Certainly, these shoes do fit. I want to wear them all without becoming trapped in any specific label or accomplishment. The idea that a person must be doctor or painter, writer or lawyer, the belief that one can only truly excel in one area, has always been foreign to me. A drive to be the best at a multitude of endeavors (at least one aspect of everything fascinates me) has been a part of my blood since I was young. For instance, even though math and science never came as easy to me as writing and drawing, I was mesmerized by the mystery and accuracy of mathematical formulas and by the discrepancies in scientific research. I have a mountain of sketchpads and composition notebooks filled to the brim with stories and drawings. Right beside those are my biology, chemistry, and physics textbooks, and my summer research assignments.

My varied interests confounded people to no end as I was growing up. My uncles didn't hesitate to show their dismay at my lack of interest in the sports for which they'd become high school legends, and my middle school teachers had a tough time trying to pin me down to a specific academic interest. In the spring of my eighth grade year, I was accepted into the California Academy of Mathematics and Science. Needless to say, this new path seemed to rectify my academic paradox. My mom was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief. ("My little scientist!" she happily exclaimed).

But my thirst for a unique educational experience followed me into high school. In sophomore year, I enrolled in drama, tried out for dance team, and was assigned to write a 100-page novel in my English class. I dove back into my creative outlets, and in addition, joined student government. Murmurs erupted throughout my household: That boy is spreading himself too thin. But I didn't care. I was doing the things I loved. Not just one of the things I loved-all of them.

One night, my mother stepped into my room to find out why my grades were slipping. "It's stressing me out!" she said. "You need to get your priorities in order! Stop writing these silly stories and start getting practical." For a while, I pretended to. With my flashlight in hand, I read my novels under the blankets late at night. However, locking away a part of me took its toll on my psyche. I believed "Darron Kinney, writer" deserved to get as much action as "Darron Kinney, MD."

This past summer, I worked in labs at the UCLA School of Dentistry as part of the Howard Hughes Medical Institute/UCLA Pre-College Program. After completing my research assignments each night, I read my novels. It wasn't until the third week that I was comfortable enough to bring my books with me for breaks during work hours. "What's that you're reading?" asked the principal investigator of the lab, Dr. Ki-Hyuk Shin. I had not heard him enter the lab. My first reaction was to flinch and quickly hide the book.

"Um, nothing," I replied. He reached inside my bag and pulled out the book, a copy of Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City. "It is OK, you know? To read books here," the scientist said in his matter-of-fact tone. "Nothing wrong with it." I blinked at him. He blinked back.

"What is it about?" he asked. My face must have lit up as I spent what seemed like hours explaining to him the novel's major plot points. He looked up at me and said, "I didn't know you were so into literature. Why don't you show this side of yourself more often?"

I told Dr. Shin that I believed my love for science had to eclipse my love for reading and writing, or vice versa. He rolled his eyes. "Why can't you do both?" he asked. He cut me off again as I tried to stammer out an explanation. "Life isn't any fun if you don't do what you like, is it?" I thought about it. He continued, taking another bite of his sandwich. "If you're as determined to succeed in the field of writing as you are in science, then you'll go far."

I was completely floored. Here was a perfectly successful and well-respected scientist telling me that I could achieve in all of the fields I love. I thought of the surgeon and writer Richard Selzer, who, with his literary essays about his patients and operations, is part of what writer Phillip Lopate calls "a new wave of literary scientists."

At the end of the day, I'm glad I was "caught" reading my book in the lab. That experience has shown me that I really do need to satisfy my needs in all areas that fascinate me in order to reach my full potential. I didn't get caught that day-I was set free.

Each time I try to imagine Anzaldua's teacher's face, I see my own 3rd-grade teacher, Ms. V, who caught me when I forgot to speak the "correct" language at school one day. Ms. V had divided us into groups of four to practice our vocabulary words. I grabbed the colorful card that had the word Persistent written on it. "Oh," I said, bouncing in my seat. "I know this word! My dad always says, 'Oh, mija, you are so persistent!'"

I saw Ms. V's shadow before I saw her. She had warned us not to speak Spanish at any time at school. Usually, I was adept at shutting off the "Spanish part" of my brain as soon as I entered the school grounds; but in my eagerness to show off my mastery of my classmates' language that day, my mother's and my father's language betrayed me.

Ms. V didn't rap me across the knuckles with a ruler- she had me suspended. My tongue felt dirty. When my father, who worked nights, came to school to pick me up, I saw his skin redden beneath his hairline, a sure sign of his anger. He grabbed my hand, squeezed it firmly and led me to the car. From the passenger seat, I had a clear view of the mountains lining the horizon. In Spanish, I begged him to take me there, away from the city, away from that school, away from my pain.

"It's too hot, mija," he said, but when he looked into my eyes, he saw something there that changed his mind. "Alright, alright," he said. We climbed for an hour. The sweat pouring from my skin released the humiliation and confusion I felt in a way tears could not.

Shortly after that experience, my family left Riverside and moved to Compton, California. I noticed that students spoke Spanish occasionally at school without fear of punishment, but I never felt quite comfortable doing so. For a long time, I was afraid to speak at all in my classes, afraid the wrong word or accent might fly from my mouth. I didn't overcome my anxieties of public speaking until my 11th grade year, after discovering Anzaldua. Today, I am better able to present projects to large groups of people, to stand before an audience and let my voice - in all its linguistic richness-be heard.

Ms. V's ridicule and punishment initially drove me into a cave of shame, but with the support of my parents and community, the examples of successful Chicanos, and an internal persistence to succeed, I have emerged from that cave embracing my culture, my language and my academic achievements, which includes being #1 in my class. If I am the valedictorian at graduation, I will deliver a speech that, while mostly in English, will include a few endearing phrases from my beloved native tongue.

I have to do something, I kept saying to myself. I have to do something. That opportunity came several years after Katrina, in the summer of 2008, when College Bound organized a trip for students to fly to New Orleans and as volunteers for Katrina Relief. I faced by borderline phobia and boarded the plane. One of the staff members helped quell my fears by talking about her memories of New Orleans, and before I knew it, we were in the air. When our plane reached the outer limits of the city, I could hardly contain my excitement. Sadly, as we drove to our hotel, I realized that this was still not the New Orleans that people had described to me. Although it was three years later, the devastation I saw made me realized how small my fear was compared to what the residents went through. The destruction of the city left a huge impact on me. Hearing the stories first-hand is an experience that has stayed with me.

I learned that the Saturday before Hurricane Katrina hit is a day everyone in New Orleans will never forget. The best description for that day is hectic. Cell phones going dead as people tried to get in contact with their families, seven-hour traffic jams backed up for miles as people tried to find ways to get to safer ground. There was no electricity, no water, and limited food. Hundreds were under the assumption that they were coming back in two or three days only to never again see their city, their homes as they once knew it.

Being in the midst of a storm or losing your home and loved ones-these are things to truly fear.

Going to New Orleans gave me an opportunity to learn more about myself. Although soft-spoken, I am a strong individual who has discovered a passion for helping others. I realize many of my fears, though founded, are miniscule compared to the change I could make in the lives of the people who still lived in the wreckage.

Much of our country is facing economic hardships that have created foreseen as well as unforeseen challenges for future generations. I want to be the change I want to see. I now feel like I have a purpose. Fear has been keeping me from living my life, and if I allow it to, it will prohibit me from exploring new territories. Life is too short to let fear prevent you from fulfilling your destiny. Volunteering to help the victims of Katrina has taught me to not take life for granted and to not let my apprehensions stop me from succeeding. I owe it to the world to be the best person I can be, so that I can leave it in a better place than I found it.

Indeed, we must place God at the forefront of everything we do. This has inspired me to spread God's word to others through volunteer service; provided me with the compassion and leadership skills I need as senior class representative of Student Council Body, and fortified me with enough strength to resist peer pressure.

As I stand on the precipice of my high school journey, I sometimes worry about the next step. For too many, the college experience has been synonymous with materialism, worldliness, and risqué experimentation. College graduates have found themselves living lives that seem purposeless, emotionally empty and spiritually dead. This is not the life I want.

Whenever I feel anxious about life after high school, I turn to one of my favorite verses-Jeremiah 29:11-for comfort: "'For I know the plans I have for you,' " declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.' " That future, I hope, will include the evangelical Christian education that Azusa offers.

I've inherited my father's legacy of witnessing to the world about Christ. As such, my chosen course of study is Communications, a field rich with ethical standards too often violated. My father left me a gift of words, of communicating the gospel in a way that changes people's lives. Indeed, the major in Communication Studies and minor in Journalism would teach me how to reveal truths, foster excellent interpersonal relations, and deliver the kind of stories that heal and liberate.