speakeasies and clubs, we weren't sure if it would be allowed. But we got allies on our side; with the help of one of our school's language arts teachers and the queer history club, we were able to get the people and resources we needed on our side to put our plan into action. We decorated booths with flags and stickers, constructed posterboards that would educate anyone curious enough to learn the history of the community, made costumes and planned performances that would grab anyone's attention. As co-captain of the Gender Sexuality Alliance, I oversaw it all, and it was something that I am so proud to have been a part of. It wasn't until two weeks before the performance was set to take place that we realized we didn't have an emcee. Naturally, I wasn't about to keep the show from going on, so I stepped up to the plate. I wrote and revised my script between classes- I was still studying for finals at the time, but I couldn't afford to let my team down. Rehearsals took place during lunchtime, so many of us were too busy to eat. And when the day of the performance arrived, we'd had to rush from our finals to change in the school bathrooms, our natural spotlight of the sun was hidden by June's afternoon gray, and technological difficulties with the student body had everyone fearing the worst every few seconds. But when I was handed the microphone and given the floor, I knew we were going to give it our all. The whole event couldn't have lasted more than ten minutes; I hardly remember what I even said- I know for sure that I adlibbed what the heat of the moment prevented me from remembering -because the next thing that comes to mind is the colorful, vibrant performances put on by my friends (watching a teenage drag king get a crowd of high schoolers screaming along to Lady Gaga's Born This Way truly was a formative experience). The funniest part? The show was my idea, and I wasn't sure it would be accepted. But no matter what the future becomes, I'll always be glad to have made it happen.

Since the minute I found out who I was, I knew the stories I'd always dreamed of writing were going to be about the queer community which I came from (I identify as the 'L' in the equation), even with the odds that face us in the present moment. But if there's anything we can do with our time, it's enlighten, not conceal. Just a few weeks before the end of my junior year, I did something that had never been done before at my school: I hosted a drag show with my GSA club in honor of Pride Month. Yes, it took place in Southern California, and yes I go to an art school where half the populace is made up of LGBTQ+ identifying kids (me included), but it was still such a big risk to take. No, we weren't ashamed of who we are or what we stood for, and yes, we wanted to do something that would grab the attention of and teach our peers, but in a world where trans kids are still being denied their basic human rights, books that so much as mention a gay character living a normal happy life are being swept off the shelves, and drag queens are being labeled as deviants and predators just as they were in a decade that caged them in with the walls of speakeasies and clubs, we weren't sure if we would be allowed to make a difference. But we got allies on our side; with the help of one of our school's language arts teachers and the queer history club, we were able to get the people and resources we needed on our side to put our plan into action. We decorated booths with flags and stickers, constructed posterboards that would educate anyone curious enough to learn the history of the community, made costumes and planned performances that would grab anyone's attention. As co-captain of the Gender Sexuality Alliance, I oversaw it all, and it was something that I am so proud to have been a part of. It wasn't until two weeks before the performance was set to take place that we realized we didn't have an emcee. Naturally, I wasn't about to keep the show from going on, so I stepped up to the plate. I wrote and revised my script between classes- I was still studying for finals at the time, but I couldn't afford to let my team down. Rehearsals took place during lunchtime, so many of us were too busy to eat. And when the day of the performance arrived, we'd had to rush from our finals to change in the school bathrooms, our natural spotlight of the sun was hidden by June's afternoon gray, and technological difficulties with the student body had everyone fearing the worst every few seconds. But when I was handed the microphone and given the floor, I knew we were going to give it our all. The whole event couldn't have lasted more than ten minutes; I hardly remember what I even said- I know for sure that I ad-libbed what the heat of the moment prevented me from remembering -because the next thing that comes to mind is the colorful, vibrant performances put on by my friends (watching a teenage drag king get a crowd of high schoolers screaming along to Lady Gaga's Born This Way truly was a formative experience). The funniest part? The show was my idea, and I wasn't sure it would be accepted. But no matter what the future becomes, I'll always be glad to have said something.

To demonstrate leadership is not just to lead others, but to proclaim your own existence without shame, to make your voice heard so that it can inspire others to do the same. It might not always have the purpose to wake up a crowd, but everyone has the power, and they can use it if they choose to. Just a few weeks before the end of my junior year, I did something that had never been done before at my school: I hosted a drag show with my GSA club in honor of Pride Month. Yes, it took place in Southern California, and yes I go to an art school where half the populace is made up of LGBTQ+ identifying kids (me included), but it was still such a big risk to take. No, we weren't ashamed of who we are or what we stood for, and yes, we wanted to do something that would grab the attention of and teach our peers, but in a world where trans kids are still being denied their basic human rights, books that so much as mention a gay character living a normal happy life are being swept off the shelves, and drag queens are being labeled as deviants and predators just as they were in a decade that caged them in with the walls of speakeasies and clubs, we weren't sure if we would be allowed to make a difference. But we got allies on our side; with the help of one of our school's language arts teachers and the queer history club, we were able to get the people and resources we needed on our side to put our plan into action. We decorated booths with flags and stickers, constructed posterboards that would educate anyone curious enough to learn the history of the community, made costumes and planned performances that would grab anyone's attention. As co-captain of the Gender Sexuality Alliance, I oversaw it all, and it was something that I am so proud to have been a part of. It wasn't until two weeks before the performance was set to take place that we realized we didn't have an emcee. Naturally, I wasn't about to keep the show from going on, so I stepped up to the plate. I wrote and revised my script between classes- I was still studying for finals at the time, but I couldn't afford to let my team down. Rehearsals took place during lunchtime, so many of us were too busy to eat. And when the day of the performance arrived, we'd had to rush from our finals to change in the school bathrooms, our natural spotlight of the sun was hidden by June's afternoon gray, and technological difficulties with the student body had everyone fearing the worst every few seconds. But when I was handed the microphone and given the floor, I knew we were going to give it our all. The whole event couldn't have lasted more than ten minutes; I hardly remember what I even said- I know for sure that I adlibbed what the heat of the moment prevented me from remembering -because the next thing that comes to mind is the colorful, vibrant performances put on by my friends (watching a teenage drag king get a crowd of high schoolers screaming along to Lady Gaga's Born This Way truly was a formative experience). The funniest part? The show was my idea, and I wasn't sure it would be accepted. But no matter what the future becomes, I'll always be glad to have said something.