From community service projects to small favors, helping people is a hobby of mine. Because of this, I found it a bit challenging to determine what I should write in my essay. Nevertheless, it came to me. My dear sister has been suffering postpartum depression. She’s always been super cheerful and ambitious so seeing her in such a state was quite concerning, I’d even say disturbing. It made me reflect on everything she’s done for me. I can’t list it all, but some of the most notable things she’s done were: encourage me when nobody else realized I needed it, shared her victories with me, and put her pride aside to lift me up even when it meant her reputation would diminish. For context, she’s 9 years older than me and has a polar opposite personality. You see, my sister is a social media beauty-freak, but I’m an artistic anime-freak so we are nothing but different. People expect siblings like us to hardly ever get along but, we defy those expectations. Recently, she rejoined the workforce after her maternity leave and it’s been ripping her to shreds. I babysat for her and her house reflected the struggles she and her fiancé have been having as a new parents and young adults. So, what did I do? I cleaned their house while they were gone. I started with the kitchen, cleaning up caked up baby formula, straightened up a few rooms, and finished with the powder room, organizing all her beauty supplies. I’m used to cleaning up after her, but this time was different. Before, I was cleaning up behind an unruly beauty queen, wiping up foundation and organizing clothes. This time, I was cleaning for a mother, a young lady trying to make ends meet and keep everyone happy. She felt the difference too. Moved to tears, she embraced me with gratitude when she returned home. I’d never been so compelled to do housekeeping, whereas before, I would catch an attitude about being her little peasant. As I stated before, we are very different. The one thing we have in common in the incredible ability to make a mess, which made me especially unenthusiastic about cleaning up. At the end of the day, words cannot express the conviction I have to help my sister anytime, anyplace, especially as life continues to throw the curviest curveballs her way. I just want to be her helpful little sister.

“When you get baptized, you’re going to turn the water black.” My saucer-sized hand was about to meet the face of a peanut-butter-colored brother after he said this. I knew it was a joke—ha ha, you’re corrupted beyond repair—but he didn’t know the weight his words carried. Every prayer I had ever prayed began to echo like 9/11 sirens in my ears. Every self-inflicted wound reopened, pouring out like water from a broken fire hydrant. This rush of pain was brief, though. As quickly as it surged, it was replaced by feelings of worthiness, growth, and overcoming. This happened because I remembered where I came from. I came from the bottom. I like to say I was raised in the hood, not by the hood, but I was still a statistic: an overweight Black girl in a single-parent, low-income, urban household. I was out of a home, out of a car, and sometimes out of my mind—but I had my intelligence. I was the stereotypical “smart kid,” always attentive with an answer for everything. I also got bullied. Of course I did. I was obese, my hair was never done, I probably smelled like ten cans, and I wobbled around in Walmart walkers. I wanted to kill myself until I met God. I thought I knew God, but really, I only knew about Him. I was raised in a family that prayed and attended church faithfully, but my relationship with God had not yet bloomed. My faith grew through participating in praise dance and community service. At school, I cried on worksheets I earned A’s on. I marinated in my musk while taking exams I received honors for. While classmates cheated off me, I was cutting myself in a corner. Coming as far as I have literally took blood, sweat, and tears, but above all else, it took God’s grace. Through that season of hardship, I learned who I am beneath the shame. I am kind, humble, helpful, forgiving, understanding, and talented. These traits fuel my dream of becoming an interior architect—someone who creates spaces where people can feel safe, seen, and restored. Although my connection with God allowed me to move forward from my past, I was still unsure about fully giving my life to Him until a trip to Florida changed everything. During a sermon, the preacher shared that she tried to kill herself in seventh grade. She was poor and bullied for wearing Walmart walkers, just like me. Her suicide was delayed by a message from God she received in her sleep. He told her He had other plans, ones more unpredictable than death, plans she needed to live to fulfill. That same night, she saw a vision of an event with chairs prepared for a crowd of ten thousand. I wondered if she ever made it to that event—until she revealed I was sitting in one of those chairs. In that moment, I knew when the baptismal appeal came, I had to be front and center. My insecurities needed to be dissolved in the baptismal pool. Preparing for college meant preparing for release. I needed to let go of doubt, depression, and uncertainty to make room for growth, greatness, and peace of mind. The next stop on my route to success was underwater. In the baptismal pool, Pastor PB and J held my hand and pulled me under. I kept my eyes open and was overjoyed to see the water was crystal clear. I did not turn the water black. The only thing clearer than the water was that I had a prosperous future to claim.

“When you get baptized, you’re going to turn the water black.” My saucer-sized hand was about to meet the face of a peanut-butter-colored brother after he said this. I knew it was a joke—ha ha, you’re corrupted beyond repair—but he didn’t know the weight his words carried. Every prayer I had ever prayed began to echo like 9/11 sirens in my ears. Every self-inflicted wound reopened, pouring out like water from a broken fire hydrant. This rush of pain was brief, though. As quickly as it surged, it was replaced by feelings of worthiness, growth, and overcoming. This happened because I remembered where I came from. I came from the bottom. I like to say I was raised in the hood, not by the hood, but I was still a statistic: an overweight Black girl in a single-parent, low-income, urban household. I was out of a home, out of a car, and sometimes out of my mind—but I had my intelligence. I was the stereotypical “smart kid,” always attentive with an answer for everything. I also got bullied. Of course I did. I was obese, my hair was never done, I probably smelled like ten cans, and I wobbled around in Walmart walkers. I wanted to kill myself until I met God. I thought I knew God, but really, I only knew about Him. I was raised in a family that prayed and attended church faithfully, but my relationship with God had not yet bloomed. My faith grew through participating in praise dance and community service. At school, I cried on worksheets I earned A’s on. I marinated in my musk while taking exams I received honors for. While classmates cheated off me, I was cutting myself in a corner. Coming as far as I have literally took blood, sweat, and tears, but above all else, it took God’s grace. Through that season of hardship, I learned who I am beneath the shame. I am kind, humble, helpful, forgiving, understanding, and talented. These traits fuel my dream of becoming an interior architect—someone who creates spaces where people can feel safe, seen, and restored. Although my connection with God allowed me to move forward from my past, I was still unsure about fully giving my life to Him until a trip to Florida changed everything. During a sermon, the preacher shared that she tried to kill herself in seventh grade. She was poor and bullied for wearing Walmart walkers, just like me. Her suicide was delayed by a message from God she received in her sleep. He told her He had other plans, ones more unpredictable than death, plans she needed to live to fulfill. That same night, she saw a vision of an event with chairs prepared for a crowd of ten thousand. I wondered if she ever made it to that event—until she revealed I was sitting in one of those chairs. In that moment, I knew when the baptismal appeal came, I had to be front and center. My insecurities needed to be dissolved in the baptismal pool. Preparing for college meant preparing for release. I needed to let go of doubt, depression, and uncertainty to make room for growth, greatness, and peace of mind. The next stop on my route to success was underwater. In the baptismal pool, Pastor PB and J held my hand and pulled me under. I kept my eyes open and was overjoyed to see the water was crystal clear. I did not turn the water black. The only thing clearer than the water was that I had a prosperous future to claim.

One thing about me is I'm not a regular artist. While there's nothing wrong with being a one-trick pony, that's just not me. It's easier for artists to express their connection to their specific craft. However, with my intense passion and eagerness to indulge in a wide variety of crafts, I want to share my passion in multiple areas. The first examples of art I want to discuss are drawing and writing. I draw and write about my dreams when I feel like I can't manifest them. These dreams aren't so much aspirations as they are the result of my constant wondering about things like revenge on my bullies or swimming in a pool of snacks. Drawing and writing are therapeutic in a sense that I can empty out my thoughts as a chronic overthinker. I can do this for others too. I enjoy bringing people's silly scenarios to life through drawings and literature, scenarios like a romance between a furry and a vampire, or a battle between a hedgehog and a glitter-farting electrician. I want to sharpen my skills to be as limitless as imagination so I can continue to give shape to extraordinary ideas. Speaking of shape, sculpting is another craft that means a lot to me. With sculpting, I give ideas a third dimension. That's just short of literally bringing them to life. On one occasion, I sculpted my favorite character. When I finished, I felt as though I'd just given birth. It was the strongest connection I'd felt to any piece I'd ever created. All of my senses were activated in the creation of the sculpture. I vividly imagined the size and shape of his features. When art becomes a mind, body, and soul experience, it's beautiful. There's beauty in sculpting and then there's beauty in general. Plenty of beauty influencers share a similar backstory: they or a loved one got bullied and they pursued cosmetology to promote the idea that everyone is beautiful. I'm no different. I started off doing my own hair, makeup, and nails, and moved on to service others once I started receiving requests. Through this area of creativity, I could empower others and feel empowered myself. Besides my influence on others, I want to share how others influenced me: with strings. My grandmother is really into crochet, knitting, sewing, and cross-stitching. I had a feeling that those things would grow on me, but my moment of certainty was when I joined my crochet club. My friends were really influential in my decision to start crocheting. I rapidly improved from making squares to clothes so that I could catch up to them and I did. The greatest thing about this journey is that I not only demonstrated my creativity, but also my competence, passion, and adeptness as an artist. Lastly, I want to share my experience in performing arts. I've danced, sung, acted, and more. In my Contemporary dance program, I danced in groups and solos. The same goes for singing and acting. As an introvert, these performances were essential to my character development. I learned how to better understand social queues and discovered some hidden talents. Although I didn't mention everything, I have the same message. Ultimately, art in many forms has a crucial role in my life. I rely on art for learning, teaching, entertainment, community and so much more. Now that I'm college-bound, I hope to raise enough funds to advance in my creative journey.

My worst artwork is my favorite. Logically, an artist's favorite work should be their best because it shows off their technical skills, but that's objectively speaking. When considering the emotional connection an artist shares with their art, it makes sense why their best work might not be their favorite. The artwork I have in mind is a failed attempt at a Webtoon that I started in fifth grade. It's named: Alone Together. At the time, my creativity was fueled by misery and depression. Although I hadn't a clue what the plot would be, I was certain that everyone would die in the end. Why? Well, because I was sad, and because I said so. For context, I got bullied a lot in elementary and middle school and fifth grade was the thick of it. I felt like: if I'm going down, you're going down with me. I told anyone who asked what my story was about, "I don't know. I just want to make people really happy and then really sad." Over time, I changed, and so did the story. When I healed my childhood trauma, so did my characters. When I found happiness, I wrote a happy ending. The journey I took to develop the story was the real art. I made revisions to the Webtoon, funnier, more comprehensible, and organized revisions, but the prototype is my favorite because it's a symbol of growth and humble beginnings. In the latest version, everyone still dies, but that's not the end. Now, the characters end up in the Yonder, my creative equivalent of Heaven, and live happily ever after. The way I cringe at the original storyline is how I would have cringed at the revised version if I were back in the shoes of a borderline suicidal middle schooler. Besides my misery, the story reflected other parts of me. The main character, Andre, is Japanese which allowed me to explore Japanese culture which I appreciate so much. My humor also shines through the dialogue. I cherish this because I feel like I get to meet the person my friends loved instead of the gloomy victim I embodied. I get to meet this person in the form of my treasured original characters (OCs); it's a bittersweet nostalgic feeling. When I revisit it from time to time, I imagine that I'm talking to my former middle school self, teaching her the skills I've learned over the years and giving her advice. In Lauvey's song Letter to My 13 Year Old self, she sang, "I wish I could go back and give her a squeeze, myself at 13..." I resonate with the desire to teach my past self what I know now. I have uploaded the panel that captures my lack of skill as a young artist/storyteller.