Originally, I wasn’t interested in the Wildlife Allies program at the zoo. I’d done clean-ups before with rescue organizations and assumed it would be similar. I was wrong! On the first day, our educator, Dave, gathered us at a table full of artifacts— animal toys, bird houses, a giraffe skull, a rhino thigh bone, a training wand, mammal droppings, and so on and so forth. I simply stared in awe. While I had seen zoo animals in their exhibits many times, I had never seen them so up-close. Then, to my surprise, Dave said go on, pick something up. Tell me what you see. Volunteering at the zoo did not involve animal clean-ups after all. Instead, we learned about animals. We learned their biology, as Dave lectured while presenting items— “biofacts”, as I later learned— and passing them between us. We learned the enrichment the zoo provided, the names and characteristics of many animals, and the personalities of several in the exhibits. We spoke to zookeepers, learning not only their responsibilities but also their passion for the animals they took care of. At the end of the day, we collected our bio-facts and set up a booth. We invited guests to take a look, sharing with them what we had learned earlier that day. Initially, I found interacting with guests intimidating. But over time, I improved. I soon found myself leading my group, quickly attracting attention and building meaningful interactions. With adults, I was able to communicate conservation messages, and with kids, I was able to imbue a sense of awe and imagination. One session, our schedule had been thrown out of balance, so we were spending some downtime in the hippo exhibit. Boredly, we watched as a mom and her kid entered and peered, amazed, at the hippo exhibit. Dave turned and said look, there’s a guest. Tell them about hippos. We didn’t learn about hippos today, someone protested. He smiled and said no, but you do have the internet. Look something up. After a quick google search, I bit back my fear and approached them, sharing what I had learned only moments ago from my phone: how hippos kick off and drift through the water, how they can crush a watermelon like a peanut. The mom smiled wide and said thank you, I had no idea about any of that! And I smiled too, realizing that because of me, she had learned something new. I stayed with the program. I went on to become a Wildlife Advocate and underwent training to assist at the zoo’s five animal interactions. Now, not only did I inform guests about the animals, but I also cut browse for guests to hold at the Giraffe Deck and poured nectar in their cups at Lory Landing. I also got to mentor the incoming Wildlife Allies and help them take their first steps. Although I may not become a zookeeper, I want to continue to spread wonder for the rest of my life.

My introduction to programming came in the form of a yellow-and-white cat. I’d stumbled on the kids’ coding website Scratch, and it blew away my child-self’s mind. I spent hours on Scratch tinkering with block code, even though I didn’t understand that the “floor” operator didn’t actually find the floor, or that the functions they gave weren’t all the functions I could build. I explored hundreds of games, and for each, I peeked at the code longer than I played. I analyzed them to see how they were made and occasionally “borrowed” code— they’re open-source, after all. Early on, I resolved that I wanted to study computer science, but being a gay woman, I felt too often like an odd duck in a field where I didn’t belong. Finding mentorship was a struggle. In middle school, I joined a computer science club, but it was composed entirely of boys, and the club leader would call on me with the most challenging questions. One time, when I answered correctly, he exclaimed, “See? Even she remembers it.” I was speechless. From that point on, I never went to another club meeting. Neither words nor code can capture my dismay when in high school, I saw no computer science classes on the course card. For years, I’ve had to make-do with online resources. Throughout high school, I took to Khan Academy and Codecademy. I taught myself coding fundamentals using a textbook, and now I informally advise my friend who’s taking OnRamps Computer Science. Let me tell you, you learn lots of disconnected scraps learning on your own— you don’t even know how much you know. Those who have not been alienated from their passions may not understand why I feel so deeply about diversity in this field. But computer science controls the devices we use, the software we interact with, and the content we browse every day. It’s too influential to be in the hands of one group. And in order to incite real change, we must embody that change ourselves. Right now, my generation is witness to a revolution, with massive indie successes like Lackadaisy and Hazbin Hotel not only thriving but outperforming corporate creations. Now is the perfect time for new perspectives and untold stories to come to light at last, and I hope that I will join this emergent wave. With my love for technology, I will build immersive gaming experiences that are full of color, life, and emotional resonance. And through these, I will lend a voice to others in my community, who have often struggled to find the tools to achieve our goals, and show them that this dream of ours is possible.

Every writer is, by some fraction, a changeling. We dive into the depths of a separate conscience and swap appearances. To the reader who does not know us personally, we have the apparent and somewhat magical ability to become anything. We might be the slow opening of a door, the sound of a heated dialogue, the twinkling of stars in the sky. So long as the reader believes— or wants to believe— in the illusion we’ve created, we hold ultimate sway over their perception of the world. We make them think, wonder, learn, and grow all from the experiences that lie within our minds’ theaters. Writing is a subtle yet potent communication. Like most writers, I grew up reading. In elementary school, I blazed through YA fantasy books like Warrior Cats and Wings of Fire, as well as the Texas Bluebonnet Awards. In middle school, I branched out to classics, taking a nearly-obsessive liking to Poe. Nothing too mundane, nothing too special. But now, in high school, I’ve taken an interesting detour. I still read— I always will. However, unlike most writers, I have expanded my vision of what writing actually means, and I have applied that to the craft of video games. For me, it is not passive inspiration that compels me to write, but rather inevitability. One way or another, that story slithers and slinks onto the page with an invisible nature. I constantly experiment with genre and medium, unable to settle on a single method. I seek out story wherever she can be found; the most captivating tales may be derived from the most unexpected corners of one’s life. My muses include not only novelists but game developers like Kotaro Uchikoshi, whose visual novel series blends intricate, cerebral storytelling with elaborate puzzles in a way that would be impossible without the interactive medium of technology. I believe all forms of writing have as much potential as novels to inspire people, and I’m determined to write for video games. My stories are absurd and grotesque, almost comically so. I grave-rob from countless sources and rearrange them in a patchwork manner, like Frankenstein’s monster. But I believe in what I’ve written, and I hope others will believe in it too, no matter how raw or inconceivable. Belief is how stories are told. I no longer obsess over perfection— over the mirage of the magnum opus— that permeates writers’ minds. After all, the flaws in written works reveal the true, naked visage of life itself, for that too is no perfect entity— and what better way to show that than by embracing the weirdness of it all? I find that video games, the most self-aware medium, accomplish this most effectively. My writing may not be convenient or conventional. It may not appeal to the market or find worldwide acclaim. All told, I write those stories anyway. I write them true, and I write them ugly, hoping that someday, someone will read those words and understand their meaning.

A lonely vessel wanders across a desolate land, rusted nail in hand. Its kingdom has fallen to corruption— deteriorated long before its eyes opened. This vessel carries out a sacred mission, journeying into the kingdom’s heart to battle against the infection. Never does the vessel speak, but conviction oozes from every motion— the will of a knight in a dying world. Hollow Knight, a video game set in the kingdom of Hallownest, designates the player as the Knight, one vessel birthed among hundreds identical, designed as weapons to seal away an infection. The King cast these vessels— his children— into an abyss; the first to resurface was named the chosen vessel and raised to contain the infection. Proving impure, however, the King’s vessel failed. Eventually, a discarded vessel, the Knight, crawled out of the abyss, emerging from a sea of its siblings’ corpses to discover a kingdom overtaken. The Knight thus embarked to set its world right. Hollow Knight resonated tragedies I understood well. I saw my own face reflected back at me— my own knight, born from the void and struggling for the light. Ruthless bosses challenged me to confront my ghosts. Hallownest’s King, the father who abandoned his progeny— he was my father, I realized, as I ascended a pale tower and stood before his throne. My father, a veteran of war, cares for me, I am sure, but through his drinking, he has produced a lonely existence. Meanwhile, my mother is still a fearful child. She could not undo his teachings or seize her own control. Like the Knight, I was failed and thrust into a bleak, rotten world. But I stand resilient. I wield my pen— a rusted nail— and I craft stories and worlds. I dream such wild dreams, even though I'm told not to dream at all. If the King’s palace is not home, then I'll forge my own. In miniature ways, I sustain hope. I take neighborhood walks, gazing in wonder as cirrus clouds float along and coral shimmers frame the Texas sky. I bake blueberry muffins and apple pies. I read physics books and write about birds and butterflies. I channel my ghosts into my art, so that when I stand on-stage and read my work, I may be haunted but I will always be truthful. I hold my head high, looking ever-forward because the future is the direction of dreams, and their magnitude is hope. In Hollow Knight’s true ending, the Knight prevails, banishing the infection. Even for the darkest souls, there is always hope. Always another chance to try— another solution to a problem, another day to fight. Hollow Knight spurred my interest in game design. Games have healed me and transformed me. No medium resonates more deeply or blends art and technology to the same degree. In the present I live in, when I put plays to the stage or numbers to the page, I do so from ambition, so that I may someday reach someone in the way this game reached me. In the future I envision, my life will consist of far more than hopes and dreams— I will prevail.