I moved from New Jersey to Florida in my sophomore year of high school. Although the move was challenging, I found my sanctuary—Heidi's Academy of the Performing Arts. Every day after school, I would volunteer at the Dance Academy. I loved volunteering, but there was one thorn in my side—Sha'mira. Like the movies, the academy had a hierarchy— similar to India's Caste system or the cliques in Mean Girls. And Sha'mira was Regina George, the head mean girl amongst the other dancers. She often arrived late and wore a faded leotard with worn-in pink ballet slippers. Her bun was always messy. And she'd always come alone. As one can imagine, Sha'mira gave me a hard time when I first arrived. If I directed the dancers to go into the first position, she would go into the fifth. If I directed them to do workouts, she would spend her time chatting with the other girls. I never understood why Sha'mira acted this way until one evening. I stayed at the studio later than usual because I was preparing for an upcoming recital. As the sun set, all the girls left one after another, but Sha'mira was still there. Fifteen minutes had passed, then Thirty—but still no one arrived. Sha'mira stayed quiet and stared at the empty parking lot as we waited in silence. Then a car pulled up. Not long after, a woman approached; she was wearing a suit, but her hair was tousled, and her white button-up was half-tucked. She looked as though she had been running. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I promise it won't happen again", she spoke. I assured her that there were no worries, and we said our goodbyes. On my drive home, I thought about Sha'mira and her mother. After that day, Sha'mira stopped attending dance lessons. Miss Heidi said her payments had been late the past three months, and Sha'miras mother struggled to pick her up. To this day, I still hope to see Sha'mira again—even if we sit in silence like that day. I meet girls like Sha'mira time and time again. And instead of dismissing them as problem children, I give them all the attention I can because I don't know if they're getting it at home. I don't know much about Sha'mira or her situation. But I do know that since that day, I have done everything to help those who might not be able to help themselves. Volunteering at Heidi's Academy not only showed me the importance of lending a helping hand--but the importance of art education, especially for inner-city children. Miss Heidi's dance classes allowed Sha'mira the opportunity to get creative and have fun. While in school, I plan to intern at the Museum of African Diaspora (MoAD). As a MoAD intern, I intend to grant every child the chance to express themselves artistically in a space that doesn't limit them based on their demographics. So that other children, like Sha'mira, will gain a quality art education.

I moved from New Jersey to Florida in my sophomore year of high school. Although the move was challenging, I found my sanctuary—Heidi's Academy of the Performing Arts. Every day after school, I would volunteer at the Dance Academy. I loved volunteering, but there was one thorn in my side—Sha'mira. Like the movies, the academy had a hierarchy— similar to India's Caste system or the cliques in Mean Girls. And Sha'mira was Regina George, the head mean girl amongst the other dancers. She often arrived late and wore a faded leotard with worn-in pink ballet slippers. Her bun was always messy. And she'd always come alone. As one can imagine, Sha'mira gave me a hard time when I first arrived. If I directed the dancers to go into the first position, she would go into the fifth. If I directed them to do workouts, she would spend her time chatting with the other girls. I never understood why Sha'mira acted this way until one evening. I stayed at the studio later than usual because I was preparing for an upcoming recital. As the sun set, all the girls left one after another, but Sha'mira was still there. Fifteen minutes had passed, then Thirty—but still no one arrived. Sha'mira stayed quiet and stared at the empty parking lot as we waited in silence. Then a car pulled up. Not long after, a woman approached; she was wearing a suit, but her hair was tousled, and her white button-up was half-tucked. She looked as though she had been running. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I promise it won't happen again", she spoke. I assured her that there were no worries, and we said our goodbyes. On my drive home, I thought about Sha'mira and her mother. After that day, Sha'mira stopped attending dance lessons. Miss Heidi said her payments had been late the past three months, and Sha'miras mother struggled to pick her up. To this day, I still hope to see Sha'mira again—even if we sit in silence like that day. I meet girls like Sha'mira time and time again. And instead of dismissing them as problem children, I give them all the attention I can because I don't know if they're getting it at home. I don't know much about Sha'mira or her situation. But I do know that since that day, I have done everything to help those who might not be able to help themselves. Volunteering at Heidi's Academy not only showed me the importance of lending a helping hand--but the importance of art education, especially for inner-city children. Miss Heidi's dance classes allowed Sha'mira the opportunity to get creative and have fun. While in school, I plan to intern at the Museum of African Diaspora (MoAD). As a MoAD intern, I intend to grant every child the chance to express themselves artistically in a space that doesn't limit them based on their demographics. So that other children, like Sha'mira, will gain a quality art education.

All my life, I’ve been asked to find X. To balance equations. To help X find meaning. I can only imagine how X feels. A mysterious letter thrown into a world of numbers. While other numbers had assigned values at birth, such as 1, 2, and 1/2, X must have felt like it had none. I was once like X. A mysterious anomaly in a world of order. As a child, I never saw people like me. Growing up, I always felt a divide with both sides of my family. I grew up never really belonging: ironically, I was too African for my American side and too American for my African side. Every summer, after a month of fasting, my dad's side would gather at my aunt's house for Eid. My cousins would dress in elaborate dresses with beautiful, unique patterns. While the men would gather in the living room, arguing over African politics over Ataya. While I would take refuge in a corner and watch. Numbers and formulas would flood around me—a coagulation of decimals and percentages—of foreign words and phrases. My mom's side had a bit more in common with me, but there were still things that I wasn't familiar with. While my grandmother cooked her famous Thanksgiving meal, my cousins would share memories from times when they were young. Memories that I missed out on because due to living so far away. While we would sit at the dining room table feasting on savory gravy and mashed potatoes, I would feel entirely out of place. My entire life was a culture shock, and I found myself at a crossroads. In a world of 1s, 2s, and 3s. There I was. A lone X. What was my number? Where did I belong? While I sat and tackled the equations presented to me in my math classes, I felt a sense of comradery. X was an anomaly within my assignments, with values as high as infinity and as low as negative infinity. As I got farther into my math classes and continued to cut through the many values and symbols, I found that while X was different than any other value on the page, it was still incredibly valuable. It was the only value that was able to take on more than one identity. In some problems, it was equal to fluid irrational numbers repeating forever and ever. In others, it was an integer, short and neat. Taking inspiration from X, I’ve learned that I, too, could be anything I wanted. I realized the insignificance of labels. Whether I was more African or American was irrelevant. I was born to two families that love me unconditionally, regardless of what language I speak. I am X. I have chosen to embrace the crossroads where I stand and accept myself, no matter what value I adopt. I am a variable—versatile and ever-changing, and I look forward to finding my X once again.

I moved from New Jersey to Florida in my sophomore year of high school. Although the move was challenging, I found my sanctuary—Heidi's Academy of the Performing Arts. Every day after school, I would volunteer at the Dance Academy. I loved volunteering, but there was one thorn in my side—Sha'mira. Like the movies, the academy had a hierarchy— similar to India's Caste system or the cliques in Mean Girls. And Sha'mira was Regina George, the head mean girl amongst the other dancers. She often arrived late and wore a faded leotard with worn-in pink ballet slippers. Her bun was always messy. And she'd always come alone. As one can imagine, Sha'mira gave me a hard time when I first arrived. If I directed the dancers to go into the first position, she would go into the fifth. If I directed them to do workouts, she would spend her time chatting with the other girls. I never understood why Sha'mira acted this way until one evening. I stayed at the studio later than usual because I was preparing for an upcoming recital. As the sun set, all the girls left one after another, but Sha'mira was still there. Fifteen minutes had passed, then Thirty—but still no one arrived. Sha'mira stayed quiet and stared at the empty parking lot as we waited in silence. Then a car pulled up. Not long after, a woman approached; she was wearing a suit, but her hair was tousled, and her white button-up was half-tucked. She looked as though she had been running. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I promise it won't happen again", she spoke. I assured her that there were no worries, and we said our goodbyes. On my drive home, I thought about Sha'mira and her mother. After that day, Sha'mira stopped attending dance lessons. Miss Heidi said her payments had been late the past three months, and Sha'miras mother struggled to pick her up. To this day, I still hope to see Sha'mira again—even if we sit in silence like that day. I meet girls like Sha'mira time and time again. And instead of dismissing them as problem children, I give them all the attention I can because I don't know if they're getting it at home. I don't know much about Sha'mira or her situation. But I do know that since that day, I have done everything to help those who might not be able to help themselves. Volunteering at Heidi's Academy not only showed me the importance of lending a helping hand--but the importance of art education, especially for inner-city children. Miss Heidi's dance classes allowed Sha'mira the opportunity to get creative and have fun. While in school, I plan to intern at the Museum of African Diaspora (MoAD). As a MoAD intern, I intend to grant every child the chance to express themselves artistically in a space that doesn't limit them based on their demographics. So that other children, like Sha'mira, will gain a quality art education.

I moved from New Jersey to Florida in my sophomore year of high school. Although the move was challenging, I found my sanctuary—Heidi's Academy of the Performing Arts. Every day after school, I would volunteer at the Dance Academy. I loved volunteering, but there was one thorn in my side—Sha'mira. Like the movies, the academy had a hierarchy— similar to India's Caste system or the cliques in Mean Girls. And Sha'mira was Regina George, the head mean girl amongst the other dancers. She often arrived late and wore a faded leotard with worn-in pink ballet slippers. Her bun was always messy. And she'd always come alone. As one can imagine, Sha'mira gave me a hard time when I first arrived. If I directed the dancers to go into the first position, she would go into the fifth. If I directed them to do workouts, she would spend her time chatting with the other girls. I never understood why Sha'mira acted this way until one evening. I stayed at the studio later than usual because I was preparing for an upcoming recital. As the sun set, all the girls left one after another, but Sha'mira was still there. Fifteen minutes had passed, then Thirty—but still no one arrived. Sha'mira stayed quiet and stared at the empty parking lot as we waited in silence. Then a car pulled up. Not long after, a woman approached; she was wearing a suit, but her hair was tousled, and her white button-up was half-tucked. She looked as though she had been running. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I promise it won't happen again", she spoke. I assured her that there were no worries, and we said our goodbyes. On my drive home, I thought about Sha'mira and her mother. After that day, Sha'mira stopped attending dance lessons. Miss Heidi said her payments had been late the past three months, and Sha'miras mother struggled to pick her up. To this day, I still hope to see Sha'mira again—even if we sit in silence like that day. I meet girls like Sha'mira time and time again. And instead of dismissing them as problem children, I give them all the attention I can because I don't know if they're getting it at home. I don't know much about Sha'mira or her situation. But I do know that since that day, I have done everything to help those who might not be able to help themselves. Volunteering at Heidi's Academy not only showed me the importance of lending a helping hand--but also the importance of art education, especially for inner-city children. Miss Heidi's dance classes allowed Sha'mira the opportunity to get creative and have fun. While in school, I plan to intern at the Museum of African Diaspora (MoAD). As a MoAD intern, I intend to grant every child the chance to express themselves artistically in a space that doesn't limit them based on their demographics. So that other children, like Sha'mira, will gain a quality art education.