University of California, Los Angeles

1400 lines of code. 6 weeks. 1 Pizza.

I believe pizza makers are the backbone of society. Without pizza, life as we know it would cease to exist. From a toddler's birthday party to President Obama's sporadic campaigning cravings, these 8 slices of pure goodness cleverly seep into every one of our lives; yet, we never talk about it. In a very cheesy way, I find representation in a pizza maker.

The most perplexing section of physiology is deciphering electrocardiograms. According to our teacher, this was when most students hit their annual trough. We had textbooks and worksheets, but viewing printed rhythms and attempting to recognize them in real-time is about as straining as watching someone eat pizza crust-first. Furthermore, online simulators were vastly over-engineered, featuring complex interfaces foreign to high-school students.

Eventually, I realized the only way to pull myself out of the sauce was by creating my own tools. This was also the first year I took a programming course, so I decided to initiate a little hobbyist experiment by extrapolating knowledge from Computer Science and Physiology to code and share my own Electrocardiogram Simulator. To enhance my program, I went beyond the textbook and classroom by learning directly from Java API – the programmer's Bible.

The algorithms I wrote not only simulated rhythms in real-time but also actively engaged with the user, allowing my classmates and I to obtain a comprehensive understanding of the curriculum. Little did I know that a small project born out of desperation would eventually become a tool adopted by my teacher to serve hundreds of students in the future.

Like pizza, people will reap the benefits of my app over and over again, and hardly anyone will know its maker. Being a leader doesn't always mean standing at the front of rallies, giving speeches, and leading organizations. Yes, I have done all three, but this app taught me leaders are also found behind-the-scenes, solving problems in unimaginable ways and fulfilling the hidden, yet crucial niches of the world.

1400 lines of code, and 6 weeks later, it's time to order a pizza.

For the past few years, participating in debate has been one of the foremost expressions of my creativity. Nothing is as electrifying as an Asian parliamentary-style debate. Each team is given only thirty minutes to prepare seven-minute speeches to either support or oppose the assigned motion. Given the immense time pressure, this is where my creativity shines most brightly.

To craft the most impactful and convincing argument, I have to consider the context of the motion, different stakeholders, the goals we want to achieve, the mechanisms to reach those goals, and so much more. I have to frame these arguments effectively and paint a compelling and cohesive world to sway my listeners to my side on both an emotional and logical level. For example, In a debate about the implementation of rice importation in the Philippines, I had to frequently switch between the macro perspective by discussing the broad economic implications of the policy and the micro perspective by painting a picture of the struggles that local rice farmers would experience when forcefully thrust into an increasingly competitive global economy. It's a tough balancing act.

To add to the challenge, there is an opposing team on the other side of the room hell-bent on disproving everything I say. They generate equally plausible sounding arguments, and my mission is to react on the spot to dispel their viewpoints and build up our team's case.

When two debate teams, both well-prepared and hungry for victory, face off and try to out-think one another, they clash to form a sixty-minute thunderstorm raining down fierce arguments and rebuttals. They fill up a room with unbelievable energy. After several years of debate, I have developed the capacity to still a room of fury and chaos with nothing but my words and wit.

Debate has been instrumental in shaping me into the person I am today. Because of debate, I have become a quicker and stronger thinker. Lightning quick on my feet, I am ready to thoroughly and passionately defend my beliefs at a moment's notice.

As I open the door to the Makerspace, I am greeted by a sea of cubicle-like machines and I watch eagerly, as one of them completes the final layer of my print.

Much like any scientific experiment, my countless failures in the Makerspace – hours spent designing a print, only to have it disintegrate – were my greatest teachers. I learned, the hard way, what types of shapes and patterns a 3D printer would play nice to. Then, drawing inspiration from the engineering method, I developed a system for myself – start with a solid foundation and add complexity with each iteration – a flourish here, a flying buttress there.

But it wasn't until the following summer, vacationing on a beach inundated with plastic, that the "aha" moment struck. In an era where capturing people's attention in a split-second is everything, what better way to draw awareness to the plastic problem than with quirky 3D-printed products? By the time I had returned home, I had a business case on my hands and a desire to make my impact.

Equipped with vital skills from the advanced math-and-science courses I had taken in sophomore year, I began applying these to my growing business. Using my AP Chemistry analytical laboratory skills, I devised a simple water bath experiment to test the biodegradability claims of 3D-printer filaments from different manufacturers, guaranteeing that my products could serve as both a statement and play their part for our planet. The optimization techniques I had learned in AP Calculus were put to good use, as I determined the most space-efficient packaging for my products, reducing my dependence on unsustainable filler material. Even my designs were tweaked and riffed on to reflect my newfound maturity and keen eye for aesthetics.

My business is still going strong today, raising $1000 to date. I attribute this success to a fateful spark of creative inspiration, which has, and will, continue to inspire me to weave together multiple disciplines to address issues as endemic as the plastic problem.

Profusely sweating after trying on what felt like a thousand different outfits, I collapsed on the floor in exasperation. The heaping pile of clothes on my bed stared me down in disdain; with ten minutes left to spare before the first day of seventh grade, I let go of my screaming thoughts and settled on the very first outfit I tried on: my favorite.

Donning a neon pink dress, that moment marked the first time I chose expression over fear. Being one of the few Asians in my grade, clothing was my source of disguise. I looked to the bold Stacy London of What Not to Wear for daily inspiration, but, in actuality, I dressed to conceal my uniqueness so I wouldn't be noticed for my race. Wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I envied the popular girls who hiked their shorts up just a few inches higher than dress code allowed and flaunted Uggs decorated with plastic jewels, a statement that Stacy London would have viewed as heinous and my mother impractical.

However, entering school that day and the days after, each compliment I received walking down the hallways slowly but surely broke down the armored shield. Morphing into an outlet to amplify my voice and creativity, dressing up soon became what I looked forward to each morning. I was awarded best dressed the year after that during my middle school graduation, a recognition most would scoff at. But, to me, that flimsy paper certificate was a warm embrace telling me that I was valued for my originality and expression. I was valued for my differences.

Confidence was what I found and is now an essential accessory to every outfit I wear. Taking inspiration from vintage, simplistic silhouettes and Asian styles, I adorn my body's canvas with a variety of fabrics and vibrant colors, no longer depriving it of the freedom to self expression and cultural exploration. I hope that my future will open new doors for me, closet doors included, at the University of California with opportunities to intertwine creativity with my identity even further.

Let's fast-forward time. Strides were made toward racial equality. Healthcare is accessible to all; however, one issue remains. Our aquatic ecosystems are parched with dead coral from ocean acidification. Climate change has prevailed.

Rewind to the present day.

My activism skills are how I express my concerns for the environment. Whether I play on sandy beaches or rest under forest treetops, nature offers me an escape from the haste of the world. When my body is met by trash in the ocean or my nose is met by harmful pollutants, Earth's pain becomes my own.

Substituting coffee grinds as fertilizer, using bamboo straws, starting my sustainable garden, my individual actions needed to reach a larger scale. I often found performative activism to be ineffective when communicating climate concerns. My days of reposting awareness graphics on social media never filled the ambition I had left to put my activism skills to greater use. I decided to share my ecocentric worldview with a coalition of environmentalists and host a climate change rally outside my high school.

Meetings were scheduled where I informed students about the unseen impact they have on the oceans and local habitual communities. My fingers were cramped from all the constant typing and investigating of micro causes of the Pacific Waste Patch, creating reusable flyers, displaying steps people could take from home in reducing their carbon footprint. I aided my fellow environmentalists in translating these flyers into other languages, repeating this process hourly, for five days, up until rally day.

It was 7:00 AM. The faces of 100 students were shouting, "The climate is changing, why can't we?" I proudly walked on the dewy grass, grabbing the microphone, repeating those same words. The rally not only taught me efficient methods of communication but it echoed my environmental activism to the masses. The City of Corona would be the first of many cities to see my activism, as more rallies were planned for various parts of SoCal. My once unfulfilled ambition was fueled by my tangible activism, understanding that it takes more than one person to make an environmental impact.

At six, Mama reads me a story for the first time. I listen right up until Peter Pan talks about the stars in the night sky.

"What's the point of stars if they can't be part of something?"

Mama looks at me strangely before closing the book.

"Sometimes, looking on is more helpful than actively taking part. Besides, stars listen- like you. You're a good listener, aren't you?"

I nod.

At eleven, my sister confides in me for the first time. She's always been different, in a way even those 'mind doctors' could never understand. I don't understand either, but I do know that I like my sister. She's mean to me, but not like people are to her. She tells me how she sees the world, and chokes over her words in a struggle to speak. She trusts me, and that makes me happy. So, I listen. I don't speak; this isn't a story where I speak.

At sixteen, I find myself involved with an organization that provides education to rural children. Dakshata is the first person I've tutored in Hindi. She's also my favorite. So, when she interrupts me mid-lesson one evening, lips trembling and eyes filling with tears, I decide to put my pen down and listen. I don't speak; I don't take part in this story. Later, as I hug the girl, I tell her about the stars and how her mother is among their kind- unable to speak yet forever willing to listen. Dakshata now loves the stars as much as I do.

At seventeen, I realize that the first thing that comes to my mind when someone asks me about a skill I possess is my ability to listen. Many don't see it as a skill, and I wouldn't ask them to either, but it's important. When you listen, you see, you need not necessarily understand, but you do comprehend. You empathize on a near-cosmic level with the people around you and learn so much more than you ever thought possible. Everything is a part of something- even the stars with their ears.

I distinctly remember the smile on Perela's face when she found out her mother would be nursed back to health. I first met Perela and her mother at the Lestonnac Free Clinic in San Bernardino where I volunteered as a Spanish translator. I was in awe of the deep understanding of biology that the medical team employed to discover solutions. Despite having no medical qualifications of my own, I realized that by exercising my abilities to communicate and empathize, I could serve as a source of comfort and encouragement for Perela and her mother. The opportunity to combine my scientific curiosity and passion for caring for people cultivated my interest in a career as a physician.

To further explore this interest, I attended a summer medical program at Georgetown University. I participated in lectures on circulation through the heart, practiced stitches on a chicken leg, and assisted in giving CPR to a dummy in the patient simulation laboratory. Every fact about the human body I learned brought with it ten new questions for me to research. I consistently stayed after each lecture to gain insight about how cells, tissues, and organs all work together to carry out immensely complicated functions. The next year, in my AP Biology class, I was further amazed with the interconnected biological systems as I learned about the relationships between the human body and ecosystems. I discussed with my teacher how environmental changes will impact human health and how we must broaden our perspectives to use medicine to tackle these issues.

By integrating environmental and medical science, we can develop effective solutions to reduce the adverse effects of environmental degradation that Perela's mother may have faced unintentionally. I want to go into the medical field so I can employ a long-term approach to combat biology's hidden anomalies with a holistic viewpoint. I look forward to utilizing my undergraduate classes and extracurriculars to prepare for medical school so I can fight for both health care and environmental protection.

I love spreadsheets.

It's weird, I know. But there's something endlessly fascinating about taking a bunch of raw numbers, whipping and whacking them into different shapes and forms with formulas and equations to reveal hidden truths about the universe. The way I like to think about it is that the universe has an innate burning desire to tell us its stories. The only issue is its inability to talk with us directly. Most human stories are written in simple words and letters, but the tales of the universe are encrypted in numbers and relationships, which require greater effort to decode to even achieve basic comprehension. After all, it took Newton countless experimentation to discover the love story between mass and gravitation.

In middle school, whenever I opened a spreadsheet, I felt like I was part of this big journey towards understanding the universe. It took me a couple of years, but I eventually found out that my interest had a name: Data Science. With this knowledge, I began to read extensively about the field and took online courses in my spare time. I found out that the spreadsheets I had been using was just the tip of the iceberg. As I gained more experience, I started using more powerful tools like R (a statistical programming language) which allowed me to use sophisticated methods like linear regressions and decision trees. It opened my eyes to new ways to understand reality and changed the way I approached the world.

The thing I love most about data science is its versatility. It doesn't matter if the data at hand is about the airflow on an owl's wing or the living conditions of communities most crippled by poverty. I am able to utilize data science to dissect and analyze issues in any field. Each new method of analysis yields different stories, with distinct actors, settings, and plots. I'm an avid reader of the stories of the universe, and one day I will help the world by letting the universe write its own narrative.

Blinking sweat from my eyes, I raised my chin up to the pullup bar one last time before dropping down, my muscles trembling. But despite my physical exhaustion at the end of the workout, mentally, I felt reinvigorated and stronger than ever.

Minutes later, I sat at my computer, chatting with my friends about our first week in quarantine. After listening to numerous stories concerning boredom and loneliness, it struck me that I could use my passion for fitness to help my friends—I jumped at the chance to do so.

After scouring the internet for the most effective exercises and fitness techniques, I began hosting Zoom workouts, leading friends, family, and anyone else who wanted to join in several fun exercises each week. I hoped these meetings would uplift anyone struggling during quarantine, whether from loneliness, uncertainty, or loss of routine. I created weekly workout plans, integrating cardio, strength, and flexibility exercises into each. Using what I learned from skating, I incorporated off-ice training exercises into the plans and added stretching routines to each session.

Although many members were worried that they wouldn't be able to complete exercises as well as others and hesitated to turn their cameras on, I encouraged them to show themselves on screen, knowing we'd only support one another. After all, the "face-to-face" interactions we had while exercising were what distinguished our workouts from others online; and I hoped that they would lead us to grow closer as a community.

As we progressed, I saw a new-found eagerness in members to show themselves on camera, enjoying the support of others. Seeing how far we had all come was immensely inspiring: I watched people who couldn't make it through one circuit finish a whole workout and ask for more; instead of staying silent during meetings, they continually asked for tips and corrections.

Despite the limitations placed on our interactions by computer screens, we found comfort in our collective efforts, the camaraderie between us growing with every workout. For me, it confirmed the strength we find in community and the importance of helping one another through tough times.

The scent of eucalyptus caressed my nose in a gentle breeze. Spring had arrived. Senior class activities were here. As a sophomore, I noticed a difference between athletic and academic seniors at my high school; one received recognition while the other received silence. I wanted to create an event celebrating students academically-committed to four-years, community colleges, trades schools, and military programs. This event was Academic Signing Day.

The leadership label, "Events Coordinator," felt heavy on my introverted mind. I usually was setting up for rallies and spirit weeks, being overlooked around the exuberant nature of my peers.

I knew a change of mind was needed; I designed flyers, painted posters, presented powerpoints, created student-led committees, and practiced countless hours for my introductory speech. Each committee would play a vital role on event day: one dedicated to refreshments, another to technology, and one for decorations. The fourth-month planning was a laborious joy, but I was still fearful of being in the spotlight. Being acknowledged by hundreds of people was new to me.

The day was here. Parents filled the stands of the multi-purpose room. The atmosphere was tense; I could feel the angst building in my throat, worried about the impression I would leave. Applause followed each of the 400 students as they walked to their college table, indicating my time to speak.

I walked up to the stand, hands clammy, expression tranquil, my words echoing to the audience. I thought my speech would be met by the sounds of crickets; instead, smiles lit up the stands, realizing my voice shone through my actions. I was finally coming out of my shell. The floor was met by confetti as I was met by the sincerity of staff, students, and parents, solidifying the event for years to come.

Academic students were no longer overshadowed. Their accomplishments were equally recognized to their athletic counterparts. The school culture of athletics over academics was no longer imbalanced. Now, everytime I smell eucalyptus, it is a friendly reminder that on Academic Signing Day, not only were academic students in the spotlight but so was my voice.

It was her fourth honor council. I sat on the committee for her third, which granted her one last chance. It was mid-April–just weeks before graduation, and she would walk across the stage with her diploma. The third honor council debated for hours about the best course of action.

No student had ever been given four chances without separation from the school. One attendee argued for her future in retaining her college admission, while another suggested her negative impacts on the school community. After hours of debate, the honor council was split. It was left up to just a few of her peers to decide her fate.

We reviewed her previous violation, and it appeared: "Any future violations of school rules will result in separation from the school". I believe strongly in seeking to understand a person's circumstances before drawing judgment, and I think there is great value in the second chance. Unfortunately, this student could not take responsibility after failing on multiple counts, and we eventually decided it would be best for the community if she separated from the school. She was allowed to receive her diploma with successful completion of online classes.

Hard decisions like these have been a driving factor in shaping my character and values caring for the greater good of the community. I faced discrimination as a person with learning differences, which prompted me to solve issues of inequity through leadership positions. I give back to the community by leading school discussions about acts of hate and aggression that happen on and off campus, and I strive to create diversity and inclusion by attracting new people to Norwich.

I attempt to create a well-rounded incoming class of freshmen that will better the community and help to solve issues of discrimination and a lack of diversity on campus. Together, my roles have heavily aligned with my values of creating diversity and solving a wide range of issues on campus.

I believe in the strength of words because I know the power that just one can hold. Most of the time, it begins like that: I hear a word in a song that isn't there, and an idea blooms. That word gives the sentence new meaning and great potential blossoms. So, I use that new phrase to write a new song.

Sometimes, the title of a book or a phrase in it takes me to the same place of raw creativity and expressive fervor. Something specific - a certain je ne sais quoi in my frontal cortex, which has long been dubbed creativity's hub - ignites a thought in me that allows me to transform a creative piece of work into one of my own, something original, something new.

The main way I'm able to explore this creative metamorphosis is through the transportability I experience with books. I write poems for the strength of Briseis and compose songs for the endless halls Piranesi roams, not to mention for the nostalgic memories of Tsukuru Tasaki. All these characters, and more, inspire me with their stories. I can write based on things I may never face as well as ubiquitously occurring feelings I haven't yet felt because I can relate to them by reading about them in books written by others who have experienced those things (well, most of them).

It's as if someone has created a cover-to-cover world and allowed me to enter it, a world which once I finish its final page, belongs once again to the author or musician - to his or her own experiences and feelings - but a world that I, too, can create, one that feels like home to me. I can write as if I've lived under the sea and dive into a wide range of themes in a limitless, fantasy-like way.

Being able to write in this fashion gives me complete freedom on the angle I wish to explore with each theme and gives each of these themes a sense of universality and relatability to the reader or at least that's the goal.

When it comes to rooms, I'm a "reader". I find reading books helps me improve my ability to read rooms because books help me understand events and individuals outside of my day-to-day experiences. Yet, this skill can also be problematic. For example, when I got my wisdom teeth pulled, I read "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo".

With my face all puffy, I predicted two of the twist endings by pages 100-120 and found myself thoroughly disappointed (and somewhat proud) that they came to fruition simultaneously. Sometimes, it sucks to be right with this superpower.

Another activity that has augmented my talent for reading a room is traveling. Traveling improves my worldliness, which undoubtedly plays a key role in reading different people and situations. While living in Columbia, I found reading rooms initially difficult and thus felt vulnerable, as if my semi-psychic superpowers had been stripped away. But over time, I sensed my ability returning and even broadening as I ventured further outside my comfort bubble.

Traveling within and outside Latin America has exposed me to multifarious cultures and peoples, which have each, in their own way, bolstered my ability to read the rooms around me into an even more potent superpower of being able to read rooms around the world.

Not only did I travel to others around the world to expand my horizons, but they also "traveled" to me via the Elders Support Initiative, a volunteer group directed toward helping senior citizens digitally during coronavirus. Conversing at length with such seasoned seniors helped grant me the perspective to understand them despite our differing worldviews from disparate epochs. Time allowed me to eventually read them and the (Zoom) room just the same, which made leading and organizing activities they'd like far easier and more successful.

Last but certainly not least, especially in today's sociopolitical climate, reading rooms allow me to resolve conflicts and mediate problems between parties. However, my favorite part of being a "reader" is being the one to whom my friends always vent and share exciting news with because they feel heard and understood by me.

The test covered L'Hopital's Rule and Related Rates – something I knew I'd need extra time to complete. But there I was. Waiting in the classroom patiently with everyone else for Dr Robert to hand out the Honors Precalculus exam. I had been given a written contract for accommodations, but he didn't care.

This was the third time this had happened. I spoke to him about the extended time that I was entitled to the test before, yet here I was- again- in the same room as everyone else without any accommodations. Then he handed me my paper. I scribbled down my name as fast as possible to give myself enough time to maybe get two-thirds into the test without him grabbing it from my hands.

I flew through L'Hopital's rule through the constant sneezing, sniffing, and occasional cough from my neighbors. Did the person sitting next to me have COVID? It didn't matter. What mattered was getting through as much math as possible within the time I was allowed. After finishing the first half, I looked over to my left– only to see the student next to me flipping to the last page of the test.

Just as I started on the second half, I heard the disappointing "5 Minutes Left". I quickly jotted down anything that came to mind for the remaining few minutes. I wrote as fast as possible until he came around and grabbed the test from underneath my pencil. I stood up and left the class full of frustration and anger. I found my friends, who had finished theirs 30 minutes early. I listened in frustration as they exclaimed, "That was the easiest test I've ever taken!".

I ran furiously to swim practice, thinking about the injustice I had faced – just like every test before. The next day in class, he handed back our tests. "What did you get?" "How did you do?" "98 – easiest test ever" "96 – I didn't even study!". Then he handed mine back. It was face down. I stared in agony at the back page with a large red "X" on the unattempted problems.

I flipped it over, which only made it worse: "78%". Nearly everything I had attempted on the test was correct. The remaining 22% were all unattempted problems. This happened many more times – "86", "79", "80", "Did you attempt this problem?", "Why didn't you try this one?".

The end of the semester eventually came, and grades were finalized. "B+". Nearly every problem I attempted on any quiz or test was mathematically correct, but I had run out of time on almost every assessment. It didn't matter how good I truly was at Precalculus. What mattered to the teacher was what was down on the paper – an incomplete test.

The frustration over the discrimination I faced in the classroom got so intense that I decided to write Dr. Robert one final email to let him know just how much his injustice in the classroom affected me. Knowing there was nothing I could do to help my grade, I furiously typed out every article about the ADA he violated and how unfair this truly was to me. My advocacy not only for myself, but for all students with learning differences made a big difference in the classroom, and in the second semester, I faced much less discrimination.

The assignment was to scrape and organize many DNA sequences from a database. It was late on a Sunday night, and I hadn't started the assignment. I opened my laptop and saw the article I had been reading earlier that day. "Coronavirus has now killed 250 thousand people in the United States". I moved it aside to start the project that was due the next morning.

After spending hours finding creative ways to scrape the data I desired, I began debugging. I spent another hour tirelessly fixing problems that wouldn't allow my code to run. I turned back to the web to see if Stack Overflow had the answers to my questions. Then I saw it again: "Coronavirus has now killed 250 thousand people in the United States".

I put it aside but pondered how I could apply web scraping to a real-world crisis like COVID-19. I began debugging but was overtaken by my curiosity. I diverged from my school project and began writing code to scrape a COVID database and organize it into data frames. Eventually, after scraping tons of data, I glanced at the clock: 4 AM, and I still had not finished my assignment.

It was time to get to work. I drudged through another hour of debugging and eventually finished. I glanced outside my window and saw bright beams of sunlight poking through the dense fog on the mountains, so I quickly grabbed my things and ran out the door for school.

I was energized by the real-world application of what I was learning in my directed study, "Using Python for Research." It inspired me to continue taking courses in addition to those offered at my school, such as "Analyzing Data with R" and "Multivariable Calculus."

Whatever your expectations of my musical talents are, just throw them on the ground," said my brother as he prepared to play the bagpipes for Treasure Talent Hunt, our school's talent competition. Although I admit my brother's bagpipe playing wasn't entirely musical, hearing him make the entire student body laugh was music to my ears after two and a half years without social activities.

For me, school is more than didactic education. It's a community, and my goal is always to increase camaraderie and boost our collective spirit. Last year, we returned to in-person classes, but the only social event we held was the prom. My disappointment in the lack of extracurricular events moved me to make a change.

As student body vice president, my mission has been to increase the number of programs my school sponsors. I enjoy gathering feedback and ideas from my schoolmates and bringing them to the council to discuss, but generating ideas is only part of the fun. Last year was chaotic, as everyone on the student council performed the same task regardless of their position. To offer more events, I felt it was important for the student council members to have clearly defined roles and responsibilities, so I set expectations.

In planning the Treasure Talent Hunt. I delegated to the spirit coordinators the registration of participants and the organization of the events, and to the class representatives the purchase of the drinks and snacks, which the treasurer reimbursed. The whole school turned out for the event and cheered on their performing classmates. Everybody cheered for the eight students performing at Treasure Talent Hunt.

In my first few months leading the student council, I also organized seven new social events, including homecoming festivities and spirit week, which were met with equal enthusiasm from the student population. I slowly noticed a palpable change in the camaraderie among my schoolmates, as they now have more opportunities to reconnect with each other. While my brother might not expect much from his music, I expect to rebuild our school community one event at a time.