One of the greatest challenges in the criminal justice system today is the cycle of poverty and unemployment. People who live with economic instability often end up in situations that increase their contact with the justice system. Once they enter it, they face more barriers than support. Too often, poverty is punished instead of understood. I want to dedicate my career to changing the policies that keep people trapped in this cycle and to reimagining a system that values rehabilitation, fairness, and opportunity. For many, poverty is not just a backdrop to incarceration—it is a direct cause. Those who cannot afford good legal representation are more likely to be convicted and to serve longer sentences. People who can’t pay bail remain in jail before trial, sometimes for months, even when they are legally presumed innocent. When they are finally released, they face closed doors: few employers hire them, and many landlords refuse to rent to them. Instead of helping people rebuild their lives, the system recycles poverty and calls it justice. This process harms families, weakens communities, and creates intergenerational barriers that are hard to break. I believe meaningful reform begins with policy. My goal is to work within the legal and public policy fields to advocate for legislation that focuses on education, job training, and community reinvestment. I want to help expand reentry programs that prepare people for employment and reduce recidivism. I also plan to challenge the overreliance on fines and fees that burden low-income communities. Beyond these areas, I am interested in supporting community-based alternatives to incarceration, such as mental health programs, restorative justice circles, and housing support for returning citizens. Real justice must address the reasons people struggle, not just the results. My volunteer experiences have strengthened this perspective. Working with local organizations, I have met people who live in the gray area between survival and the law. Many of them grew up in underfunded schools and lacked access to stable jobs or healthcare. Through these encounters, I learned that reform is not abstract—it is deeply personal. Listening to people’s stories showed me how poverty and policy intersect to shape lives long before a courtroom ever does. It also taught me the importance of empathy in advocacy. Change begins when people feel heard. In the classroom, my studies in Africana Studies and Criminal Justice helped me see how historical inequities continue to define the present. I’ve studied how systems like redlining, underemployment, and mass incarceration overlap to maintain inequality. These lessons made me realize that real reform must go beyond individual cases. It requires addressing how laws are written and whom they serve. I plan to use my legal education to work on policies that prioritize opportunity and reintegration over punishment. These experiences have also helped me develop practical skills I will need as a future lawyer and advocate: researching complex issues, analyzing policy, communicating clearly, and finding solutions that balance compassion with accountability. I’ve learned to connect academic study with community action and to turn frustration into purpose. Looking ahead, I hope to become a lawyer focused on criminal justice reform and economic equity. Whether I work in a nonprofit organization or a public policy office, I want to help design laws that give people a fair chance to rebuild their lives after incarceration. I want to be part of the movement that treats poverty not as a crime, but as a call to action. The justice system should not measure a person’s worth by their income or past mistakes. It should measure its own worth by how well it restores dignity and opportunity. Through policy reform and compassionate advocacy, I hope to play a role in creating that kind of justice—one that believes in redemption, invests in people, and never gives up on those who have been left behind.

I have always believed that finding your voice is only the first step—what matters most is how you use it. For much of my early life, I could not speak easily. Born with a speech disorder, I learned what it felt like to be left out of conversations that shaped the world around me. Those experiences gave me two things: empathy for people who are overlooked and a commitment to making sure others are never left without a voice. That commitment has guided my path at the University of North Florida, where I am earning degrees in Africana Studies and Spanish. Africana Studies has deepened my understanding of systemic inequities, while Spanish has allowed me to connect across cultures and dismantle communication barriers. These skills are not just academic—they are the foundation of my service and my vision for my career. Much of that service has been shaped by my work with immigration legal clinics. I’ve sat across from families navigating an immigration system that is often intimidating and inaccessible. I’ve translated legal forms for parents who feared one wrong checkmark could separate them from their children. I’ve stayed late to explain documents line by line until the fear on a client’s face softened into relief. In those moments, I see clearly what drives me: the belief that no one should lose their future because they couldn’t understand the system meant to evaluate them. I have also applied my skills on my own campus. As a Newman Civic Fellow, I created First-Gen Osprey Week, a week of mentorship, workshops, and celebration for first-generation students. The project was inspired by my late father, a first-generation student who worked so hard to support his family that he was forced to leave college before graduating. I wanted to build the kind of community and resources he never had. The event has since grown into a tradition of pride and connection for students who once felt they were navigating college alone. After graduating in December 2025, I plan to attend law school and specialize in immigration and family law. My goal is to establish a bilingual, community-centered legal practice in Jacksonville—one that not only represents clients in court but also offers education and advocacy to prevent legal issues before they arise. I envision a practice that meets people where they are, whether that means holding consultations at community centers, hosting know-your-rights workshops in Spanish and English, or partnering with local schools to help students from immigrant families feel supported. The positive impact I aim to make is both immediate and lasting. In the short term, I want to reunite families, protect children, and help people secure stability in their lives. In the long term, I want to dismantle the systemic barriers that make those struggles so common, using my legal training to advocate for policies that are fair, humane, and inclusive. My life has taught me that being heard can change everything. Through my career, I want to ensure that those who come to this country seeking safety, opportunity, and freedom are not met with silence or closed doors, but with someone ready to listen, understand, and fight for them. My education is my toolkit, my community is my motivation, and my career will be the bridge between the two.

My dreams are not about me—they are about the people I refuse to leave behind. Every ambition I have has been shaped by moments when I was silenced, underestimated, or told I was reaching too high. Those moments did not break me. They built me. I grew up knowing what it meant to be overlooked. Born with a speech disorder, I spent my early years watching conversations move past me and opportunities slip away simply because I could not speak as quickly or clearly as others. I learned how silence can be imposed, how systems can unintentionally leave people behind. That experience became my foundation for empathy, and my motivation to make sure others are not left unheard. At the University of North Florida, I chose to major in Africana Studies and Spanish because I believe language and history are keys to liberation. These fields allow me to connect with people across cultures, uncover erased histories, and challenge systems that perpetuate inequality. I have turned this academic foundation into action—whether it’s conducting research on Jacksonville’s Civil Rights legacy, volunteering at immigration legal clinics, or building resources for first-generation students. As a Newman Civic Fellow, I created First-Gen Osprey Week to address a gap I saw on campus: nearly half of our students are first-generation, but few programs spoke to their unique experiences. Inspired by my late father, a first-generation student who worked himself out of college before he could graduate, I wanted to create the support system he never had. That week of mentorship, workshops, and celebration became more than an event—it became a tradition, one that continues to grow and empower students long after the first flyer came down. Service for me is not abstract—it’s personal. In immigration legal clinics, I have helped families complete intake forms, translate documents, and navigate confusing legal systems. I’ve seen how fear and language barriers can silence someone’s story before they ever get a chance to tell it. I’ve also seen the relief when someone realizes they don’t have to fight alone. Those moments remind me why I want to practice immigration and family law: to be the bridge that connects people to justice. I am worth my dreams because I do not separate my success from the success of my community. Every scholarship, every degree, every professional milestone will be a tool I use to advocate for others—whether that’s in a courtroom, a community center, or a classroom. My long-term vision is to establish a bilingual, community-centered legal practice in Jacksonville and to create mentorship programs that guide first-generation students through higher education. This scholarship would not just support me; it would ripple outward. It would allow me to finish my degree without the weight of financial stress, prepare for law school, and keep serving the people who have entrusted me with their stories. It would be an investment in someone who has already proven they will turn opportunities into impact. My dreams are not fragile wishes—they are plans backed by lived experience, hard work, and an unshakable belief that no one should be made to feel invisible. I am worth these dreams because they are not mine alone. They belong to every person I will stand beside, speak for, and fight with in the pursuit of justice.

Everyday technology only seems to rapidly develop—our laws can’t seem to keep up. Yet, with the constant number of courtroom officials caught using AI, have we already been infected with a rapidly spreading virus coursing through our justice system? If tools meant to serve us are already being misused in courtrooms and in conversations with the most vulnerable, what does that say about our readiness to control them? One legal issue that completely changed how I see the world is the danger of unregulated AI chatbots—not just in everyday use, but in moments where the consequences can be life or death. There have been heartbreaking stories of AI systems giving harmful, even fatal, advice to people in crisis. In one case, a man’s long conversations with an AI chatbot ended with him taking his own life. In another, teens experimenting with these tools received dangerous guidance about drugs, alcohol, and suicide. The idea that an unfeeling program could say something that tips someone over the edge is terrifying—and it’s already happening. Even newer AI models that are more advanced still make serious mistakes. Some versions have been shown to underestimate suicide risk, especially in the most severe situations. That means a struggling person might be told they’re “fine” when they’re actually in critical danger. When I first read about that, I realized this wasn’t just about technology—it was about human lives being treated like experiments. And it’s not just mental health. This same overconfidence in AI has made its way into the justice system. Some lawyers have submitted official court documents filled with completely made-up cases, generated by AI. Judges have had to withdraw rulings after finding AI-created errors in their own decisions. The same flaws that can harm someone in a private conversation can also warp legal outcomes that decide a person’s future. What connects these two issues—suicide risk and the justice system—is the trust people put in AI’s answers. These systems don’t carry moral responsibility. They don’t understand the weight of telling someone they’re fine when they’re not, or of inserting a fake legal precedent into a court case. But people often take AI’s confident tone as proof that it’s right, especially when they’re desperate or in a hurry. Learning about these events shifted my perspective. I used to think AI was simply a tool, only as dangerous as the person using it. Now I see that its design, lack of oversight, and speed of adoption create dangers that can’t be left to individual caution. Without strong laws and ethical guardrails, we’re allowing technology to make decisions it should never be trusted with. If our legal system can’t keep pace with innovation, the gap will fill with harm—harm to people in crisis, harm to the fairness of our courts, and harm to the trust we place in both. The question is no longer if AI will play a role in justice and healthcare—it already does. The question is whether we’ll create the protections needed before its mistakes write themselves into laws, verdicts, or someone’s final goodbye.

I come from a family shaped by love, perseverance, and quiet strength. I was born in Florida during a season of transition for my family—my brother was in the hospital with a traumatic brain injury, my parents’ marriage was ending, and my mother would soon be raising us on her own. I was also born with a speech disorder. Though I could read and write fluently, speaking felt impossible. For much of my early life, I felt voiceless. That silence stayed with me, but instead of holding me back, it made me more observant, more empathetic, and more committed to helping others find their voices too. Growing up in Florida has deeply shaped my values and my purpose. I’ve watched as Black history, immigrant voices, and inclusive education have been stripped away from public spaces, silenced in classrooms, or politicized into invisibility. From banned books to the elimination of diversity programs, there’s been a clear message sent to students like me: “You don’t belong here.” But I’ve chosen to respond by building spaces where we do belong—where our stories are told, our families are honored, and our futures are protected. At the University of North Florida, I’m majoring in Africana Studies and Spanish, two fields that ground me in history and language—tools I use every day to challenge erasure. I volunteer at an immigration legal clinic, where I assist with client intake, Spanish-English translation, and paperwork. For many of the families I meet, the fear isn’t just about their legal case—it’s about being misunderstood, unseen, or dismissed. My goal is to offer not just help, but dignity. In my family, I contribute emotionally, academically, and financially. After my father’s passing, I stepped up to help my mother with decision-making, household responsibilities, and emotional support. I also support my younger cousins and peers by editing college essays, helping them apply for scholarships, and making sure they don’t have to navigate this process alone like I once did. One of my proudest accomplishments has been creating First-Gen Osprey Week on my campus. After realizing that nearly half of UNF’s students are the first in their families to attend college—but lacked any formal programming—I organized a week of events focused on community, resources, and celebration. What started as one idea grew into a movement. Students came together, shared their stories, and built confidence. I saw myself in every one of them. After graduating in December 2025, I plan to attend law school and specialize in immigration and family law. But beyond practicing law, I want to create a nonprofit that offers affordable legal services and bilingual mentorship programs. I envision it as a home base for first-generation students and immigrant families—where they can receive support, leadership training, and a sense of belonging. I don’t just want to succeed. I want to make sure the doors stay open behind me. I want to protect the stories that are being erased and empower others to tell theirs boldly. That’s how I plan to serve.

Choosing to attend law school is not just an academic or professional decision for me—it is a continuation of a personal and generational legacy. As a Gullah Geechee and African American student, raised with a deep respect for ancestry, culture, and resistance, I see law as both a shield and a bridge: a means to protect the vulnerable and connect broken systems back to the people they were meant to serve. I am pursuing a legal education to become an advocate for those who have been disregarded, displaced, or silenced—especially low-income families, immigrants, and people of color. My passion for law is grounded in lived experience. My father, a first-generation college student, began his academic journey with the dream of creating a better life for our family. Due to financial and work obligations, he was unable to complete his degree. Despite this, he instilled in me a belief in education, justice, and service. He passed away during my undergraduate studies—during a semester when I was working as a Newman Civic Fellow, creating first-generation programming and conducting community-based research. His passing reshaped my understanding of what advocacy means. For me, pursuing a J.D. is a promise—to carry on the work he could not finish, and to extend the ladder even further for others who feel left behind. At the University of North Florida, I chose a double major in Africana Studies and Spanish. These two areas have allowed me to understand systems of oppression both historically and linguistically, and to better engage with diverse communities. My academic work has focused on issues ranging from Black cemetery preservation in Jacksonville to the legacy of the Delano Grape Strike, and from Afro-Caribbean identity to the experiences of African immigrants in Spain. These research projects were not just assignments; they were acts of witnessing and truth-telling. Through them, I learned how the law has been used to marginalize—but also how it can be reclaimed as a tool for liberation. One of my proudest accomplishments has been helping to create programming for first-generation students at my university. Collaborating with faculty, staff, and other student leaders, I worked to demystify the college experience for students like myself. We built workshops, events, and digital guides that addressed everything from FAFSA and imposter syndrome to community building and graduate school planning. This work, though outside a courtroom, taught me the kind of advocacy I hope to bring into my legal career—rooted in accessibility, education, and equity. With my law degree, I plan to practice immigration and family law. I am particularly drawn to representing survivors of domestic violence and asylum seekers, and I hope to offer legal services that are linguistically and culturally responsive. My Spanish fluency will allow me to serve Latinx communities more effectively, and my background in African Diaspora studies will help me approach clients’ stories with the depth, dignity, and intersectionality they deserve. In the long term, I plan to return to the classroom—not as a student, but as a professor. I want to teach courses that connect legal studies with race, migration, and public memory. I want to help underrepresented students see law not as an intimidating institution, but as a language they too can speak. I also hope to establish a scholarship in honor of my father and my aunt, both of whom dreamed of higher education and gave deeply to others despite facing immense obstacles. To me, law is not about prestige. It is about purpose. It is about standing between harm and healing, between silence and voice, and choosing again and again to fight for fairness—even when the odds are uneven. I do not want to go to law school because I have all the answers. I want to go because I have spent my life asking hard questions, listening deeply, and believing that justice must include everyone—not just the few who can afford it. Attending law school will give me the tools I need to transform that belief into action. I am ready to learn, ready to serve, and ready to lead with integrity. In the classroom, in the courtroom, and in the community—I plan to honor my roots and pay it forward.

I want to leave behind a legacy rooted in empathy, action, and community. Not just degrees or accomplishments, but something that makes people feel seen, supported, and powerful—especially in spaces where they’ve often been ignored or underestimated. Growing up, I understood what it meant to feel voiceless. I was born with a speech disorder, and even though I could read and write, speaking was incredibly difficult. While other kids were sharing their thoughts out loud, I was learning how to listen—to the tone behind someone’s words, to what they didn’t say, to how hard it is to ask for help. That silence shaped me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. It made me more compassionate, more curious, and more determined to use whatever voice I had to stand up for others. Today, I major in Africana Studies and Spanish at the University of North Florida, and I use those tools to advocate for communities I care deeply about. I volunteer at an immigration legal clinic where I assist with client intake, translation, and document preparation. Many of the people I help are navigating systems that were never built for them in the first place, often in a language they’re still learning. I shine my light by showing up fully—by helping them feel heard, safe, and capable, no matter how overwhelming the process might be. That same drive led me to create First-Gen Osprey Week at my school. I realized that nearly half of our students are first-generation college students, yet there were almost no programs in place to support them. I started organizing events to connect, inform, and celebrate our journeys—and the response was overwhelming. It taught me that leadership doesn’t have to be loud or flashy. Sometimes, it just means noticing what’s missing and deciding to do something about it. After I graduate in December 2025, I plan to study for the LSAT and apply to law school. My long-term goal is to practice immigration and family law while also building a nonprofit that offers community-based legal services and mentorship programs for first-gen and immigrant students. I want to create a space where people don’t just get legal support—they learn how to advocate for themselves, access education, and build a better future for their families. I want students like me to have paid internships, mentorship, and a chance to gain real experience while giving back. This vision is personal. It honors my father, who passed away without ever getting the chance to complete his degree, and my mother, who held our family together on her own. Everything I build—every client I serve, every student I mentor—is a continuation of their sacrifices and love. I shine my light by listening when others feel invisible, by speaking up when silence would be easier, and by helping create spaces where no one has to walk alone. That’s the legacy I hope to leave behind—not just success, but impact. Not just visibility, but belonging. A future where more people feel powerful in their own story.

Erasure, silence, and containment—these are the categories of attack historically used against our community as African Americans. In textbooks, our history is being washed away and our narratives rewritten by pens whose ink is not as strong as the tears of our ancestors. Protests against police brutality are suppressed through pressure and imprisonment. At the same time, we are being boxed into negative racial stereotypes. But that erasure, that silence, that containment—they will not destroy us. My community taught me one thing: we are more resilient than we could have imagined. My undergraduate experience did not break me—it transformed me. I gained compassion, developed empathy, and eventually found my voice by advocating for others. That calling is why I chose to major in Africana Studies and Spanish, especially as efforts toward Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion are dismantled. These studies have given me the historical insight and language skills I now use to serve others. Each semester, I volunteer at an immigration legal clinic, supporting clients with intake, translation, and document preparation. These families have been silenced—by policy, fear, and systemic inaccessibility. But I’ve learned that listening is advocacy. It tells people they matter. It fights against reducing their lives to statistics. That same commitment led me to become a Newman Civic Fellow. I noticed a silence on my campus: nearly half our students are first-generation, yet few programs support them. I created First-Gen Osprey Week—a celebration and resource hub that grew into a movement of visibility and pride. I wanted my peers to feel what I’ve come to believe: we are not a footnote. We are the foundation. After graduating in December with degrees in Africana Studies and Spanish, I plan to take the LSAT and pursue a law degree, specializing in immigration and family law. I want to help marginalized families navigate systems designed to confuse and disempower them. I hope to bridge gaps through bilingual communication, compassion, and legal expertise. This scholarship is more than financial help. It is an investment in a voice that will not be silenced, a heart that refuses to look away, and a future committed to equity. It would ease the burden of my final semester at the University of North Florida, allowing me to graduate, prepare for law school, and continue serving my community without overwhelming financial stress. Most importantly, it would honor my father’s legacy. I will use every tool I have to uplift others and ensure no one—regardless of language, income, or background—is ever made to feel invisible again.

I was born with a speech disorder. While I could read and write, I often felt voiceless growing up—thrust into an education system that barely fought for those who needed accommodations like ESOL students or ESE students like myself. Imagine how much harder it was for those of us who struggled to articulate our thoughts and were dismissed as “babblers.” I refused to let my speech impediment define me. Instead, I transformed my experiences of bullying, teasing, and educational neglect into fuel for my life’s mission: to uplift, fight for, and honor the voices of others. Because of this, it’s no surprise I chose to major in Africana Studies—especially in today’s climate where diversity, equity, and inclusion efforts face constant threats. It feels like I’m watching my country deny its past while trying to retrace its steps at the same time. My studies have given me the historical knowledge, language skills, and critical thinking to advocate for both my history and future as an African-American. My advocacy began with my own community. As a history lover, I knew the best way to protect my community’s legacy was through research. In response to efforts to erase Black history in Florida schools, I took action to make sure our stories remain visible. One of my proudest projects is Excavating Jacksonville’s Civil Rights Legacy: Cultivating Truth and Justice from the Seeds of Ax Handle Saturday. I led this research, reclaiming the overlooked story of Rodney Hurst Sr. and Jacksonville’s role in the Civil Rights Movement. I presented this work at the Society of Florida Archivists Conference, where attendees shared how they could feel my connection–as a local whose family lived in this city for decades. My dedication, passion, and leadership towards this project was fueled by ancestry, justice, and love. My leadership also extends to my campus. As a Newman Civic Fellow, I identified a major gap: nearly half of our students are first-generation college students, yet there were no programs dedicated to their success. I listened to their frustrations and took action by creating First-Gen Osprey Week, a series of events that built community, provided resources, and celebrated their journeys. What started as a small idea became a movement that helped students feel seen, heard, and valued. My advocacy won’t stop when I graduate in December 2025. I plan to begin preparing for the LSAT and applying to law school, with the goal of practicing immigration and family law. I aspire to be an attorney who not only knows the law but also understands the emotional needs of my clients—helping families navigate systems that often make them feel powerless. I’m especially passionate about continuing to build programs for first-generation students like my father, who was a first-gen college student but never crossed the graduation stage. He left college in his junior year to work full-time and support his growing family. He passed away last September, but his story lives on in the work I do to ensure students like him feel supported and empowered to succeed. This scholarship would allow me to focus on completing my degree, preparing for the LSAT, and continuing my service to my community without the constant burden of financial stress. It represents more than financial support—it’s a chance to honor my father’s legacy, cross the finish line with dignity, and continue opening doors for others for years to come.

December 31, 2019, was the first report of Covid-19, and two years later, it is not the last. The airborne disease affected everyone globally. Every year has surprises, but if you told me we would stay in a pandemic this long, I would not believe you. Covid-19 has taken so much from us. Coronavirus has taken years away from us, people away from us, and experiences away from us. This is true for many people. No matter if you live in Hawai'i, South Africa, Germany, everyone has felt the effects of this pandemic. At this rate, I will not get to experience my senior year. However, a more prominent deadly impact of this pandemic has been losing time in the classroom. My mother is an educator. She struggled to create a fun, engaging, educated assignment virtually. However, another challenge was assigning homework. The pandemic has created another pandemic of cheating. Children are now looking up answers on google, or their parents are doing their homework. Cheating gets you the grade, but it does not make you educated. My mom has been a teacher for over two decades. She has taught a variety of grades, but she remains at the elementary level. It was her calling. Now that she is back in the classroom trying to teach while remaining social distance, she notices a gap. Virtual learning does not help everyone. I prefer in-person learning too. Instead of watching the kids get behind, I tutor and mentor some. One of the places I mentor children is at Jax Thrive. Jax Thrive is a local non-profit organization that helps mentor, tutor and teach refugees in Jacksonville, Florida. One of my first community service hours was to help a boy sign up for college and complete his FAFSA. I felt delighted to know I was helping my community out in some way. Due to him being virtual his senior year, he might have missed all those FAFSA and college tips. He wants to be an automotive technician, and I think that's amazing. Another place I tutor is at Growing Educated Minds with Anointed community services international. I mentor and guide one child, and we meet two times a week. The child I see two times a week is in elementary school. I feel happy to help this child do homework and learn math problems. I am proud to watch this pupil learn and grow. I end the gap one step at a time with my volunteer commitments. Everyone wants to see students succeed and go far. However, not many people are willing to go the extra mile. I am. I am ready to tutor children in my community to watch them flourish. I want them to love learning as I did. I want them to be able to chase any career aspiration they want. The greatest gift in life is to be educated. The worst curse in life is ignorance. By mentoring a few children, I can give them the greatest gift of life.

When I was growing up, I used to get bullied often. I got bullied for multiple things, how I talked, how I walked, my clothes. I felt like my existence was offensive to people. Bullying makes you feel visible and invisible at the same time. It's such a contradictive experience. I didn't know how to resolve the conflicts I was having, so I lashed out constantly over and over. This led me to lose a lot of privileges like field trips, Safety patrol, and more. Often, my teachers and guidance counselor would push me off and give me detention. In seventh grade, I got into another fight. I didn't expect much. I was used to getting a slap on the wrist and no guidance. We had a new guidance counselor. I did not know much about her, but due to my prior experience with others. I did not have a reason to be suddenly optimistic or expect a different outcome. Looking back, maybe I judged her too fast, but I was a pre-teen trying to navigate one of the awkwardest phases of my life. Humans are unfortunately judgmental too, we all have that judgment inside of us that we need to work on. My new guidance counselor did something unexpected. She talked to me and questioned my actions. She did not belittle me. I felt like she was really listening and perhaps that's all I needed. I wanted someone to listen to me and hear me. I did not want to be written off anymore. I wonder how drastic my life would be if she did not take the time to listen to me. I wonder how worse this would be if this behavior continued in high school. That is a terrifying thought. Another unexpected thing she did was give me more chances. As I mentioned previously, my outburst caused me to lose privileges. The day I lashed back at my bully was two weeks before they selected National Junior Honor Society members. She called the adult in charge and told her how great of a student I am and how this one offense should not ruin my chances. I don't imagine I would have still joined if she did not do that for me. I also became student council president and kept my grades up afterward. Now I haven't got one referral or fight. I back away from confrontation. She changed my life for the better.

I wake up early on Friday mornings when the geese in my backyard are squealing, and I can hear my neighbors lawnmower, and the sound of my grandma's morning prayers. The average person in my position would be asleep. I have no classes, no obligatory reason to wake up. I could sleep till noon if I desired, but I wake up every morning to watch WandaVision, a hit show where episodes were released weekly on Fridays at 3:00 AM. It was February 26, 2021. I had recurring, vivid dreams of my lost loved ones, specifically my late aunt Zina and dog ChiChi. I missed them a lot, evidently. Sometimes the dreams were memories, and sometimes the dreams were in scenarios where I could still touch them, see them, and talk to them. However, besides the unexpected, strange dreams, I did not expect to hear a quote that stayed with me for six months. From a superhero show, no less, you expect to see a superhero beating bad guys, not a quote that will impact your life. Vision, one of the show's main protagonists, asks a question, "What is grief if not love persevering?" When he asked this, I felt like he was specifically asking me. Grief is an essential part of life but is dreaded. We grieve a lot because we're humans, we grieve the loss of financial security, we grieve detrimental changes in our health, we grieve failed relationships, we grieve so much. This quote speaks to me because it gave me a different perception of grief. It means the grief you harbor inside you is unspent love, longing, and it is not a negative emotion. Grief has a negative connotation, but if I didn't grieve over my aunt and my dog, that means I didn't miss them. I do miss them, I miss them so much, and I understand how much love I still have for them. I see them in so many things, in the activities we used to do together, in old pictures, in old memories. They are still in my heart, and they will always be there. Even if they are in a better place. One of the reasons why this quote is special is because it does not define grief as a negative trait. Grief isn't bad. It can be painful, but it is not bad. Grief is a cost of love. We never stop loving someone when they are gone. The last thing that makes this quote special is the time I heard it. I heard it as I was missing loved ones of my own. My aunt was funny, kind, intelligent, stubborn, and I loved her dearly. My dog was loyal, protective, and cute. When I start missing them, I can get very depressed, but now I know it is all just the love I have for both of them, and I will never forget that.

Laws are so important because our society cannot function without them. Law satisfies several roles that we need to live our daily lives. The law guarantees general safety, individual rights, and liberties, a way to settle disputes, and maintains order and peace. Law grants justice the ability to exist in our society. Law allows a sigh of relief. One of the most prominent obligations that the law has to fulfill is to protect our individual rights and liberties. An example of this is our Bill of Rights which grants several civil rights and liberties. The first amendment guarantees freedom of speech (with limitations), press, religion, petition, and the right to assembly, for example. The founding fathers of this nation were so adamant about the rights for a particular reason. They were placed in the Bill of Rights because those unwritten rights got snatched from them. The colonies faced taxation without representation and felt ignored while they voiced their grievances. Without our Bill of Rights, it is easy to see how powerful the government could be and how helpless it could leave us. A different example is the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which prohibited discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex, or national origin. The Act ensured fundamental rights and allowed us equal rights because every person deserves to work, vote, and live despite our differences. Furthermore, the law serves to solve disputes between individuals. An example of a dispute that can occur is divorce. There are two types of divorces, uncontested and contested; In an uncontested divorce, both spouses concur on all issues concerning the divorce. The spouses agree on the division of marital property and child support, for example. A contested divorce is when they disagree. Uncontested divorces are an excellent example of where the justice system solves something where there would be endless arguing and perhaps no solution. A different example is that the law protects people injured by automobile and workplace accidents, assault, and medical malpractice. A dispute that can come from this is car crashes. The law can determine who is at fault, thanks to the many traffic laws. The next thing the law and justice system provides is a settlement amount. If the settlement amount got left in the air, there would be no justice for the injured. Finally, the law sets standards and maintains order. Law can determine the fine line between legal and illegal. Some laws are straightforward, like thievery, murder, and child abuse being illegal. However, some include riding with a seatbelt or sitting in the front seat at a certain age. These laws protect our safety. For example, if a collision happened head-on without a seatbelt, the driver could fly out of the windshield. If younger kids are permitted to sit in the front seat, then if the airbag deploys, it can harm them. These laws set standards for road safety. Former Supreme Court Associate Justice Benjamin Cardozo stated, "the final cause of law is the welfare of society." Imagine how distraught society would be and how anarchic it would be without these laws. Children's labor laws being nonexistent, no laws to stop business pollution, no federal banking protection, to list a few. The country would be in chaos and turmoil. The fact that these protections exist gives peace of mind. In our civil society, the law has four primary purposes, to maintain order, establish standards, resolve disputes, and protect individual rights and liberties. These purposes are not separate, but they weave together to create a functioning, free society. Law grants freedom. To quote former President Ronald Reagan: "Law and freedom must be indivisible partners. For without law, there can be no freedom, only chaos and disorder, and without freedom, law is but a cynical veneer for injustice and oppression." Law remains so ingrained into our society, and we cannot function without it. Law cannot function without us law-abiding citizens and our justice system.

Autism awareness and acceptance are so important to me. To have the ability and privilege to be a part of a team that spreads this message would mean a lot for me. I have friends and a family member with autism. I want the world to accept them and make them feel more welcome. There is nothing wrong with them, and they do not need to get "fixed." One of the things I would love to see as I spread the message is empathy increasing. One of the reasons so much bullying, belittling, and infantilizing happens to those with autism is ignorance. I also think less bullying will occur too. Less stigmatization will be a plus too. Often I see autism used as an insult too out of pure ignorance. I hope becoming part of the team and spreading the information will stop this. Secondly, I am happy your non-profit business combats the high unemployment within the autism community. People with autism deserve the ability to contribute to the workforce. Also, reading about Michael Kessaris was awe-inspiring. Michael significantly contributed to his community. I want to do that for mine one day too.

I am a young black female. I will be the first person in my family to get a doctoral degree. That is my goal. I want to get a Juris Doctorate degree to become a civil rights attorney. This scholarship would help me incredibly in the long run. College is expensive, but law school is even more costly; if I finish my undergraduate degree with the least amount of debt possible, that will make paying back student loans more manageable. A single black mother raised me. She raised me the best she could. She gave me all the necessary items to grow into a proper young lady. My mother has raised me primarily by herself. She has been financially funding me by herself, too, from school supplies, school field trips, school projects, and more. I want to ease her of this burden during school. I also want to help my community. Not only will funding me help me out, but help my community undoubtedly so. As a civil rights attorney, I plan to fight for justice. I plan to go against white supremacy and anti-blackness. I will fight for the innocent black people failed by the justice system. I will fight to stop Asian hate. I will try to make this world more fair and equal for all.

Intersectionality is a term that was coined over 30 years ago by Kimberlé Crenshaw, who is a lawyer, civil rights advocate, philosopher, and leading critical race theory scholar. Intersectionality simply explains how different genders, races, ethnicities, and individual characteristics yield different experiences in life. My experience in the workforce won't be the same as an Asian man or Hispanic woman. Intersectionality collides in all parts of life. Due to every person having different life experiences, there are present issues in the workplace because of ignorance, lack of education, and misguided judgment. One of these pressing issues is mico-inequities. Micro-inequities are different from micro-aggressions. Micro-inequities are subtle comments towards an individual, often unconscious, that can devalue, belittle, and discourage a person. Individuals can be ignored, and the cause of this can be because of characteristics like gender and race. An example is a team leader neglecting someone or not talking to a particular person, like not listening to a female coworker's advice because of her gender. Micro-inequities can be conveyed by facial expressions, tone of words, and gestures. Micro-aggressions are acts that stereotypes that belittle or stereotype the recipient. An example is complimenting people who are persons of color for their English as if it was not expected because of the color of their skin. I have a similar experience with micro-aggressions. I had a white teacher imply that I got extra work for my paper because my English was too good. Despite the fact that I have always done well in English. It is reflected in my academic record and accolades. The teacher only asked me this out of a class full of other races, ethnicities, and genders. This made me feel personally attacked and awful since I was only 12 at the time. The way I would combat this is to do training and lessons led by marginalized communities. The communities could teach how particular comments and experiences make them feel. Just as intersectionality states, everyone has a different experience; perhaps, someone said something disrespectful out of ignorance. The training and lessons would be suitable to combat this. They would also stop a lot of ignorant stereotypes that are untrue. A woman can go into the STEM field, and A Man can be interested in ballet, and more stereotypes can be broken. Another issue is greater wage inequality due to intersectionality. In 2021, a white woman makes 82 cents to every man's dollar. However, a woman of color would make five-cent less than her—intersectionality showing us once again how different all our experiences are. The way to correct this, businesses need to start paying all their employees equally. Protestors and advocates need to push for companies to close the gap. Hopefully, with pushback and boycotting, companies will make the correct decision.

As a lover of academics, I can say I am passionate about a variety of things. However, one thing sticks out compared to all of my other interests. I am very passionate about history. My favorite historical subjects to learn about are women's rights, world history, LGBTQ+ history, and black history. I feel as if history can educate people and defeat ignorance. I feel as if one reason there's so much sexism, xenophobia, anti-blackness, and other forms of bigotry and prejudice is ignorance. If people knew the history of the past and how far marginalized communities had to go, more people would care, maybe more people would fight for them. The career path I plan to follow is being a civil rights attorney. Civil rights attorneys protect against discrimination and harassment, specifically harassment and discrimination to physical or mental disability, gender, religion, race, national origin, age, status as a member of the uniformed services, sexual orientation, or gender identity. Civil rights attorneys also preserve individual rights like privacy, right to speech, right to practice one's religion, and more. My passion for history led me to want to fight harder for marginalized communities like my own. To fight for other's communities and my own, I have to know the origin, how long the fight was, and when the injustice started. Another importance of history is to not repeat it. History does repeat itself though, marginalized communities suffer for a long time. They are silenced, ignored, frustrated from all of the wrong-doings and past grievances. For example, George Floyd's death was not the first black person to be wrongly killed by law enforcement. He was not the first one to be failed by the justice system. There is a repeated long and tragic history of failings. Now that more people know, more people want to fight for my community. I feel the same way about other movements like stopping Asian hate crimes, standing against antisemitism against Jewish people, expressing support for disabled people. I want to be the change and see justice. A time I overcame my obstacles even when the odds were against me was passing Geometry. At the beginning of the year, I had a lousy teacher. He was new to it, but he did not help much. He did not offer after-school tutoring, the tests were complex, and hardly anyone passed or learned anything. After much complaining, we got a new teacher after winter break. Things did not go smoothly afterward either. The teacher's grading was excruciatingly rigorous. She also gave more assignments. However, with pure grit, work, and determination, I pulled through and passed the exam and class. I got good grades too.