Google defines a pothole as a depression or hollow in a road caused by wear or sinking. Jamaica, where I am from, is notorious for having many pothole-ridden roads. In my lifetime, I have faced many. I was very young when I noticed that all my friends had both parents present in their lives—on father's day, on open class day, and after school— while I did not. It was a pothole I saw up the road, and I would brace myself for the impact. Bang! Tears rolled down my face at sunset when I remained seated on my elementary school steps. My friends had long gone home, but not me. My life was different. My mother's 9 to 5 wasn't so generous to shorten for little old me. Neither was the 5 o'clock traffic. I would learn that 6 pm was pick-up time, and that could not change. My mother bears a heavy cross: single mother of two; My younger autistic sister and I. When we were at grocery stores, school, or church, I would try to guess what thoughts lay behind pitiful stares. However, it did not matter because that's how it always was: my mom, sister and me. My mother never made this a barrier for us. One-less parent and income would not block us from our dreams. I can only thank her endless determination and love for us. She supported all my hobbies: from chess club to robotics, and encouraged my growing passion for STEM. She purchased my first computer to keep me productive and to encourage my thirst for knowledge. Late afternoons after school became opportunities to read longer, spend extra hours on homework, or discover a new hobby. Thanks to her, we slowly creeped out of the hollow in the road. Eventually, I would grow to be the unspoken second parent. As the eldest child, I grew wiser as my mother confided in me. The burden of a single income grew as we grew taller. I sensed another pothole approaching, but my mother held the wheel steadily. She would never allow us to worry about how things would happen. What I believed to be magic when I was younger was the efforts of a hard-working woman. There were late nights when my anxiety would grasp a tight hold on me. Questions beginning with "How will we afford....?" and "What if we don't..?" would barely escape my quivering lips. My mom always reassured me the same way. "Something will work out, do not worry." I am at my latest destination: my first year of college. I am grateful to be completing a Computer Science major surrounded by diverse students, professors and opportunities. I want to advocate for diversity in all spaces, especially technology. Coming from a single-parent household and living with my sister, I see the world from a wider lens, which allows me to see how limiting it can be. My goal is to advocate for those in marginalized communities like mine—international students, single-parent households, autistic people and their families—so that we may have access to more resources and opportunities to succeed. I am as successful as I am because of my mother. Although we try our best, sometimes we find ourselves stuck in potholes—some shallow and some very deep. Despite the numerous potholes in our road, she always kept her hands steady and allowed me to focus on my final destination.

Picture this: a five-foot-tall, little black girl excitedly walks into her middle school's robotic club, eager to expand on skills she learned in elementary school. Her bright eyes widen as she notices that the robotics room is full of people. These people wore khaki pants that looked very different from her plaid uniform skirt. "Oh wow." She was in a room with a maximum of three other girls and the rest young men. She would not know that what she looked at would be just the beginning of feeling out of place. I was an imposter in my skin, unwelcomed, scoffed at, ignored and blatantly disrespected. I was twelve. Using computers was like using a sense for me. It started when I was four, my curiosity driving me to baby's first video game: Solitaire. I quickly learned how powerful the computer is and delved into more practical skills like creating simple websites and using Scratch. A part of me always knew I would be a scientist as Math and Physics were the few subjects that fulfilled my never-ending curiosity and constant need to know "why?" I entered my first hackathon in my senior year of high school: Jamaica's first Machine Learning and Artificial Intelligence hackathon. I centred my project around the 17 United Nations Sustainable Development Goals. As the team captain of a three-member team of close friends, I first thought: "What would I use A.I. for?" The gears in my brain speedily turned as I pondered on an idea. Three goals stood out: Good Health and Well-being, Quality Education and Gender Equality. I created a machine-learning chatbot to answer user-defined questions about sexual health and education, menstruation, mental health and other related topics. I wanted to specifically target girls like me, who felt scared and confused about how to tackle becoming a woman. I loved working on this project. Before this, I had seen STEM as a male-dominated field curated to strictly professional and tedious products. I did not know the possibilities of using technology to help people like me. This experience made me more hopeful for my future in STEM and more determined to change it. As a first-year computer science major, my primary goal for the future is to create and improve current A.I. systems. I read many papers on Algorithmic Bias in my senior year. After diving through a rabbit hole of bias in tech, I was fascinated by ethical technology and the possibilities for systems that would not discriminate against people of colour, women, or other marginalized communities. I am a woman of colour in STEM, and I plan to use my degree to make STEM more accessible to people like me. My Bachelor's degree in Computer Science equips me with the privilege of entering the STEM field as an Afro-Caribbean woman. I have access to technological resources and opportunities I would have never had in Jamaica. This degree brings me closer to my dream of modernizing technology in my home country. I can already predict an exponential increase in opportunities when Jamaicans have access to savvier technologies, more efficient systems and overall improved quality of life. I also want to develop and enhance current software to make them more accessible to underdeveloped and marginalized communities. I want to help reform the field to be more open, safe and comfortable for women.

Google defines a pothole as a depression or hollow in a road caused by wear or sinking. Jamaica, where I am from, is notorious for having many pothole-ridden roads. In my lifetime, I have faced many. I was very young when I noticed that all my friends had both parents present in their lives—on father's day, on open class day, and after school— while I did not. It was a pothole I saw up the road, and I would brace myself for the impact. Bang! Tears rolled down my face at sunset when I remained seated on my elementary school steps. My friends had long gone home, but not me. My life was different. My mother's 9 to 5 wasn't so generous to shorten for little old me. Neither was the 5 o'clock traffic. I would learn that 6 pm was pick-up time, and that could not change. My mother bears a heavy cross: single mother of two; My younger autistic sister and I. When we were at grocery stores, school, or church, I would try to guess what thoughts lay behind pitiful stares. However, it did not matter because that's how it always was: my mom, sister and me. My mother never made this a barrier for us. One-less parent and income would not block us from our dreams. I can only thank her endless determination and love for us. She supported all my hobbies: from chess club to robotics, and encouraged my growing passion for STEM. She purchased my first computer to keep me productive and to encourage my thirst for knowledge. Late afternoons after school became opportunities to read longer, spend extra hours on homework, or discover a new hobby. Thanks to her, we slowly creeped out of the hollow in the road. Eventually, I would grow to be the unspoken second parent. As the eldest child, I grew wiser as my mother confided in me. The burden of a single income grew as we grew taller. I sensed another pothole approaching, but my mother held the wheel steadily. She would never allow us to worry about how things would happen. What I believed to be magic when I was younger was the efforts of a hard-working woman. There were late nights when my anxiety would grasp a tight hold on me. Questions beginning with "How will we afford....?" and "What if we don't..?" would barely escape my quivering lips. My mom always reassured me the same way. "Something will work out, do not worry." I am at my latest destination: my first year of college. I am grateful to be completing a Computer Science major surrounded by diverse students, professors and opportunities. I want to advocate for diversity in all spaces, especially technology. Coming from a single-parent household and living with my sister, I see the world from a wider lens, which allows me to see how limiting it can be. My goal is to advocate for those in marginalized communities like mine—international students, single-parent households, autistic people and their families—so that we may have access to more resources and opportunities to succeed. I am as successful as I am because of my mother. Although we try our best, sometimes we find ourselves stuck in potholes—some shallow and some very deep. Despite the numerous potholes in our road, she always kept her hands steady and allowed me to focus on my final destination.

Cinder Block and zinc sheets, a notoriously delicate combination, were the foundation for my legacy. To this day, I may view this architecture with strength and pride in what it represents. A humble light bulb flickers, illuminating the single room that would become a kitchen, bedroom, and dining room for four. The year is 1970, and Kingston, Jamaica, is a political warzone. Yet, my grandmother's bright soul and strong faith kept her family warm. She never complained, she told me, despite her circumstances: abandoned at 16 years old, uneducated and having known only the family she created. Her one regret was not completing high school, and she would never let her children face the same. The single room grew to three, and the family of four would become one of eight. The education of six children depended on the income of a mason and a shopkeeper. Both my grandparents, who did not complete high school, would produce successful children. I grew up visiting this three-room house nearly once a week. My mother raised us two minutes away and would ensure we would never grow too far from our roots. Our family was small, consisting of my mother, my sister and I, but it was always enough. I enjoyed weekends when we would stop by my grandparents' home. It reminded me that no matter where I was, home and family were never far. I spent my whole life in Jamaica, meaning familiarity was a luxury I enjoyed. Yet this luxury is why I wanted to study abroad. My infatuation with technology stemmed from a young age, playing with my mom's computer and joining the robotics team in elementary school. It became habitual to enter a science lab searching for someone who looked like me, and I was more often than not disappointed. My computer science teacher was always male, and my class was always male-dominated. I want to change this. I want to be a computer scientist to help unlock the potential of other women that may or may not look like me. I want to use my skills to create new and creative systems that will help improve my island. My country is small and humble but has so much potential. Like my grandmother, I want to build on this to ensure a positive future for my home. Every young girl in STEM in Jamaica is my sister, and I will help us grow together by paying it forward.

My STEM career took off in my senior year when I entered my first hackathon in my senior year: Jamaica's first Machine Learning and Artificial Intelligence hackathon. The hackathon revolved around the 17 UN Sustainable Development Goals or a challenge you can observe in Jamaica. As the team captain of a three-member team of close friends, I first thought: "What would I use AI for?" The gears in my brain speedily turned as I pondered on an idea. Three sustainable development goals stood out to me: Good Health and Well-being, Quality Education and Gender Equality. All three goals reminded me of my country and my experiences as a young woman here. I instantly knew what I wanted us to do. I created a machine-learning chatbot that would answer user-defined questions. These questions ranged from sexual health and education, menstruation, mental health and other related topics. I geared our chatbot to young women and children in Jamaica, or other regions, where female sexual and reproductive health is taboo. I wanted to specifically target girls who were like me, feeling gross, scared and confused about how to tackle becoming a woman. To do this, we sent out surveys across multiple schools, workplaces and several corners of the internet. I wanted to hear from real people what questions they were, or still are, afraid to ask about their bodies. I collected this data and used it to power our chatbot and bring our idea to life. I placed first in the Senior Team category. I consider this the beginning of my journey. I am passionate about disseminating resources, like education, to those who do not have access. In the Caribbean, women and children are not taught much about their bodies and sexual health. I hope to break the stigma against conversations about female sexual and reproductive health, allowing us to discuss how and why our bodies matter. As a woman of colour in STEM, I plan to use my degree to make STEM more accessible to people like me. My Bachelor's degree in Computer Science equips me with the privilege of entering the STEM field as an Afro-Caribbean woman. I have access to technological resources and opportunities I would have never had in Jamaica. This degree brings me closer to my dream of modernizing technology in my home country. I can already predict an exponential increase in opportunities when Jamaicans have access to savvier technologies, more efficient systems and overall improved quality of life.

Picture this: a five-foot-tall, little black girl excitedly walks into her middle school's robotic club, eager to expand on skills she learned in elementary school. Her bright eyes widen as she notices that the robotics room is full of people. These people wore khaki pants that looked very different from her plaid uniform skirt. "Oh wow." She was in a room with a maximum of three other girls and the rest young men. She would not know that what she looked at would be just the beginning of feeling out of place. I was an imposter in my skin, unwelcomed, scoffed at, ignored and blatantly disrespected. I was twelve. Using computers was like using a sense for me. It started when I was four, my curiosity driving me: Baby's first online solitaire. I quickly learned how powerful the computer is and delved into more practical skills like creating simple websites and using Scratch. A part of me always knew I would be a scientist—Math and Physics being the few subjects that fulfilled my never-ending curiosity and constant need to know "why?"— but I did not think I could be a software engineer. Do you know why? A lack of representation. They said boys make bridges, build cars, and use computers as tools like wrenches. They said Doctor or Lawyer, the two choices for little Jamaican girls because who would dare break tradition? My ninth-grade IT class solidified my career choice: when I had to give a presentation on computer hardware and software. I spent all night studying my notes on information technology and its importance. The look of shock on both my (primarily male) classmates' and my male teacher's face still makes me chuckle. "How can a girl know so much? How can she do that?" they must have asked in their heads. I live for that reaction now. What I once considered like a sore thumb makes me confident that I am a diamond in the rough. I was my first representation of a strong woman in tech, but thankfully I wasn't the last. Representation is a motivator for any underrepresented group—it is an example of one's potential seen in another. This motivation would be just as beneficial in the workplace as in a classroom. It is essential to feel significant in the workplace. When I work in tech, I want to be respected—not as a black female computer scientist but as a computer scientist. If other groups do not have to use their demographics to define themself in the workplace, why can't I? I deserve to feel wanted, represented, and comfortable in any space I choose to develop and grow. I want to be a computer scientist to help unlock the potential of other women that may or may not look like me. I want to use my skills to create new and creative systems that will help improve the world. I also want to develop and enhance current software to make them more accessible to underdeveloped and marginalized communities. I want to help reform the field to be more open, safe and comfortable for women. Computer science was considered a female career path from the 1800s to the early 1900s. Why must we not go back?

Beep! Beep! My mother’s grey Honda snapped me out of my trance. As we drove off, she probably asked “How was track practice?”, to which I likely mumbled a quick “fine” as I tuned out the rest of the conversation. I was more focused on chasing clouds. The windshield gave me a full-screen view of the evening colour show. As hues of purples and blues merged, I felt at peace. The day was September 11th, 2018. As the eldest daughter in a Jamaican, single-parent family, I had to battle many expectations. I also had a shadow mirroring my moves: my younger sister, Soroya. When Soroya was three, she was diagnosed with autism. It was just a splash of orange added to our sunset; which could be overwhelming but never took away from its beauty. I did all I could as her second-in-command mom on days where our mother worked late, which was nearly all of them. Whether staying up to help with assignments, or calming her down during a panic attack, I tried to do it all. Then there was my older brother, Shem. I admired the way he walked with a certain swagger, and effortlessly brightened a room upon entrance. I still remember when he arrived at my fourteenth birthday party. The excitement that filled me when I showed my friends my cool older brother was incomparable. There were times where we would sit and ponder the future together. Though plans were never solid, they became dreams for me. I knew based on annual birthday calls, regular visits, and offers to pick me up from school that I could depend on him for the rest of my life. On my September 11th, I returned to my silent house, mentally cursing the internet service provider for the third mishap this month. Without cable, internet, or telephone service, I retired to my room to watch a downloaded episode of “Gossip Girl”, because rich people's problems were far more entertaining than my own. Then Soroya appeared in my doorframe. I could tell something was off from her stance, as her usual fluid, ecstatic body language was restricted by stiffness. I flew out of bed, paralyzed in my steps by a wall-tremoring wail. I rarely ever saw her shed tears; she was invincible. Something in me shattered as I saw the walls that held me up for so long crumble. I begged her to tell me what’s wrong, because I had to be able to help. That was MY role. The words ‘not him’ escaped between her sobs. My older brother passed away in a car crash, on his route home from the airport. My mother’s tower, and mine, paralleled as they fell. That day — my 9/11 — a horrible day in the history of the world, and my family, is stained in my mind. It took us long to rebuild those walls. As a family, we became more dependent on each other; for comfort and hope. As for me, I found solace in sunsets, familiar smiles, and trying new things. I learned to prioritize myself while keeping other parts of my life in balance. I still looked at my mother as my hero, while remembering that she is not invincible. Similarly, I found the hero in myself through my vulnerable moments. I learned that a helping hand was always around the corner, I just needed to be brave enough to ask for it. Inside school, I found myself surrounded by like-minded peers trying to make a change, and do some good in our world. My newly painted sunset is not the same as before, and will never be. Now, I make more of an effort to give back to others through random acts of service. Maybe one day, I'll be lucky enough to be as influential to someone as my brother was to me.

Every woman longs to bloom, but I spent my pre-teenage years as a weed. I was not beautiful. I did not stand tall with my head high and bosoms blossoming. I was merely a weed. The kind that sprouts awkwardly in the middle of a flowerbed, so desperate to be noticed. Yet failing, especially during the springtime. Puberty felt as if Spring were eternal or God’s favourites started a club: an anti-weed, daily stroll, don’t even try to look good but look good club. “We do not want to be in clubs that don’t want us,” my mother nagged, adjusting my posture and condemning my self-loathing. That usually translated to gibberish coming from the one beholder of my “beauty.” That’s easy for her to say she is already beautiful. No one likes weeds. At fifteen years old, the whispers started. The urge to wrap sweaters around my waist and tightly cross my arms. The snickers as I strolled by, but never when other girls did; the beautiful roses, ruby red with thick stems and curved branches. As unnoticeable as a tiny weed can be, the dim shade of sage tends to stick out in a sea of bold red. I began to hide, glancing at the floor whenever I heard the tap-taps of someone approaching me. The sound became unnerving when usually the person was walking past. Fear arose as I debated whether my voice or even my laugh, would be so annoying that I would be banished into non-existence. I would feel my breath hitch at the sound of laughter. Did I say something? What are they looking at? Is it me? Why are they looking at me? Why?! WHY?!? I shamefully admit I preferred the snickers to the silence, the dimness of the shadows, the Late Night skits at 11 am about my lack of this and that and the frequent comparison of my body to a nearby flat surface. Finally, during a long-awaited Summer, I blossomed. The unsightly thorns smoothed out completely, and these stems slightly thickened. I gained the ability to look strangers in the face, speak with the utmost intention and have people stare at me. Directly at me. I appreciated the stares, the admiration of my new parts, and the unwelcomed, tedious conversation I had always deeply desired. Longing gazes scanned my exterior, intimidated to meet my eyes. The pretty girls, beautiful roses, welcomed me and the boys spoke to me. Suddenly I was visible, revealed, and rebooted. Life could not have been better. Yet momentarily, I learned that boys share an identical monotone after a few minutes of uninspiring conversation. My face remained straight during the reverb of tired jokes I would have died to hear a few months prior. Were the people I craved validation from always so….boring? One Thursday, a tiny red mark grew on the side of my cheek. The unsightly blemish opened my eyes to see me: the real imperfect me. I am not perfect anymore, but life wasn’t over. I stopped turning my cheek to the mirror pane, peeking every now and then until it felt familiar, like someone I used to know. Over the course of many seasons, I grew to love my laugh: the unusual combination of a shriek and a snort. My voice sounded more melodic as I comfortably spoke with individuals who met my gaze. I made a formal introduction with the girl in the mirror. I realised we are not so different, both beautiful flowers, finally in season. Cole, Sarah (2022). The Dandelion [Unpublished personal essay]. Howard University

If you had asked me what the American Dream was a year ago, I would have said Starbucks, road trips, pep rallies and the Star-Spangled banner. As an avid consumer of American media, my dreams of studying abroad all but came true when my acceptance letter to my current college came in the mail. Unfortunately, I did not read the fine print in invisible ink: "As an International Student, you are entitled to home-sickness, feelings of loneliness, hopelessness and minimal aid." University is lonely. I am constantly performing as the girl who knows what she is doing. I articulate my words, meticulous to code-switch so that my accent does not gain attention. I pretend I am unaffected by the coldness of the American, reminiscing warm smiles and reciprocated "Good Morning's". I bite my tongue when met with hostility and struggle to hold back tears when the Office of Financial Aid tells me to do "independent research" as they focus on federal resources for US citizens. Who knew being a foreigner meant that I hardly matter? My most prominent struggle is to find financial aid. I type this at 1 am and reflect on the past two hours I have spent scouring the internet for resources. I have overwhelming anxiety, like a rain cloud constantly following me, that I may not afford my next year here and be shipped back home in the blink of an eye. I am immensely grateful for the opportunity to study in the US, and this scholarship will only help support my dreams to continue my studies. I am a first-year computer science major from Kingston, Jamaica. As a Caribbean woman in STEM, a second-generation university student, and a first-generation STEM student, my academic goal is to graduate with honours. I want to pursue a master's in Machine Learning and Artificial Intelligence and participate in research regarding these systems. This scholarship would grant me the financial stability to afford my next semester at university. I cannot work in my first year and depend primarily on my single mother to provide for me. Being in a different country creates more challenges regarding financial support. As her eldest daughter, I would like to alleviate her financial stress and anxiety concerning my future in the US. This scholarship would allow me to focus on my career goals: preparing for a technical internship, working on personal projects and doing research. I have always felt obligated to support my mother: emotionally, physically and financially. She has always supported my dreams and did everything to make them come true. I only wish to begin repaying her from now.

Imagine you are a 12-year-old girl, finally blossoming into a woman. Then all of a sudden, you get your first period. Now what? Cramps? Acne?! Inevitable Doom?!?! You have so many questions but are too afraid to ask them. My project, Period Pride JA, was crafted around this all-too-familiar scenario. I entered my first hackathon in my senior year: Jamaica's first Machine Learning and Artificial Intelligence hackathon. Our prompt was to gear our project towards the 17 UN Sustainable Development Goals or a challenge you can observe in Jamaica. As the team captain of a three-member team of close friends, I first thought: "What would I use AI for?" The gears in my brain speedily turned as I pondered on an idea. Three sustainable development goals stood out to me: Good Health and Well-being, Quality Education and Gender Equality. All three goals reminded me of my country and my experiences as a young woman here. I instantly knew what I wanted us to do. We created a machine learning chatbot that would answer user-defined questions. These questions ranged from sexual health and education, menstruation, mental health and other related topics. We geared our chatbot to young women and children in Jamaica, or other regions, where female sexual and reproductive health is taboo. I wanted to specifically target girls who were like me, feeling gross, scared and confused about how to tackle becoming a woman. To do this, we sent out surveys across multiple schools, workplaces and several corners of the internet. We wanted to hear from real people what questions they were, or still are, afraid to ask about their bodies. We collected this data and used it to power our chatbot and bring our idea to life. I loved working on this project, from learning the Python behind it to meticulously curating the design of its website: a perfect pink-and-white aesthetic. Before this, I had seen STEM as a male-dominated field curated to strictly professional and tedious products. I did not know the possibilities of using technology to help people like me: young women. I believe this experience made me more hopeful for my future in STEM. I am inspired to create more projects geared to underrepresented communities and projects that will solve everyday problems. It can be overwhelming to think about how to change the world overnight with just a computer and a bright idea. Period Pride JA showed me that it is not impossible and opened me to my future in technology.