I hope you're all doing well! I wanted to share that I wasn't a finalist for QuestBridge, and I've realized that my procrastination on my last personal statement really affected it. So, I decided to write a new one! . I would truly appreciate any feedback you have please don't hold back! I'm planning to use this for the Common App and scholarships.
Thanks so much :)
The glossy marble of the general assembly felt a world away from the worn linoleum of my kitchen. Just hours after speaking to legislators about youth engagement, I was at home helping my parents decode a stack of bills, their faces marked with a fatigue I knew too well. In one world, I was a student leader discussing policy yet in the other, I was the oldest son of a family struggling to make ends meet. Somewhere between marble and linoleum, I found my reason to lead.
My political career started in a simpler world, with a sixth-grade poster saying "Vote Giancarlo he's your avocad-bro". The thrill of that first victory for class president felt so pure. I genuinely believed change was as simple as the best poster idea, that if we just found the perfect donut pun, we could fix anything. That version of politics was a game played on an polsiedh uncomplicaeted surface. I didn't know about the friction of the real world, the grit of the linoleum floor.
I dove in headfirst. I served as president of my student council, became a governor's page, and spoke at multiple protests. I loved the energy of politics, the belief that we were shaping the future. But with each roundtable meeting with a senator, each policy debate the disconnect grew. The abstract discussions about "economic anxiety" in rooms of marble were suddenly concretized by the specific greasy feel of a 20 dollar bill my mom gave me for groceries, her whisper, "Gianni, just the essentials". The system we were debating wasn't an abstract concept. It was the same one that had shut down the chicken plant where my stepfather worked, the same one that made that stack of bills on the kitchen table a source of fear.
I realized the rooms of power weren't built for someone like me: queer, Latino, first-generation. The polished tables and procedural language felt designed to exclude the messy, resilient realities of families like mine. But instead of feeling shut out, I remembered the quiet strength strength i learned from my stepfather the kind shown not in speeches but in the simple act of bringing home my favorite nachos after a long shift. That was a strength built on consistency, not on spectacle. It was the same strength I used to help my younger siblings with homework, patiently navigating their frustrations. I decided my role in politics wouldn't be to just speak in those sacred halls, but to carry the linoleum with me into the marble-to be a steady, consistent force representing those seen as statistics and not as people.
This new purpose reframed everything. Reconnecting with my old vice president from sixth grade, Kayle wasn't about nostalgia it was about partnership with someone who understood this mission. Together, we didn't just start a club instead we founded the Chatham Teen Democrats as a microphone for the voices the system overlooks. The 100 members we recruited weren't just a number , they were a community learning to amplify their own stories. Speaking at protests with hundreds of people was no longer about conquering a fear of public speaking, I used it as a space I once felt shut out from. I didn't want the attention to be on me, but instead on the harmful legislation that threatened the linoleum world I came from.
My path hasnt been a straight line from the linoleum to the marble. Its a constant commute between the two. Each informs the other. The resilience of my family grounds my politics in real human need, and the tools of government give me the ability to translate that need into action. I started to see it not as two worlds , but as one broken system. A system that needs leaders who understand the view from both the kitchen table and the legislative table. My goal is to be that bridge , to ensure that the policies created in a room of marble never forget the weight of a bill on a linoleum floor.
Thanks so much :)
The glossy marble of the general assembly felt a world away from the worn linoleum of my kitchen. Just hours after speaking to legislators about youth engagement, I was at home helping my parents decode a stack of bills, their faces marked with a fatigue I knew too well. In one world, I was a student leader discussing policy yet in the other, I was the oldest son of a family struggling to make ends meet. Somewhere between marble and linoleum, I found my reason to lead.
My political career started in a simpler world, with a sixth-grade poster saying "Vote Giancarlo he's your avocad-bro". The thrill of that first victory for class president felt so pure. I genuinely believed change was as simple as the best poster idea, that if we just found the perfect donut pun, we could fix anything. That version of politics was a game played on an polsiedh uncomplicaeted surface. I didn't know about the friction of the real world, the grit of the linoleum floor.
I dove in headfirst. I served as president of my student council, became a governor's page, and spoke at multiple protests. I loved the energy of politics, the belief that we were shaping the future. But with each roundtable meeting with a senator, each policy debate the disconnect grew. The abstract discussions about "economic anxiety" in rooms of marble were suddenly concretized by the specific greasy feel of a 20 dollar bill my mom gave me for groceries, her whisper, "Gianni, just the essentials". The system we were debating wasn't an abstract concept. It was the same one that had shut down the chicken plant where my stepfather worked, the same one that made that stack of bills on the kitchen table a source of fear.
I realized the rooms of power weren't built for someone like me: queer, Latino, first-generation. The polished tables and procedural language felt designed to exclude the messy, resilient realities of families like mine. But instead of feeling shut out, I remembered the quiet strength strength i learned from my stepfather the kind shown not in speeches but in the simple act of bringing home my favorite nachos after a long shift. That was a strength built on consistency, not on spectacle. It was the same strength I used to help my younger siblings with homework, patiently navigating their frustrations. I decided my role in politics wouldn't be to just speak in those sacred halls, but to carry the linoleum with me into the marble-to be a steady, consistent force representing those seen as statistics and not as people.
This new purpose reframed everything. Reconnecting with my old vice president from sixth grade, Kayle wasn't about nostalgia it was about partnership with someone who understood this mission. Together, we didn't just start a club instead we founded the Chatham Teen Democrats as a microphone for the voices the system overlooks. The 100 members we recruited weren't just a number , they were a community learning to amplify their own stories. Speaking at protests with hundreds of people was no longer about conquering a fear of public speaking, I used it as a space I once felt shut out from. I didn't want the attention to be on me, but instead on the harmful legislation that threatened the linoleum world I came from.
My path hasnt been a straight line from the linoleum to the marble. Its a constant commute between the two. Each informs the other. The resilience of my family grounds my politics in real human need, and the tools of government give me the ability to translate that need into action. I started to see it not as two worlds , but as one broken system. A system that needs leaders who understand the view from both the kitchen table and the legislative table. My goal is to be that bridge , to ensure that the policies created in a room of marble never forget the weight of a bill on a linoleum floor.
