One of my most distinct memories as a young child was one night after my Dad had finished reading my sister and me a bedtime story and was getting up to leave, I started crying. Dad asked me what was wrong, and I said “I don’t want you to die, Dad. Don’t die.” Something in that storybook made me consider the mortality and brevity of existence for the first time in my life. When I got older, I became a voracious reader and would read any book I could get my hands on. I couldn’t seem to obtain books fast enough, even with my library card and my Kindle. One of these books, however, has stuck with me for many years, and I’ve read it multiple times since. Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt taught me how to grapple with the inevitable fact of death, and that it is a beautiful and necessary part of what it means to be alive. The story follows a young girl, Winnie, and how her world is changed forever after meeting a family who inadvertently gained immortality after drinking from a freshwater spring. This novel addresses the natural fear of growing old, and the maturity that comes with realizing this process is what gives life meaning. The first time I read this book, I felt like the author truly encapsulated my fears as a child, and represented them with delicate prose and a whimsical tone. The second time I read this novel, my Dad had recently been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, and Tuck Everlasting’s morals became even closer to my heart. The novel helped me navigate the impending change in my life: losing my Dad and showed me to value the present moment. I think this novel’s universal story of loss and longing for more time can help everyone in the world, because, after all, everyone encounters loss in their life. It is novels like this that help soothe the pain of loss, and prepare us for the future, while emphasizing that to have known and loved someone, and lost them, is better than not knowing them at all.

It was 2 weeks after my father died of lung cancer, my senior year of high school, that I reluctantly returned to my classes. I was enrolled in multiple art courses with one of my favorite teachers, my art teacher, Mrs. Tomaso. When I entered her class for the first time since my father’s passing, I was greeted with a big hug and souvenirs from the field trip I missed while absent from class. Mrs. Tomaso is perhaps the most observant and caring individual I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. She has supported my dreams of creating art even beyond high school, and was kind enough to make her classroom a safe space for me during a very difficult time in my life. I’m not sure I would be who I am today without her unwavering faith in me as an artist. To name just a few of the many ways Mrs. Tomaso has aided my artistic dreams: she took me on as an independent study my senior year, she wrote numerous letters of recommendation for my college applications, and she continues to encourage and support my pursuit for a minor in drawing at Binghamton University by keeping in touch by email and following my art Instagram account. But more descriptively, Mrs. Tomaso was a bright light in a very dark time. About a month after my return to school after my father’s death, Mrs. Tomaso informed me that she had entered one of my drawings into Columbia Greene Community College’s Juried Art Show. I was honored with the Director’s Prize, the first place award, surrounded by my friends and family and of course, Mrs. Tomaso. I was so moved by Mrs. Tomaso’s belief in my dream; that she took the time to enter me into an art show because she was confident in me as an artist, and supportive of me as a mentor and friend. Her kind act led me to continue my art education at a collegiate level, and to remember to spread encouragement to others in their own educational dreams. It’s rare to find a deep and pure connection with a mentor, but it is even rarer to forge a friendship that lasts long after the mentorship has ended. I will always cherish my relationship with Mrs. Tomaso. I hope one day to be just as inspiring to another young artist just starting out, or perhaps reeling from the loss of a loved one, like I was when Mrs. Tomaso made such a profound impact on my artwork, my educational journey, and my outlook on life. I am beyond grateful and lucky to have someone like my high school art teacher who is such an active role model in my life. Thank you is not enough!

When I first arrived at college, I thought everyone could see the black cloud I carried with me ever since my father’s death from lung cancer in 2019. My first semester at Binghamton University, I struggled everyday with not only my grief, but my anxiety and depression at being far from home, feeling like I did not belong. It was hard for me to make new friends when it seemed no one would understand me. As a sophomore, I applied to be a Resident Assistant on campus. In my interview, they asked me why I wanted the job. I told them I did not want any student to feel like I had my freshman year, like they have no one to turn to when they are fighting unseen battles with their mental health. I also expressed how much it meant to me-and still means to me-to be a leader for my community, and be a resource to students like myself who needed a helping hand. I’ve been a Resident Assistant for about a year now, and it has been a wonderful experience. I’ve been able to host community events such as a Women’s History Month event where we showcased women-identifying residents of the Hinman community on a slideshow. I’ve also been able to meet so many new people, as my residents and as members of the community, who have felt comfortable in confiding in me and depending on me. It has been an honor and a privilege to especially help freshman and transfer residents who struggle for a sense of belonging in the first few weeks of college. I had one transfer resident in particular that reached out to me when she moved into the building over winter break, and felt isolated and lost. I gave her a tour of the community and helped her connect with a transfer student meet-and-greet event. I was very gratified to help someone who reminded me so much of myself when I was a new student. Even in my junior year of college, I sometimes still feel like there is a black cloud over my head. I have been participating in on campus counseling services for my continuing struggles with anxiety and depression since my freshman year. Despite my personal struggles, it brightens my day to have the opportunity to spread awareness and understanding to my residents and my community in my role as a Resident Assistant. If I can help just one person in my leadership position, it will have been worth it!

"You just can't forget, kiddo. You can't forget who you are." On good days, these words make me smile. On bad days, they make me wonder who my father thought I was; what he would say to me if he saw who I was today. On December 18th, 2018, my mother recorded a video of my father saying goodbye to each of his three children, to be shown to us when the time came. The time came a week later, when my father passed away from stage four lung cancer in our home in East Chatham, NY. About a month after the funeral, my mother told me of the video my father left for me. It took me a long time to watch it, knowing just how bittersweet hearing and seeing my father again would be. I think the words I've written above are so wise, not only because my father said them to the version of me that he would never, and will never, know, but because it implies that our identities are something intrinsically part of each of us. Who was I to my father, when he said these words into the camera? This question is unanswerable, but I find comfort in knowing that he saw me, really saw me, and wanted me to retain this identity as I went through life. There are times when being my true self is very difficult, especially because I lack self-confidence and am generally shy around others. But consciously remembering who I am, in my decisions, in my relationships, and in all else, helps me live authentically. My father was trying to tell me not to waste my time trying to be someone else: don't forget who I am, because life is fleeting. I will remember this wisdom always.

In fast-paced college life, it can sometimes be easy to let one's stress and anxiety become all-consuming. I know for my colleagues on the Residential Life Staff at Binghamton University, work-life balance seems to be a goal just out of reach. As a Resident Assistant on-campus, I'm very familiar with the pitfalls of overworking and overextending in my role, and when I perceive my peers to be feeling the same way, I like to give encouragement and understanding. One night in the office, my supervisor and I were having a conversation when she asked me for my advice. She said she had been feeling very burned out, and that she felt like she had a pattern of overworking herself. My advice to her was to practice self-care: take some time to do the things she loved and disconnect from her supervisory duties. Sometimes the best kind of encouragement is an emotional reset after a particularly stressful week. On another occasion, I observed how one of my supervisors inspired others around him with his positive attitude, work ethic, and enthusiasm. I decided to nominate him for Professional Staff of the Month on National Residence Hall Honorary, and he became a Regional Winner. After informing him of his success by email, I thanked my supervisor in person for being such a wonderful role model for my coworkers and I. He expressed to me how he had been feeling insecure in his job, but now felt validated by such a big win. I learned that a simple act of kindness, purely out of appreciation for another person, can do so much. I had no idea my supervisor had been feeling insecure, but I was honored to encourage him to keep striving for his best. Sometimes one action can have so many positive reactions!

Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick the speaker blares, our pontoon boat practically gliding over the glass-like water of the Sacandaga Lake. The sky is an explosion of orange and pink, the sun a thin sliver behind the towering pines of the Adirondack Mountains. We are listening to The Cure, an ‘80s band my father used to love, before cancer racked his body. Tonight, my soul feels like it’s on fire, standing at the prow of our boat, belting the lyrics to their song Just Like Heaven. I’ve never felt more alive. Though this memory is from years ago, I still listen to that song and feel my heart grow full. I always sing along, whether I want to listen to it or not. Just Like Heaven reminds me of my father, and how much he loved driving the boat on warm summer evenings. The song is achingly sad, its lyrics beautiful and somehow uplifting. I think my father loved this song judging by how often it appeared on his playlist. My father had a comically bad singing voice, but self-awareness was always his strong suit; he would often sing even worse on purpose to make my siblings and I laugh. This song inspires me to remember my father fondly, to cherish memories of him even though they are often tinged in a halo bittersweet. Whenever I hear the opening drums to Just Like Heaven, I am transported back to the pontoon boat, watching the arc of the sunset and listening to my father’s voice. It brings me no small amount of joy to carry a piece of my father’s memory in the form of a song, one that will always be close to my heart.

My roommate, Jetta, and I spent a semester apart because of Coronavirus last fall. Jetta chose to stay at home for the semester, avoiding campus life that was mostly a socially-distant dystopia. Our double-sized room on Binghamton's campus felt very lonely without her. I was constantly arranging and rearranging the space to help make it feel like there wasn't a whole person missing from it, and from my heart. It wasn't long into the fall semester when I received a package from Jetta in the mail. Eagerly opening the small brown box, I discovered a handmade watercolor painting, depicting Binghamton's Nature Preserve, a place where Jetta and I had spent long hours our Freshman year. The package came with a letter from Jetta, begging for my forgiveness for her staying home from college. But even before I got the package from Jetta, there was nothing to forgive. The watercolor painting is still tacked to the bulletin board above my desk, so I can look at it and be reminded of my wonderful friendship with Jetta. I was, and am still, so grateful for the heartfelt painting from my friend, that arrived during a time of intense emotional turmoil and loneliness. When I look at the painting, I think of Jetta bending over a table in her childhood home, creating what she thought was an apology, but was actually my saving grace. The thought always brings a smile to my face, to know my friend was thinking of me and wished to make me feel better. I'm so lucky to have a physical manifestation of my friend's love for me. Jetta inspires me to spread love to others, especially when you never know if one small act of kindness could mean so much to someone, like it did for me.

I was a senior in high school when I lost my dad to lung cancer. I will never forget that horrible, tumultuous year of his cancer battle, his time in hospice, and the funeral services. I felt like no one could possibly understand my pain. My father was the type of person who would see a stranger struggling, and rush to help. The type of person to work 10 hours or more a day and come home to do more work on the house, volunteer at the East Chatham Fire Company, or spend crucial time with his family. The type of person to help people in any way that he could, just because he could. Since his passing, I’ve spent a lot of time pushing myself out of my comfort zone to live life to the fullest, because life is so, so short. I’ve realized that the fear of the unknown is just not a good enough reason to coast through life, waiting for the world to come to me. I have to embrace that fear, because when I’m on my deathbed, I don’t want to regret all the things I could have done. I’d like to think my father had no regrets, but I’m sure his greatest regret was dying before he could watch his children grow up, before enjoying what could have been. He embraced that lack of control over his life, at the end. His final lesson to my siblings and I was acceptance. The eulogy I wrote for my father is not only a testament to his character, but a testament to the valuable lessons my father taught me. Something I wrote in the eulogy was this: “If there is one thing to learn from his short life, it’s to live your life how you choose to live it. Though my Dad was not allowed to choose how he died, indisputably he chose how he lived. And if that’s not the point, then what is?”. My father taught me to live life passionately; to be a person that spreads kindness and compassion. I will always aspire to be like him, to choose how I live the way he did, even when I cannot have complete control over my life, or my death.

One morning in my high school English class, a fragment of a line of poetry popped into my brain. One of my peers was doing a presentation, but I have no idea what it was about. I was too busy committing the line to memory so that I could revisit it later. As soon as my English class ended, I was writing in the margins of my notebooks, expanding upon the line as if the poem was already in my brain, fully formed. Ever since I was ten years old, I've been writing poetry whenever the words strike me; I must have hundreds of them. I have multiple notebooks devoted to my poems, as well as notes on my Ipad and iPhone. My love of poetry seems to be a part of me, inexplicably and wholeheartedly. I tend to write blank verse poems, using enjambment and dashes frequently, inspired by Emily Dickinson. Before I ever read Dickinson's work, I wrote sonnets inspired by Shakespeare; as well as villanelles, odes, elegies, really any form that I could learn. Now that I'm in my junior year of college, I've found my own voice, and create my own structure as I go. I think I enjoy poetry because it allows me to explain feelings that I usually don't voice. I can truly explore myself through simile and metaphor; this makes my poems highly personal, but also highly meaningful to me. I don't necessarily write every poem expecting it to be the best poem ever written; my poems are my way of relieving stress and anxiety, and sometimes that can be reflected in the content. However, my poems hold a special place in my heart, because though they may not be perfect, writing and reflecting back on each poem gives me pure joy. Poetry writing is my favorite hobby, and I hope it will continue giving back what I give to it: honesty and love.

I think the best way to live a long and healthy life is to understand that happiness is a choice. If you rely on other people for your happiness, they will always let you down. True happiness comes from within yourself; without trying to first make yourself happy, how can you be happy in other areas of life? Of course, this is easier said than done, and I would be lying if I say that I can take my own advice. But I think happiness spreads to other people in a positive way, and sometimes having a positive outlook is all it takes to have a good day, or a series of good days. If you live your life as if it’s just something that happens to you, instead of taking control of what you can, you’ll never be happy. Living a long and happy life happens just one good day at a time. Why not try to enjoy each day, seizing it as best you can?

My passion for art comes from the beauty in my everyday surroundings, and having the opportunity to convey that beauty in my artwork. Some of my favorite things to capture in my artwork are landscapes, particularly sunsets. Though sunsets happen every day, there is something inherently inspiring about the color palette during this transitional time, and it’s very satisfying to recreate that feeling in my art. My passion for art also comes from the encouraging words of my family and friends, who have always supported my love for art. My father was one of my biggest fans, and when he passed during my senior year of high school, I held his words more dearly with the knowledge that life is short. This brevity compelled me to pursue my passion for art in college, to explore one of my oldest hobbies on a higher level. My father was a very hardworking person, but like your grandmother Anne, he did not have the opportunity to have the college experience he desired. My father wanted to become a pilot, but after a few short weeks of school, he could not afford to pay for it any longer. He was a carpenter for the rest of his life until he died of cancer at 52. My father never spoke of his regrets with me, but if he had, I think he would have wanted to go back to school had he had more money. His early death has taught me many things, but one of the most important lessons I took from the tragedy, besides the brevity of life, was to live my life how I choose to live it. Though my father could not choose how he died, indisputably he chose how he lived his life, despite the obstacles that presented themselves. Though he could not become a pilot, he taught my siblings and I to chase our passions. If that’s not the point, then what is? Now as a junior in college, I have this wonderful experience of minoring in art at Binghamton University. I love my classes here, and I’ve taken sculpture, drawing, and painting classes. Unfortunately the cost of materials can be daunting to overcome, with the cost of materials for my painting class last semester at over $300. I’ve taken many routes to save my mother money, as she’s now a single mother sending three college-age students to school. I work at an art gallery over summer breaks and I’m a Resident Assistant on campus. It would be a relief for me to be able to pay for my materials without putting more financial strain on my mother. My passion for art has been like a lifeboat to me during the hard times in my life, and this scholarship would mean so much to me in not only honoring the legacy of a female artist like Anne DiSerafino, but in celebrating the idea of a brighter future for the next generation. Both Anne and my father were robbed of a chance to do what they loved, but they’ve inspired me to seize my passion, and hold on tight. Thank you so much for this amazing opportunity and for creating something beautiful!