Kim, a 12th grade student at West Lafayette High School, discovered his dog, Joy, had heartworm disease and ordered medicine through an online pharmacy.

But the medicine Kim ordered would not only be ineffective but also aggravate Joy’s illness even more.

Motivated by his dog’s health scare, Kim designed a way for people to verify the authenticity of pharmaceutical products — by printing an edible QR code directly on the medicine.

Kim was one of in middle and high school who presented their inventions and research projects focused on solving key global issues at the in Washington, DC.  

“There have been countless tragedies and deaths caused by either substandard, falsified or diverted pharmaceutical products,” Kim told ����Ӱ��. “So I’m glad to have had this opportunity to raise more awareness of counterfeit medicine.”

Hosted by and the , student innovators were selected from an array of nationwide competitions, including the where more than 2,500 students submitted projects across six categories: Environmental Stewardship, Future Foods, Health & Medicine, Powering the Planet, Tech for Good and Space Innovation.

Here are five student innovators featured at the National STEM Festival:

Joshua Kim, 18

West Lafayette High School · West Lafayette, Indiana

Among more than 50,000 online pharmacies worldwide, Kim found only 3 percent operate and distribute medicine legally — contributing to the annual deaths of over one million people.

Kim said the measures most pharmacies use to reduce counterfeit concerns are “limited by low security,” such as only tracking medicine through its exterior packaging.

“It’s easy for medicine to be removed from their packaging…and dose level securities are either limited by the need for expensive technology or trained personnel,” Kim said.

“So this means patients at home do not have access to ways of verifying their medicine.”

Kim believes his edible QR code will allow people to ensure they are receiving genuine and legitimate medicine.

Ashley Valencia, 17

Harvest Preparatory Academy · Yuma, Arizona

Self-conscious about her crooked teeth, Arizona high schooler Ashley Valencia saw how expensive dental care can be growing up in a low-income family. But it wasn’t just her family that couldn’t afford dental care — many of her neighbors also struggled to afford it. 

Valencia, a 12th grade student at Harvest Preparatory Academy, channeled her insecurity to help students in developing countries who have even less access to proper oral hygiene products — by creating an affordable toothpaste and mouthwash using their native plants.

“I always knew I wanted to do something in medicine so when I thought about different [research] topics close to me, I started to think about my past experiences,” Valencia told ����Ӱ��.

“That’s why I created my own oral treatments that were easily accessible and affordable to people who might not have access to the things I had,” she added.

Valencia said she shared her research with public schools in the Philippines to address their students’ dental concerns.

At the festival, Valencia said she plans to travel to developing countries across South and Southeast Asia to share her oral hygiene products.

“Because I come from a school that doesn’t have a lot of resources…being able to attend the festival and present my research to all of the important people that were there was really exciting,” Valencia said.

Clarisse Telles Alvares Coelho, 18

New Mexico Military Institute · Roswell, New Mexico

From lion’s mane to king oyster, New Mexico high schooler and longtime vegetarian Clarisse Telles Alvares Coelho loves eating all types of mushrooms.

Coelho, a 12th grade student at the New Mexico Military Institute, said the misconceptions of mushrooms inspired her research project on their health benefits — particularly the abundance of a soluble fiber called beta-glucan.

“I knew many people didn’t like mushrooms…but what if I was able to make them change their minds,” Coelho told ����Ӱ��. “With beta-glucan acting in your immune system, our metabolism works faster.”

Coelho said she was “very surprised” to have the opportunity to present her project at the festival.

“It was such a great feeling because there was so much hard work and late nights put into researching this project…[so] it was so amazing to be recognized,” Coelho said.

Alicia Wright, 17

Rockdale Magnet School for Science and Technology · Conyers, Georgia

Concerned by our global carbon footprint, Georgia high schooler Alicia Wright discovered the majority of CO2 emissions come from the cement used in construction.

Wright, an 11th grade student at Rockdale Magnet School for Science and Technology, found a way to replace cement with mycelium — a type of fungi that can be transformed into a biodegradable construction material.

“I was inspired by the complexity of mycelium and how fungus works,” Wright told ����Ӱ��. “This will better the environment so that future generations can enjoy as we have.”

At the festival, Wright said the diversity of students presenting their projects with her felt “empowering.”

“It was very encouraging to see people with my skin color and gender presenting with me,” Wright said.

Haasini Mendu, 16

William Mason High School · Mason, Ohio

Ohio high schooler Haasini Mendu came up with a way to improve medication dosage for Parkinson’s disease — a disorder that causes involuntary body movement, often called tremors.

Mendu, an 11th grade student at William Mason High School, designed a wearable device that quantifies the number of tremors someone has and automatically sends the information to an app she created called “TremorSense.”

She said the information is processed through an “AI-based machine learning” filter to distinguish between tremor and non-tremor movements.

Mendu said the opportunity to meet other students and build connections was her favorite part of the festival.

“It was very easy to make some friends and also learn about their very cool inventions and ideas,” Mendu told ����Ӱ��.

“Having this recognition…feels motivating to continue working on my skills [because] there were so many people interested in what I’m trying to do with my research.”

Compared to other generations, few Gen Zers, born between 1997 to 2011, feel prepared for their future and less than half are thriving in their current lives — far fewer than millennials, according to a new report.

In stark terms, the report lays out Gen Z’s concerns — revealing what once was status quo no longer meets the needs of young people.

“This is a critical moment for youth and for the adults supporting them,” said Romy Drucker, director of the Education Program at the Walton Family Foundation, adding the survey’s findings will “generate insights and perspectives to help us all be better guides, better listeners, and better partners as the next generation rises.” (Drucker was co-founder of ����Ӱ�� and serves on its board of directors; she played no role in the reporting or editing of this article) 

More than 3,000 Gen Zers were polled by and the through a national survey that will follow the same group for three years — paving the way for tracking trends one-time studies can’t measure.

The survey, which includes more than 2,000 K-12 students and nearly 1,000 no longer in school, highlights Gen Z’s need for an education that matches the reality of the world they live in.

“Empowering Gen Z to achieve their goals and aspirations requires that schools provide students with relevant experiences and education that will help them navigate the workforce,” said Stephanie Marken, Gallup partner and executive director for education research in a press release.

Here are 15 key takeaways from the survey:

Disclosure: Walton Family Foundation provides financial support to ����Ӱ��.

An increasing share of states are including student perspectives in education policymaking, a new report finds, but making sure those voices are diverse and have real power can remain a challenge.

At least 33 now include formal positions for youth representatives on their state boards of education or as advisors to their state boards or their state superintendent’s office. That’s up from just 25 four years ago, according to an August by the National Association of State Boards of Education. The organization is the only group that carries out nationwide audits of youth representation at the state level of education policymaking, and its prior update came in 2018.

Over that span, three states — Mississippi, Kentucky and Delaware — added positions for student members on their state boards where no such role previously existed. Five more — Virginia, Idaho, California, Arizona and Michigan — created new student advisory councils to guide their state boards or their state chief’s office.

“Students have a very valuable perspective,” said Celina Pierrottet, the report’s author. “Now our state leaders are starting to recognize the importance of capturing that experience and learning from it.”

The pandemic may have spurred some of the recent uptick, with California and Idaho explicitly citing the coronavirus as the reason they created the new positions.

“The effects of COVID-19 have been widespread and created impacts unlike anything that we have ever seen. Youth have experienced their education in ways that are unprecedented, including pivoting to virtual learning,” California State Superintendent Tony Thurmond as he announced a new Youth Advisory Council in September 2021.

“As we reimagine education, we hope to have young people working alongside California’s education professionals and policymakers to build a better tomorrow.”

Rainbow Chen spent two years as a student representative on Vermont’s state board from 2015 to 2017. Over that time she weighed in on several high-pressure topics, from the possible closing of schools amid declining enrollment to how underlying issues like poverty can lead to disparities in standardized test results. Her views, she believes, helped her colleagues understand issues from a more nuanced lens.

“[As] someone who identifies as low income and someone who isn’t from a typically prosperous school in the state, I felt like I had a really great perspective,” she said. “The state board that I was on was extremely welcoming and really desired my voice. I felt very respected, like an equal.”

Still, Chen said, it was achieving voting power in her second year in the role that seemed to force adult members to give her “a lot more respect.”&�Բ�����;

Vermont is one of only six states, plus Washington, D.C,. that give youth members a vote on the board, according to the report.

Massachusetts is another that grants voting privileges to students. But despite that power, Daniel Brogan, who served as the sole student voting member on the state board in 2013-14, recalled officials still not treating him as they did their adult colleagues. During downtime before meetings started, while other members spoke to each other about policy proposals, “usually with me it was more superficial questions, like, ‘How’s school going?’ Not, ‘What did you think about this [policy]?’” he said.

Like Chen, Brogan grew up in a low-income family with parents who had not attended college. Commuting from his home in Barnstable on Cape Cod to Boston for meetings often posed a challenge.  

“There were times where I genuinely had to choose between having school lunch money for the week or having enough money for bus fare to get up to Boston,” he said.

Once a month, the board would convene on Monday evenings until as late as 10 p.m. and again Tuesday morning at 8 a.m., meaning Brogan would return home at midnight only to wake up at 3:30 a.m. to catch the bus back to Boston. 

To attend meetings, the youth rep was forced to miss so much school he received a truancy letter, he said. But he never skipped a board meeting, because “optically people would notice and be more skeptical” of a student, he said, even though several adult colleagues missed at least one meeting.

It’s often those types of challenges that keep low-income or otherwise underserved youth from participating in local government, said Beverly Leon, CEO of , whose organization empowers young people to become civically active through lessons and real-world projects.

“There’s many barriers [to participating in policymaking] that young people face. And of course, there are additional barriers that young people with fewer resources and access to financial and social capital face as well,” she said.

At the local level, just 14% of the nation’s 495 largest school systems include one or more student members, according to a National School Boards Association 2020 . Even when those bodies do include youth perspectives, it’s frequently the voices of those who are more privileged and well connected, said Leon. 

“More often than not, the young people that are entering those spaces either have parents or folks in their community that are bringing them there.”

To ensure a wider array of perspectives, several state boards of education have diversity requirements that guide who they select as student representatives, the national association report finds. Washington, D.C.’s board requires youth representation from the majority-Black Wards 7 and 8, whose residents have been historically underrepresented in city leadership. And the Utah State Board of Education requires that the 15 students comprising its advisory council hail from a balanced mixture of geographies, socio-economic statuses, ability levels, academic achievement levels and school types, including traditional public, charter and online.

“The folks that are most impacted by a policy decision or challenge in a community should have a voice in crafting what an effective solution should look like,” said Leon. “It makes for more effective policy.”

Indeed, youth policymakers or advisors have scored several key wins across the country. While Brogan was on the state board, Massachusetts enacted the nation’s first rule requiring schools to take student feedback into account in their teacher evaluation processes. In 2006, a youth advisory council to the Maine state legislature proposed and successfully lobbied for the passage of a bill to siblings placed in separate homes by child welfare. And in 2016, Washington state’s youth legislative advisors were able to get a passed into law helping students experiencing homelessness land housing and access to other needed services thanks to the creation of new homeless liaison roles in schools.

Within school communities, when youth voices are truly listened to and reflected in policy decisions, it can have a positive impact not only on campus culture, but on students’ academic outcomes like grades and attendance, according to a recent published by researchers at the University of California, Riverside and Northwestern University.

Yet still, youth nationwide remain highly disconnected from political participation and civic education. Only nine states and Washington, D.C. require a full year of government courses, while 31 call for just a semester and the remaining 10 mandate none at all, according to a 2018 from the Center for American Progress. 

That can translate into low levels of engagement stretching into adulthood, Brogan believes.

“When you turn 18, you’re expected to have a switch flip and say, ‘Now you can vote, now you can organize,’” he said. “Unfortunately, I think that leads to … people being completely disenfranchised.”

“It’s really hard to start showing up at [policymaking] spaces if you didn’t know that they were open to you as a young person,” added Leon.

But when youth do gain experience with civic engagement, the impacts are often potent. Just ask Chen what her dream job is.

“I still want to be the Vermont secretary of education in the future. That’s still something I really aspire to be, much influenced by my experience on the Vermont State Board of Education,” said the policymaker-in-training. After graduating from Brown University with a degree in education policy in 2021, she is now studying for a master’s in teaching at Harvard.

Brogan, too, remains committed to uplifting youth voices within schools. He’s studying for his Ph.D. at the University of Minnesota, researching case studies where governmental bodies included feedback mechanisms for youth perspectives. His master’s thesis was titled: “”&�Բ�����;

Someday, he hopes to continue that work as a professor, but to collaborate with students in the process.

“I really want to make it my life’s goal to work with students. … I don’t want to do things for students — I want to do things with them.”

Correction: The new student advisory boards were created to guide their state boards of education or their state superintendent’s office. A previous version of this article only cited the state boards.

A rare silence in a first grade classroom changed S. Renee Mitchell’s life. 

To learn names as a guest artist, Mitchell prompted students at Martin Luther King, Jr. Elementary in Portland, Oregon to pair their intros with an adjective, something they liked about themselves: “Brave Brian”, “Kind Kyla”. A quiet pattern in body language emerged: Black students dropped and shook their heads.

“I kept seeing it over and over and it was just like, Oh, what’s happening? The Black kids are not able to identify something positive,” Mitchell said, her eyes brimming as she spoke. “I still get emotional about it. Because it reminded me of me. I was a kid who couldn’t tell you positive things about myself because I didn’t hear positive things reflected back, not even in my household.”&�Բ�����;

At the time, Mitchell did not consider herself an educator. She’d been working with Portland schools as a way to connect with her community after leaving The Oregonian — where she worked as a Pulitzer Prize nominated . Still, that evening, the career journalist wrote what would become a semi-autobiographical children’s book: The Awakening of Sharyn: A Shy & Brown Super Gyrl. 

It’s a tale of how a young person can come to love all of themself, especially the parts others seem to disagree with. Through words, Mitchell found a way to model how to heal from pain and build a positive self image — the purpose she would dedicate her life to in the decade that followed. 

She shared a draft of her children’s book with that group of reticent first graders, hopeful they could realize their brilliance young and maybe skirt the feelings of depression and fear that she felt for so long. By talking about her own feelings of shame and isolation as a kid, she opened the door for youth to open up without fear of judgment; shed their shame. 

She then facilitated what would be the first of many ‘Superhero Awakening Ceremonies’ at a community center. The space filled with color, glitter and exclamation as children illustrated what they loved about themselves on capes, masks and paper. Parents were invited into the classroom to celebrate and sing an empowerment song: “Thank you superhero, I think you are amazing. I love you, superhero. You have so much style, you make me want to sing.”&�Բ�����;

What would have been a lackluster introduction exercise transformed into an outpouring of love for the young people who needed to hear it. And in seeing them, and their pain, Mitchell helped them engage differently in the classroom.

It was one of many experiences Mitchell now has of prompting herself and others across generations to come together and use art as therapy. 

A self-described Creative Revolutionist, she imagines what art-inspired events or connections are possible, rather than what’s established and “allowed to happen.” She began hosting middle school poetry slams and family Write Nights, where parents and caregivers worked through prompts with their children.

“All of this for me is interconnected, it’s intergenerational. So yes, I love working with youth. It’s what I specialize in,” Mitchell said. “But it’s not the only thing that I do. Because in order to really have an effect on youth, you have to have an effect on community. And at the end of the day, I’m trying to do what was never done for me.”

Her approach — “I have an idea. Let’s just keep rolling with it till the wheels fall off,” — got her noticed by the then principal of Portland’s most diverse high school, Roosevelt. She was recruited to teach and stayed on for four years as the only Black educator. 

“I taught journalism, but it was also like, how can I mother? How can I treat these like my own children?” she said. “How would I want them to be seen in the classroom? And that’s how I behaved.”

She’d start her days sourcing leftover bagels and bananas for students who came to school hungry and carved out class time for poetry, reinforcing for young people, “you don’t have to do or present things in the way people expect.”&�Բ�����;

Mitchell founded Roosevelt’s first Black Girl Magic Club with funding from the city’s Office of Youth Violence Prevention. Young girls gathered to dance, coexist; process their families, relationships and what it meant to be Black in Portland. She encouraged them to explore poetry as a medium — for its ability to make pain into something beautiful and allow the mind to wander. 

In 2018, three of the four winners of Stand for Children’s $16,000 were members of Black Girl Magic Club. Their applications, one of which was submitted as a poem, explored trauma and their sense of self. After some of them performed their stories at a MLK celebration, adults approached them in tears: they felt seen, wished they could be as brave, and wanted to celebrate them for their vulnerability. They were stunned that their personal stories were impacting people in ways they hadn’t imagined. 

Mitchell was determined to hone the success into something greater for more of Portland. And after four years as a teacher, she also felt more could be done to support her community outside of the traditional school system than within it. She also decided to pursue a doctorate degree in education at the University of Oregon, and began training teachers and community members about how to help Black children heal from racial trauma.

Acknowledging — not hiding from — traumatic experiences became the seedling for her youth leadership development nonprofit, I Am MORE: Making Ourselves Resilient Everyday. Founded in 2018, I Am MORE has earned three social emotional learning awards from the New York based NoVo Foundation, and Mitchell’s impact was formally recognized when the city named her their 2019 Spirit of Portland winner. Each summer, the organization hosts a paid leadership training internship where youth discuss financial literacy, colorism, toxic masculinity, racial trauma and other life issues.

“We help young people understand that they are MORE than the worst thing that has ever happened to them,” their website reads. To this day, the work mirrors Mitchell’s instincts with the shy first graders at MLK: recognize pain and create ways for young people to heal with each other and the adults around them. I Am MORE cohosts everything from open mic nights, where some teens just listen quietly, to camping trips focused on human connection. 

The impact is felt inside and outside of the classroom: young people learn to express and advocate for themselves, in classrooms, at home, or in relationships. 

“My work as an artist in the schools… helped me understand everything that I’ve done started with trauma. It was me seeing those kids, connecting that with my own trauma, and then trying to figure out — how do I make something out of that?”&�Բ�����;

The process . She began processing her childhood, sexual assault and domestic violence through poetry and playwriting as a young adult.

The middle child of eight siblings and a miscarriage, Mitchell grew up unseen and misunderstood. Often the only Black student in her Northern California and Oregon classrooms, she was frequently isolated and bullied, including at home by her brothers. While her father, an educator and community activist himself, introduced her to Black thinkers, history and social commentary early on, he passed away suddenly when Mitchell was 11. Ever since, she yearned for a “reconnection” to the positive roots she associated with his stories, work and sprawling library. 

“When youth experience something, they feel like this is the first time this has ever happened, and it’s only happening to them. And so I was really clear about some of the trauma that I experienced and the death of my dad — how that after that I started thinking about suicide,” she said. 

“Even though I was smart, even though I was obedient, even though I was a great cleaner, even though I did everything I was supposed to do, I still was miserable and depressed and overlooked and suicidal and no one really paid attention.”

In high school, a biracial student that Mitchell tried to befriend said she had to cut ties, lest she be identified with being Black, too. The isolation and harm from predominantly white environments was an accepted reality that followed her until she attended a historically Black university. 

Though she felt liberated at Florida A&M — for the first time, surrounded by Black joy — in her first semester she was raped. Two years later, an abusive partner emotionally isolated her and repeatedly threatened to shoot her friends. The violent partnership stirred up previous suicidal thoughts.

“I sat on the bed and I got his gun from the closet on the top shelf. And I sat on the bed, and I put it to my head. And then I was like, ‘What am I doing?’”&�Բ�����;

“That was a turning point for me. And it also helped me have a depth of compassion for youth who may be going through the same thing and don’t have that thing that shifts — that moment,” she said, donning a silver chain that reads ‘resilient’. “Everything in me is fighting for that kid.”

Mitchell, who also survived domestic violence in her second marriage, talks about her trauma often, through poetry, playwriting and performance. After speaking for a community college class, one student responded with an essay: her abuser trained her not to talk. After hearing Mitchell’s story, she felt granted “permission” in a way, to process and heal from what happened.

Mitchell keeps notes like these, and student art, within an arm’s reach at her home desk. She says they are reminders of her purpose, why her life led her back to weaving her community together in Portland. In the last year alone, I am MORE has partnered with other organizations to orchestrate art galleries, Black power movie nights, quilting and financial literacy workshops.

“This is not a job for me. This is a life path because of the trauma that I experienced. Because of the many times where I felt like my life is worthless. And understanding as a teacher, so many kids are going through this same thing every day,” Mitchell said. “They just need someone to see them in that moment and remind them of who they really are.”&�Բ�����;

Craving a place of belonging

Mitchell is chipping away at the walls between communities in Portland, the same place she and her sisters hated so much as ostracized teens they graduated early to leave. 

Racism is baked into the region’s history — in 1859, Oregon became the only state in the nation to explicitly ban Black people from living within its borders with an exclusion clause in its constitution. The city was fiercely redlined; Northeast Portland’s Albina neighborhood was established as a Black stronghold.

City projects decimated the community under the guise of “urban renewal.” . For five decades, an empty stretch of land remained — the Hospital never grew. Mitchell felt sick driving past the lot. A new Black-led project is now working to build affordable homes, a community garden and shared office space on a plot returned to the community by Legacy Health. 

“Now, I have been accustomed to racism, but Oregon had a particular kind of racism. And I was like, I never want to live here again, I just want to escape,” Mitchell said, reflecting on her state of mind as she headed off to attend Florida A&M. In her teens, there were no gathering spaces or community experiences for Portland’s Black youth. 

The same cannot be said today. is reviving a cultural icon, its building home to the former Albina Arts Center, a destination for young and old in the 60s and 70s. A hub of learning, dance, music and intergenerational joy, community members came to the Center to access free photography, Swahili and modeling classes for just over a decade. 

Mitchell signed the lease in February as the pandemic wore on, taking responsibility for the Center’s next chapter from . With support from art curator Bobby Fouther and lifelong Albina resident Sunshine Dixon, Grant began the Soul Restoration Project and in fall 2021. 

Without adequate funds to keep the Albina Arts Center open, the institution so central to Black Portland had shuttered in 1977 – and would stay closed for years. Nonprofits like without success to buy and restore the space, now managed by the Oregon Community Foundation. While a feminist bookstore leased the space from 2006-2019, it remained mostly vacant, save the occasional community event, until Grant made it home to the Soul Restoration Project in 2021.

Residents describe a particular bookstore that mirrored Albina’s energy : Reflections, where they would run into neighbors, cousins, playing dominos, laughing and drinking coffee. A Black Cheers, in Mitchell’s sister Linda’s words, where everyone knew your name. Small but beloved. 

The pandemic shut down events. Young people began telling Mitchell they hadn’t eaten, washed up, or brushed their teeth for days in spring 2020 because they had no motivation. 

There was an acute need for a youth-centered community gathering space, one centered on mental health and wellness.

At the time, I Am MORE led hybrid programming at its coworking office space, but were constantly sushed for making “too much noise,” in the heat of conversation or laughter about their sexualities, hyper masculinity, colorism. They needed a bigger space to “show, to be ourselves,” safely.

“Not having access to those kind of spaces…you just don’t know how to ground yourself,” Mitchell said. “That’s the kind of thing we’re trying to revive…if I come here, my soul is going to be fed…I’m gonna walk away feeling better about myself and my connection to the community. That’s what’s missing in this very tiny Black community here in Portland, Oregon.”&�Բ�����;

‘It’s helping me get to where I want to be’

On a Friday afternoon in early March, Manny Dempsey, a 9th grader, gets settled in an armchair and flips through an early draft of his children’s book on an iPad. It’s a series of letters addressed to his unborn son. 

He waits quietly for a publishing brainstorm with Elias Moreno-Lothe, I Am MORE’s “Vibologist” and youth director, who is DJing across the room, cohosting their weekly open mic night, Freestyle Fridays. The art mentorship, and atmosphere, is not something Dempsey can access at school. 

“It’s not a place that I love but it is home,” he quickly says of Portland. When asked about the Soul Restoration Center, he flashes a smile. It felt like an art gallery the first time he walked in a few weeks before. It’s where he could pop in after school to meet generations of Portland artists and dream big about the children’s book that’s become close to his heart, a love letter to future generations.

“The space is really good to me. It’s helping me get to where I want to be in my future. I want to make comic books and share my art worldwide and not just in one space,” Dempsey said, sitting in the gentle sensory explosion that is the Soul Restoration Center at 14 NE Killingsworth. 

Soft hip hop beats and the occasional Lauryn Hill are a constant, as are the sounds of a distant water fountain and faint smokiness from incense. Light from the front wall of windows showcases walls decked in Black art, ranging from humorous (a lifesize bronze LeBron James statue) to nostalgic and painful. 

A central stage is framed by a large skylight — some of Mitchell’s artwork hangs in the center, tributes to ancestors that read “heal.” Tucked at the bottom of a shelf are a row of teddy bears. 

Mitchell’s crew have decorated the open room to feel like home. Couches and close to a dozen rugs, a mix of mustard yellow, brown and red. 

“We know that people are coming in tense. We know that they don’t have space to gather. And in every way we want to lower those defenses, particularly with our youth,” she said.

The city, wanting to bolster youth development in the wake of police violence and Black Lives Matter protests, by . Mitchell became the fund’s first grantee, which enabled her to hire more staff, pay artists, plan citywide empowerment programming for the year and decorate the space. 

Many describe the Center as one of healing, particularly necessary in Portland right now as hundreds grieve the loss of loved ones. In 2021, Portland were recorded, surpassing the city’s previous record of 66 and numbers seen in much larger cities like San Francisco. Black families were disproportionately affected.

Sunshine Dixon, who joined Mitchell’s team as a community connector after working with Darell Grant, came to realize Portland’s youngest are attuned to and looking for ways to address the violence. Outside of the North Portland’s public library, she and Grant provided art supplies and encouraged young people to work through whatever was on their mind. 

One nine year old drew a man with a hole in his head, with bullets around the edges of the frame. 

“I said, can you tell me more about this picture, and he said yeah, there’s a hole in this guy’s head because you have to have a hole in your head if you don’t believe there’s gun violence,” Dixon said.

“This place is also addressing black youth and recognizing that they need a place to come, they need a fugitive space, space to be. They need a place of healing. They need a place of safety,” she added. 

Near the end of 2021, Mitchell began brainstorming more ways to meet the community’s emotional need to heal from violence through programming. “How can we not distract but give them something different?”&�Բ�����;

She invited a renowned quilter to lead a workshop and share the behind her craft; during times of enslavement, Black women repurposed discarded food scraps, bags and clothing to make quilts. 

Together Stitching Hope, Peace by Piece, partially funded by the City of Portland, was a hit. Most attendees were young Black men who had never sewed before; two became so interested that they went home with their own gifted machines. In Mitchell’s words, the workshop had “opened up something so deeply in them.”&�Բ�����;

“And that’s what I wanted to have happen — not to come to an event where someone says stop picking up a gun,” she said. “How can I redirect their energy towards something when they are in charge of their creativity?”&�Բ�����;

The Albina Center’s former dance floor transforms week in pursuit of that creative goal. In January, it became a theatre for a Black power movie night and discussion; a local rapper screened The Murder of Fred Hampton. 

I Am MORE also facilitates signature fishbowl circles — a community building exercise centered on active listening. Youth start in the center, with elders surrounded in a circle. They’re prompted to share what they need that they’re not receiving, without interruption — observed like fish in a bowl.

“The young people get to speak and the people around them, all they do is listen. So the youth feel heard, they feel like somebody is paying attention to their opinion, what they have to say,” Mitchell explained. 

When adults enter the center, they begin by acknowledging what they heard before offering up ways they might support or lessons from their own life. Strangers learn what they may have in common, and build a sense of understanding. Mitchell added the exercise helps older community members, who yearn for ways to share knowledge, to build a legacy. 

The programming is an outlet for young people like , now 20, who love learning and creating but dislike traditional school environments. Today, he works four jobs at local youth development nonprofits.

“I had the worst attendance rate out of my whole class… I was not good at high school, but I was good at jumping on opportunities. And using them as much as I could,” Wrapper said. He taught himself to play piano, use Adobe Premiere Pro for videos and perform spoken word, with the encouragement of Mitchell and Moreno-Lothe.

On Saturday mornings in March, yoga mats, journals and pillows filled the space as social worker, mother and wellness instructor ZaDora Williams hosted a support group for Black women. 

“Baby, however you come, this is one place you can be loved on. You can create art with bullets, you can literally be you, that is what we are encouraging… We’re giving them language so that they can hopefully not re-experience the chronic health issues physically, mentally, spiritually that have plagued Black communities for generations,” Williams said.

Mitchell has curated the gathering space she, her siblings and neighbors craved as children. 

She models nurturing behavior she expects her team to use — asking if they’ve eaten and providing food if they haven’t; making them write their own job descriptions so they have agency over their work; canceling meetings with city partners if youth don’t have a seat at the table. 

Like her empathetic, creative reaction to quiet Black children nearly a decade ago, Mitchell leads with possibility and heart. 

“At the end of the day, I behaved in a way I desperately wanted to experience while growing up. And my students recognized it as love, without me ever having to define it out loud.”

Updated June 7 | Disclosure: The Walton Family Foundation provides financial support to both the Weave Project and ����Ӱ��.

We have assembled a diverse 11-member Student Council to weigh in on K-12 and higher education issues over the coming months. Ranging in age from 13 to 20, these young people hail from Oregon, Michigan, Tennessee and everywhere in between. In conversations students sandwiched between dance rehearsals, baseball tryouts and AP exam prep, members shared with us their background, what they love to do and what drives them. 

They’re advocates for LGBTQ rights, for students with learning differences, for homeless youth and other causes that reflect their experiences. They listen to K-pop, nurture their collection of houseplants and unwind by watching episodes of the HBO pirate comedy .

As experts in their own school communities, we expect that the anecdotes and perspectives Student Council members share may tip us off to important storylines we might otherwise miss.

“A lot of the time [student voices] are pushed to the side or patronized like, ‘That’s so cute,’” said council member Samantha Farrow, 16, of Brooklyn. “No, we actually have valuable things to say.”

We’ll tap members for their thoughts and reactions on issues ranging from youth mental health and COVID safety to academic recovery and teaching accurate history. Through regular check-ins, we’ll chart what life is like at school, at home and in their social lives as we enter the waning months of the third COVID-affected school year. By the end, we hope to produce a mosaic of youth reflections on education during this chapter of the pandemic.

If you have a question you’d like posed to the council, let us know by emailing Asher Lehrer-Small: asher@the74million.org. The more interest a topic receives, the more we’ll strive to address it in our coverage.

Our sincere gratitude goes to , a coalition advocating for U.S. youth, which helped recruit candidates by introducing this opportunity to young people in its nationwide network.

Here are the members of ����Ӱ��’s inaugural Student Council:

AMEERA ESHTEWI

Ameera Eshtewi is a high school junior in Portland, Oregon. She loves computer coding and has pursued the discipline since her father signed her up for classes in fourth grade. Twenty-eight out of the 30 kids in the course were boys, she remembered. In a male-dominated field, “I’m all about women in STEM,” said Ameera. She’s also a runner and enjoys crafting poetry. As a young Libyan-American woman, she looks forward to speaking out against Islamophobia in school. “A lot of Muslim women who wear the hijab are getting attacked,” she said. “It’s not fair.”

ZANIA STINSON

ZaNia Stinson, 15, lives in Charlotte, North Carolina where she makes it her mission to give back to her community. Having spent the first 18 months of her life living with her biological grandmother in a homeless shelter before being adopted by what she calls her “now-forever family,” the high schooler distributes packages of food, drink and toiletries to women and children who lack permanent housing. “I know how it feels and I’ve been in their situation once,” said ZaNia. 

She looks forward to speaking out about youth hunger and anxiety. When she’s not in school or distributing her “go-go bags,” she loves listening to gospel music and dancing — especially in the styles of jazz, funk and hip hop.

KOTA BABCOCK

Kota Babcock, 20, studies journalism and media communications at Colorado State University. For years, he’s been involved in LGBTQ and HIV activism, working to educate adults who deal with queer students. The advocacy is personal. “I lost a lot of my friends when I came out” in seventh grade, said Kota, who is transgender, but his activism allowed him to build relationships within the LGBTQ community. “There was a lot of joy from just being able to connect with each other,” he said. He’s also a religious Jew and looks forward to speaking about Jewish issues on campus, where he and friends have been subject to anti-Semitic harassment, he said. The soon-to-be college grad works as news director at the radio station KCSU and in his free time he indulges his love for animals by caring for his two pet frogs and his bearded dragon, Sunshine.

JOSHUA OH

Joshua Oh is a 13-year-old from Gambrills, Maryland. With his brother, he launched , an organization that helps connect local youth to volunteer opportunities. They’ve run food drives, diaper and menstrual product giveaways and distributed laptops during virtual learning. Outside that work, he likes to play basketball, draw and play video games such as . As schools look to recover from the pandemic, Joshua wants the adult leaders to recognize that youth mental health is intimately tied to the friendships students nurture at school. “Social life is a very key component to school,” he said. “I think a lot of adults don’t understand that.”

MAHBUBA SUMIYA

Mahbuba Sumiya grew up in Detroit, Michigan and is now a first-year student at Harvard University where she studies computer science and economics. But she’s also an advocate for education equity. Going through Detroit public schools, she quickly became aware of glaring shortcomings: Substitute teachers covered for unfilled positions for months on end and schools often lacked the resources to help students process the traumas they experienced outside the classroom. “When students need mental health supports, they’re not there at all,” said Mahbuba. In her free time, she enjoys honing her fashion tastes with Pinterest boards and listening to her favorite musical artist .

DIEGO CAMACHO

Diego Camacho is a high school senior in East Los Angeles. With dreams to pursue physics and journalism, his plans have been slowed by pandemic-related staffing shortages at his charter school. There’s been no physics teacher all year and the math teacher also fills in as the physical education lead. “It takes away opportunities,” Diego said. Having moved to the U.S. from Mexico in kindergarten, he empathizes with students at his school who arrived more recently. He sometimes helps them translate between English and Spanish, and looks forward to amplifying the experiences of immigrant students. The 18-year-old works in journalism for the Los Angeles Times’s program and, outside of school, competes in a style of boxing he says mimics the great Mexican fighter .

DEVIN WALTON

Devin Walton is a high school freshman in South Torrance, California where he loves studying biology and wants to one day become a veterinarian. Navigating school as a student with a learning disability, he gets distracted easily and feels that his teachers and peers don’t fully understand him. “They don’t get it,” he said. The teenager is looking forward to speaking out about his experiences to spread awareness about the supports that can help students with disabilities thrive. Having recently moved from a mostly Black and Hispanic high school with scarce resources to a better equipped majority-white and Asian campus a few miles away, Devin is also attuned to educational inequities. After school, he runs the 100m and 200m sprints for his track team, enjoys the online game and takes care of his dog, Oliver, and bearded dragon, Saurian.

SAMANTHA FARROW

Samantha Farrow, 16, lives in Brooklyn’s Brownsville neighborhood. In January, she helped organize a student walkout for COVID safety in New York City schools that mobilized thousands of youth across the city. On the Student Council, she’s looking forward to speaking out for pandemic safety in classrooms and sharing her perspective on how schools can better respond to students’ needs. “A lot of the time [student voices] are pushed to the side or patronized like, ‘That’s so cute.’ … No, we actually have valuable things to say,” said Samantha. Outside the classroom, she performs in her school’s theater group — its most recent production was the musical comedy — and enjoys listening to K-pop groups like mega-stars .

SYDNEE FLOYD

Sydnee Floyd is a high school senior in Franklin, Tennessee. After moving from a small town in Kentucky to the greater Nashville area in middle school and experiencing what she described as the “culture shock” of a larger city, including meeting people without permanent housing, she launched the nonprofit to help those in need. But when the pandemic hit, the high schooler, who usually likes to keep busy, “felt really alone and really isolated,” she said. “I can’t just sit here all day, that’s just not me. And I fell into a really deep depression.” So Sydnee launched an to destigmatize those experiences. “I didn’t want other people to feel like they are alone in this fight,” she said. Outside school and volunteer work, the teen enjoys photography and plans to pursue a career in emergency medicine.

MIA MIRON

Mia Miron is a 13-year-old from Pomona, California who loves taking care of plants and watching Korean dramas. Her parents immigrated to the U.S. from Mexico before she was born and mostly speak Spanish, so the teen helps out with her family’s business selling baked goods by responding to Instagram orders in English. Her English proficiency has reached the point where she can transition out of her English Language Learner courses next year, but “it’s been a long journey,” she said. In addition to raising awareness about the challenges faced by multilingual learners, she also plans to speak out against cyberbullying over social media, which she said has become rampant. “It’s kind of breaking people at school,” she said.

MAXWELL SURPRENANT

Max Surprenant is a high school senior in Needham, Massachusetts. Having engaged in service work since he was a young boy, he believes giving back can be a way to help combat mental health challenges. Depression and anxiety often “come from a feeling of being powerless … and I think service is a really empowering tool,” he said. His volunteer organization is organizing its 98th event since COVID-19 struck, including delivering “blessing bags” complete with food, hygiene products and a hand-cut paper heart to those in need. When he’s not engaged in community service, you can find Max writing, which he plans to study next year at Harvard University, reading Russian literature or holding it down behind home plate as the catcher on his high school baseball team.