Benjamin's Essay
Language, I’ve learned, isn’t just made of words. My first language was rare. It was built on shared glances, quiet understanding, and spoken only to a single person: my twin brother.
In elementary school, my brother and I were inseparable. We dreamed up elaborate schemes in the content of our own orbit- but whether it was selling duct tape wallets at recess or auctioning off ladybugs we found in the grass, he was the one talking. In a world built for two, I never felt the need to speak anyone else’s language.
Things changed when my brother was diagnosed as neurodivergent. I was forced to learn a new language: advocacy. At first, I didn’t fully understand the label, but I noticed how others suddenly did. Teachers became less patient. Classmates noticed differences they hadn’t before. My parents, already stretched thin from a recent divorce, couldn’t afford consistent therapy, and I slowly became my brother’s protector and interpreter. I would mediate arguments between him and our parents, step in when classmates didn’t understand him, and absorb the weight of his struggles as my own.
One day, in a crowded middle school bus, I tested out the language I didn’t know I was studying. A student older than us called my brother the r-word. He didn’t know what it meant. But I did. The slur echoed through the metal box, cutting through my brother and landing on my chest. In an instant, the quiet kid who had heard whispered rumors of his own mutism shot up, shouted back, and dismantled the student’s words in front of the entire bus. That day, I found my voice, not quietly, but with conviction.
I spent the rest of the day buzzing with energy. For the first time, I felt the fire of advocacy burn inside me. I began engaging more in class, speaking to teachers, and looking for ways to channel that fire into action.
My first real opportunity came volunteering at a Special Olympics event in Phoenix. There, I met Isabella, a teenage girl with autism whose bright personality and candid tone reminded me instantly of my brother. Over the course of the event, she shared how she had grown up in the foster care system, suffered abuse, and was trying to get back to her younger sister with little family and fewer resources. Listening to Isabella, I realized something that still haunts and drives me: she was on her own. I’d spent years believing my brother might be lost without me, only to meet someone who had managed alone. Without a secret language, without a safety net, and often without dignity from the very systems designed to help her, she kept moving forward. She carried the weight of this struggle wherever she went. I got home to my brother that night, and was lucky enough to have that weight balanced between the two of us.
From that point on, I couldn’t stay quiet. I kept volunteering and speaking in class because I believed that what I had to say mattered. That growing confidence led me to work with the Arizona Board of Regents, where I began advocating for student voices on a larger scale. After collecting signatures for an open letter addressing administrative inaction, I spoke during a public session of the Arizona Board of Regents, raising concerns about a proposed federal funding shift that jeopardized our university’s IMQ office. I was the only student to specifically highlight how these cuts would directly affect multicultural, disability, and LGBTQIA+ students. As a queer and hispanic student, I understood that these groups were ones which had already been underserved on campus. Being a tour guide, I had met countless prospective students and families from diverse backgrounds who shared that the IMQ’s presence was a deciding factor in choosing our school. I emphasized that eliminating funding for this office would send a clear message: that inclusion was negotiable. For my own and my brother’s sake, I could not stay quiet. My testimony helped convince the board to maintain funding and reaffirm our status as a sanctuary school. For the first time, I saw how sharing our lived experiences could shift policy conversations.
These moments reaffirmed how intertwined advocacy and law truly are. I later expanded that commitment globally through an internship with Democracy House, where I collaborated with students and activists around the world to strengthen civic engagement. Speaking with someone in Eastern Europe about voter suppression or another in South America about the dangers of misinformation reminded me just how universal the need for voice, and the protection of that voice, really is.
Law school is the most natural continuation of the voice I discovered that day on the bus. It is the path through which I can amplify the concerns of people like Isabella, those whose voices are often unheard or deliberately ignored. I have seen firsthand how our systems fail the most vulnerable, how institutions overlook those with no support, and how much can change when someone who spends their whole life listening decides to speak up.
I was not always certain about the choice to attend law school. One of the best mistakes I have ever made was beginning my undergraduate career as a social work major. Every day, I learned more about the day-to-day lives of unhoused communities, impoverished families, and a world of inaccessibility. But, every day, I learned how flawed the systems meant to protect those vulnerable populations were. I felt like I was in the wrong place- forced to be just one pawn in a losing game with millions of players. My future work as a lawyer will be the antithesis of this fear.
Over time, I have discovered that the injustices that individuals like Isabella and my brother face are symptoms of much larger, unchecked systems of power. What inspires me to work with public interest law is its unique ability to confront those systems directly. I am especially interested in government regulation and corporate accountability. Time and time again, the values and interests of private institutions override public welfare and human dignity. Whether it be companies denying accommodations for disabled communities, profiting from spreading harmful misinformation, or targeting our most vulnerable low-income families, I want to use law to hold damaging practices accountable. I hope to someday be a pivotal leader in not only crafting regulations that protect marginalized communities from systemic harm, but to be an active voice in strengthening and enforcing them. By investigating policy gaps and challenging harmful corporate behavior, I will serve as the forefront defense against the exploitation of access and opportunity.
My brother was, and still is, my purpose. But over time, the world grew bigger, and the people who needed advocacy multiplied. Law is not just a career path, it is the most effective tool to honor the promise I made to my brother and extend that promise to others. Whether through public interest law or nonprofit advocacy, I will continue uplifting systems that empower people to speak. This scholarship would help me carry that mission forward. In giving me the financial support to become the compassionate advocate I’ve always strived to be, I can begin to focus solely on this dream.
Thank you for considering my application and I am grateful to be given the opportunity. You may help take me one step closer to a profession where raising my voice can change the world.
