As I flip through the thousands of carefully articulated infographics on social media, showcasing the life of what was once a beautiful black soul, a side of me is filled with rage, anguish, and animosity. My mind responds with Nat Turner’s words where, “he had a vision—and saw white spirits and black spirits engaged in battle, and the sun darkened—the thunder rolled in the heavens, and blood flowed in streams.” Therefore, on August 21, 1831, he led one of the largest and deadliest slave rebellions killing over 200 African Americans. His bloodshed is what made history and paved the way for future slave resistance. For this, I deeply admire Nat Turner and would love to ask him if he could reverse time, would he rebel knowing that his bloodshed resulted in his fat being turned into grease and his skin sold as souvenirs in the form of wallets, bags, and purses? Why risk one’s life for the prosperity of the future generation? I would ask him if he ever blamed God for his misfortune once his plans failed and he went into hiding before eventually getting caught and hung. Would he do it a thousand times over knowing his family could never get closure or bury him? I would ask him to grant me a sliver of his bravery…for times haven’t changed since his death. History has proven how “American” it is to resolve conflict with violence. Gone are the days where Black Americans have to maintain this standard of constantly taking the moral high ground or keeping one’s cool on matters of life and death. Like Nat Turner, we need not to sit back and peacefully wait for change to come. We have to take it and hold on to it for dear life.

The rising homeless population is a big issue society continues to ignore because we feel like it could never happen to us and turn a blind eye. Government money should be carved out to creat high functioning homeless shelters. Not just a place for sleeping and recreational activity, but a place to learn, recover and leave with more knowledge and a better understanding of the world. This homeless shelter would be equipped with specially trained mental health advisors or psychiatrists who can help treat those that have trouble rationalizing their negative thoughts and have been unfairly isolated by society. These buildings would also come with teachers that are knowledgeable in business/entrepreneurship, science, math, music and arts. A deeper understanding in any one of those 5 fields can give some of the homeless people a chance to find something that they are passionate about. Lastly, money should be set aside to make sure that these homeless and low income families can get properly vaccinated. It is important that these people are given a chance to turn their lives around and a chance to live life the way they would want it. Homeless people are always portrayed as drug-filled and unintelligent, which isn’t the case for all of them, so I believe that money should be invested in trying to help improve and eradicate homelessness.

I am a wallflower, a misfit, someone out of the ordinary. Budding from a country where my skin tone was the majority race to being in an atmosphere that praised individuals who spoke and looked nothing like me, was a struggle I didn’t think I could face. Time and time again, I dreaded high school attendance. It always went like this: “Mark.” “Here.” “Megan.” “Here.” “Maddy.” “Here.” “Ti...t...Tey...Tami...lo...lu...wa.” That single sheet of attendance ruined the little confidence I had. I hated that my name caused such a wide disparity and interrupted the flow of “normal” white names. I kept running away from who I genuinely was because I could not escape the box. I was trapped. The box hovered over my line of vision and prevented me from knowing where I belonged. So I kept running instead. Shifting between my culture and not embodying the stereotypical black girl, I neither got the references nor slangs that made one “black” or “white.” Why venture out when I could remain in my faithful box? I poked two holes in the box, eager to see the world around me and who I could be one day. I am like clay, easily groomed as I absorbed more than I could withstand. I observed my surroundings, mirroring what worked, and discarding what didn’t. I took, and took until I realized I couldn’t do anything else but take. Thus, I soaked up the perfect American accent, what clothes would bring attention to me, and how my hair should look. I believed it was wrong to be me. I thought that people viewed me as incompetent and strange. After all, I looked, spoke, and dressed differently. Hence why I was trying hard to appear like everyone else. I believed that my heritage and upbringing were like sand compared to the concrete American lifestyle, which consisted of clothes, money, cars, and popularity. People would come up to me and say, “Wow, I love your accent,” and never talk to me again the next day. Immediately, I thought to myself, “Dang it! I failed...” I had been discovered as different yet again. What held me back? I am an empty can, and my culture is my sound—my blueprint. People hear that sound before they see me. I am ashamed of that sound because it’s loud and proud. With each step, the slink of the can sends out echoes, welcoming my presence before I even utter a word. I envied those without the sound. Those who maintained their grip on life, and showed what they only wanted to show. For so long, I had idolized these individuals, I wanted to embody who they were fundamentally. I began to be ashamed of where I came from and who I was. It was the little remarks like, “Did you live in the jungle?” or “Did you see lions every day?” that made me feel like I needed to mask my sound. I needed to cover every inclination of African culture to be noticed by my peers. The answer was my blackness… Layer after layer, my sound drowned under the padding. I shortened my name, put on my best American voice, and created a person that I could no longer recognize, but the sound reminded me of its existence. It vibrated through the warmth of the padding and shook my core. I leaned side to side as I walked, unsure of when my armor would rip, and the sound would reveal itself once more. I created a person who took on the souls of those around me and molded the personalities I observed, as my own. I am like a stray dog, cheerful and potent, but also one that lacks direction and stability. During the day, I am happiest. Barking loudly and licking strangers with glee, but at night I cower in fear. Consequently, I surrounded myself with shallow friendships, joined organizations where I felt excluded, and overanalyzed how my actions would come across to strangers who didn’t even know how to pronounce my name. Like a stray dog, I longed for the sharp rays of the sun to chase the stillness of the night and my dark thoughts away. My reserved nature led me to depend on conversations in my head rather than with other people. The little voice in my head, telling me to push my brother in the pool or the intricate ways my mind picked apart love, family, and death. No matter the persona, I was still me. I may not fit into the ample categories of life, but I am my own subset. Taking my first ever AP psychology class, my teacher showed me how little I knew about myself and the common characteristics we humans unconsciously express daily. I marveled at how she explained how the body tries to maintain its optimal level of functioning and how that differed in heightened situations. I loved learning new words and phrases and the subtlety in which they had laid dormant in my life until now. Coupling these interests with my love of neuroscience and public health, my AP psychology teacher inspired me to pursue a career in Psychiatry; to help others discover the root of their raging minds and how they can act for and against our bodies under certain conditions. Not just that, but I want to welcome more black and brown families to the idea of therapy and actively seeking mental improvement. There needs to be more black and brown representation in the mental health and medical field. Thus, I want to break down the walls of the mental health stigma and become a person that another person of color can relate to. I want to teach others, especially young black adults, that they do not need to bend or mold themselves into the perceived price of beauty or that seeking mental help makes you weak or undeserving. Regardless of one’s name, sexuality, gender, age, disability or race, let us think like we are our own subset.

I am a wallflower, a misfit, someone out of the ordinary. Budding from a country where my skin tone was the majority race to being in an atmosphere that praised individuals who spoke and looked nothing like me, was a struggle I didn’t think I could face. Time and time again, I dreaded high school attendance. It always went like this: “Mark.” “Here.” “Megan.” “Here.” “Maddy.” “Here.” “Ti...t...Tey...Tami...lo...lu...wa.” That single sheet of attendance ruined the little confidence I had. I hated that my name caused such a wide disparity and interrupted the flow of “normal” white names. I kept running away from who I genuinely was because I could not escape the box. I was trapped. The box hovered over my line of vision and prevented me from knowing where I belonged. So I kept running instead. Shifting between my culture and not embodying the stereotypical black girl, I neither got the references nor slangs that made one “black” or “white.” Why venture out when I could remain in my faithful box? I poked two holes in the box, eager to see the world around me and who I could be one day. I am like clay, easily groomed as I absorbed more than I could withstand. I observed my surroundings, mirroring what worked, and discarding what didn’t. I took, and took until I realized I couldn’t do anything else but take. Thus, I soaked up the perfect American accent, what clothes would bring attention to me, and how my hair should look. I believed it was wrong to be me. I thought that people viewed me as incompetent and strange. After all, I looked, spoke, and dressed differently. Hence why I was trying hard to appear like everyone else. I believed that my heritage and upbringing were like sand compared to the concrete American lifestyle, which consisted of clothes, money, cars, and popularity. People would come up to me and say, “Wow, I love your accent,” and never talk to me again the next day. Immediately, I thought to myself, “Dang it! I failed...” I had been discovered as different yet again. What held me back? I am an empty can, and my culture is my sound—my blueprint. People hear that sound before they see me. I am ashamed of that sound because it’s loud and proud. With each step, the slink of the can sends out echoes, welcoming my presence before I even utter a word. I envied those without the sound. Those who maintained their grip on life, and showed what they only wanted to show. For so long, I had idolized these individuals, I wanted to embody who they were fundamentally. I began to be ashamed of where I came from and who I was. It was the little remarks like, “Did you live in the jungle?” or “Did you see lions every day?” that made me feel like I needed to mask my sound. I needed to cover every inclination of African culture to be noticed by my peers. The answer was my blackness… Layer after layer, my sound drowned under the padding. I shortened my name, put on my best American voice, and created a person that I could no longer recognize, but the sound reminded me of its existence. It vibrated through the warmth of the padding and shook my core. I leaned side to side as I walked, unsure of when my armor would rip, and the sound would reveal itself once more. I created a person who took on the souls of those around me and molded the personalities I observed, as my own. I am like a stray dog, cheerful and potent, but also one that lacks direction and stability. During the day, I am happiest. Barking loudly and licking strangers with glee, but at night I cower in fear. Consequently, I surrounded myself with shallow friendships, joined organizations where I felt excluded, and overanalyzed how my actions would come across to strangers who didn’t even know how to pronounce my name. Like a stray dog, I longed for the sharp rays of the sun to chase the stillness of the night and my dark thoughts away. My reserved nature led me to depend on conversations in my head rather than with other people. The little voice in my head, telling me to push my brother in the pool or the intricate ways my mind picked apart love, family, and death. No matter the persona, I was still me. I may not fit into the ample categories of life, but I am my own subset. Taking my first ever AP psychology class, my teacher showed me how little I knew about myself and the common characteristics we humans unconsciously express daily. I marveled at how she explained how the body tries to maintain its optimal level of functioning and how that differed in heightened situations. I loved learning new words and phrases and the subtlety in which they had laid dormant in my life until now. Coupling these interests with my love of neuroscience and public health, my AP psychology teacher inspired me to pursue a career in Psychiatry; to help others discover the root of their raging minds and how they can act for and against our bodies under certain conditions. Not just that, but I want to welcome more black and brown families to the idea of therapy and actively seeking mental improvement. There needs to be more black and brown representation in the mental health and medical field. Thus, I want to break down the walls of the mental health stigma and become a person that another person of color can relate to. I want to teach others, especially young black adults, that they do not need to bend or mold themselves into the perceived price of beauty or that seeking mental help makes you weak or undeserving. Regardless of one’s name, sexuality, gender, age, disability or race, let us think like we are our own subset.

Tracing the shadows in my room with my eyes, I made out lips and a disfigured face. I knew, in reality, nothing was there, but my eyes and body kept shifting in and out of sleep. I saw my mom’s bright smile as I posed in front of the building, showcasing my horrendous light-up Sketchers. I shake the memory off. “Think of nothing,” I tell myself. Instead of imagining the vast emptiness of the color black, I thought of sheep. “One.” “Two.” “Three.” I counted as I imagined them leaping over a pond. As I reached the tenth sheep, it did not jump. Instead, it fastened itself to a rocket and shot up into the sky, leaving a cloud of smoke and some wool behind. The power of the mind is truly mysterious. As a young girl, I loved the infinite ways my mind interpreted things. The little voice in my head, telling me to push my brother in the pool or the intricate ways my mind analyzed love, family, and death in the wee hours of the morning. My reserved nature led me to depend on conversations in my head rather than with other people. Although that voice in my head was not always the best person, I wanted to learn more about how it all worked. How the brain sends messages to our arms and legs to move, how our subconscious influences our dreams and everyday actions, and how we can trick our mind into believing that a particular drug will work wonders without it actually doing anything. Taking my first ever AP psychology class, my teacher showed me how little I knew about myself and the common characteristics we humans unconsciously express daily. I marveled at how she explained how the body tries to maintain its optimal level of functioning and how that differed in heightened situations. I loved learning new words and phrases and the subtlety in which they had laid dormant in my life until now. Coupling these interests with my love of science and public health, my AP psychology teacher inspired me to pursue a career in Psychiatry to help others discover the root of their raging minds and how it can act for and against our bodies under certain conditions. Not just that, but I want to welcome more black and brown families to the idea of therapy and actively seeking mental improvement. There needs to be more black and brown representation in the mental health field; thus, I want to be that welcoming face that a person of color can relate to. I want to be the person who offers a sense of comfort and love to those who have no control over their mind and what it randomly prompts them to think or do. My Ap psychology teacher always stressed how important it is to care for others in any way you can, and now I actively try to live by that sentiment as I move on from high school. Too many times, we feel like all eyes are on us but not at the same time. We feel as though there is a constant spotlight on us, but it is all in our minds. I want to be the person who shines the light back on an individual, who encourages them at their lowest and provides a sense of reassurance that their experiences are valid. I want to be the change that lifts others above myself. This drives me to educate myself to accurately and confidently pass on information to those I encounter.

I am a wallflower, a misfit, someone out of the ordinary. Budding from a country where my skin tone was the majority race to being in an atmosphere that praised individuals who spoke and looked nothing like me, was a struggle I didn’t think I could face. Time and time again, I dreaded high school attendance. It always went like this: “Mark.” “Here.” “Megan.” “Here.” “Maddy.” “Here.” “Ti…t…Tey…Tami...lo...lu...wa.” That single sheet of attendance ruined the little confidence I had. I hated that my name caused such a wide disparity and interrupted the flow of “normal” white names. I kept running away from who I genuinely was because I could not escape the box. I was trapped. The box hovered over my line of vision and prevented me from knowing where I belonged. So I kept running instead. Shifting between my culture and not embodying the stereotypical black girl, I neither got the references nor slangs that made one “black” or “white.” Why venture out when I could remain in my faithful box? I poked two holes in the box, eager to see the world around me and who I could be one day. What held me back? I am an empty can, and my culture is my sound—my blueprint. People hear that sound before they see me. I am ashamed of that sound because it’s loud and proud. With each step, the slink of the can sends out echoes, welcoming my presence before I even utter a word. I envied those without the sound. Those who maintained their grip on life, and showed what they only wanted to show. So, I tried everything in my power to be like them. I began to be ashamed of where I came from and who I was. It was the little remarks like, “Did you live in the jungle?” or “Did you see lions every day?” that made me feel like I needed to mask my sound. I needed to cover every inclination of African culture to be noticed by my peers. Layer after layer, my sound drowned under the padding. I shortened my name, put on my best American voice, and created a person that I could no longer recognize, but the sound reminded me of its existence. It vibrated through the warmth of the padding and shook my core. I leaned side to side as I walked, unsure of when my armor would rip, and the sound would reveal itself once more. I created a person who took on the souls of those around me and molded the personalities I observed, as my own. I am like a stray dog, cheerful and potent, but also one that lacks direction and stability. During the day, I am my happiest. Barking loudly and licking strangers with glee, but at night I cower in fear. Consequently, I surrounded myself with shallow friendships, joined organizations where I felt excluded, and overanalyzed how my actions would come across to strangers who didn’t even know how to pronounce my name. Like a stray dog, I longed for the sharp rays of the sun to chase the stillness of the night and my dark thoughts away. No matter how hard I barked, ran, or masked, I was still me. I may not fit into the ample categories of life, but I belong to my own subset. I only had myself, therefore, my actions should serve myself and not others. Starting with watering passions that only benefit me. Turns out that plant happened to be Psychology. Things happened so fast, with psychology I marveled at how the body tries to maintain its optimal level of functioning and how that differed in heightened situations. I loved learning new words and phrases, and the subtlety in which they had laid dormant in my life until now. Coupling these interests with my love of science and public health, I was inspired to want to pursue a career in Psychiatry; to help others discover the root of their raging minds and how that can act for and against our bodies under certain conditions. Not just that, but I want to welcome more black and brown families to the idea of therapy and actively seeking mental improvement. There needs to be more black and brown representation in the mental health field. I want to be that welcoming face that a person of color can relate and open up to.

It was my first day of middle school. I saw my mom’s bright smile as I posed in front of the building, showcasing my horrendous light-up Sketchers. I shake the memory off. “Think of nothing,” I tell myself. Instead of imagining the vast emptiness of the color black, I thought of sheep. “One.” “Two.” “Three.” I counted as I imagined them leaping over a pond. As I reached the tenth sheep, it did not jump. Instead, it fastened itself to a rocket and shot up into the sky, leaving a cloud of smoke and some wool behind. The power of the mind is truly mysterious. As a young girl, I loved the infinite ways my mind interpreted things. The little voice in my head, telling me to push my brother in the pool, or the intricate ways my mind analyzed love, family, and death in the wee hours of the morning. It was my reserved nature that led me to depend on conversations in my head rather than with other people. Although that voice in my head was not always the best person, I wanted to learn more about how it all worked. How the brain sends messages to our arms and legs to move, how our subconscious influences our dreams and everyday actions, and how we can trick our mind into believing that a particular drug will work wonders without it actually doing anything. Taking my first ever psychology class, I was stunned at how little I knew about myself and the common characteristics we humans unconsciously express daily. I marveled at the ways the body tries to maintain its optimal level of functioning and how that differs in heightened situations. I loved learning new words and phrases, and the subtlety in which they had laid dormant in my life until now. Coupling these interests with my love of science and public health, I want to pursue a career in Psychiatry to help others discover the root of their raging minds and how that can act for and against our bodies under certain conditions. I want to be the person who offers a sense of comfort to those who have no control over their mind and what it randomly prompts them to think or do. I believe that it is eminently important to care for others in any way you can. I believe I should be chosen for this scholarship because I have a deep passion for psychiatry and proper funding towards my college career at the University of Southern California would be beneficial to achieving my goals. As an aspiring psychology major, I look forward to expanding my knowledge and time through intrinsically based conversations with like minded individuals at places like the Social Behavior Lab, while digging through ancient philosophical texts at Hoose Library of Philosophy. The abundant resources and vast Trojan network in USC, along with aid from this scholarship for transportation, books, and other school fees can allow my academic goals can be maximized.

Ìwé kíkọ Láì sí ọ'kọ' Àti adá Kò ì pé ó Ẹnì kò ṣíṣe A máa jalè Learning without a hoe and cutlass is not complete. Anyone who does not work will surely steal. I was brought up by the principles of this old Nigerian folk song detailing the dangers of lacking the right tools for education and the implications of experiencing life without purpose. Keeping this song in the back of my mind, I hear my mother's words: “What is worth doing is worth doing well.” I come from, “Show me your grit; fine words result in nothing.” I come from, “You are not like them; you are special.” I come from, “Shut up, try harder; do they have two heads?” As immigrants, my parents tried their hardest to maintain our cultural roots. Therefore, the term special meant I should never lose who I truly am. They often reminded me that I needed to work harder than most of my peers because I come from a family of sedulous individuals. I had to be two steps ahead and on my guard at all times. That inclination to succeed justified my use of others and opportunities as mere stepping stones. I took my parents’ words too literally and let success dictate the degree of my happiness. I soon discovered that I focused too much on the accolades from my academic success rather than finding a meaningful path centered around the successes of other people. I decided to channel my academic drive toward something I loved and appreciated—service. I was involved in several community service organizations, initially done to further my mercenary desires, but later evolving into an activity I intrinsically cared for. As the first-born child in a family of five, I learned to cook, clean, and care for my siblings at twelve years old while my parents were away. I found these responsibilities riveting and decided to channel my previous experiences toward assisting others outside of my immediate family instead of selflessly seeking academic validation. There was an overarching expectation that as the oldest, it was my responsibility to embody the essence of what a properly planned out life should entail. Therefore, I could not pinpoint if I had the right motifs in mind. I felt conflicted on my decision to fully commit myself to my passion for service work. I was unsure of if my true intentions were to impress my parents and their standards while simultaneously disregarding my personal dogma. Still, I struggled to find other escapes and to maintain the passion in the one thing I claimed to love doing. As that old folk song rang in my heart, I knew I needed the right tools to unlock my passion. I turned away from my previous criteria of taking classes I felt would look good on the surface regardless of if I liked it or not. This time, I sought after courses that left a lasting impression on me, subjects that inspired me and that I was genuinely willing to learn long term. Taking my first ever AP psychology class, I marveled at how little I knew about myself and the common characteristics we humans unconsciously express daily, how the body tries to maintain its optimal level of functioning and how that differed in heightened situations. I loved learning new words and phrases, and the subtlety in which they had laid dormant in my life until now. Coupling these interests with my love of science and public health, I was inspired to want to pursue a career in Psychiatry; to help others discover the root of their raging minds and how that can act for and against our bodies under certain conditions. Not just that, but I want to welcome more black and brown families to the idea of therapy and actively seeking mental improvement. There needs to be more black and brown representation in the mental health field, thus, I want to be that welcoming face that a person of color can relate to. I want to be the person who offers a sense of comfort and love to those who have no control over their mind and what it randomly prompts them to think or do. I believe it is very important to care for others in any way you can and now I actively try to live by that sentiment as I graduate from high school. Too many times, we feel like all eyes are on us but not at the same time. We feel as though there is a constant spotlight on us, but it is all in our minds. Mental health matters, but our mind often tricks us into believing that our light is dim and that we are powerless. I want to be the person who shines the light back on an individual, who encourages them at their lowest, but also provides a sense of belonging and reassurance in the fact that their experiences are valid. I want to be the change that lifts others above myself. When I think back to the time I chased my brother around the house to get him to go to bed before my mom came back from work; the difference between then and now, serving food at my local food and shelter was that I didn’t need money to fuel my interest. I finally discovered my purpose and the moxie my previous actions lacked. I started making myself readily available to assist others, whether it was listening to their stories or just being present in a world outside of myself. Listening to that old folk song now, I know why my mother emphasized how special I was to her. It was to solidify foundational roots that connected the priceless nature of our heritage to the value in seeking my own academic path. It helped remind me to put my best foot forward, aim for the stars, and never underestimate the power of withstanding the opinions of others

Ìwé kíkọ Láì sí ọ'kọ' Àti adá Kò ì pé ó Ẹnì kò ṣíṣe A máa jalè Learning without a hoe and cutlass is not complete. Anyone who does not work will surely steal. I was brought up by the principles of this old Nigerian folk song detailing the dangers of lacking the right tools for education and the implications of experiencing life without purpose. Keeping this song in the back of my mind, I hear my mother's words: “What is worth doing is worth doing well.” As immigrants, my parents tried their hardest to maintain our cultural roots. Therefore, the term special meant I should never lose who I truly am. They often reminded me that I needed to work harder than most of my peers because I come from a family of sedulous individuals. I had to be two steps ahead and on my guard at all times. That inclination to succeed justified my use of others and opportunities as mere stepping stones. I took my parents’ words too literally and let success dictate the degree of my happiness. I soon discovered that I focused too much on the accolades from my academic success rather than finding a meaningful path centered around the successes of other people. There was an overarching expectation that as the oldest, it was my responsibility to embody the essence of what a properly planned out life should entail. Therefore, I could not pinpoint if I had the right motifs in mind. I felt conflicted on my decision to fully commit myself to my passion for service work. I was unsure of if my true intentions were to impress my parents and their standards while simultaneously disregarding my personal dogma. Still, I struggled to find other escapes and to maintain the passion in the one thing I claimed to love doing. As that old folk song rang in my heart, I knew I needed the right tools to unlock my passion. I turned away from my previous criteria of taking classes I felt would look good on the surface regardless of if I liked it or not. This time, I sought after courses that left a lasting impression on me, subjects that inspired me and that I was genuinely willing to learn long term. Attending my first ever psychology class, I was stunned at how little I knew about myself and the common characteristics we humans unconsciously express daily. I marveled at the ways our body tried to maintain its optimal level of functioning and how that differed in heightened situations. I had an endearment for learning new words, phrases, and the subtlety in which they had laid dormant in my life until now. Coupling these interests with my love of science and public health, I let go of my parental influences and wanted to pursue a career in Psychiatry. As a psychiatrist, I’ll be able to help others discover the root of their raging minds and how it can act for and against our bodies under certain conditions. Listening to that old folk song now, I know why my mother emphasized how special I was to her. It was to solidify foundational roots that connected the priceless nature of our heritage to the value in seeking my own academic path. It helped remind me to put my best foot forward, aim for the stars, and never underestimate the power of withstanding the opinions of others.

It was two A.M..; the echo from my living room and kitchen bounced off the walls daring not to enter my room. It was pitch black as the only source of bright light came from my overheating computer. There I was seated in front of my laptop, eyes wide open, and in deep thought. The stillness of the room fueled my imagination. As I felt the inescapable nature of my eyes watering, I stared harder at the blinking cursor. Just a minute ago, I was burning with fire and intensity; thinking to myself, "Then this happened, then this happened" as I frantically typed out the script to my online novel. Then just as quickly as the ideas flowed, they stopped. I stopped. Then, the doubt settled in. “I’m not good enough, am I?” I always felt the need to write things down, whether it was long diary entries about how I wished to run away or overly childish excerpts on how my crush looked in my direction for way too long. I felt it was elementary to reach for a pen and paper when I could not overcome my emotions. As I grew older, I appreciated the pen and paper more. I loved how easily my words came to life on paper. Its large surface was always ready for pencil or ink to enhance its character, to give it meaning, an accomplishment, a regret, or just a feeling. What began as a way to flush out my emotions turned into something much more than a mindless hobby. I decided to write about things outside of myself by channeling the pen and paper toward broader perspectives. I wanted an audience, someone to listen to the conversations I had in my head. I was no longer satisfied with keeping it all to myself. So I decided to start working on my first ever fictional book. Although this was a new experience, I was glad to have a community of online readers who enjoyed what I created. Thus, writing encourages me to seek broader perspectives and newer plots that I believed were unfathomable in the moment. That period of silence coupled with the boom and bust of the inner workings of my mind ignites a deeper elation when my pen finally reunites with my paper. I believe I should be chosen for the "Dream Big” Writing Scholarship because I have a deep passion for writing and proper funding towards my college career at the University of Southern California would be beneficial to achieving my goals. I look forward to expanding my knowledge and time through intrinsically based conversations with like minded individuals at places like the Social Behavior Lab, while digging through ancient philosophical texts at Hoose Library of Philosophy. The abundant resources and vast Trojan network in USC along with some financial backing from "Dream Big” Writing Scholarship would help provide for tuition fees, transportation, and book fees. With this in mind, I am confident that my undergraduate years would be worthwhile.

I sighed for the fourth time as I shifted my body in a new direction to maximize my level of comfort. Tracing the shadows in my room with my eyes, I made out lips and a disfigured face. I knew, in reality, nothing was there, but my eyes and body kept shifting in and out of sleep. As my body yearned for rest, my mind raced on and on about the past, present, and future. I tried to imagine my mind as a loud television and my hands reaching for the remote to shut off the conversations in my head, but as I leaned towards the remote, it disappeared. Instead, a memory replaced it. It was my first day of middle school. I saw my mom’s bright smile as I posed in front of the building, showcasing my horrendous light-up Sketchers. I shake the memory off. “Think of nothing,” I tell myself. Instead of imagining the vast emptiness of the color black, I thought of sheep. “One.” “Two.” “Three.” I counted as I imagined them leaping over a pond. As I reached the tenth sheep, it did not jump. Instead, it fastened itself to a rocket and shot up into the sky, leaving a cloud of smoke and some wool behind. The power of the mind is truly mysterious. As a young girl, I loved the infinite ways my mind interpreted things. The little voice in my head, telling me to push my brother in the pool, or the intricate ways my mind analyzed love, family, and death in the wee hours of the morning. It was my reserved nature that led me to depend on conversations in my head rather than with other people. Although that voice in my head was not always the best person, I wanted to learn more about how it all worked. How the brain sends messages to our arms and legs to move, how our subconscious influences our dreams and everyday actions, and how we can trick our mind into believing that a particular drug will work wonders without it actually doing anything. Taking my first ever AP psychology class, I marveled at how little I knew about myself and the common characteristics we humans unconsciously express daily. I marveled at the ways she explained how the body tries to maintain its optimal level of functioning and how that differed in heightened situations. I loved learning new words and phrases, and the subtlety in which they had laid dormant in my life until now. Coupling these interests with my love of science and public health, I was inspired to pursue a career in psychiatry; to help others discover the root of their raging minds and how that can act for and against our bodies under certain conditions. Not just that, but I want to welcome more black and brown families to the idea of therapy and actively seeking mental improvement. There needs to be more black and brown representation in the mental health field, thus, I want to be that welcoming face that a person of color can relate to. Through my recent admission to the University of Southern California, majoring in psychology and a minor in French, I plan to embark on different research opportunities on clinical psychology that strive to welcome more people of color into psychiatry. I want to be the person who offers a sense of comfort and love to those who have no control over their mind and what it randomly prompts them to think or do. I believe it is important to care for others in any way you can and now I actively try to live by that sentiment as I graduate from high school. Too many times, we feel like all eyes are on us but not at the same time. We feel as though there is a constant spotlight on us, but it is all in our minds. Although most people are not inherently selfish, this allows individuals who put on a facade or upbeat personality to realize that their mind and sanity are safe havens that should be a priority. Mental health matters, but our mind often tricks us into believing that our light is dim and that we are powerless. I want to be the person who shines the light back on an individual, who encourages them at their lowest, but also provides a sense of belonging and reassurance in the fact that their experiences are valid. I want to be the change that lifts others above myself.

“Don’t touch me!,” my mom said as she stopped my brother from racing to embrace her. She dropped a box of wings on the dining table, and I watched her walk to the bathroom in complete silence. Once she got out, I heard the slam of the door signaling she was in her room. I knew that now was not the time to ask her how her day was. As a young girl, I accustomed myself to the idea that success was directly proportional to hard work. Yet what broke my heart was the sight of my mother, desperately working multiple jobs to belong in a country that paid her dust in return. I began to question the validity of my previous beliefs. “Wasn’t she working hard enough?” One of the jobs she worked at was a wing place. To be frank, I hated her job. It was a symbol that we had reached the bottom of the barrel. She would come home covered in grease stains and foul smells. Eating those wings felt like a defeat, that we had succumbed to this lifestyle, adverse to the lifestyle I hoped resulted from unwavering determination. I stared at the box of freshly made wings sitting on the dining table. My relatives in Nigeria used to think the streets of America were gold plated and that there was no such thing as a struggle in America. I silently chuckled as I realized the irony of my situation and the ignorant words my relatives and I once conjectured. I sat down, reached forward, and grabbed a single wing. In my hand wings didn't feel like wings anymore, they felt like the blood sweat and tears my mom put into her job. She always gave one thousand percent and I could feel that in every crunch and gulp, so I kept eating to truly understand the feeling of continual defeat. I turned around to look at my surroundings, almost ashamed that I had failed to hold on to the imaginary standard that I was above those wings. As soon as I locked eyes with my brother, mouth full of wings, we both erupted into fits of laughter. “What happened to Miss wings-is-not-my-thing?” he said, clutching his stomach. I knew in that moment, I had nothing to be ashamed of. Although she never showed it, I sensed my mom was ashamed of her job and how quickly the facade of her strong parental figure dissolved before her eyes in terms of her self-worth and success. But in reality, I failed to realize that she was only shielding us from witnessing the hurt and frustration she endured all day. However, she neither wanted pity nor soft gestures to sugarcoat the hard side of life; she wanted my brothers and I to acknowledge them with her. The starry-eyed nature of the American Dream blinded my relatives and I from realizing one country doesn’t hold all the treasures to life. Our struggles are universal but adaptation keeps us afloat. This was her way of showing it was okay to fall once or even multiple times in life. We live in phases and in this phase, my mother’s toil is never really in vain. As a second-year student at the University of Oklahoma, I believe that my mother is fit for this scholarship because she is determined and a great problem solver. This scholarship will be able to further her educational goals as a Ph.D. student in the Department of Adult and Higher Education. Due to increasing college tuition, she had to overcome many hurdles to attain a proper education at the University of Oklahoma. Through her unwavering dedication, she finished her master's degree and sought after a more intense obstacle: A Ph.D. degree. She was inspired to keep going, regardless of the monetary connotations based on her love for learning. Taking on two jobs as a mother and a student, she knew that advancing on the journey to achieve her Ph.D. would be incredibly hard, but her children always inspired her to keep going and dream regardless of her age. Although she would love to bank on their enthusiasm, she had to face the reality of things. Her ambition slowly drove her apart from her children, making it difficult to notice their emotional needs. This scholarship would allow her to dedicate more time to her academics without the monetary aspect tugging at the forefront of her mind. This scholarship would not only help her scholastic goals but would also improve her physical and mental wellbeing. Hence, she can spend more personal time with her family rather than working dollar to dollar to fulfill her tuition. The Little Bundle Mother's Day scholarship would also help other mothers like my mom to inspire the younger generation to be proud of a desire to learn. Investing in the future of her graduate studies would mean the world to her and our family. It would show her children to never give up on their aspirations no matter how late it seems.

I am a wallflower, a misfit, someone out of the ordinary. Budding from a country(Nigeria) where my skin tone was the majority race to being in an atmosphere that praised individuals who spoke and looked nothing like me, was a struggle I didn’t think I could face. Time and time again, I dreaded high school attendance. It always went like this: “Mark.” “Here.” “Megan.” “Here.” “Maddy.” “Here.” “Ti…t…Tey…Tami...lo...lu...wa.” That single sheet of attendance ruined the little confidence I had. I hated that my name caused such a wide disparity and interrupted the flow of “normal” white names, but I am a wallflower so I can do nothing but listen; either to understand my place or to find where I belong. I kept running away from who I genuinely was because I could not escape the box. I was trapped. The box hovered over my line of vision and prevented me from knowing where I belonged. So I kept running instead. Shifting between my culture and not embodying the stereotypical black girl, I neither got the references nor slangs that made one “black” or “white.” Why venture out when I could remain in my faithful box? I poked two holes in the box, eager to see the world around me and who I could be one day. I am like clay, easily groomed as I absorbed more than I could withstand. I observed my surroundings, mirroring what worked, and discarding what didn’t. I took, and took until I realized I couldn’t do anything else but take. Thus, I soaked up the perfect American accent, what clothes would bring attention to me, and how my hair should look. I believed it was wrong to be me. I thought that people viewed me as incompetent and strange. After all, I looked, spoke, and dressed differently. Hence why I was trying hard to appear like everyone else. I believed that my heritage and upbringing were like sand compared to the concrete American lifestyle, which consisted of clothes, money, cars, and popularity. People would come up to me and say, “Wow, I love you accent,” and never talk to me again the next day. Immediately, I thought to myself, “Dang it! I failed…” I had been discovered as different yet again. What held me back? I am an empty can, and my culture is my sound—my blueprint. People hear that sound before they see me. I am ashamed of that sound because it’s loud and proud. Which each step, the slink of the can sends out echos, welcoming my presence before I even utter a word. I envied those without the sound. Those who maintained their grip on life, and showed what they only wanted to show. For so long, I had idolized these individuals, so I tried everything in my power to be like them. I began to be ashamed of where I came from and who I was. It was the little remarks like, “Did you live in the jungle?” or “Did you see lions every day?” that made me feel like I needed to mask my sound. I needed to cover every inclination of African culture to be noticed by my peers. Layer after layer, my sound drowned under the padding. I shortened my name, put on my best American voice, and created a person that I could no longer recognize, but the sound reminded me of its existence. It vibrated through the warmth of the padding and shook my core. I leaned side to side as I walked, unsure of when my armor would rip, and the sound will reveal itself once more. I created a person who took on the souls of those around me and molded the personalities I observed, as my own. I am like a stray dog, cheerful and potent, but also one that lacks direction and stability. During the day time, I am my happiest. Barking loudly and licking strangers with glee, but at night I cower in fear. Consequently, I surrounded myself with shallow friendships, joined organizations where I felt excluded, and overanalyzed how my actions would come across to strangers who didn’t even know how to pronounce my name. Like a stray dog, I longed for the sharp rays of the sun to chase the stillness of the night and my dark thoughts away. No matter how hard I barked, ran, or masked, I was still me. Beneath all the lining, I was still a shy Nigerian girl who wanted to be accepted. I may not fit into the ample categories of life, but I am my own subset. I am Temiloluwa. T’emi for short, which means mine in English. Truly, I belonged to myself and nowhere else.