Massachusetts Institute of Technology

I applied to MIT largely because of the program in Urban Science and Planning with Computer Science, aka Course 11-6.01. The application of programming and GIS to visualize pedestrian collision data to advocate for active transportation infrastructure introduced me to the potential of planning + computer science.

I'm eager to study human interactions in the built environment and data as a change agent. By exploring my eclectic interests through Course 11-6—ethics, design, statistics, robotics, and public-policy—I can draw connections between disciplines to tackle challenges: transportation emissions, social and racial bias in data, and urban food deserts.

At MIT, I hope to collaborate with others to innovate and design to advocate for accessible, barrier-free, and sustainable environments that embrace diversity. Teamwork invents.

Strawberries, blueberries, yogurt, almonds, and orange juice. Measure portions, pop them in the blender, and… presto! I love smoothie making.

As a pro-smoothie-maker, I've fostered resourcefulness and adaptability. Blending smoothies is kinda like chemistry but I can be significantly more liberal with my experimentation without… accidents. Sometimes, there aren't bananas for a strawberry-banana smoothie; no worries, just use an apple instead! If there aren't any ingredients, I'll bike to the supermarket. As long I can obtain materials, I *will* have my smoothie.

I'm an avid Mango Lassi enthusiast and connoisseur. Unfortunately, the nearest Indian restaurant is a ways away. Whilst sipping Lassi one evening—perhaps pondering my next—I thought: Why not just make it?

I consulted friends about their recipes, then researched the drink's ancient history for a cultural perspective to recreate Lassi. I partitioned yogurt, milk, mango, honey, and cardamom spice accordingly, and Mom suggested cinnamon for extra punch. And finally!—after months of experimenting and tasting, I blended a most delectable Mango Lassi.

Smoothies are an enjoyable and relaxing way to exercise creativity while connecting with others. After all, drinks should be enjoyed together—an experience that transcends generational gaps and differences. When my parents and I make breakfast, I'm on smoothie duty. When my little cousins visit, we make milkshakes. I take pleasure in sipping smoothies, communally.

Last year, my European History teacher asked me to host weekly workshops for AP test preparation and credit recovery opportunities:

David, Michelangelo 1504.

"*Why* is this the answer?" my tutee asked.

I tried re-explaining the Renaissance. Michelangelo? The Papacy? I finally asked:

"Do you know the story of David and Goliath?"

Raised Catholic, I knew the story but her family was Hindu. I naively hadn't considered she wouldn't know the story. After I explained, she relayed a similar story from her culture.

As sessions grew, I recruited more tutors so everyone could receive more individualized support. While my school is nearly half Hispanic, AP classes are overwhelmingly White and Asian, so I've learned to understand the diverse and often unfamiliar backgrounds of my tutees.

One student struggled to write idiomatically despite possessing extensive historical knowledge. Although she was initially nervous, we discovered common ground after I asked about her Rohan Kishibe keychain, a character from Jojo's Bizarre Adventure. She opened up; I learned she recently immigrated from China and was having difficulty adjusting to writing in English. With a clearer understanding of her background, I could now consider her situation to better address her needs. Together, we combed out grammar mistakes and studied English syntax. The bond we formed over anime facilitated honest dialogue, and therefore genuine learning.

I slathered the string with bee's wax as I bound the cane to the staple. Three… Nine… Twenty-seven times I wrapped the cane with the spool.

My first reed was crooked, but at least it was something.

Despite regular practice, I failed to make reeds of an acceptable quality, despite studying oboe reed anatomy and reed-making styles. Yet, frustration mounted, as even the slightest misalignment could ruin an entire reed—and, honestly, patience isn't my strong suit.

New plan: my friend and I decided to experiment with a 7-11 plastic Slurpee Cup. About an hour in, we realized the cup's diameter was disproportionately large for an oboe reed. Perhaps we should've considered that we asked a *bassoonist* for advice on what size cup to get. We laughed in our failure together, happy to have tried something new and knowing 7/11 would always be there next time… But I still hadn't made a usable reed.

Time's up: A few days before a concert, my primary reed cracked. Panicking, I asked my teacher for a reed, but they were unavailable. I cannibalized the old reed for parts and precariously frankensteined a new one. The concert was a success! It certainly wasn't the best reed ever, but, hey, it was a working reed.

Lesson learned: always have spares…

After devouring Lewis Carrolls' masterpiece, my world shifted off its axis. I transformed into Alice, and my favorite place, the playground, became Wonderland. I would gallivant around, marveling at flowers and pestering my parents with questions, murmuring, "Curiouser and curiouser." If Alice's "Drink Me" potion was made out of curiosity, I drank liters of it. Alice, along with fairytale retellings like the Land of Stories by Chris Colfer, kickstarted my lifelong love of reading.

Especially when I was younger, reading brought me solace when the surrounding world was filled with madness (and sadly, not like the fun kind in Alice in Wonderland). There are so many nonsensical things that happen in the world, from shootings at a movie theater not thirty minutes from my home, to hate crimes targeted towards elderly Asians. Reading can be a magical escape from these problems, an opportunity to clear one's mind from chaos.

As I got older, reading remained an escape, but also became a way to see the world and people from a new perspective. I can step into so many different people's shoes, from a cyborg mechanic (Cinder), to a blind girl in WWII's France (Marie-Laure, All the Light We Cannot See). Sure, madness is often prevalent in these worlds too, but reading about how these characters deal with it helps me deal with our world's madness, too.

Reading also transcends generational gaps, allowing me to connect to my younger siblings through periodic storytimes. Reading is timeless — something I'll never tire of.

"It's… unique," they say.

I sag, my younger sister's koala drawing staring at me from the wall. It always seemed like her art ended up praised and framed, while mine ended up in the trash can when I wasn't looking. In contrast to my sister, art always came as a bit of a struggle for me. My bowls were lopsided and my portraits looked like demons. Many times, I've wanted to scream and quit art once and for all. I craved my parents' validation, a nod of approval or a frame on the wall.

Eventually, my art improved, and I made some of my favorite projects, from a ceramic haunted house to mushroom salt-and-pepper shakers. Even then, I didn't get much praise from my parents, but I realized I genuinely loved art. It wasn't something I enjoyed because of others' praise; I just liked creating things of my own and the inexplicable thrill of chasing a challenge. Art has taught me to love failing miserably at something to continue it again the next day. If I never endured countless Bob Ross tutorials, I never would've made the mountain painting that I hang in my room today; if I never made pottery that blew up (just once!), I wouldn't have my giant ceramic pie.

I'm still light years from being an expert, but I'll never tire of the kick of a challenge.

When the school bell rang, I jumped on my bike and sped home to watch the Tom and Jerry cartoon. I took off my school uniform and sat in the living room, pressing the remote's power button. I pressed it again frantically, feeling another heart drop as the screen remained black. "Oh my God," I sobbed as I rushed up to ensure that all wires were properly plugged into their respective sockets, but the screen was still black.

I unplugged the television, disassembled it, and examined every component, starting with the power switch. I've been tinkering with old radios for a long time, so I easily realized that a power surge had destroyed its capacitor. I replaced it with one from my radio, and the TV turned on immediately. While I couldn't watch the cartoon, fixing the TV not only made me happy, but it also piqued my interest in the digital world. I began looking into technical opportunities in my community, starting with a nearby repairing shop, where I became acquainted with electronic devices: smart phones, laptops, televisions, and printers. Today, if I'm not repairing people's electronics, I'm amazed by integrating broken gadgets.

Embarking in a new environment can be challenging, but when everyone is new, it can be disastrous. After completing grade 9, every Rwandan student is transferred to a new school to pursue advanced secondary schooling. When I transferred to a new school, people only talked to those who had previously attended the same school, resulting in fierce competition and people being unable to interact together.

In an effort to solve this problem, I brainstormed ways to bring the entire class together, and "The caremate game" came to mind. I assigned each student a caretaker, another student with whom they were unfamiliar, and required them to look after him / her for the entire week, which included telling stories, buying snacks in the canteen, jogging together, and so on. However, because some people would not accept this game in the first place, I spoke to the tastemakers in the class before introducing it so that they could persuade others.

Everything went as planned; some students who couldn't even interact before ended up in relationships. Everyone wanted to play it again, and we ended up doing so three times. Today, we are no longer divided; rather, we are a family of brothers and sisters.

"Orange throw!"

As I extended my arm to signal properly, the smallest girl on the orange team picked up the ball to throw it back into play. In AYSO, U10 players often lift their back foot when throwing the ball, so I focused my attention there.

Don't lift it. Keep it down.

It shot straight up.

My instincts blew the whistle to stop the game. The rulebook is simple: the rule was broken, give it to the other team. But the way she tried, eager to play, eager to learn and try again— I couldn't punish that. So I made my way over to the sideline to try it myself.

"When we're throwing it in, we wanna keep our back foot down. Try again!" After demonstrating, I backpedaled a bit and watched her throw again.

Don't lift it. Keep it down… Ah, it stayed down.

"Nice throw!"

And just like that, we were off again. These short, educational encounters happen multiple times a game. And while they may not be prescribed, they provide so many learning opportunities. These kids, they're the future of soccer. If they learn the basics, they can achieve greatness.

Every time I step out onto the pitch, that's what I see: potential. Little Alex may not throw correctly now, but with work, she could become the next Alex Morgan. That's why, in every soccer game I referee, every new situation I'm thrust into, I strive to see what's more; I strive to see the potential.