I recently saw a picture of myself from about 8 years ago, and in this picture my hair was straight. I remember begging my mom to straighten it because I really wanted to be like the girls with naturally straight hair. I hated having to dedicate an entire day to the washing and drying of my hair, as opposed to just being able to run my fingers through it and call it a day. I had an obsession with giving off a more “tamed” appearance.

My mom used to do my hair growing up. But we don’t have the same hair type, so sometimes I felt as if I looked a little less put together, because she didn’t entirely know how to take care of it. Her go to style was chunky twists. I can still feel the hate I had for those twists because people would make fun of them in school. Something I had no control over made people feel the need to bully me. That fact made me really bitter and with that came a realization: I needed to learn how to do my own hair.

There are so many unrealistic beauty standards pushed on black women regarding our hair. It must be worn naturally, but if it isn’t straight it’s “messy”. It has to be a certain length to be perceived as feminine, but God forbid you have extensions. We must be professional and classy, but if we put in protective styles, we are no longer that. As a young woman, trying to fit in with all of these boundaries and check all of the boxes has been nearly impossible. Going to a predominantly hispanic school didn’t help with my self esteem either. If I was having a bad hair day, there was no one I could turn to because no one understood my hair or how it worked. Growing up, young black women need role models to teach us about multiple aspects in our lives, especially our crowns.

I’m still recovering from the heat damage I caused by straightening my hair every day, because I was so determined to prove that I had length. When I was younger, a lot of my self worth was based on how long my hair was, so when kids made fun of my “short hair”, I despised my curls more and more. I begged my mom to let me get a relaxer, but she continued to deny my wish. This would make me so angry, because who was she to tell me what I could and couldn’t do with my hair? But looking back, I’m so glad she never let me. I see now that a relaxer wasn’t the key to making me prettier, and my love for my curls has reached an all time high.

I am a self taught braider which might be one of my biggest accomplishments. Having this ability to style my natural hair or to add extensions as I please has played a massive part in my self acceptance and healing journey. It says that I’m beautiful and can wear my hair as I please, because I’m the one in control. My sister is struggling with the exact same things as I was, but I’m trying to develop a healthier mindset with her so that these patterns can’t repeat themselves.

I’ve braided a few of my friends’ hair so far and even got paid for it! Not only have I developed a skill that could make me money in the long run, people actually trust me enough to take care of their crowns. I am forever grateful for this ability because it has drastically transformed my life. I will continue to make sure every little black girl loves their hair, because it is beautiful in every single way.

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Francisco Garcia, Dartmouth College

When I came out to my mother, her calm resting face turned into a stern, concerned one. She glared at me and then scolded me, “Nomas estas confundido. Si antes te gustaban las niñas.” In other words, she was disappointed that I could not fulfill her expectations of the Catholic son she envisioned, and likewise, I hoped that she would understand.

As a kid, I never questioned my religious routine. On Tuesday evenings, I would go to an after-school program hosted by my Church to learn about Catholic principles and how to stay connected to my faith. I indulged in the Holy Sacraments, such as my confession and First Communion. I was proud of my spirituality and dedication to Jesus. When I got to middle school, however, my dad left his job as a cook to pursue being a self-employed handyman. As my parents filled their days with more work, there was simply no time to continue my usual routine. What used to be weekly classes diminished to a monthly mass. The monthly mass then faded away to not attending church at all by 7th grade. During this time, even my parents stopped emphasizing religion in our house, so the many teachings I learned became hazy. I sobbed at the realization that I had forgotten how to pray the Rosary in 6th grade, a ritual I performed daily. “What would God think of me right now?” I wept many nights. I felt lost, lacking a sense of identity with God, family, and myself. As I tried making sense of my relationship with God, other questions began to fill my mind.

The most pressing question, however, was about who I liked. Even in elementary school, a few boys gave me butterflies in the stomach, and it stayed this way until 6th grade. With the transition from elementary to middle school came many of my elementary friends changing to fit a new social norm. Hearing my “friends” indulge in gay jokes further convinced that I should keep my sexuality to secrecy. But who could I tell anyways? I played along, trying to be homogeneous with the crowd. However, I couldn’t sustain the act, knowing that it was a projection of my insecurities. As I moved along, I became more distant to my elementary friends and grew closer to my other peers who acted in a respectful manner.

By the time I got to high school, I had made new friends who I felt safe around. While I felt I was more authentic with them, I was still unsure whether they would judge me for who I liked. It became increasingly difficult for me to keep hiding this part of myself, so I vented to both my mom and my closest friend, Yoana. While my mom did not take it well, Yoana told me something that I needed to hear. When I confessed that I was bisexual to Yoana, they were shocked, and I almost lost hope. However, after the initial shock, they texted back, “I’m really chill with this. Nothing has changed Francisco :)”. The smiley face, even if it took 2 characters, was enough to bring me to tears. Happy tears, to be more specific.

Something that did not bring happy tears, however, was what happened to my friend Martin, an elementary school friend I kept close with in middle school. Upon hearing the news that Martin committed suicide in June 2023, I knew I had to honor his life. Even though I knew many other of my elementary school “friends” would be there, I attended his Celebration of Life. While I felt out of place stepping into a Catholic Church for the first time in 5 years, the experience was like picking up an old conversation. After watching Martin’s ashes be brought forward, the mass began. I absorbed the priest’s humanistic interpretation of death, the melancholic hymns, and the lyrics to, “El Pescador De Hombres.” Most of all, I felt like I absorbed a sense of peace.

As it turned out, being more open with myself allowed me to be more united with my friends. I learned to surround myself with people who see you beyond a sexuality or religion. After coming out to Yoana, I came out to the rest of my friend group. I am fortunate to have support from all of my friends, who encourage me to explore complexities within myself. My friends give me what my mother denied me: acceptance. I have accepted myself for who I am, and I feel more at peace with knowing that I don’t have to have everything figured out right now. Exploring my spirituality and involvement with the LGBTQ+ community has led me to foster a love of learning through exploration and experiences.

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Jaleel Gomes Cardoso, Dartmouth College

I was thrust into a narrative of indifference and insignificance from the moment I entered this world. I was labeled as black, which placed me in the margins of society. It seemed that my destiny had been predetermined; to be part of a minority group constantly oppressed under the weight of a social construct called race. Blackness became my life, an identity I initially battled against. I knew others viewed it as a flaw that tainted their perception of me. As I matured, I realized that being different was not easy, but it was what I loved most about myself. Community is not just something I have sought out, but something that is embedded within me. There is always a sense that when a black person “gets theirs”; whether it is wealth or progress, we are all getting ours. Whatever we do for ourselves, we do for the community because we cannot move forward alone. In my community, there exists a profound feeling of belonging. We share unique struggles, nurture our remarkable culture, and find comfort in each other’s love and laughter. My people are resilient and vibrant, even in the face of relentless barriers like police brutality and a system woven with racism and hatred. Black people are bound through a shared history of oppression. To me, embracing my blackness means embracing who I am; a man who is unapologetically proud of my heritage and unwavering in my commitment to uplift those around me. Blackness is not merely my skin color; it embodies resilience, strength, and limitless potential.

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David Arturo Munoz-Matta

Personal Statement: It was like any other afternoon as I walked about my mom’s grooming shop, taking in the smell of shampoo and conditioner. I was shielding my nose when I heard a door open—three men entered the shop. My mom, noticing their entrance, told them to wait at the counter while she finished washing the dog. Once she finished, she greeted the men at the counter and asked how she could assist, to which they demanded money. I looked on as she explained that she did not have any. Suddenly, I heard a sound that made my hair stand on end—a rustling sound and a dry click that sounded like death. A gun. The man raised his arm, aimed at my mom, and screamed, “Dónde está el puto dinero.” I was six years old, and although I didn’t fully understand the concept of a gun, I knew it was severe, and my body instinctively froze. My mom started shaking as she opened the cash register; there was nothing- as she had expected. She lifted her head slowly, expecting the gun to click. Men looked at each other and warned her: “si no tienes el dinero para mañana; te desapareces o te decaparecemos.” Once they stormed out of the building, my mom collapsed to her knees, and I rushed to hold her. Life, from then on, would never be the same.

After that afternoon, my mother sold all her assets, and we fled to the United States with only $2,000 and hope for a better, more secure future. She dreamt of making something of herself while caring for me, which was extremely difficult for both of us.

In my first year, I was in an all-English class. My time in elementary school brought many challenges; teachers didn’t like that I never stood still; I was close to failing many of my classes because of my lack of English skills. Still, I pushed through.

Afterward, I entered a new period in my life when I started middle school. Around sixth grade, my mom and stepdad reached a rocky period in their relationship, so to avoid causing more conflict, I used school to express the loud, optimistic, and outgoing side of me that my stepfather had always repressed. As time passed, I became entranced by the idea of taking advanced classes, so I tried Pre-AP classes in 7th grade. In Pre-AP classes, I felt a sense of belonging I had missed for so long—in an environment with passionate people. Unfortunately, my grades slipped once my home life became tumultuous, and I struggled to attend school. Many of my teachers encouraged me to take school seriously, so I heeded their warnings and took a chance, applying to the IB program at Lamar Academy despite my initial lack of support. Applying to the program taught me to push my limits despite the risks. The pandemic, however, was a turning point.

While many others in my grade level had lawyers and doctors for parents and came from exemplary middle schools at the top of their classes, I was the opposite. I came into Lamar without middle school recognition, recalling my 8th-grade science teacher’s claim that I would never make it. At Lamar, freshman year was a significant challenge as I constantly struggled, feeling like I had reached my wit’s end. By the middle of Freshman year, I was the only kid left from my middle school, since everyone else had dropped out. Rather than following suit, I kept going. I felt like I had something to prove to myself because I knew I could make it. Three years later, in my senior year, I look back at my struggles and accomplishments, reflecting on my experiences. I followed my mom’s example, taking risks and facing challenging situations to evolve into a person who can make it, a person who will make it.

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Klaryssa Cobian, University of California, Berkeley

The first time I got my own mattress was when my grandma passed away. Although I still had to share a room with my sister, at 16, I finally had my own bed.

My first ever mattress was a queen I shared with my parents, and eventually my younger sister. That was our bed for five years until my parents separated, and we were all evicted. Oblivious to my parents’ drug use, our financial situation, and my family’s relationship with each other, I clung onto my older sister, Noemic. She was my world, my inspiration, and my favorite person. I would sneak into her bed at night when I was either pushed off of the queen mattress or felt restless. She provided me peace, comfort, and most of all, security.

With the only income, my mom automatically assumed custody of me and my younger sister, Alyssa. With no mattress and no home, the backseat of my mom’s red mustang became my new mattress. Bob Marley blasted from her red convertible as we sang out “could you be loved” every day on our ride back from elementary school. Eventually, we lost the mustang too and would take the bus home from Downtown Los Angeles, still singing “could you be loved” to each other.

As soon as my dad proved he could provide a stable home (at his parents’ house) with an income a couple months later, he won custody of me and Alyssa. A new mattress! But this one was on the ground with my two uncles just a couple feet away on pullout beds, my grandma and tia the room over. My world became focused on living day by day. Living with my dad’s side of the family was complete chaos, especially in a room full of guys who never had to clean up after themselves. I often found myself wishing I could live at school rather than at home. I didn’t have enough space at home to do my homework. All homework became school work as I had to wait until I got to school the next morning to complete my assignments.

My moments of solitude have always been in my bed. I’ve always loved to sleep. I get to create my own world before waking up into the real one. The quietness before slipping away into sleep was my way of giving back to my body; to finally relax and take a break.

For the first year of COVID, I “moved out” to the living room and slept on the couch. I was starting high school, but I felt like I had just moved to college. I had a big space all for myself; I could decide when to turn on or off the light, go to sleep, and best of all, I could go to the bathroom without waking up everyone. I finally felt like I lived in that house instead of sneaking around its creaky floor boards.

But I never had a mattress where to create my own indent. A place I knew was going to be there for me every day. When I finally got my own mattress, I didn’t get a say on the frame, but I could change the sheets to whatever theme I wanted. The first pair of sheets I ever got for my bed was Sesame Street themed with the faces of Elmo and Cookie Monster scattered all over with a dangerous white background. I could finally allow myself to grow with my mattress. My mattress.

After a semi-nomadic mattress life, I was desperate to finally feel at home. Which mattress I sleep on has defined my life, my independence, my dependence. Every morning routine was different. Now that I look back, each mattress was a different me, a different lifetime. From scared to tired to ambitious, each mattress has shaped me as I shaped the surface of the cotton.

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Manal Akil, Georgetown University

PROMPT #1: Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.

I believe the smartest people in all of history were those who invented dishes. The first person who decided to throw tomato and cheese on dough, the first person who decided to roll fish with rice in seaweed. These people experimented with what they had and changed the world. There is no other experience where you are so present with your mind and creation. I love everything related to food and would like to share some of the many lessons I have learned through my years in the kitchen:

1: If all cakes start with common ingredients: milk, flour, eggs, butter, and sugar, then how are there so many types of cakes? This is because each step in the baking process is meticulous and intentional. When a recipe says to use room-temperature eggs or sift the flour, you use those room-temperature eggs and sift that flour. When cooking, however, you don’t have to be so exact, substitution is fine – you can and should be creative. This doesn’t mean I like cooking more than baking however; I love the discrepancy between the two because it reflects the discrepancy present in aspects of life. That there are times when it’s appropriate to be spontaneous and times when it’s necessary to be detail-oriented. It’s this interplay between precision and creativity that I find endlessly fascinating, reminding me that in life, like in the kitchen, the harmony between improv and script is where true mastery is achieved.

2: If you happened to not use those room-temperature eggs or sift the flour, my number one advice is: don’t worry. Take your ‘mistake’ and turn it into something of your own creation. There have been many times where I started with the intention of making one thing, but ended up with something completely different. However, every single one of those times, I turned the incorrectness into something correct by my own definition — and it turns out delicious anyway. Just as one plans, life plans, and both plans are so rarely the same thing, so it’s crucial to have the ability to seize the moment, thrive in uncertainty, and follow through with resilience. In life, the ability to think outside the box will be what separates you from others, so, whether it’s a culinary mishap or a life-changing obstacle, strong problem-solving skills will continue to be the greatest asset one can possess.

3: In the comfort of my own home, I have been to many countries from all around the world. Throughout this world travel, I have picked up on different quirks unique to each region, while simultaneously connecting the dots between the world. South Asia with its warm taste profile, East Asia with its wholesome flavors, and North Africa with its savory delights. Thousands of miles apart and all so distinct in regard to culture, yet sharing similar foods, just under different names: Paratha, Diao Lu Bing, and Msemen — all flaky pancakes. I love discovering such culinary parallels that make me say, “This reminds me of that!” or “That reminds me of this!” These nuances serve as a powerful reminder that regardless of our varied backgrounds, we as humans are one because at the end of the day, food is the heart of every civilization. So, despite not literally having traveled the world, I feel like I still have developed a profound connection to our shared humanity and a deeper understanding of world cultures.

If there is one thing you take from this essay, it is to give cooking or baking a try. I have never, nor will ever, regret any time spent making food; all my work in the kitchen has paid off. I enter with ambition and leave with insight on myself and the world. Each plate served, each bite taken, and each Mmmh has contributed to my growth. Growth that will continue exponentially, there is no cap on improvement.

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