In a world that rewards mostly STEM students, here I am as an aspiring poet. Two thousand years ago, I might be seen as one of the rising stars who continues an oral tradition to describe all that is beautiful, hard, terrifying, inspiring, passionate, heart-breaking, jaw-dropping, fearful, and human in our communities. Now, I wonder if being an English major isn't seen as questionable. But you asked how I would give back to my community and the my goals are honest and sincere. I hope to inspire young writers and thinkers by sharing my words across the internet and even those things called "pages in a book." I hope to reflect who we are as a community in order to think across diverse ways of living. I want to be a mirror for those who are trying to build a better world but do so by connecting words in a way to make the heart palpitate. I want to make some young lady catch her breath the same way I did when I first read Toni Morrison and even now as I sometimes trudge through Homer and Euripides I find myself gasping at the beauty of words that are reflecting communities long gone by. But I also want you to know about my "boots on the ground" experiences that have left a mark. In high school, I began my community service by helping incomming students adjust to the often overwhelming experience of joining a large school. This role is referred to as a "LINK Leader." As a LINK Leader in an ethnically and socioeconomically diverse school, I especially enjoy this service activity because of the connections I make with the incoming freshmen. A LINK Leader’s job is to welcome freshmen to high school, making their transition to a larger school environment less intimidating. While getting to know these new students, I found that empathy came easy. As a previous freshman who felt similarly nervous or fearful, my intention was to establish myself not as an upperclassman who should be respected but as a relatable person these students could approach. The conversations I had with the freshmen have been a standout aspect of my involvement in any service activity. I learned that one student hopes to be a musician; he plays the bass and used to play piano. Another student takes art classes and loves to draw. A third wants to be a welder, forging jewelry and silver gates. Connecting with these freshmen and listening to their various stories has not only been a source of personal growth and joy but has also benefited the entire school. When students feel valued, they’re more likely to develop a sense of belonging that translates into community pride. I've also had the opportunity to volunteer at the Weld County Food Bank which has shaped how I see food security even in the year 2026. It would seem impossible that people are going hungry, but in Weld County, there are thousands of people who rely on donations. Working in the food bank, people come together in a swarm of activity to pack bags full of goods. It's a flurry of hands and smiles as everyone mobilizes to send food out the door to waitiing mouths. These experiences continue today as I volunteer (when my head isn't plunged into a book). I hope Allison would see the value in a woman pursuing English but also connect it back to our communities. Thank you for considering me for this opportuity!

Jane Austen once wrote, “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” This same sentiment can be applied to my writing, which is to say I am tongue-tied by my love for it. I love it in a jealous way, in a bothered way, in a Robin Williams manic way. Writing, as frustrating as it can be, is what I want to be doing for the rest of my life; it feels like a second skin. I want words dripping from my fingertips, gooey, thick, and sweet. I want to explore my position in society through my poetry. Most of all, however, I want to convince my mom that the Oxford comma is necessary. Though my parents both majored in English, I was never forced to revere words. I grew up in an environment that prioritized pursuing one’s passion—whatever that passion may be. My love for writing was not sparked by one singular life event, rather my desire grew steadily as I matured into the person I am today. At six years old, I would write songs in a bedazzled notebook, falsely believing I could sing them too. At twelve years old, I wrote my first poem. Though I quickly developed a style sans rhyme, I loved working with rhythm, manipulating the same sing-song quality I enjoyed years ago. I wrote a short story at sixteen and a memoir shortly after. During each of these occasions, I realized I was able to understand myself—my thoughts and feelings and ideas—in a way that not only fostered joy and empathy but also established my future aspiration to write. High school did not offer creative writing courses, but I learned to refine my craft through the numerous research papers I wrote. I liked "playing" with sentences, shaping them in unique ways and implementing the occasional metaphor. My English teacher noticed something in my writing. I took AP Seminar my sophomore year and English Composition my senior year with this teacher. During the whirlwind of college and scholarship applications, my teacher wrote letters of recommendation for me and read over my personal statement . As our bond over words grew, I asked my teacher if he would read a portion of my poetry. Sharing my poetry, though it may not seem like it, is one of the greatest acts of trust. Poetry is embarrassing, every thought and feeling and grueling desire or worry written down. I remember telling him that my poetry is my soul. And it is. Later that day my teacher emailed me, saying he would never judge my soul. A few days before graduation, my English teacher gave me a letter and a book. He told me that when he was in high school, a teacher did the very same thing for him. Inside the cover of the book, my teacher wrote, "I hope you never stop writing." Other than my parents, I've never had an adult believe in my writing ability. Whenever someone asks me what I want to do for a career, I always sense their dismay when I tell them I want to be a writer. I think they see a bright kid suddenly without a future. And I know it's going to be hard, but why can't I do it? This teacher encouraged me to pursue my dream in a way I never expected but always wanted. I am now majoring in English with an emphasis in creative writing. I am overjoyed and so thankful for the experiences in high school that championed my passion.

In eighth grade, I wore a sticky note on my shirt every Friday to protest and raise awareness about climate change. The notes would read, I’d rather be striking, Can we eat money, Denying climate change is denying science, or I’ve seen better cabinets at IKEA. One other friend joined me, and it became our quaint version of a climate strike. Later that year, we began an environmental club with the goal of establishing recycling bins throughout our K-8 school. This club was short-lived as COVID-19 effectively ended my eighth grade school year, so I was left with an unresolved passion to make a difference. During the summer of 2020, my heart broke. The Black Lives Matter movement was loud and powerful and beautiful, but I was still horribly distraught by the continuous murdering of Black people. My heart broke again when the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade and again when thousands of Palestinians were bombed, limbs and heads separated from the rest of their bodies. To cope with the powerlessness I felt, I began writing and advocating for these voices. I wrote a poem titled “06/24/22,” which was published by the American Library of Poetry, to support a woman’s right to control her body. I have also written pieces about the death of Mahsa Amini in Iran, the Supreme Court’s affirmative action ban, and police violence and discrimination. Writing can be a powerful way to demand social justice, but I want to continue with this activism as I enter new stages of my life. Using my expertise as a leader, my goal is to contribute to the efforts made by grassroots organizations; I want to make a difference in someone’s world. Currently, I am making a difference through my service as a LINK Leader in an ethnically and socioeconomically diverse school. I especially enjoy this service activity because of the connections I make with the incoming freshmen. A LINK Leader’s job is to welcome freshmen to high school, making their transition to a larger school environment less intimidating. While getting to know these new students, I found that empathy came easy. As a previous freshman who felt similarly nervous or fearful, my intention was to establish myself not as an upperclassman who should be respected but as a relatable person these students could approach. The conversations I’ve had with the freshmen have been a standout aspect of my involvement in any service activity. I learned that one student hopes to be a musician; he plays the bass and used to play piano. Another student takes art classes and loves to draw. A third wants to be a welder, forging jewelry and silver gates. Connecting with these freshmen and listening to their various stories has not only been a source of personal growth and joy but has also benefited the entire school. When students feel valued, they’re more likely to develop a sense of belonging that translates into community pride.

Submitted via file upload.

Truthfully, starting this essay is hard. I feel deeply for Evan’s family, and whatever happened to him makes my own struggles seem like fingerprints on an abandoned handrail (a favorite phrase of mine, borrowed from Englishman Bob Mortimer). For me, when life feels heavy or foggy, I write. I want to be a writer. Maybe that’s my first struggle but I have more. Come look at me as I do in the mirror: a young woman with motor tics, a murderous legume stalking me, and the desire to be a poet in a STEM world. Phoebe Waller-Bridge once said it’s “better to feel the pain of writing than the pain of not writing.” I agree—and I’ll go further: writing is a necessity. Like many artists, I’m absorbed by my craft. At fourteen, I wrote to a poet, sharing my fear of being forgotten and my need to be taken seriously. I told her young people have “real” thoughts, too. When she replied, “You shine—but not only in a soft way like filtered sun through sheer curtains—you shine like the flames dancing off a bonfire,” I dove into writing. We still correspond. I often tell her that people are shaped by their experiences, and I am no different. I rely on those experiences for inspiration and personal growth. With each life moment, I plant words in my stomach like beanstalk seeds, and they grow deeper into me. Before writing, my perfectionism manifested as motor tics—blinking, stretching, contorting—worsened by competitive gymnastics. Add to that a severe peanut allergy and the social landmines of food-allergy bullying, and I became an anxious, tightly wound child. My mom once asked if I wanted to see a therapist. I didn’t understand why, but I’m now eternally grateful—a word I’m still practicing. Finding a release became critical. Still, school gave me a constant: my face would flush red every time someone asked about my test scores. Like a rabbit chased by a fox, I dodged the question. I feared being seen only as “smart.” A classmate once asked if I even had emotions. That crushed me. Though intelligence is often praised, I felt confined—boxed up and labeled, “Robot parts.” Writing became my escape. I wrote my first poem in seventh grade, and my second soon after, for my mom while she fought breast cancer. Many more followed—some during the pandemic, others sparked by social movements or raw emotion. In those moments, I embraced “sensitive” as a strength, not a liability. Poetry, once my survival mechanism, is now my lifeline. It gave rise to a new adjective: creative. In middle school, my two best friends and I invented SWPU—She-Wolf Pack Unite. We built a lair (snake pit, slide, invisible car included) and lived in a world of our own. Around then, I learned what it meant to be witty. Like my dad, I loved making people laugh. There’s something poetic about laughter shared among She-Wolves. I plant these words—grateful, smart, sensitive, creative, witty—like beanstalk seeds. Writing is a giant I don’t want to slay. I love it in a jealous way, in a restless way, in a Robin Williams manic way. Even when the words won’t come, I feel poetry coiled in the red muscle of my heart. “I want to be remembered,” I told the poet. Now, I say, “I will be remembered”—through art, and through connection. As I keep climbing, my words will rise above the clouds, flashes of green growing skyward.

When my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2018, I didn’t cry. In fact, I was overwhelmed by an uncanny feeling of certainty. I was certain that my mom, who has already experienced an ocean of loss, would surely survive this. My mantra became a slew of “It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.” And it was okay. Though I watched her lose her hair, her breasts, and her sense of femininity, my mom redefined the word “woman” for me and also inspired me to be myself and though I have been highly successful in STEM-- I want to be a writer. I want words dripping from my fingertips, gooey, thick, and sweet. I want to explore my position in society through my poetry. Most of all, however, I want to convince my mom that the Oxford comma is necessary. Though my parents both majored in English, I was never forced to revere words. I grew up in an environment that prioritized pursuing one’s passion—whatever that passion may be. My love for writing was not sparked by one singular life event--and not by that awful thing we know as cancer--but it sure did inspire me to keep pursuing this goal. It's also given me perspective on my own womanhood. Breasts: My mom had a double mastectomy, underwent breast reconstruction surgery, and then chose to go flat after she had an autoimmune reaction to her implants; “I’m just trying to get used to my new body,” my mom said, crying. These things are not what defines a woman. My mom is brave and beautiful, and she single-handedly challenged and changed the way I view myself. I learned that femininity is fluid. I can look however I want and can exist in whatever way brings me the most joy. Joy: something I am worthy of. Joy: something I will bring to my career and people I hope to work with and even more importantly, those I hope to inspire with my words. I remember when I was six years old, I would write songs in a bedazzled notebook, falsely believing I could sing them too. At twelve years old, I wrote my first poem. Though I quickly developed a style sans rhyme, I loved working with rhythm, manipulating the same sing-song quality I enjoyed years ago. I wrote a short story at sixteen and in the shadow of my mom trudging home and laying in bed after another heaping potion of chemotherapy pumped in her chest through a port, I wrote a memoir shortly after. At 16. Who does that? But during each of these occasions, I realized I was able to understand myself—my thoughts and feelings and ideas—in a way that not only fostered joy and empathy but also established my future aspiration to write, write, write! And so I say to Cancer: thank you. I'm on my way and my mom--she's already there--she made it!

Jane Austen once wrote, “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” This same sentiment can be applied to my writing, which is to say I am tongue-tied by my love for it. I love it in a jealous way, in a bothered way, in a Robin Williams manic way. Writing, as frustrating as it can be, is what I want to be doing for the rest of my life; it feels like a second skin. At six years old, I would write songs in a bedazzled notebook, falsely believing I could sing them too. At twelve years old, I wrote my first poem for a speech and drama class in school. Though I quickly developed a style sans rhyme, I loved working with rhythm, manipulating the same sing-song quality I appreciated years ago. I ran headlong into the literary world of short stories at sixteen, and I recently tried my hand at memoir writing. Through these experiences, I am able to better understand myself and my position in society. Not only is writing an art, but it’s also a tool one can use to practice empathy and compassion; I love the world most when I write. High school did not offer creative writing courses, but I learned to refine my craft through the numerous research papers I wrote. I liked "playing" with sentences, shaping them in unique ways and implementing the occasional metaphor. My English teacher noticed something in my writing. Rather, he noticed something in me. I took AP Seminar my sophomore year and English Composition my senior year with this teacher. During the whirlwind of college and scholarship applications, my teacher wrote letters of recommendation for me and read over my personal statement . As our bond over words grew, I asked my teacher if he would read a portion of my poetry. Sharing my poetry, though it may not seem like it, is one of the greatest acts of trust. Poetry is embarrassing, every thought and feeling and grueling desire or worry written down. I remember telling him that my poetry is my soul. And it is. Later that day my teacher emailed me, saying he would never judge my soul. A few days before graduation, my English teacher gave me a letter and a book. He told me that when he was in high school, a teacher did the very same thing for him. Inside the cover of the book, my teacher wrote, "I hope you never stop writing." Other than my parents, I've never had an adult believe in my writing ability. Whenever someone asks me what I want to do for a career, I always sense their dismay when I tell them I want to be a writer. I think they see a bright kid suddenly without a future. And I know it's going to be hard, but why can't I do it? This teacher encouraged me to pursue my dream in a way I never expected but always wanted. I am starting college in four days as an English major with an emphasis in creative writing. I am overjoyed and so thankful for the experiences in high school that championed my passion.

Ever since my own gymnastics coaches made me climb a rope with my legs straight out and only with the strength of my non-Olympian arms I've had the utmost respect, admiration, and awe for Simone Biles. Though she's short in stature she's a giant on the floor and at times I think she has wings (or is it springs) in her legs as she soars twelve feet above the floor. Simone has also been a model for young women of all races that anything is possible if you set your mind on a goal. And though it is unlikely that a gold medal is in my future, I hope to have similar success as a writer and poet. My days of floor exercises have turned into my nights of drafts of all numbers of poems. It turns out that writing can bring out the same fatigue as hours in the gym. But like Simone, even with a slight hiccup in the balance beam or bars, if I set my mind to it and treat writing as something requiring more failing than succeeding--well, I know I am on the right path. Some day I'll find my own podium. And who knows, maybe I'll need a teammate or a writing coach to get me there. But if Simone Biles has shown me one thing, it's that hard work and determination are the keys to success. Go USA!

First, let me say that Allison sounds like an amazing person and it sounds like she made a huge difference in students' lives when she was a scholarship coordinator--what an amazing way to send kids out of high school (such as myself) and off to their next journey. My name is Stella Van Buskirk and I just graduated from Northridge High School in Greeley. Giving back to my community means being a real part of it--we are connected after all. I like to feel like I've started giving back already and I hope some day, my words can reach many eyes and ears far beyond Colorado. Let me explain a bit more. One way I supported our community was serving as a LINK Leader in an ethnically and socioeconomically diverse school. I especially enjoyed this service activity because of the connections I make with the incoming freshmen. A LINK Leader’s job is to welcome freshmen to high school, making their transition to a larger school environment less intimidating. While getting to know these new students, I found that empathy came easy. As a previous freshman who felt similarly nervous or fearful, my intention was to establish myself not as an upperclassman who should be respected but as a relatable person these students could approach. The conversations I’ve had with the freshmen have been a standout aspect of my involvement in any service activity. I learned that one student hopes to be a musician; he plays the bass and used to play piano. Another student takes art classes and loves to draw. A third wants to be a welder, forging jewelry and silver gates. Connecting with these freshmen and listening to their various stories has not only been a source of personal growth and joy but has also benefited the entire school. When students feel valued, they’re more likely to develop a sense of belonging that translates into community pride. While in school, my mother, father, and I also have served our community at the Weld Food Bank. We volunteered to do things such as fill and organized bags which are donated throughout Greeley and beyond. Volunteering had the unexpected benefit of being...fun! We'd fill bag after bag in a mad-dash assembly line until massive stacks of boxes filled the pallets next to us. Of course, there are two sides to every coin. Being at the food bank made me realize that there are many, many people in this modern day and age who don't have food to eat--at least, not reliably. So, having a community spirit can be a mix of highs and emotional lows for me. I'd like you (and Allison--wherever she may be) to know that while I was first in my class as a STEM student, I want to be a writer. Jane Austen once wrote, “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” At six years old, I would write songs in a bedazzled notebook, falsely believing I could sing them too. At twelve years old, I wrote my first poem. I ran headlong into the literary world of short stories at sixteen, and I recently tried my hand at memoir writing. Through these experiences, I am able to better understand myself and my position in society. Not only is writing an art, but it’s also a tool one can use to practice empathy and compassion; I love the world most when I write and I hope some day I serve a broader community who reads my words. Thank you! I appreciate the consideration.

This Friday, I graduate from my STEM high school as the number one student (out of 248) in my class. Littered across my resume are 4's and 5's on AP exams, a capstone AP diploma, numerous school accolades, and the PTSD of AP calculus. I have a confession and the very hard part is that I see not only this scholarship, but tens of others looking to pour gas on the fire of women's ambitions in technology-related areas of study. I confess that I am very good in STEM. I confess that my heart really believes in the "A" that my school did NOT emphasize--the "arts." I want to be a writer. I want words dripping from my fingertips, gooey, thick, and sweet. I want to explore my position in society through my poetry. Most of all, however, I want to convince my mom that the Oxford comma is necessary. Though my parents both majored in English, I was never forced to revere words. I grew up in an environment that prioritized pursuing one’s passion—whatever that passion may be. My love for writing was not sparked by one singular life event, rather my desire grew steadily as I matured into the person I am today. At six years old, I wrote songs in a bedazzled notebook, falsely believing I could sing them too. At twelve, I wrote my first poem. Though I quickly developed a style sans rhyme, I loved working with rhythm, manipulating the same sing-song quality I enjoyed years ago. I wrote a short story at sixteen and a memoir shortly after. During each of these occasions, I realized I was able to understand myself—my thoughts and feelings and ideas—in a way that not only fostered joy and empathy but also established my future aspiration to write, write, write! In eighth grade, I wore a sticky note on my shirt every Friday to protest and raise awareness about climate change. The notes would read, I’d rather be striking, Can we eat money, Denying climate change is denying science, or I’ve seen better cabinets at IKEA. One other friend joined me, and it became our quaint version of a climate strike. Later that year, we began an environmental club with the goal of establishing recycling bins throughout our K-8 school. This club was short-lived as COVID-19 effectively ended my eighth grade school year, so I was left with an unresolved passion to make a difference. During the summer of 2020, my heart broke. Social unrest and politics making all of us feel so down-hearted instead of lifted up. To cope with the powerlessness I felt, I began writing and advocating for these voices. I wrote a poem titled “06/24/22,” which was published by the American Library of Poetry, to support a woman’s right to control her body. I have also written pieces about the death of Mahsa Amini in Iran, the Supreme Court’s affirmative action ban, and police violence and discrimination. Writing can be a powerful way to demand social justice, but I want to continue with channeling angst into joy and inspiration as I enter new stages of my life. Using my expertise as a leader, my goal is to contribute to the human condition--that which makes each of us a well-rounded person. And yes, as I said before: I can now calculate the area of a well-rounded or even wildly crazy geometrical shape....I have those skills. But as I head into college I want to add to that sensibility through the arts and specifically, literature and writing. I want to make a difference in someone’s world.

a perfect day here it is here we are at the brink of something like a chance lets link arms before we tumble down this mountainside once and for all we have to offer we give our hearts to the heavens a seed inside a declaration a precipice we stand so close to a green bud we are budding o captain! take the wheel my captain! we are ready i am ready to jump ***So, the above is my poem for a perfect day. I hope Greg would have appreciated it. Since this submission form requires 400 words minimum, I am going to share a little bit more about me. And I know this scholarship favors the students of Durham--I thought I would try. Thank you, Stella Blue. In eighth grade, I wore a sticky note on my shirt every Friday to protest and raise awareness about climate change. The notes would read, I’d rather be striking, Denying climate change is denying science, or I’ve seen better cabinets at IKEA. One other friend joined me, and it became our quaint version of a climate strike. Later that year, we began an environmental club, but it was short-lived as COVID-19 effectively ended our eighth grade school year. During the summer of 2020, my heart broke. The Black Lives Matter movement was loud and powerful and beautiful, but I was still horribly distraught by the continuous murdering of Black people. I wrote a poem titled “06/24/22,” which was published by the American Library of Poetry, to support a woman’s right to control her body. Writing can be a powerful way to demand social justice, and I want to make a difference. And I want to change the world. I want to love my humped nose, the lines on my neck, the cowlick in my hair. I want my acne to clear and my scars to fade. I want to finish the poem I’ve been working on and the painting I’ve started. I want to know how my teacher will react after I give him that painting. I want the fish in my tank to stop dying, and I want to know what happens when they die. I want to do the splits like I used to when I was ten. I want to stop doing that thing with my eyes when my OCD gets bad. I want people to be empathetic and kind. I want to be empathetic and kind. I want to write books and movies and more poems. I want to be challenged and inspired. I want to go to college and solve a hard math problem. I want to go to college and miss my family but revel in the excitement growing in my throat. I want to feel joyful. I want to be joyful. I want politicians to listen to their people. I want the bombs to stop. I want to stick a flower in a police officer’s gun. I want to help people. I want to hear you laugh. I want you to smile. I want you to like me. I want to fall in love. I want to love. I want my love to be bright. I am bright. I want to thank Sanna Marin for believing in me, for encouraging me to want. I want her to know that this world breaks my heart, but I refuse to give up on hope or community or change. I want her to know that I made eye contact intentionally yesterday, and I loved it.

First, I'm very sorry about Evan. My heart goes out to you. My name is Stella Van Buskirk and here is a bit about me and my desire to be a writer and inspire others through words as well as to be part of communities that lift each other up: In eighth grade, I wore a sticky note on my shirt every Friday to protest and raise awareness about climate change. The notes would read, I’d rather be striking, Denying climate change is denying science, or I’ve seen better cabinets at IKEA. One other friend joined me, and it became our quaint version of a climate strike. Later that year, we began an environmental club, but it was short-lived as COVID-19 effectively ended our eighth grade school year. During the summer of 2020, my heart broke. The Black Lives Matter movement was loud and powerful and beautiful, but I was still horribly distraught by the continuous murdering of Black people. My heart broke again when the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade and again when thousands of Palestinians were bombed, limbs and heads separated from the rest of their bodies. To cope with the powerlessness I felt, I began writing and advocating for these voices. I wrote a poem titled “06/24/22,” which was published by the American Library of Poetry, to support a woman’s right to control her body. I have also written pieces about the death of Mahsa Amini in Iran, the Supreme Court’s affirmative action ban, and police violence and discrimination. Writing can be a powerful way to demand social justice, but I want to continue with this activism as I enter new stages of my life. Using my expertise as a leader, my goal is to contribute to the efforts made by grassroots organizations; I want to make a difference in someone’s world. And I want to change the world. I want to love my humped nose, the lines on my neck, the cowlick in my hair. I want my acne to clear and my scars to fade. I want to finish the poem I’ve been working on and the painting I’ve started. I want to know how my teacher will react after I give him that painting. I want the fish in my tank to stop dying, and I want to know what happens when they die. I want to do the splits like I used to when I was ten. I want to stop doing that thing with my eyes when my OCD gets bad. I want people to be empathetic and kind. I want to be empathetic and kind. I want to write books and movies and more poems. I want to be challenged and inspired. I want to go to college and solve a hard math problem. I want to go to college and miss my family but revel in the excitement growing in my throat. I want to feel joyful. I want to be joyful. I want politicians to listen to their people. I want the bombs to stop. I want to stick a flower in a police officer’s gun. I want to help people. I want to hear you laugh. I want you to smile. I want you to like me. I want to fall in love. I want to love. I want my love to be bright. I am bright.

In eighth grade, I wore a sticky note on my shirt every Friday to protest and raise awareness about climate change. The notes would read, I’d rather be striking, Denying climate change is denying science, or I’ve seen better cabinets at IKEA. One other friend joined me, and it became our quaint version of a climate strike. Later that year, we began an environmental club, but it was short-lived as COVID-19 effectively ended our eighth grade school year. During the summer of 2020, my heart broke. The Black Lives Matter movement was loud and powerful and beautiful, but I was still horribly distraught by the continuous murdering of Black people. My heart broke again when the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade and again when thousands of Palestinians were bombed, limbs and heads separated from the rest of their bodies. To cope with the powerlessness I felt, I began writing and advocating for these voices. I wrote a poem titled “06/24/22,” which was published by the American Library of Poetry, to support a woman’s right to control her body. I have also written pieces about the death of Mahsa Amini in Iran, the Supreme Court’s affirmative action ban, and police violence and discrimination. Writing can be a powerful way to demand social justice, but I want to continue with this activism as I enter new stages of my life. Using my expertise as a leader, my goal is to contribute to the efforts made by grassroots organizations; I want to make a difference in someone’s world. And I want to change the world. I want to love my humped nose, the lines on my neck, the cowlick in my hair. I want my acne to clear and my scars to fade. I want to finish the poem I’ve been working on and the painting I’ve started. I want to know how my teacher will react after I give him that painting. I want the fish in my tank to stop dying, and I want to know what happens when they die. I want to do the splits like I used to when I was ten. I want to stop doing that thing with my eyes when my OCD gets bad. I want people to be empathetic and kind. I want to be empathetic and kind. I want to write books and movies and more poems. I want to be challenged and inspired. I want to go to college and solve a hard math problem. I want to go to college and miss my family but revel in the excitement growing in my throat. I want to feel joyful. I want to be joyful. I want politicians to listen to their people. I want the bombs to stop. I want to stick a flower in a police officer’s gun. I want to help people. I want to hear you laugh. I want you to smile. I want you to like me. I want to fall in love. I want to love. I want my love to be bright. I am bright. I want to thank Sanna Marin for believing in me, for encouraging me to want. I want her to know that this world breaks my heart, but I refuse to give up on hope or community or change. I want her to know that I made eye contact intentionally yesterday, and I loved it.

My name is Stella. In eighth grade, I wore a sticky note on my shirt every Friday to protest and raise awareness about climate change. The notes would read, I’d rather be striking, Denying climate change is denying science, or I’ve seen better cabinets at IKEA. One other friend joined me, and it became our quaint version of a climate strike. Later that year, we began an environmental club, but it was short-lived as COVID-19 effectively ended our eighth grade school year. During the summer of 2020, my heart broke. The Black Lives Matter movement was loud and powerful and beautiful, but I was still horribly distraught by the continuous murdering of Black people. My heart broke again when the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade and again when thousands of Palestinians were bombed, limbs and heads separated from the rest of their bodies. To cope with the powerlessness I felt, I began writing and advocating for these voices. I wrote a poem titled “06/24/22,” which was published by the American Library of Poetry, to support a woman’s right to control her body. I have also written pieces about the death of Mahsa Amini in Iran, the Supreme Court’s affirmative action ban, and police violence and discrimination. Writing can be a powerful way to demand social justice, but I want to continue with this activism as I enter new stages of my life. Using my expertise as a leader, my goal is to contribute to the efforts made by grassroots organizations; I want to make a difference in someone’s world. And I want to change the world. I want to love my humped nose, the lines on my neck, the cowlick in my hair. I want my acne to clear and my scars to fade. I want to finish the poem I’ve been working on and the painting I’ve started. I want to know how my teacher will react after I give him that painting. I want the fish in my tank to stop dying, and I want to know what happens when they die. I want to do the splits like I used to when I was ten. I want to stop doing that thing with my eyes when my OCD gets bad. I want people to be empathetic and kind. I want to be empathetic and kind. I want to write books and movies and more poems. I want to be challenged and inspired. I want to go to college and solve a hard math problem. I want to go to college and miss my family but revel in the excitement growing in my throat. I want to feel joyful. I want to be joyful. I want politicians to listen to their people. I want the bombs to stop. I want to stick a flower in a police officer’s gun. I want to help people. I want to hear you laugh. I want you to smile. I want you to like me. I want to fall in love. I want to love. I want my love to be bright. I am bright. And this bit of money will just help me....shine.

Books are the candy that have lead me to writing. I want words dripping from my fingertips, gooey, thick, and sweet. I want to explore my position in society through my poetry. Most of all, however, I want to convince my mom that the Oxford comma is necessary. Though my parents both majored in English, I was never forced to revere words. I grew up in an environment that prioritized pursuing one’s passion—whatever that passion may be. My love for writing was not sparked by one singular life event, rather my desire grew steadily as I matured into the person I am today. At six years old, I would write songs in a bedazzled notebook, falsely believing I could sing them too. At twelve years old, I wrote my first poem. Though I quickly developed a style sans rhyme, I loved working with rhythm, manipulating the same sing-song quality I enjoyed years ago. I wrote a short story at sixteen and a memoir shortly after. During each of these occasions, I realized I was able to understand myself—my thoughts and feelings and ideas—in a way that not only fostered joy and empathy but also established my future aspiration to write, write, write! Books have taught me the joy of paper, the sound of a flipping page, the excitement of the last 10 pages, the wonder under the dust jacket. And look--I want to change the world. I want to love my humped nose, the lines on my neck, the cowlick in my hair. I want my acne to clear and my scars to fade. I want to finish the poem I’ve been working on and the painting I’ve started. I want to know how my teacher will react after I give him that painting. I want the fish in my tank to stop dying, and I want to know what happens when they die. I want to do the splits like I used to when I was ten. I want to stop doing that thing with my eyes when my OCD gets bad. I want people to be empathetic and kind. I want to be empathetic and kind. I want to write books and movies and more poems. I want to be challenged and inspired. I want to go to college and solve a hard math problem. I want to go to college and miss my family but revel in the excitement growing in my throat. I want to feel joyful. I want to be joyful. I want politicians to listen to their people. I want the bombs to stop. I want to stick a flower in a police officer’s gun. I want to help people. I want to hear you laugh. I want you to smile. I want you to like me. I want to fall in love. I want to love. I want my love to be bright. I am bright. I want to thank Sanna Marin for believing in me, for encouraging me to want. I want her to know that this world breaks my heart, but I refuse to give up on hope or community or change. I want her to know that I made eye contact intentionally yesterday, and I loved it.