University of Virginia

Cringing when thinking about human sacrifice in "Vida y muerte en el Templo Mayor," I puzzled over the motive behind the Aztec practice of killing a person to appease the gods of nature.

After a lengthy discussion with Mexican friends, I learned that Aztec civilization considered humans just one part of the natural world, rather than the dominant species. Only when the gods of nature are satisfied, they believed, can worldly creatures live in peace.

That's when I recognized how I've been looking at the world from an anthropocentric model. Whether in the Four Heavenly Kings of Chinese mythology, or in the Bible story of Noah's Ark my Christian grandma told, these stories revolve around humans' survival and prosperity, and nature is just a backdrop.

The Aztec "nature-centric model," truly challenged my perspective. Humans might not be as superior as we think; everything may not be about us. Reflecting on my motivations for advocating sustainability, I'm guilty of preserving the Earth for the sake of our human offspring, not for the Earth's own sake.

The Aztec perception of humans' relationship to nature inspired me to reconceptualize my own perspective. I expanded my framework from humanity to all creatures: why not consider the elephants our siblings, or the trees our cousins?

I reject the Aztec practice of human sacrifice, but their belief that we are but a tiny part of nature resonated deeply with me. Rather than protecting Earth with self-interest and fear, I now treat Earth with empathy and love.

During my freshman year, my studio art class arranged a field trip to the National Portrait Gallery. To say I was excited was an understatement. Although I have lived near DC all my life, I never had the chance to visit its art museums. This trip would be my first time.

When we arrived, I stood in the courtyard, waiting for directions. I don't remember what spurred me to look up, but when I did, the sight of a floating steel and glass canopy above amazed me. It was unlike anything else in the room. The undulant form of the ceiling reminded me of being underwater, looking up to see waves dancing. What struck me the most was how its sleek and modern design juxtaposed the gallery's Greek revival architecture.

I've gone back several times since then, each time appreciating something new from the ceiling—in the shelter, it provides from the outside elements to the beautiful grid of shadows it leaves on the ground and walls on sunny days. Inspired by the relationship between the ceiling and the rest of the gallery, I have sought out ways to combine contrasting styles like classic vs. modern, organic vs. geometric, hard vs. soft, and fine art vs. crafts in my art. I've become hyper-aware of the physical spaces I occupy and their functional yet artistic characteristics. While studying architecture at UVA, I hope to continue exploring these relationships and apply them to my architectural style.

I haven't let another person cut my hair in four years. Bangs, layers, a fringe, a bob, I have been my own hairdresser. With only me, a mirror, and scissors in hand, I enjoy having complete control over my appearance. Cutting my hair is liberating; it's like removing dead weight off my shoulders. Messing up isn't a concern, as I know my hair will grow back. I am proud of the freedom I have with my hair, but I haven't always been this way.

In traditional Quechua culture, women have long, braided hair. One braid indicates that a woman is single, while two means she is married. Growing up surrounded by women who kept their hair long, I desperately wanted to stand out but was too afraid to break tradition. I love my Quechua heritage, but as a young girl, I thought it was silly to have braids when I wasn't even allowed to date. Why did it matter if others knew I was single?

Eventually, my parents agreed to let me cut my hair, and for a moment I'd been looking forward to for so long, I wanted to be the one to do it. Like every time I've cut my hair since then, I felt like a new person. Looking back to who I was then and who I am now, I know 12 year old me would think I look cool, and she's the only person I want to impress.

"I hope your kids have my curly hair," quipped my mom. "As long as they have my eyes, I'm happy," joked my dad. While my parents were casually bantering with me at the dinner table, I was closeted as bisexual, and my mind started to reel. Eventually, I knew I wanted to have kids, and the nuclear family I had previously envisioned began to crumble. What if I couldn't have genetically related children with my partner?

As I grappled with this question, I discovered that biomedical engineering could provide me with an answer. Gene-editing technology CRISPR-Cas9 could allow for a same-sex couple to have genetically related children. This tool works as a precise pair of molecular scissors to cut out targeted DNA sequences in an organism's genome. In China, researchers experimented with CRISPR and obtained live bipaternal and bimaternal mice.

CRISPR's potential to change the world thrills me for reasons beyond my future family. With CRISPR, researchers began to cut out human DNA sequences associated with neurodegenerative diseases, blood-related disorders, and cancer. CRISPR is on the cusp of revolutionizing the medical industry, and I want to be part of innovating and discovering new uses for the technology.

Maybe one day, I'll share a meal at the dinner table with a husband and a child who shares our features, laughing as we talk about our day. At UVA Engineering, I will acquire the tools necessary to pioneer research that could make this possibility a reality for millions of same-sex couples around the world.

Every ten years the state and congressional district lines open up to the public; the only piece of art influenced by the fluctuating votes of human souls. The bold black lines, separating communities with luscious green lawns from those with concrete playgrounds, are redrawn redirecting millions of dollars and sparking waves of protests on state capitol steps. In its sum, the wonky headphones and salamander shapes reflect the imperfect art of gerrymandering. Within its components, the fabric is sewed with the sweat and tears of communities. From ones with family obligations rendering them unable to advocate for themselves to communities a five-minute walk from the state capitol.

In its final form, the line strokes between streets, bayous, and freeways surprise me. Instead of equal representation and distribution of power, districts group communities voting in accordance to a political party with communities who do not vote – essentially maintaining an iron grip on power. To challenge it, I have gone into non-voting communities helping register voters and have taken the time to listen to families terrified of the political process. One of my most cherished memories was meeting an elderly man who had immigrated to the U.S. and became naturalized but never registered to vote. For years, he watched his community change and never understood why he could not stop the process. Now, every time I see the district lines, I sense the unsettled doubt that within each district resides one person taken advantage of and never nurtured with civic love.

I sit at a booth at California Pizza Kitchen as my legs swing back and forth, barely scraping the floor. With a mischievous grin, I grab a red crayon and scribble on the black-and-white coloring book with my own mission in mind. One times two equals two, times two equals four, times two equals eight, and so on. After I fill the page, the napkins in the dispenser in front of me become my canvas. When I finish, red numbers sprawl across the workbook and neatly ordered napkins on the table, mimicking a college professor's chalkboard. My masterpiece is complete.

At five years old, I cherished multiplying numbers by two until I reached numbers in the millions, and my love for simple math became a staple of my personality. When I entered high school, I was delighted to discover my passion for mental math reflected in the activities I pursued:

(310 total seconds – 162 seconds ran) / 2 laps left = 74 seconds per lap. During a 1600m dash, I recalculated the average pace I needed to meet my goal after every lap and adjusted my stride accordingly. 28 rows * 36 seats per row = 1008 total seats. During a chorus class, I calculated the number of seats in the auditorium we sang in with enthusiasm.

My arithmetic may not always serve a practical purpose, yet I find comfort in making sense of the little things in my life. The math problems penned with a red crayon may seem trivial to some, but they represent my curiosity seeking a better grasp of the world around me.