My musical journey started in 2004 when I was born. According to my mom, I sang before I could talk; it seemed as if it was embedded in my DNA. I grew up an artist; when I was alone, I spent hours creating stories and songs in my head, and when I wasn't, I was performing and sharing those stories and songs with everyone else. I did everything from singing in the church choir to putting on performances for my teachers & peers at school. Creating and performing always brought me the most joy out of anything else in life. Over time, my musicality has grown and developed greatly. I began songwriting and playing guitar at 14 years old and over the COVID-19 pandemic, I expanded my craft into producing as well. I fell in love with the entire process of creating music; everything from coming up with the first melody in my head to perfecting the audio engineering captivated me. In that moment, I realized that this is what I was meant to do. My dream has always been to be a musical artist. Growing up, I never really saw myself represented in the world around me, and as a queer Black kid in the South, I think it would’ve made my life a lot easier. I am accustomed to being the only person in the room who looked like me and thought like me. No matter what situation or environment I was in, a part of me had to be watered down or hidden out of fear, and I spent so much of my early years feeling invalidated and unaccepted. I saw music and the arts as an escape from that. I am so proud to say that I am currently pursuing that dream. I want my art to reach people like me, to let them know that they aren't alone. Throughout high school and college, I have interwoven my passion for music into a plethora of different academic subjects and fields. I have studied the biological effects of classical music on seed germination, conducted literary analysis on song lyrics, historically investigated music in its relation to political movements, conducted statistical research and psychological experiments on music and academic performance, done anthropological case studies on the role of musicians in society, and analyzed the role music plays in film to express political ideologies and themes. Studying music in academic settings has opened my mind to a world of possibilities. In addition to releasing my own music, producing, and writing for others, I am double majoring in Music & Psychology at UCLA with plans to pursue post-graduate education in music therapy and start my own practice. In my community, there has always been a stigma against mental health and seeking help. In times when I was struggling and I couldn't talk about it, I could sing about it. Music resonates so deeply within our minds and our cultures that I believe it has a profound capability to heal. I want to harness that ability and help to create a world full of more self-expressive, accepting, and empathetic people through this beautiful, universal language.

Growing up, I never really saw myself represented in the world around me, and as a queer Black kid in the South, I think it would’ve made my life a lot easier. No matter what situation or environment I was in, a part of me had to be watered down or hidden out of fear, and I spent so much of my early years feeling invalidated and unaccepted. I saw music and the arts as an escape from that. It was an avenue through which I could find people that I related to. It also gave me a creative outlet to help me deal with those feelings of loneliness and isolation. I expressed my emotions and experiences through songwriting, and each of the songs I write carries my identity and perspective with them, a perspective that has been rejected and invalidated for far too long. The main focus of my artistry is liberation. We live in a world in which so many people feel trapped or bound because of who they are or what their situation is; I have definitely been one of those people. Sometimes when I watch the news and see the hate that still resonates so deeply throughout this country and world, it just feels like there is no space for someone like me, but it is in those moments where it is most important to create that space. I do it through my music. There is no liberation without fun, and If the art I put into this world can make a Black person dance, a queer person sing along, or someone struggling with their mental health find an escape, I have done my job. In my community, there has always been a stigma against mental health and seeking help. As a Black man, especially a queer one, vulnerability has always come with a feeling of weakness and danger. I am double-majoring in music & psychology and pursuing music therapy to subvert that narrative. In times when I was struggling and I couldn't talk about it, I could sing about it. Music resonates so deeply within our minds and our cultures that I believe it has a profound capability to heal. I want to harness that ability and help to create a world full of more self-expressive, accepting, and empathetic people through this beautiful, universal language.

My musical journey started in 2004 in Fairhope, Alabama when I was born. According to my mom, I sang before I could talk; it seemed as if it was embedded in my DNA. I grew up an artist; when I was alone, I spent hours creating stories and songs in my head, and when I wasn't, I was performing and sharing those stories and songs with everyone else. I did everything from singing in the church choir to putting on performances for my teachers & peers at school. Creating and performing always brought me the most joy out of anything else in life. I existed within a strange state of being for most of my life. Out in the world, I was a victim of the racial prejudice my predominately white town had against Black people, which made me feel extremely othered. At home, I was a victim of the standards of masculinity that my family and culture placed on boys, which led to a lack of emotional expression and an all-out fear of embracing my Queer identity. I had to hide who I was with no place of refuge. Every day when I got out of bed I was putting on a performance of sorts, playing the role of someone who wasn't the real me. Ironically, I felt like I could be the most authentically myself when I actually performed; I could strip the mask away, remove the costume, relax my shoulders, and just sing. As I got older, I discovered a new outlet: writing. I found so much power in the songs I wrote because they were purely mine. I could express exactly how I felt in the way I wanted to without needing to explain myself to anyone. For the first time, I was in control of the narrative. Seeing the sunset over my neighborhood every evening documented the passage of time and reminded me of my mission: make it out of here. I would put my pen to my page, keep my fingers moving across my keyboard & guitar, and sing hundreds of different melodies until something stuck. The complex emotions nurtured in my small town rest deep in my psyche and emerge through my music. The songs are unreciprocated love letters to the people and spaces I wanted so badly to embrace me. My hopes, desires, dreams, and prayers sit between the lines and move through the sound waves. Underlying it all is an emotional and spiritual hunger. Hunger to follow my dreams and be the person I've always wanted to be without hiding. During the COVID-19 pandemic, I felt stuck, as I'm sure we all did. I wanted a piece of me to stretch out to the people and places that I couldn't reach. I needed to share my art. I didn't have the resources to get studio time or pay producers, so I did it all myself. I made a tiny investment in some software and equipment and got to work. I fell in love with the entire process of creating music; everything from coming up with the first melody in my head to perfecting the audio engineering captivated me. In that moment, I realized that this is what I was meant to do. Nothing brought me so much joy and peace as music. It has such a profound impact and the capability to heal. I want my art to reach people like me, to let them know that they aren't alone. I want to help to create a world full of more self-expressive, accepting, and empathetic people through this beautiful, universal language.

My musical journey started in 2004 when I was born. According to my mom, I sang before I could talk; it seemed as if it was embedded in my DNA. I grew up an artist; when I was alone, I spent hours creating stories and songs in my head, and when I wasn't, I was performing and sharing those stories and songs with everyone else. I did everything from singing in the church choir to putting on performances for my teachers & peers at school. Creating and performing always brought me the most joy out of anything else in life. I existed within a strange state of being for most of my life. Out in the world, I was a victim of the racial prejudice my predominately white town had against Black people, which made me feel extremely othered. At home, I was a victim of the standards of masculinity that my family and culture placed on boys, which led to a lack of emotional expression and an all-out fear of embracing my Queer identity. I had to hide who I was with no place of refuge. Every day when I got out of bed I was putting on a performance of sorts, playing the role of someone who wasn't the real me. Ironically, I felt like I could be the most authentically myself when I actually performed; I could strip the mask away, remove the costume, relax my shoulders, and just sing. As I got older, I discovered a new outlet: writing. I found so much power in the songs I wrote because they were purely mine. I could express exactly how I felt in the way I wanted to without needing to explain myself to anyone. For the first time, I was in control of the narrative. Seeing the sunset over my neighborhood every evening documented the passage of time and reminded me of my mission: make it out of here. I would put my pen to my page, keep my fingers moving across my keyboard & guitar, and sing hundreds of different melodies until something stuck. The complex emotions nurtured in my small town rest deep in my psyche and emerge through my music. The songs are unreciprocated love letters to the people and spaces I wanted so badly to embrace me. My hopes, desires, dreams, and prayers sit between the lines and move through the sound waves. Underlying it all is an emotional and spiritual hunger. Hunger to follow my dreams and be the person I've always wanted to be without hiding. During the COVID-19 pandemic, I felt stuck, as I'm sure we all did. I wanted a piece of me to stretch out to the people and places that I couldn't reach. I needed to share my art. I didn't have the resources to get studio time or pay producers, so I did it all myself. I made a tiny investment in some software and equipment and got to work. I fell in love with the entire process of creating music; everything from coming up with the first melody in my head to perfecting the audio engineering captivated me. In that moment, I realized that this is what I was meant to do. Nothing brought me so much joy and peace as music. It has such a profound impact and the capability to heal. I want my art to reach people like me, to let them know that they aren't alone. I want to help to create a world full of more self-expressive, accepting, and empathetic people through this beautiful, universal language.

My musical journey started in 2004 in Fairhope, Alabama when I was born. According to my mom, I sang before I could talk; it seemed as if it was embedded in my DNA. I grew up an artist; when I was alone, I spent hours creating stories and songs in my head, and when I wasn't, I was performing and sharing those stories and songs with everyone else. I did everything from singing in the church choir to putting on performances for my teachers & peers at school. Creating and performing always brought me the most joy out of anything else in life. I existed within a strange state of being for most of my life. Out in the world, I was a victim of the racial prejudice my predominately white town had against Black people, which made me feel extremely othered. At home, I was a victim of the standards of masculinity that my family and culture placed on boys, which led to a lack of emotional expression and an all-out fear of embracing my Queer identity. I had to hide who I was with no place of refuge. Every day when I got out of bed I was putting on a performance of sorts, playing the role of someone who wasn't the real me. Ironically, I felt like I could be the most authentically myself when I actually performed; I could strip the mask away, remove the costume, relax my shoulders, and just sing. As I got older, I discovered a new outlet: writing. I found so much power in the songs I wrote because they were purely mine. I could express exactly how I felt in the way I wanted to without needing to explain myself to anyone. For the first time, I was in control of the narrative. Seeing the sunset over my neighborhood every evening documented the passage of time and reminded me of my mission: make it out of here. I would put my pen to my page, keep my fingers moving across my keyboard & guitar, and sing hundreds of different melodies until something stuck. The complex emotions nurtured in my small town rest deep in my psyche and emerge through my music. The songs are unreciprocated love letters to the people and spaces I wanted so badly to embrace me. My hopes, desires, dreams, and prayers sit between the lines and move through the sound waves. Underlying it all is an emotional and spiritual hunger. Hunger to follow my dreams and be the person I've always wanted to be without hiding. During the COVID-19 pandemic, I felt stuck, as I'm sure we all did. I wanted a piece of me to stretch out to the people and places that I couldn't reach. I needed to share my art. I didn't have the resources to get studio time or pay producers, so I did it all myself. I made a tiny investment in some software and equipment and got to work. I fell in love with the entire process of creating music; everything from coming up with the first melody in my head to perfecting the audio engineering captivated me. In that moment, I realized that this is what I was meant to do. Nothing brought me so much joy and peace as music. It has such a profound impact and the capability to heal. I want my art to reach people like me, to let them know that they aren't alone. I want to help to create a world full of more self-expressive, accepting, and empathetic people through this beautiful, universal language.

My musical journey started in 2004 in Fairhope, Alabama when I was born. According to my mom, I sang before I could talk; it seemed as if it was embedded in my DNA. I grew up an artist; when I was alone, I spent hours creating stories and songs in my head, and when I wasn't, I was performing and sharing those stories and songs with everyone else. I did everything from singing in the church choir to putting on performances for my teachers & peers at school. Creating and performing always brought me the most joy out of anything else in life. I existed within a strange state of being for most of my life. Out in the world, I was a victim of the racial prejudice my predominately white town had against Black people, which made me feel extremely othered. At home, I was a victim of the standards of masculinity that my family and culture placed on boys, which led to a lack of emotional expression and an all-out fear of embracing my Queer identity. I had to hide who I was with no place of refuge. Every day when I got out of bed I was putting on a performance of sorts, playing the role of someone who wasn't the real me. Ironically, I felt like I could be the most authentically myself when I actually performed; I could strip the mask away, remove the costume, relax my shoulders, and just sing. As I got older, I discovered a new outlet: writing. I found so much power in the songs I wrote because they were purely mine. I could express exactly how I felt in the way I wanted to without needing to explain myself to anyone. For the first time, I was in control of the narrative. Seeing the sunset over my neighborhood every evening documented the passage of time and reminded me of my mission: make it out of here. I would put my pen to my page, keep my fingers moving across my keyboard & guitar, and sing hundreds of different melodies until something stuck. The complex emotions nurtured in my small town rest deep in my psyche and emerge through my music. The songs are unreciprocated love letters to the people and spaces I wanted so badly to embrace me. My hopes, desires, dreams, and prayers sit between the lines and move through the sound waves. Underlying it all is an emotional and spiritual hunger. Hunger to follow my dreams and be the person I've always wanted to be without hiding. During the COVID-19 pandemic, I felt stuck, as I'm sure we all did. I wanted a piece of me to stretch out to the people and places that I couldn't reach. I needed to share my art. I didn't have the resources to get studio time or pay producers, so I did it all myself. I made a tiny investment in some software and equipment and got to work. I fell in love with the entire process of creating music; everything from coming up with the first melody in my head to perfecting the audio engineering captivated me. In that moment, I realized that this is what I was meant to do. Nothing brought me so much joy and peace as music. It has such a profound impact and the capability to heal. I want my art to reach people like me, to let them know that they aren't alone. I want to help to create a world full of more self-expressive, accepting, and empathetic people through this beautiful, universal language.

My life was forever changed when the clock struck twelve on December 8th, 2021. For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I was acting on a stage playing the role of the “perfect golden child.” I was always told that I would do great things and that I was what gave my family hope for my generation. They all took their seats in the front rows of my life show, waiting to see what amazing things I would achieve. The rest of the seats in my theatre became filled with critics. From a very young age, I knew what it was like to be ostracized due to being the only black person in the room and I have dealt with racism ever since I was 8 years old. My accomplishments seemed to break the mold that my community had tried to put black people into. They were watching and waiting for me to make one wrong move that they could use to justify their opinion that I wasn’t good enough for the role. Everything I did was not just a reflection of me or my family, but a representation of all black people in the eyes of my predominately white community, so every step I took and line I recited had to be flawless, but I would soon learn that perfection is impossible. As I grew up, I learned so much more about myself in the moments I spent backstage. In my solitude, I became a whole human, not just the projections and expectations that were placed on me. When I was thirteen, I came out to myself as LGBTQ and rejected beliefs that were integral to my family and community. These personal truths were not aligned with the perception of me that everyone had. My self-worth relied on pleasing others, but my soul needed to be heard. In school, I couldn’t appear “too black” and at home, I couldn’t be “too queer” or I risked disappointing others and destroying that false image. In those times when I felt helpless and ashamed, I found an outlet: music. I found so much power in the songs I wrote because they were purely mine. For the first time in my life, I was in control of the narrative. Without music, I wouldn't As it approached midnight on the day I released my first song, I was overcome with excitement, fear, and relief. This was the first time I was doing something for myself. I left the stage and came back not as the “perfect golden child”, but as Tylon, and although some people won’t like the real me, I believe that allowing that fire inside to fill me with the warmth and passion of self-acceptance is more worthwhile than the approval of those who don’t truly know me or my story. Though it has caused pain and struggles, I am grateful for my life show. Art has a unique ability to transform pain into something beautiful that fosters human connection, and I find that harnessing that fills me with so much personal power & satisfaction. I have once again learned that my experiences are not just for me. I will live and tell my story authentically and unapologetically for the black boy out there who feels underestimated, for the LGBTQ+ teen who feels unseen, for the creative mind who feels misunderstood, and for anyone who feels like they have to be someone who they are not. My life show is for them, and I do not intend to drop the curtain anytime soon.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I was acting on a stage, playing the role of the “perfect golden child.” My family took their seats in the front rows, waiting to see what amazing things I would achieve. The rest of the seats, however, became filled with critics. My accomplishments seemed to break the mold that my community had tried to put black people into. They were waiting for a reason to say I wasn’t good enough for the role. Every step I took and line I recited had to be flawless, but I would soon learn that perfection is impossible. When I was thirteen, I came out to myself as LGBTQ and rejected beliefs that were integral to my family and community. These personal truths were not aligned with the perception of me that everyone had. My self-worth relied on pleasing others, but my soul needed to be heard. In school, I couldn’t appear “too black” and at home, I couldn’t be “too queer” or I risked disappointing others and destroying that false image. am accustomed to being the only person in the room who looked like me and thought like me. No matter what situation or environment I was in, a part of me had to be watered down or hidden out of fear, and I spent so much of my early years feeling invalidated and unaccepted. In those times when I felt helpless and ashamed, I found outlets: music & writing. I found so much power in the songs, poems, and stories I wrote because they were purely mine. For the first time in my life, I was in control of the narrative. I expressed my emotions and experiences through songwriting, and each of the songs I write carries my identity and perspective with them, a perspective that has been rejected and invalidated for far too long. On the day I released my first song, I was overcome with excitement, fear, and relief. I left the stage and came back not as the “perfect golden child”, but as Tylon. Though it has caused pain and struggles, I am grateful for my life show. Art has a unique ability to transform pain into something beautiful that fosters human connection, and I find that harnessing that fills me with so much personal power & satisfaction. I have once again learned that my experiences are not just for me. I will live and tell my story authentically and unapologetically for the black boy out there who feels underestimated, for the LGBTQ+ teen who feels unseen, for the creative mind who feels misunderstood, and for anyone who feels like they have to be someone who they are not. My life show is for them, and I do not intend to drop the curtain anytime soon.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I was acting on a stage playing the role of the “perfect golden child.” I was always told that I would do great things and that I was what gave my family hope for my generation. They all took their seats in the front rows of my life show, waiting to see what amazing things I would achieve. The rest of the seats in my theatre became filled with critics. From a very young age, I knew what it was like to be ostracized due to being the only black person in the room and I have dealt with racism ever since I was 8 years old. My accomplishments seemed to break the mold that my community had tried to put black people into. They were watching and waiting for me to make one wrong move that they could use to justify their opinion that I wasn’t good enough for the role. Every step I took and line I recited had to be flawless, but I would soon learn that perfection is impossible. As I grew up, I learned so much more about myself in the moments I spent backstage. In my solitude, I became a whole human, not just the projections and expectations that were placed on me. When I was thirteen, I came out to myself as LGBTQ and rejected beliefs that were an integral part of my family and community. I felt so free and in tune with my true self, but then, the weight of secrecy came down on me, leaving me feeling even more restricted than before. These personal truths were not aligned with the perception of me that everyone had. My self-worth relied on pleasing others, but my soul needed to be heard. I had a fire inside of me that I had to constantly suppress in front of others to be more palatable to them. In school, I couldn’t appear “too black” and at home, I couldn’t be “too queer” or else I risked disappointing others and destroying that false image. In those dark times, I found outlets: music and writing. I found so much power in the songs, poems, and stories I wrote because they were purely mine. I could express exactly how I felt in the way that I wanted to, and for the first time in my life, I was in control of the narrative. As it approached midnight on the day I released my first song, I was overcome with excitement, fear, and relief. This was the first time I was doing something for myself. I left the stage and came back not as the “perfect golden child”, but as Tylon, and although some people won’t like the real me, I believe that allowing that fire inside to fill me with the warmth and passion of self-acceptance is more worthwhile than the approval of those who don’t truly know me or my story. Though it has caused pain and struggles, I am grateful for my life show. I have once again learned that my experiences are not just for me, but instead of contorting myself into the box that certain people want me to be in, I will live authentically and unapologetically for the black boy out there who feels underestimated, for the LGBTQ+ teen who feels unseen, for the creative mind who feels misunderstood, and for anyone who feels like they have to be someone who they are not. My life show is for them, and I do not intend to drop the curtain anytime soon.

The woman’s name was Carla. I’m usually bad at remembering names, but I don’t think I will ever forget hers. Carla doesn’t even know I exist, but it was because of her that I realized how powerful music is. I was in Atlanta at one of my favorite artists Jessie Reyez’s concert, standing about ten rows from the front. She had just finished a song when she pointed out a sign in the front row. It said “Con el Viento, ” which is the title of one of the Colombian artist’s old Spanish tracks. Jessie asked for the woman’s name, and that night, the audience met Carla. Complying with Carla’s request, Jessie pulled out her acoustic guitar and began to play and sing the song. She expressed her love and adoration for her Latino fans as they all sang along with her in their native language. I am not a part of that culture, but for the first time, I was seeing and experiencing an underserved and underrepresented group of people come together and find such a strong sense of community through music. It filled my heart with so much joy, and in that moment, I felt like I had discovered why I desired so strongly to be up on a stage like that and to make my own music. Growing up, I never really saw myself represented in the world around me, and as a queer Black kid in the South, I think it would’ve made my life a lot easier. I am accustomed to being the only person in the room who looked like me and thought like me. No matter what situation or environment I was in, a part of me had to be watered down or hidden out of fear, and I spent so much of my early years feeling invalidated and unaccepted. I saw music and the arts as an escape from that. It was an avenue through which I could find people that I related to. It also gave me a creative outlet to help me deal with those feelings of loneliness and isolation. I expressed my emotions and experiences through songwriting, and each of the songs I write carries my identity and perspective with them, a perspective that has been rejected and invalidated for far too long. For my entire life and academic career, I have overwhelmingly been the only one in spaces to have a point-of-view and background that differs from the typical white, heteronormative, and Christian identities that dominate my hometown. I’ve felt like the only one who has to prove myself and make everyone else understand me. It’s as if I am staring out into a sea of people who are all carbon copies of one another. But when I enter into musical spaces, such as the concert with Carla, I see and experience firsthand how diverse and beautiful the world can be. The music industry and communities surrounding the arts provide such a wide array of perspectives and ideas that provide any and everyone with a place to be seen and heard, as well as expose people to new perspectives. I am excited to take a more non-conventional education path to receive a degree in music technology and gain work experience in an industry full of different kinds of people and backgrounds, allowing me to grow as an artist and as a human. Most importantly, I want to help to create a world full of more self-expressive, accepting, and empathetic people through this beautiful, universal language.

There wasn’t a single bone in my body that wanted to get out of my car. For the past 3 hours on the road, I had been doing whatever I could to not think about where I was going, but the sounds of suitcases rolling and goodbyes being said brought me back to reality as I glared at a white banner in the distance reading “Alabama Boys’ State.” I had practically been forced to come here. According to my counselors and teachers, it was “an amazing opportunity” to develop leadership skills and represent my school on a statewide level, but the idea of spending an entire week with 500 teenage boys from all around my heavily conservative home state to run a mock government seemed more like a nightmare scenario for me. I hugged and kissed my mom goodbye as I walked into orientation, bracing for impact. I walked out of the closing ceremony carrying certificates in my hand, awards in the cradle of my arm, and a bittersweet experience at the front of my memory. In our simulated state government, things had gone the way I expected them to. Most of the people elected and policies passed by this group of teenagers mirrored the generations before us. My attempts to draft bills to improve the condition of poor people and marginalized groups were met with laughs and quick rejections from people who had no idea what it was like to be me: a young Black man with so much hope, yet facing a bleak reality. I didn’t find myself or my ideals to be properly represented in this microcosm, just like the real thing, but on our final full day there, a trip through the state capital of Montgomery to museums and exhibits of the Civil Rights Movement shifted my perspective. Seeing memorials for the thousands of lynching victims, images of the struggles faced by students my age protesting in Birmingham, and hearing testimonies from former slaves about the struggles they dealt with on plantations just minutes away from my house proved to be a very sobering experience. I had visited these locations before in my childhood, and I grew up hearing the stories of the movement, but seeing the photos, figures, and stories during this specific experience reminded me of the resilience and strength of my people. I realized that I was living at ground zero--the birthplace of civil rights, and no matter how far I go or how helpless I feel in the face of oppression and discrimination, that resilience and strength is in my blood, and nothing can take it away from me.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I was acting on a stage, playing the role of the “perfect golden child.” My family took their seats in the front rows, waiting to see what amazing things I would achieve. The rest of the seats, however, became filled with critics. My accomplishments seemed to break the mold that my community had tried to put black people into. They were waiting for a reason to say I wasn’t good enough for the role. Every step I took and line I recited had to be flawless, but I would soon learn that perfection is impossible. When I was thirteen, I came out to myself as LGBTQ and rejected beliefs that were integral to my family and community. These personal truths were not aligned with the perception of me that everyone had. My self-worth relied on pleasing others, but my soul needed to be heard. In school, I couldn’t appear “too black” and at home, I couldn’t be “too queer” or I risked disappointing others and destroying that false image. In those times when I felt helpless and ashamed, I found outlets: music and writing. I found so much power in the songs, poems, and stories I wrote because they were purely mine. For the first time in my life, I was in control of the narrative. On the day I released my first song, I was overcome with excitement, fear, and relief. I left the stage and came back not as the “perfect golden child”, but as Tylon. Though it has caused pain and struggles, I am grateful for my life show. I have once again learned that my experiences are not just for me. I will live authentically and unapologetically for the black boy out there who feels underestimated, for the LGBTQ+ teen who feels unseen, for the creative mind who feels misunderstood, and for anyone who feels like they have to be someone who they are not. My life show is for them, and I do not intend to drop the curtain anytime soon. In order to further pursue my career in the music industry, I want to attend a four-year institution in a bigger city in that has a music technology degree program. This education will allow me to better my skills and learn so much more about the art, science, and history of music. College in these locations, however, comes with a heavier financial burden. This scholarship will help me to receive the education I desire and pursue my dreams as an artist, a learner, and a human.

I have always enjoyed school. Ever since I was young I have loved critically and creatively thinking to create questions and solve problems. I have spent all of my academic career being at the top of my class and I am currently taking the most rigorous courses that my high school has to offer. Being in the International Baccalaureate Programme, a big part of my learning involves the study of different cultural and theoretical contexts through which knowledge can be analyzed. I have discused works of literature through different critical lenses, analyzed historical sources in relation to the culture from which they came, and compared films from different times and places to further understand similarities and differences between the storytelling of different backgrounds and perspectives. I believe that my success in this program and my personal educational interests and learning style has pointed me in the direction of a liberal arts based course of study in university. For the most part, my musical passions have always been separate from my academics. My pursuit of musical knowledge has mainly consisted of video tutorials on production, mixing, and mastering techniques as well as tips on advertising and promotion as an independent artist. I sadly did not have the ability to take any music classes at my high school due to scheduling conflicts, but I consider myself to be a well-rounded student and I enjoy learning new things in all subjects. At every opportunity given throughout high school, I have interwoven my passion for music into these subjects. For example, within the required Internal Assessments and Extended Essay for the IB Diploma Programme, I have studied the biological effects of classical music on seed germination, conducted literary analysis on the song lyrics of albums in relation to the Afrofuturist cultural movement, historically investigated the impact of Hinduism on the music of The Beatles (and subsequently the 1960s counterculture), done a statistical interpretation of the correlation between listening to certain genres of music and academic performance, and analyzed the use of certain music in films to express political ideologies and show growth in artistic movements. Being exposed to so many different subjects has opened my mind up to so many different possibilities. At my core, I want to pursue music, but my schooling and personal knowledge pursuits have shown me how many intersections exist between music and other areas of study that I am interested in. I want to study music's impact neurologically, analyze its cultural impact in relation to minority studies, work in film/video game scoring, and do so much more. At the end of the day, I just want to create art and help people, and I believe that no matter what career path I choose, I can achieve that goal.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I was acting on a stage playing the role of the “perfect golden child.” I was always told that I would do great things and that I was what gave my family hope for my generation. They all took their seats in the front rows of my life show, waiting to see what amazing things I would achieve. The rest of the seats in my theatre became filled with critics. From a very young age, I knew what it was like to be ostracized due to being the only black person in the room and I have dealt with racism ever since I was 8 years old. My accomplishments seemed to break the mold that my community had tried to put black people into. They were watching and waiting for me to make one wrong move that they could use to justify their opinion that I wasn’t good enough for the role. Every step I took and line I recited had to be flawless, but I would soon learn that perfection is impossible. As I grew up, I learned so much more about myself in the moments I spent backstage. In my solitude, I became a whole human, not just the projections and expectations that were placed on me. When I was thirteen, I came out to myself as LGBTQ and rejected beliefs that were an integral part of my family and community. I felt so free and in tune with my true self, but then, the weight of secrecy came down on me, leaving me feeling even more restricted than before. These personal truths were not aligned with the perception of me that everyone had. My self-worth relied on pleasing others, but my soul needed to be heard. I had a fire inside of me that I had to constantly suppress in front of others to be more palatable to them. In school, I couldn’t appear “too black” and at home, I couldn’t be “too queer” or else I risked disappointing others and destroying that false image. In those dark times, I found outlets: music and writing. I found so much power in the songs, poems, and stories I wrote because they were purely mine. I could express exactly how I felt in the way that I wanted to, and for the first time in my life, I was in control of the narrative. As it approached midnight on the day I released my first song, I was overcome with excitement, fear, and relief. This was the first time I was doing something for myself. I left the stage and came back not as the “perfect golden child”, but as Tylon, and although some people won’t like the real me, I believe that allowing that fire inside to fill me with the warmth and passion of self-acceptance is more worthwhile than the approval of those who don’t truly know me or my story. Though it has caused pain and struggles, I am grateful for my life show. I have once again learned that my experiences are not just for me, but instead of contorting myself into the box that certain people want me to be in, I will live authentically and unapologetically for the black boy out there who feels underestimated, for the LGBTQ+ teen who feels unseen, for the creative mind who feels misunderstood, and for anyone who feels like they have to be someone who they are not. My life show is for them, and I do not intend to drop the curtain anytime soon.

The woman’s name was Carla. I’m usually bad at remembering names, but I don’t think I will ever forget hers. Carla doesn’t even know I exist, but it was because of her that I realized how powerful music is. I was in Atlanta at one of my favorite artists Jessie Reyez’s concert, standing about ten rows from the front. She had just finished a song when she pointed out a sign in the front row. It said “Con el Viento, ” which is the title of one of the Colombian artist’s old Spanish tracks. Jessie asked for the woman’s name, and that night, the audience met Carla. Complying with Carla’s request, Jessie pulled out her acoustic guitar and began to play and sing the song. She expressed her love and adoration for her Latino fans as they all sang along with her in their native language. I am not a part of that culture, but for the first time, I was seeing and experiencing an underserved and underrepresented group of people come together and find such a strong sense of community through music. It filled my heart with so much joy, and in that moment, I felt like I had discovered why I desired so strongly to be up on a stage like that and to make my own music. Growing up, I never really saw myself represented in the world around me, and as a queer Black kid in the South, I think it would’ve made my life a lot easier. I am accustomed to being the only person in the room who looked like me and thought like me. No matter what situation or environment I was in, a part of me had to be watered down or hidden out of fear, and I spent so much of my early years feeling invalidated and unaccepted. I saw music and the arts as an escape from that. It was an avenue through which I could find people that I related to. It also gave me a creative outlet to help me deal with those feelings of loneliness and isolation. I expressed my emotions and experiences through songwriting, and each of the songs I write carries my identity and perspective with them, a perspective that has been rejected and invalidated for far too long. For my entire life and academic career, I have overwhelmingly been the only one in spaces to have a point-of-view and background that differs from the typical white, heteronormative, and Christian identities that dominate my hometown. I’ve felt like the only one who has to prove myself and make everyone else understand me. It’s as if I am staring out into a sea of people who are all carbon copies of one another. But when I enter into musical spaces, such as the concert with Carla, I see and experience firsthand how diverse and beautiful the world can be. The music industry and communities surrounding the arts provide such a wide array of perspectives and ideas that provide any and everyone with a place to be seen and heard, as well as expose people to new perspectives. I am excited to take a more non-conventional education path to receive a degree in music technology and gain work experience in an industry full of different kinds of people and backgrounds, allowing me to grow as an artist and as a human. Most importantly, I want to help to create a world full of more self-expressive, accepting, and empathetic people through this beautiful, universal language.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I was acting on a stage, playing the role of the “perfect golden child.” My family took their seats in the front rows, waiting to see what amazing things I would achieve. The rest of the seats, however, became filled with critics. My accomplishments seemed to break the mold that my community had tried to put black people into. They were waiting for a reason to say I wasn’t good enough for the role. Every step I took and line I recited had to be flawless, but I would soon learn that perfection is impossible. When I was thirteen, I came out to myself as LGBTQ and rejected beliefs that were integral to my family and community. These personal truths were not aligned with the perception of me that everyone had. My self-worth relied on pleasing others, but my soul needed to be heard. In school, I couldn’t appear “too black” and at home, I couldn’t be “too queer” or I risked disappointing others and destroying that false image. No matter what situation or environment I was in, a part of me had to be watered down or hidden out of fear, and I spent so much of my early years feeling invalidated and unaccepted. In those times when I felt helpless and ashamed, I found music and writing. It was an avenue through which I could find people that I related to and it gave me a creative outlet to help me deal with those negative feelings. I found so much power in the songs, poems, and stories I wrote because they were purely mine. For the first time in my life, I was in control of the narrative. I expressed my emotions and experiences through songwriting, and each of the songs I write carries my identity and perspective with them, a perspective that has been rejected and invalidated for far too long. For my entire life and academic career, I have overwhelmingly been the only one in spaces to have a point-of-view and background that differs from the typical white, heteronormative, and Christian identities that dominate my hometown. I’ve felt like the only one who has to prove myself and make everyone else understand me. It’s as if I am staring out into a sea of people who are all carbon copies of one another. But when I enter into musical spaces, I see and experience firsthand how diverse and beautiful the world can be. The music industry and communities surrounding the arts provide such a wide array of perspectives and ideas that give anyone a place to be seen and heard, as well as expose people to new perspectives. I want to help to create a world full of more self-expressive, accepting, and empathetic people through this beautiful, universal language. On the day I released my first song, I was overcome with excitement, fear, and relief. I left the stage and came back not as the “perfect golden child”, but as Tylon. Though it has caused pain and struggles, I am grateful for my life show. I have once again learned that my experiences are not just for me. I will live authentically and unapologetically for the black boy out there who feels underestimated, for the LGBTQ+ teen who feels unseen, for the creative mind who feels misunderstood, and for anyone who feels like they have to be someone who they are not. My life show is for them, and I do not intend to drop the curtain anytime soon.

The woman’s name was Carla. I’m usually bad at remembering names, but I don’t think I will ever forget hers. Carla doesn’t even know I exist, but it was because of her that I realized how powerful music is. I was in Atlanta at one of my favorite artists Jessie Reyez’s concert, standing about ten rows from the front. She had just finished a song when she pointed out a sign in the front row. It said “Con el Viento, ” which is the title of one of the Colombian artist’s old Spanish tracks. Jessie asked for the woman’s name, and that night, the audience met Carla. Complying with Carla’s request, Jessie pulled out her acoustic guitar and began to play and sing the song. She expressed her love and adoration for her Latino fans as they all sang along with her in their native language. I am not a part of that culture, but for the first time, I was seeing and experiencing an underserved and underrepresented group of people come together and find such a strong sense of community through music. It filled my heart with so much joy, and in that moment, I felt like I had discovered why I desired so strongly to be up on a stage like that and to make my own music. Growing up, I never really saw myself represented in the world around me, and as a queer Black kid in the South, I think it would’ve made my life a lot easier. I am accustomed to being the only person in the room who looked like me and thought like me. No matter what situation or environment I was in, a part of me had to be watered down or hidden out of fear, and I spent so much of my early years feeling invalidated and unaccepted. I saw music and the arts as an escape from that. It was an avenue through which I could find people that I related to. It also gave me a creative outlet to help me deal with those feelings of loneliness and isolation. I expressed my emotions and experiences through songwriting, and each of the songs I write carries my identity and perspective with them, a perspective that has been rejected and invalidated for far too long. For my entire life and academic career, I have overwhelmingly been the only one in spaces to have a point-of-view and background that differs from the typical white, heteronormative, and Christian identities that dominate my hometown. I’ve felt like the only one who has to prove myself and make everyone else understand me. It’s as if I am staring out into a sea of people who are all carbon copies of one another. But when I enter into musical spaces, such as the concert with Carla, I see and experience firsthand how diverse and beautiful the world can be. Communities surrounding the arts provide such a wide array of perspectives and ideas that give any and everyone a place to be seen and heard. Through my work as an artist and performer, I can give young people who grew up like me someone to see themselves in and bring attention to political issues that I feel strongly about such as equal rights and climate justice. Additionally, through my academic pursuits in music therapy, I can provide kids dealing with mental health issues an outlet to express themselves through and heal. I want to help to create a world full of more self-expressive, accepting, and empathetic people through this beautiful, universal language.

The woman’s name was Carla. I’m usually bad at remembering names, but I don’t think I will ever forget hers. Carla doesn’t even know I exist, but it was because of her that I realized how powerful diversity in music is. I was in Atlanta at one of my favorite artists Jessie Reyez’s concert, standing about ten rows from the front. She had just finished a song when she pointed out a sign in the front row. It said “Con el Viento, ” which is the title of one of the Colombian artist’s old Spanish tracks. Jessie asked for the woman’s name, and that night, the audience met Carla. Complying with Carla’s request, Jessie pulled out her acoustic guitar and began to play and sing the song. She expressed her love and adoration for her Latino fans as they all sang along with her in their native language. I am not a part of that culture, but for the first time, I was seeing and experiencing an underserved and underrepresented group of people come together and find such a strong sense of community through music. It filled my heart with so much joy, and in that moment, I felt like I had discovered why I desired so strongly to be up on a stage like that and to make my own music. Growing up, I never really saw myself represented in the world around me, and as a queer Black kid in the South, I think it would’ve made my life a lot easier. I am accustomed to being the only person in the room who looked like me and thought like me. No matter what situation or environment I was in, a part of me had to be watered down or hidden out of fear, and I spent so much of my early years feeling invalidated and unaccepted. I saw music and the arts as an escape from that. It was an avenue through which I could find people that I related to. It also gave me a creative outlet to help me deal with those feelings of loneliness and isolation. I expressed my emotions and experiences through songwriting, and each of the songs I write carries my identity and perspective with them, a perspective that has been rejected and invalidated for far too long. For my entire life and academic career, I have overwhelmingly been the only one in spaces to have a point-of-view and background that differs from the typical white, heteronormative, and Christian identities that dominate my hometown. I’ve felt like the only one who has to prove myself and make everyone else understand me. It’s as if I am staring out into a sea of people who are all carbon copies of one another. But when I enter into musical spaces, such as the concert with Carla, I see and experience firsthand how diverse and beautiful the world can be. Communities surrounding the arts provide such a wide array of perspectives and ideas that give any and everyone a place to be seen and heard. Through my work as an artist and performer, I can give young people who grew up like me someone to see themselves in, and through my academic pursuits in music therapy, I can provide kids dealing with mental health issues an outlet to express themselves through and heal. I want to help to create a world full of more self-expressive, accepting, and empathetic people through this beautiful, universal language.