If I had a dollar for every time someone mispronounced my name, I probably wouldn’t need this scholarship. But alas, here I am, proudly Lithuanian, proudly son of immigrant parents, and proudly still correcting teachers during roll call. My name is Timas Gudziunas. My journey began in the United States, but my immigrant experience started far earlier when my parents left everything they knew in Lithuania, armed only with two suitcases and a slightly irrational belief that their toddler son would one day do big things (like mastering both Lithuanian grammar and English idioms). Growing up in a household where the TV was always slightly too loud because it was doubling as an English tutor, I witnessed firsthand what resilience looked like. My dad took on backbreaking construction jobs. My mom, armed with industrial strength gloves and an unbreakable work ethic, cleaned houses for hours on end. We didn’t talk much about dreams at the dinner table. We talked about discounts, second jobs, and how to fix the washing machine again. But they never let me feel like I couldn’t dream. As a kid, I was often stuck between worlds. At school, I was the quiet kid with the weird lunch (cold beet soup, anyone?). At home, I was the “American translator,” reading government letters, doctor’s notes, and occasionally arguing with telemarketers on my parents’ behalf. It felt like living a double life, except instead of fighting crime, I was fighting the FAFSA application. Yet being raised in an immigrant household gave me strengths that I only started to recognize later. It taught me how to adapt quickly, how to work hard even when no one’s watching, and how to find humor in awkward situations (like when I once used the word “intercourse” in a biology presentation, thinking it just meant “conversation”—thank you, Lithuanian English dictionary). Today, I carry that dual identity with pride. It doesn’t confuse me anymore. It strengthens me. It’s what drives my aspiration to become a biomedical engineer. I’m fascinated by the intersection of biology and technology, and I want to design affordable medical solutions that actually reach underserved communities. Communities like mine, where doctor visits were often delayed not because of fear, but because of cost. In high school, I’ve taken every opportunity to pursue this path. I’ve researched the biomechanics of throwing a frisbee, not just because I love ultimate frisbee (which I do—catch me awkwardly diving for a disc on weekends), but because I wanted to understand how muscles and movement interact. I’ve volunteered, led STEM outreach programs, and even taught myself how to CAD basic prosthetic models in Fusion 360. (Let’s just say my first prototype looked more like a medieval weapon than a helping hand, but hey, progress.) College, to me, isn’t just about getting a degree. It’s about gaining the tools I need to give back, to contribute to the same country that gave my family a second chance. My ultimate goal is to work on biomedical devices that help improve quality of life in immigrant and low-income communities around the world. I want to be the kind of engineer who designs not just for efficiency, but for empathy. So yes, I’m applying for this scholarship as a first-generation Lithuanian American immigrant who believes in hard work, smart design, and laughing through life’s absurdities. And maybe one day, someone will pronounce “Timas Gudziunas” correctly on the first try. But until then, I’ll keep pushing forward, armed with my culture, my passion, and probably a backup pronunciation guide.

One of the most meaningful community events I’ve participated in is a five-weekend project to design and paint a large, vibrant banner for Smiltele Lithuanian School, where I have been a student and a mentor for many years. This event, which I helped lead, wasn’t officially advertised as a parade or festival, but for our community, especially the youngest children, it became a source of celebration, pride, and unity. The old school banner had faded and worn out over the years, and I knew we could do better. I gathered a group of Lithuanian students, from toddlers to teenagers, and proposed that we collaborate to create something beautiful that would hang at every community gathering. We met for four hours every Saturday over five consecutive weekends. Each session was filled with laughter, messy paint, and shared memories. The younger children added their handprints in colorful paint, while the older students helped sketch traditional Lithuanian patterns and symbols. I coordinated the materials, facilitated the design process, and kept the younger ones engaged by explaining the meaning behind each symbol and color. What made this project especially meaningful to me was witnessing the joy and pride in the children’s faces as they contributed to something larger than themselves. Many of them, like me, had struggled to balance dual identities: American and Lithuanian. Creating a banner that visually celebrated our shared heritage helped strengthen that connection. When we finally hung the finished product at a school celebration, I watched the younger kids run up to it, pointing to their handprints and telling their parents, “That’s mine!” This event reminded me how powerful community art and youth involvement can be. It also gave me a glimpse into how leadership, even in small acts, can leave a lasting impression on others. I’ve always believed that the best way to strengthen a community is by helping the next generation feel seen, heard, and proud of where they come from. As a result of this experience, I’d love to see more community projects that put kids at the center, especially in cultural or minority communities where language and heritage risk fading with time. I want our community to create more intergenerational events such as mural projects, storytelling nights, bilingual theater performances, or music workshops that let children explore their roots in creative ways. These events wouldn’t just strengthen identity; they would also foster leadership and teamwork. Gregory Chase Carter’s commitment to English, music, and community events like the Juneteenth celebration resonates with me deeply. I see in his story the power of showing up for others and using creativity to uplift a community. I hope to honor that spirit by continuing to bring people together through service, language, and shared purpose. The banner project was just the beginning.

When I was six years old, I took apart a vacuum cleaner just to see what made it “suck”. Screws scattered across the carpet like confetti. My parents were baffled. I was thrilled. The vacuum never worked again, but I’d never felt more alive. I didn’t know it then, but that chaotic little experiment was the start of something bigger. I’ve always been fascinated by how things work, and more importantly, how they can work better. That juvenile curiosity has grown into a full-blown mission: to become a biomedical engineer and design life-changing technology for people who need it most. As a first-generation American raised by Lithuanian immigrants, I’ve seen what it takes to dream big when you’re starting from scratch. My parents didn’t hand me a fast pass to success. What they did was better. They handed me values: work hard, stay kind, and never let fear make your decisions for you. That foundation has guided me through a 4.0 Unweighted GPA, rigorous schedules, long nights, and one very intense pickleball session. I’ve turned my curiosity into action whenever I can. One of my proudest projects was a research paper I wrote on the biomechanics of throwing a Frisbee. Most students saw "Frisbee" and thought recess. I saw torque, drag, joint articulation, and the perfect excuse to launch discs across the field in the name of science. It’s the same blend of fun and purpose I hope to bring into my future career. Outside the classroom, I’ve been leading a team at Smiltele Lithuanian School, a cultural community that’s shaped who I am. We spent four weekends designing and painting a giant banner to surprise the younger kids. We were initially aimless, covered in paint, no end goal in mind, and suffocated by a tight deadline. But when the kids saw it, their faces lit up, and suddenly all that effort felt worthwhile. That’s the kind of impact I want to create on a larger scale. I want to engineer affordable prosthetics and assistive devices, especially for people in underserved communities. Everyone deserves mobility, independence, and the chance to participate in life fully, regardless of their background or bank account. By attending Duke University, I will immerse myself in biomechanics research and intern in medical labs where I can learn from real-world innovation while bringing my own ideas to the table. Yes, I want to solve complex problems, but also: I just really love solving things. Puzzles, devices, design challenges, why the vending machine never gives back your dollar: no mystery is too small. I’m not aiming to be a “successful” person in the traditional sense. I want to be useful. I want to take the passion I’ve carried since that fateful vacuum cleaner incident and use it to build tools that help people move, heal, and live better lives. This scholarship would give me the freedom to stay focused on that mission without letting financial stress pull me off course. I’m ready to chase this dream with everything I’ve got—and maybe even fix a vacuum or two along the way.

I am the proud child of two Lithuanian immigrants, raised speaking Lithuanian before English and straddling two worlds from the very beginning. As a kid, that meant struggling to connect with my classmates while speaking a different language at home. I often felt like an outsider until I found a second home in Smiltele Lithuanian School, where I met other children with similar backgrounds. Over time, I went from a quiet kid hesitant to speak up to a leader in that same community, guiding projects, organizing cultural events, and most recently, leading a team to create a large banner that now we hang at gatherings to act as a symbol of pride and joy for all the school's attendants. I want them to feel the same joy and belonging I eventually found. That sense of purpose and service has guided much of what I do, whether it’s volunteering locally, helping younger students, or staying after school to help set up events. But it has also shaped how I view my future. I plan to study biomedical engineering because I want to create tools that restore mobility, function, and hope for others. As part of my academic work, I wrote a 4,000-word research paper on the biomechanics of throwing a frisbee, combining my love of science with an activity I’d grown to enjoy socially. That paper sparked a deeper interest in the musculoskeletal system and how prosthetics and assistive devices can improve lives. One day, I hope to design innovations for Paralympic athletes and patients recovering from injuries so that more people can move freely and do what they love. My path hasn’t been entirely smooth. Recently, I had to miss school for an extended period due to a serious illness, aspiration pneumonia. Falling behind academically while trying to recover physically was one of the hardest experiences I’ve faced. I worried that the momentum I had built over the years—academically, socially, and in service—might fall apart. But it didn’t. I leaned on my teachers, communicated honestly, and pushed myself to catch up and return stronger. Through that adversity, I learned to ask for help and, more importantly, to keep showing up, even when I didn’t feel 100 percent. That lesson about showing up and staying engaged has stuck with me. It is why I give my time to others, even on tough days. It is why I speak up in class, even when I am unsure. And it is why I am committed to pursuing a career where science serves people directly, improving their quality of life. I have seen how small gestures, whether it is leading a banner project for younger kids or showing a friend how to hold a frisbee, can create ripples. I want to spend my life making ripples that matter. Receiving the Valerie Rabb Memorial Scholarship would mean more than financial support. It would be a reminder that efforts to uplift others, especially when done quietly and consistently, do not go unnoticed. Like Mrs. Rabb, I hope to spend my life championing those around me.

Growing up as the son of Lithuanian immigrants, I often felt caught between two cultures. Lithuanian was the language of my home, spoken with warmth and familiarity. But when I entered school, I was expected to function in a world that spoke a language I barely understood. My classmates communicated freely while I hesitated, unsure if the words in my head would come out correctly. I rarely raised my hand, even when I knew the answer, because the fear of mispronouncing something or being misunderstood held me back. It was a quiet and isolating struggle, but one that would become the root of my perseverance. I knew I couldn’t stay silent forever. Determined to overcome my language barrier, I began working harder than ever. I read aloud every night to improve my pronunciation. I watched English-language shows with subtitles, trying to match tone and rhythm. I stayed after school for extra help and asked teachers to correct me when I misspoke. I also attended a weekend Lithuanian school to stay connected to my culture, which taught me the value of navigating two identities at once. Over time, the fear I once felt when speaking turned into a quiet confidence. I started volunteering to present in class and eventually tutored other students who were learning English. What once felt like a weakness became one of my greatest strengths: the ability to connect across cultures and persevere in the face of discomfort. My challenges didn’t stop with language. As a first-generation student, I had to learn how to navigate the path to college on my own. My parents, though loving and supportive, were unfamiliar with how the education system worked. I researched financial aid, scholarships, and application deadlines by myself. I met with counselors, asked endless questions, and built a list of opportunities. I joined clubs, played sports, and even wrote a long research paper on the biomechanics of throwing a frisbee, combining my curiosity with my love for science and movement. Everything I pursued was driven by the belief that I could build something greater for myself and for my family. Despite the uncertainty and moments of doubt, I’ve remained focused. I’ve balanced school with part-time work, taken advanced courses, and supported my younger siblings while my parents worked long hours. Through it all, I’ve never let my circumstances define my potential. I’ve learned to turn adversity into action, and fear into motivation. I will be the first in my family to attend college. That milestone means more than a degree. It represents years of effort, the sacrifices my parents made, and the promise I’ve made to myself—to keep going, to lift others as I rise, and to build a future that once seemed out of reach.

The movie Hidden Figures had the greatest impact on my life because it completely reshaped my understanding of education, perseverance, and leadership. The film tells the inspiring story of three African American women—Katherine Johnson, Dorothy Vaughan, and Mary Jackson—who overcame tremendous social and institutional barriers to contribute to one of the most important achievements in American history: the success of NASA’s space missions. Their brilliance, combined with their resilience, deeply influenced my perspective on education and the power of learning to create change. As I watched Katherine, Dorothy, and Mary face not only the challenges of their demanding work but also the oppressive racial and gender inequalities of their time, I was struck by their determination. Despite being denied the recognition they deserved, they continued to push forward in their pursuit of knowledge, refusing to be defined by the limitations placed upon them. Katherine Johnson’s ability to solve complex mathematical equations that were vital to NASA’s success showed me the power of intellectual curiosity and determination. Dorothy Vaughan’s self-taught programming skills and her initiative to teach those around her demonstrated the importance of self-reliance and the power of sharing knowledge. Mary Jackson’s fight to attend engineering classes in an all-white school illustrated the lengths she was willing to go to ensure she could use her education to its fullest potential. Watching their story unfold, I felt inspired to push through my own challenges and doubts in pursuing a career in biomedical engineering. Their perseverance reminded me that education is not just a personal endeavor; it is a means to impact the world. As a student interested in fields that intersect with both technology and medicine, I now see how important it is to take every opportunity to learn and to challenge the boundaries that may seem insurmountable. The movie helped me realize that true growth comes from facing adversity and learning to turn obstacles into opportunities. What truly resonated with me was the way these women used their education not only for personal advancement but also to uplift others. Katherine, Dorothy, and Mary were not simply striving for individual success, they were actively creating opportunities for those who came after them. This message aligns closely with my belief that leadership is about helping others thrive. I am motivated to not only develop my own skills but to create an environment in which collaboration, innovation, and education can flourish for everyone. Hidden Figures also showed me that education is a powerful tool for breaking down barriers, whether they are societal, personal, or institutional. As I pursue my goals, I want to continue learning, not just for my own development but to help others who may feel limited by their circumstances. The film reinforced the importance of pushing forward with determination, even when the odds seem stacked against you. In the future, I hope to use my knowledge and skills in biomedical engineering to design tools and technologies that will improve the lives of others. Just like the women in Hidden Figures, I want to make a meaningful impact, contributing to both scientific progress and the betterment of society. Their story will continue to inspire me as I work to overcome obstacles and pursue my own dreams, helping others along the way.

Attending college is not just a personal goal. It is the foundation of everything I hope to build for my future and the people I hope to help along the way. As a first-generation American raised by two Lithuanian immigrants, I grew up watching my parents work long hours in physically demanding jobs just to provide the essentials. Their sacrifices shaped my values early on. I understood the meaning of perseverance, responsibility, and the importance of education as a path to opportunity. I have always loved to explore how things work, especially the human body. This fascination evolved into a deep interest in biomedical engineering, where I hope to develop accessible medical technologies that improve patient care. My dream is to research and help create prosthetics and assistive devices for individuals with physical disabilities, including Paralympic athletes. It is work that combines compassion with innovation, and it requires a strong foundation in science, mathematics, and engineering. These are all subjects I am eager to study in college. My academic record reflects not just performance in the classroom but a commitment to pushing through barriers. I have balanced school with a part-time job, community service, leadership roles, and tutoring others in math and science. I also volunteer at a weekend Lithuanian school where I lead activities for younger children. I do this not just out of cultural pride but because I want to be a role model for others who are trying to succeed while holding onto their roots. However, despite my best efforts, the financial burden of college looms large. My family’s income simply cannot cover the full cost of tuition, housing, books, and other essential expenses. I have applied for other scholarships and plan to work during college, but even with these steps, the gap is significant. Without additional financial support, I will face difficult choices that may delay or limit my academic and professional goals. Receiving the Achieve Potential Scholarship would make an incredible difference. It would allow me to focus more on my studies and research rather than on constant financial stress. It would help me access valuable internship and laboratory opportunities that might otherwise be out of reach. Most importantly, it would give me the chance to achieve my potential and use my education to help others do the same. This scholarship is more than a financial award. To me, it is a vote of confidence in my ability to succeed and make meaningful contributions to the world. With your support, I can become a biomedical engineer who not only advances science but also brings hope to those who have been overlooked. I am determined to make the most of this opportunity and I am deeply grateful for your consideration.

Jack Terry's life is one of profound strength, resilience, and transformation. As a child who endured the unimaginable loss of his entire family and survived the horrors of three Nazi concentration camps, Jack faced more than adversity—he faced the darkest parts of human history. Yet, rather than letting these experiences define him in bitterness, he built a life of meaning. He came to the United States at fifteen with no English skills and only an elementary school education, but he did not let that stop him. He became a geological engineer, then a psychoanalyst, served in the United States Army, and eventually dedicated his later years to educating students and sharing his story of hope. What inspires me most about Jack Terry is that he not only survived, but chose to lift others up through his voice and example. His story reminds me that even in the face of overwhelming difficulty, a person can still choose growth, compassion, and service. While my own life has not included the trauma Jack Terry endured, his story resonates with me on a personal level. I have also had to rebuild myself after feeling isolated and disconnected. I was born in the United States to two Lithuanian parents and grew up speaking Lithuanian as my first language. When I started school, I found it difficult to connect with others. I struggled to understand the social cues, language, and rhythm of the classroom. I often felt alone and unsure of how to belong. While the challenge may seem small compared to Jack’s, for a young child, the experience of being unable to communicate or make friends can be quietly devastating. The turning point came when I began attending a Lithuanian weekend school. There, surrounded by others who shared my background, I started to gain confidence. Slowly, I became more comfortable participating in school, asking questions, and joining extracurriculars. I eventually began helping younger Lithuanian-American students who were also navigating identity and language. I learned that belonging is something we help create for ourselves and others. More than that, I learned that adversity can lead to purpose. Jack Terry used his voice and education to serve others. I hope to do the same through my chosen path in biomedical engineering. I am passionate about building medical technologies that restore dignity and function to those who have been injured or affected by disability. I am especially interested in designing low-cost prosthetics and mobility aids that are accessible to underserved communities. I also hope to work on projects that assist war veterans, stroke survivors, and Paralympic athletes. Like Jack, I believe that overcoming adversity should not end with survival but should inspire service to others. In addition to my academic goals, I remain dedicated to giving back to my cultural community. I volunteer at Lithuanian cultural events and serve as a mentor at my language school. I want younger students to see that it is possible to grow into confidence, to blend different identities, and to use their experiences to build empathy. Jack Terry’s life proves that hardship does not define a person—how they respond to it does. His legacy encourages me to turn every challenge into an opportunity to grow and serve. I hope to honor that legacy by using my education not just to succeed, but to lift others up along the way. Whether through engineering, mentoring, or community work, I want to continue the cycle of resilience and generosity that Jack so powerfully modeled.

Found in Translation If my life were a movie, it’d be called Found in Translation. The opening scene would show a small boy standing at the edge of a playground, his hands gripping the straps of a backpack twice his size. He watches the other children run, shout, and laugh, but he stays quiet. He understands enough English to know what they are saying, but not enough to respond. Instead, he listens. And in that silence, something important begins: a habit of observing before acting, of trying to understand before speaking. I was born in the United States, but my first language was Lithuanian. My parents, who immigrated here with strong values and a rich cultural heritage, made our home a space where our roots could thrive. I learned to read, speak, and think in Lithuanian before I ever said a sentence in English. While this gave me a deep connection to my family’s identity, it also placed me at a distance from my peers. In school, I often felt like an outsider, especially in the early years when I lacked the vocabulary and confidence to join conversations. Simple interactions could feel like decoding a foreign language, even when I understood every word. But what began as a challenge became one of my greatest strengths. Because I could not always rely on words, I learned to pay close attention to tone, gesture, and intention. I studied my surroundings like a puzzle, finding patterns in how people moved and what they meant. This way of thinking extended to the physical world around me. I became fascinated with how things worked, especially when something was broken. I remember being no older than five when I took apart an old vacuum cleaner in our living room, piece by piece, just to figure out how the motor connected to the switch. I never did get it working again, but I learned more in that afternoon than I ever expected. I’d discovered the thrill of solving problems, not with instructions, but with curiosity. As I grew older, I began to find places where my voice could emerge. One of the most important was Smiltele Lithuanian School, where I met others who, like me, straddle two cultures. There, my bilingualism was a bridge rather than a barrier. I helped plan events, led community projects, and helped create a banner that still hangs at school gatherings today. It was in these moments that I realized leadership doesn’t always begin with loud voices or quick answers. Sometimes, it begins with understanding your audience and offering something that brings people together. Simultaneously, my academic interests began to focus around a single idea: how the human body works and how technology can help it work better. I explored biomedical engineering, drawn to its combination of design, science, and impact on people’s lives. I wrote a research paper on the biomechanics of throwing a frisbee, which connected my love of ultimate frisbee with the science of motion. I started asking bigger questions. How can we improve the efficiency of prosthetic limbs? What role can engineering play in rehabilitation? How can we design tools that adapt to the needs of athletes with disabilities? These questions don’t have easy answers, but that has never discouraged me. In fact, not having answers has always been part of my story. I learned from a young age that uncertainty isn’t something to fear but something to explore. Whether I am discussing moral questions with my friends during carpool rides or trying to understand how a muscle generates force, I approach each problem with a mixture of curiosity and patience. I don’t expect immediate clarity. I work toward understanding, knowing the process matters as much as the outcome. Looking forward, I want to pursue a career in biomedical engineering that allows me to design inclusive solutions. I want to build tools that improve mobility, independence, and confidence for those who need it most. But more than that, I want to be someone who sees others fully, who listens deeply, understands differences, and builds bridges across them. The same way I once stood between two languages and learned how to connect them, I hope to stand between disciplines, communities, and needs, helping them make sense of each other. The opening scene of Found in Translation doesn’t include a grand speech or a dramatic event. It’s a quiet moment of hesitation and reflection. But that moment contains everything that comes after. It’s the origin of a voice that took time to develop, the beginning of a perspective that values empathy as much as innovation. As the movie continues, the boy at the edge of the playground slowly steps forward, ready to join not because he finally learned the words, but because he finally learned what he wanted to say.

Leadership doesn’t always begin with a title, it often starts with a moment of quiet recognition that something needs to change. For me, that moment came during my involvement with the Smiltele Lithuanian School, a weekend school for young Lithuanian-American students, that has shaped my identity and connected me deeply to my heritage. As a longtime student and now one of its senior volunteers, I saw an opportunity to leave a lasting impact when I realized how outdated and overlooked the school’s banner had become. Once a proud symbol displayed at every community event, the banner no longer reflected the vibrant culture and youthful energy of the students it represented. I knew we needed something better, something inspiring, colorful, and unifying. Rather than taking on the task alone, I rallied a team of fellow Lithuanian high school students who had once sat in the same seats as the younger kids we hoped to inspire. Together, over the course of five consecutive weekends, we dedicated four hours each session to designing, sketching, painting, and refining a massive new banner. From coordinating schedules to managing supplies and creative input, I found myself in a leadership role that was both hands-on and people-centered. I wasn’t just guiding a project, but nurturing a sense of shared purpose. What made this experience powerful was how it created an intergenerational bridge. As we painted under a park pavilion, curious younger students would wander over during lesson breaks, watching us with excitement and anticipation. I began encouraging them to participate: handing them brushes, inviting their ideas, and showing them that their voices mattered too. When we finally unveiled the completed banner, their faces lit up. The joy, awe, and sense of pride they showed was exactly the impact I had hoped for. Our efforts weren’t just about aesthetics, they represented community, continuity, and the celebration of cultural identity. This project taught me that leadership rooted in service is transformative. It’s not about standing at the front, it’s about bringing others along with you. True leadership means listening before speaking, creating space for everyone to contribute, and understanding that small, thoughtful actions, like staying late to help someone finish their section or pausing to explain a design choice, can foster meaningful relationships and long-term trust. Through this experience, I learned how empathy and inclusion can amplify a team’s potential. At Duke University, I plan to lead with this same spirit. I want to get involved in cultural organizations and student-led service initiatives, especially those focused on health, accessibility, and design. As a future biomedical engineering major, I’m drawn to solving practical problems that impact real lives. I hope to join clubs or labs where we work on assistive devices or community-driven medical solutions, and I aim to bring together students from different backgrounds to collaborate. My leadership style, which primarily focuses on elevating others and building shared vision, will allow me to contribute meaningfully in both technical and human-centered spaces. Long-term, I hope to use these leadership skills in my professional life by designing accessible medical technologies and mentoring the next generation of STEM students. Just as I brought together a team to create something lasting for our school, I aspire to unite engineers, patients, and innovators to address challenges that truly matter. The Smiltele banner wasn’t just fabric and paint. It became a symbol of pride, inclusion, and creativity resurrected by a team of young people who believed in something bigger than themselves. That’s the kind of leader I strive to be: someone who sees what’s missing, steps up, and empowers others to make something meaningful together.

Law enforcement agencies play a crucial role in maintaining public safety, yet historical and contemporary tensions between these agencies and the African American community remain a significant challenge. Growing up, I have witnessed both the positive and negative interactions between police officers and my community, and it is clear that rebuilding trust requires a dedicated, long-term effort. To improve relationships, law enforcement must commit to transparency, cultural competence, and community engagement. First, transparency in policing practices is essential to rebuilding trust. The implementation of body-worn cameras and publicly accessible data on police stops, use of force, and disciplinary actions can demonstrate accountability. When communities see that officers are held to the same legal and ethical standards as civilians, confidence in law enforcement improves. Additionally, independent oversight committees should be established to review incidents of misconduct, ensuring impartial investigations and fostering a sense of fairness. I believe that if my community had more access to these kinds of transparency measures, there would be less fear and more willingness to engage with officers positively. Second, cultural competence training is necessary to address implicit biases and improve interactions between officers and African American communities. Law enforcement agencies should require comprehensive training on the historical context of policing in the United States, particularly the impact of discriminatory practices such as racial profiling and excessive force. By fostering awareness and empathy, officers can develop stronger, more respectful relationships with the communities they serve. Moreover, recruiting more African American officers and promoting them to leadership positions can help ensure that the police force reflects the diversity of the communities they protect. When I hear stories from friends and family about unfair treatment, it becomes clear that more diverse representation in leadership could help address long-standing issues. Third, meaningful community engagement initiatives can bridge the gap between law enforcement and African American residents. Police departments should implement neighborhood policing programs where officers build relationships with residents through regular interactions outside of law enforcement duties. Community advisory boards, composed of local leaders and residents, can also provide a platform for open dialogue, allowing community concerns to shape policing strategies. Additionally, youth mentorship programs led by officers can foster positive relationships from an early age, shifting perceptions of law enforcement from adversarial to supportive. I remember attending a community event where local officers played basketball with neighborhood kids, and it was one of the few times I saw genuine camaraderie between the police and the people they serve. More initiatives like this could go a long way in changing perceptions. Finally, legal and policy reforms are necessary to address systemic issues contributing to distrust. Ending practices such as stop-and-frisk and excessive sentencing disparities can demonstrate a genuine commitment to justice. Furthermore, implementing restorative justice programs can provide alternative solutions to incarceration, focusing on rehabilitation rather than punishment. I have seen firsthand how minor offenses can derail lives, and shifting the focus toward rehabilitation could provide a second chance for many young people. Improving relationships between law enforcement and African American communities requires a multifaceted approach. By prioritizing transparency, cultural competence, community engagement, and policy reform, police agencies can foster trust, promote fairness, and ultimately create safer, more united communities. As someone who has seen both the struggles and the potential for improvement, I believe that change is not only necessary but entirely possible with the right efforts in place.

Growing up as the child of two Lithuanian immigrants, I straddled and had to balance two very different worlds. At home, I spoke Lithuanian, celebrated traditions my classmates had never heard of, and ate foods that invited curious stares during lunch in the school cafeteria. At school, I felt the weight of being different, just not quite fitting in. While I was fluent in English, my cultural background created an insurmountable barrier between me and my peers. The sense of isolation was overwhelming, and for a long time, I struggled to find a place where I truly belonged. For years, I found that sense of belonging at a weekend Lithuanian school, where I connected with others who shared my background and experiences. However, when that school closed down, I was left with a deep sense of loss. The community that had once provided me with comfort and identity was suddenly gone. Rather than simply accepting this painful fact, I worked alongside Lithuanian educators to establish Smiltele Lithuanian School, ensuring that future generations of Lithuanian-American children would have the same opportunity I once did. Smiltele became more than just a school, it was a space where culture, language, and identity could thrive. Taking on leadership within Smiltele Lithuanian School, I dedicated myself to ensuring that younger students felt the same connection I had longed for. I helped organize events that celebrated Lithuanian traditions, mentored students who were struggling to embrace their heritage, and worked on a large-scale project to create a new banner for the school which now acts as a symbol of unity that would welcome generations of students to come. Through this work, I saw firsthand how powerful education can be when it extends beyond textbooks and into personal identity and community-building. This experience shaped my perspective on education in profound ways. Education, to me, is not just about acquiring knowledge, it’s about connection, empowerment, and creating spaces where people feel seen and valued. It’s about using knowledge to bridge gaps, whether cultural, linguistic, or societal. As I foresee myself pursuing a degree in biomedical engineering at Duke University, I will carry this lesson with me. While my field may seem technical, at its core, it is about improving lives. Just as I once sought to build a community where I felt I belonged, I now strive to use my education to create solutions that enhance the quality of life for others. Whether it is designing medical devices for underrepresented populations or developing technology that makes healthcare more accessible, my goal is to apply my knowledge in ways that make a meaningful impact. Ultimately, the challenge of growing up between two cultures taught me resilience, adaptability, and the importance of community. It showed me that true belonging is not just about finding a space for oneself, but about creating one for others. Through my education, I intend to continue this mission of bringing people together, breaking down barriers, and using my skills to improve lives, just as that one weekend Lithuanian School did for me.