I didn't sculpt this boot to be pretty; I sculpted it to be true. A reminder of the grit it took for my ancestors to survive.

Every stitch I’ve carved into the clay represents a story of displacement and the raw determination to belong. My heritage isn’t found in delicate things; it’s found in the mud-caked soles of those who survived WWII.

This boot carries the scent of community toil and the salt of family sweat. It’s a bridge between my soft hands and their calloused ones.

In my culture, we don't just inherit names; we inherit the path. By shaping this earth into a lifelike relic, I am claiming my place in a long line of survivors. It's a symbol showing that no matter how far we wander, we are always grounded by the heavy, honest clay of our beginnings.