Brown University

I remember being a fourth-grade "puella", discovering the joy of chanting declensions with my classmates. Since then, my passion for Latin and mythology has expanded by reading books like Percy Jackson's Greek Gods to Homer's The Odyssey. I'll never embody a character as well as I played the mythological Psyche in my fifth-grade Latin presentation.

I've always compared my Latin homework to my math homework. It's very methodical, translating each phrase and then trying new ways to create a coherent sentence. Whenever I'd spent a good twenty minutes sorting through the puzzle of words to make a sentence, that moment where it finally made sense was euphoric.

These translation and mythology skills I'd developed over the years would become essential about halfway through my freshman year Latin class when I was introduced to the revolutionary game of Certamen. Certamen is like Latin jeopardy with questions themed after classical history, mythology, translation, and grammar. A familiar feeling of competition surges through me each time my teammate of three years and I start a game of Certamen. With our handy doorbell buzz button and endless knowledge of Latin derivatives, we currently maintain a three-year Certamen win streak that I intend to keep until I graduate. The light-bulb that goes off in my head whenever I finally grasp the meaning of a Latin passage has become addicting throughout the years, and I hope to continue experiencing that joy at Brown University.

Sitting behind the steering wheel, with the low hum of my music and the engine as background noise, I breathe in the familiarity of the 5-mile radius I generally commute within. My windows are rolled down and my sunroof is wide open, weather permitting, as the wind threatens to defenestrate my possessions. But I enjoy it immensely. The drive is refreshingly liberating: it feels like I can do anything and go anywhere I desire. As someone who frequently feels overwhelmed by the idea that most of my life is outside my control, a drive will often cure that feeling. The freedom of driving dissipates those worries.

My most frequent destination is Starbucks, not the one closest to my home, but rather the franchise that is a mile or two further. It allows me to enjoy the drive for longer than just a few minutes, extending an otherwise hasty experience to offer more time in reflection. Upon arriving and picking up my mobile order, I return to my car and savor my coffee, all while appreciating the music and experience. The coffee is an impeccable companion, both in its rich taste and the endeavor of acquiring it.

During my most stressful weeks, I can rely on my trips to get coffee as an outlet to forget my assignments and worries. The solitude of the activity is a rare opportunity for reflection: a joyful adventure all around.

My dusty sketchbook must dread the moments I decide to take it off my desk. Every time I pick it up to use, it results in piles of graphite and eraser shavings everywhere in my room. I've gone through so many boxes of pencils, I think Ticonderoga must know me by now. The sketchbook of mine has seen better days – days where it looked pristine and without blemish.

I love to draw. Yes the final result provides fantastic amusement to my eyes, but the process of the entire drawing allures me to this hobby. The second the fine point of my pencil hits the devoid paper, wonders only comparable to music begin to formulate. Each stroke of the pencil leaves a mark surpassing in magnificence to the one before. The freedom to pour out my thoughts into a sheet of paper astonishes me and provides me with a feeling of bliss and comfort.

Each sheet of paper is brimmed with portraits; my loved ones, friends, even strangers take up the space in my book, but for good reason. After I finish each drawing, I simply give it to them. I do cherish the journey I take with my art, but the smile on their faces when I give them my art is nothing less than beautiful. Even the most majestic of artists wouldn't be able to capture the raw nature of that smile. For that is where I am given the most joy, in the smiles of others.

My mother exclaimed in shock as she saw the title American Murder: The Family Next Door as the latest title on our Netflix watch list. "Why on earth would you want to watch that?" It made no sense to her that I spent free time watching documentaries about the psychopathic tendencies of serial killers.

From listening to neuropsychology podcasts on my long runs to reading Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, I've been eager to explore the intersection between neuroscience, society, and the role they play in human nature. Brown's Open Curriculum would allow me to double concentrate in Neuroscience and Science, Technology, and Society with a theme in Health and Medicine. Classes like Philosophy of Biology and The Moral Brain would begin to answer my questions about the relationship between neuroscience and human ethics. Perhaps I'll finally understand why Raskolnikov thought he could get away with his crimes.

As an eight-year Latin scholar and five-time Percy Jackson reader, I hope to take classes in the Brown Classics department. I'm also intrigued by Ancient Greek Philosophy, and I plan to explore classic texts such as Plato's Symposium in Introduction to Greek Literature. Courses like Hippocratic Medicine would allow me to learn about connections between the Classical world and medicine today.

The brain's unique composition creates an intricate link between science, history, and modern society that I can only explore at Brown. More importantly, Brown's diverse environment would introduce me to people with entirely different opinions about Raskolnikov's motives.

"Spend $300,000 to study ENGLISH!?" my friend chucked. "And do what? Teach A for Apple, B for Buffalo to primary kids?

"B for Ball" I whispered to myself. On my way home, I kept mulling. "Everyone knows English, what's the need to STUDY it?" his words echoed in my head. Since I was young, I had been intrigued by the beauty of language. Fresh parchment was my petrichor. I could almost smell the raw, crisp paper sending pheromone-releasing signals to my brain, luring me to wield my pen and spill beads of ink on the virgin sheet of emptiness. Words were woven threads of thought, emanating the ineffable processes of the mind. Poetry was my mode of escapism; debate -my partner in crime. "'A for apple, B for ball', I sadly pondered.

We got down at our houses and I waved him goodbye. My imminent desire to 'respond' cowered back into its hole. But maybe I didn't have to reply. Because curiosity prefaces career and we all have varying definitions of both. Maybe the reason why our choices are challenged is to test if we would hold on to them. This tiny incident taught me 2 crucial lessons- A: Silence is a sign of maturity, not cowardice, and B: Having faith governs the prowess to excel. The next day when I met my friend, I simply smiled and said "The reason we can converse critically is because someone taught us the alphabet. Maybe being a teacher isn't a bad idea after all."

During the earliest stages of my Political club, I was faced with a question by a peer. The club was in a discussion about gun laws in the US and what everyone's view was on the topic. This specific student seemed very passionate about the issue and made it known that he wanted guns in this country. He began citing examples with store owners protecting themselves from armed robberies and overall self defense in general. He was well versed in the topic but that came to my realization once he asked me what my view was. I subconsciously knew guns were destructive, of course they were, and I wanted to state that. But I couldn't think of any evidence to support myself. I wasn't educated in the issue of guns in America other than my raw opinion of guns being "bad".

But experiences like this motivated me to take that step, I wanted to educate myself on this issue that plunders America. Instead of conforming to his view, I took this opportunity to establish my own foundation and learn of the different instances in our history that would support my opinion. I versed myself in information from resources on the Internet and finally came to my club ready for discussion. But it didn't end in the transformation of any opinions, instead he understood my judgment and respected it. When challenged with this perspective against my own, I've learned that with enough evidence and research, any opinion can be deemed correct.

I learned a new slur during my first day on my slam team.

The "M-word," coined by the former president, was "melanin." To her, Black poetry was overdone, so she advised Black teammates to avoid racial topics, fearing they would "bore the judges."

"We get it— you're black," she quipped, "can you talk about anything else?" Following that meeting, I avoided Black poetry. My racial experience was a broken record— an earworm of sob stories over events only read about in history books.

However, after experiencing all the distinctive, poignant Black pieces at my first slam competition, I realized that we do art a disservice when we try to police or limit others' creations. Moreover, I learned that seniority should never eclipse core values.

This insight stirred my young POC writers initiative years later— a global support system for marginalized creatives. Complete with virtual open mics, advice forums, and resource directories, my goal was to create a safe haven for underrepresented writers and be the mentor I craved during my first slam meeting.

However, respecting my former president's intentions, I urge my creatives within the initiative to chase uniqueness in their art. Today, I play with several nuances of racism in my writing. In one piece, I explore Black boys as recyclables in the prison system. In another, I use evolutionary theory to hypothesize a truly "post-racial" America.

During my first day as president of my slam team, I taught my poets a new phrase: artistic freedom.

I never wanted to be a doctor. When my South Asian grandparents claimed that women have to go into medicine, I promised them that would never happen in my case. This irrational hatred continued until a certain opportunity contributed to a change in my perspective.

I decided to volunteer at a local medical center, initially to earn volunteer hours. But the more I delved into the high-speed environment, the more it seemed to fit me. I was confident when talking to hospital staff and found myself always trying to learn more from the radiologists or surgeons I met. I was ready to learn what the white region on the CT scan was, or the risks of a certain procedure a patient was going through.

My persona also changed when speaking to patients, my voice becoming clear and soothing. When a patient was agitated that he couldn't get out of his wheelchair, I rushed to his side, calmly encouraging him while nurses helped the patient get on his feet. My reaction to working at the hospital was unexpected but perfect, making me realize that I would be a good fit for this career.

I know I will succeed as a physician because I disliked the field before I loved it. I look forward to improving someone's life and being a part of a team that puts patients first. I know my ability can be used to change the lives of my patients, making me a perfect candidate for a future physician.