In the heart of East Oakland, where cracked sidewalks told stories of struggle and resilience, twelve-year-old Jasmine Williams woke before dawn. The apartment she shared with her mother and two younger siblings was small and worn, but Jasmine was used to making the most of little. She moved quietly, careful not to wake Marcus and Zoe, her brother and sister, as she made thin sandwiches from the last slices of bread. Their mother, Denise, was already out, cleaning offices before the sun rose, fighting to keep the family afloat since Jasmine’s father had left two years before.
Jasmine’s mornings were a blend of responsibility and hope. She walked her siblings to school, passing the faded mural of Steph Curry on the community basketball court. The paint was peeling, but the smile—Steph’s trademark—remained. Jasmine always paused, whispering to herself, “One day, I’ll meet him.” It was a child’s dream, but it gave her strength.
At school, Jasmine was quiet and focused. During recess, while others played, she sat alone, drawing. She scavenged for scraps of paper—old worksheets, discarded envelopes, anything she could find. Today, she’d found a treasure: a few sheets of bread paper from the bakery’s trash. The texture was different, almost magical, and her pencil glided over it as she sketched Steph Curry’s face from memory.
“Is that Steph Curry?” asked Mrs. Bennett, her art teacher, peering over Jasmine’s shoulder. Jasmine nodded, embarrassed. “You have a gift,” Mrs. Bennett said, slipping her a set of colored pencils. “If you ever want to join after-school art, the door’s open.” Jasmine smiled, but shook her head. After school, she had work of her own—selling her mother’s homemade sweets on Market Street.
That afternoon, Jasmine picked up the sweets from Mr. Rodriguez’s bakery. The kindly baker, who let Denise use his kitchen in exchange for cleaning, noticed Jasmine’s interest in the bread paper and handed her a stack. “For your art,” he said. Jasmine’s eyes shone with gratitude.
She set up her makeshift stand—an upside-down cardboard box—on the corner, arranging cookies, brigadeiros, and, for the first time, her drawing of Steph Curry on bread paper. Few people noticed, but one man in a suit stopped, transfixed by the portrait. “How much?” he asked. Jasmine stammered, “I—I don’t know.” “Twenty dollars,” he offered, handing her the bill. Jasmine’s heart soared; twenty dollars was more than she’d ever made in a day.
That night, after her siblings were asleep, Jasmine drew by the light of a battered lamp. She created five more portraits of Steph Curry, each one better than the last. She poured all her admiration and longing into them. By dawn, her fingers ached, but she felt hope rising in her chest.
The next day, Jasmine priced her drawings at fifteen dollars each. Some passersby scoffed, but she stood her ground. Her mother, Denise, found her on the sidewalk, tired but proud. “They’re beautiful, Jazz,” she said, tracing the lines on the bread paper with gentle fingers.
Later, an older man stopped and asked, “Why Curry?” Jasmine’s eyes lit up. “He was told he was too small, not good enough. But he never gave up. He proved them wrong.” The man smiled and bought a drawing for fifteen dollars. That night, Jasmine and her mother counted twenty-one dollars—enough for groceries and medicine. For the first time in months, Denise let herself hope.
The following morning, the neighborhood buzzed with news: a community event was coming to Jefferson Square, with food, music, and even celebrities. Jasmine’s heart pounded. She spent the night drawing, capturing Steph’s iconic mouthguard-biting, his joyous celebrations, his focus at the free-throw line. By sunrise, she had seven new portraits.
On the day of the event, the streets filled with laughter and music. Jasmine’s stand was busy; she sold sweets and three drawings before noon. Suddenly, the crowd’s energy shifted. “Steph Curry is here!” someone shouted. Jasmine’s brother Marcus ran to her, breathless. “Jazz, it’s really him!”
Jasmine’s heart raced. She wanted to see her hero, but she couldn’t leave her stand. “Go, Jazz,” urged Zoe. “We’ll watch the table.” Jasmine hesitated, then slipped into the crowd, her eyes searching for Steph. She glimpsed him—tall, smiling, surrounded by fans and cameras. She had nothing for him to sign, no phone for a photo. She just watched, memorizing every detail.
Suddenly, the event coordinator announced a walk through the neighborhood. The crowd surged, following Steph. Jasmine panicked—her siblings were alone at the stand. She fought her way back, but the tide of people was too strong. As the crowd reached her stand, Steph Curry stopped, spotting the drawings.
He picked up one, studying the delicate lines on the bread paper. “Who made these?” he asked. Marcus pointed. “My sister, Jasmine.” Security parted the crowd, and Jasmine, trembling, stepped forward.
“You drew this?” Steph asked, crouching to her level. Jasmine nodded, unable to speak. “How old are you?” “Twelve,” she whispered. Steph examined the portrait—every detail, every emotion captured. “How much?” he asked, seeing the $15 in the corner. Jasmine nodded, embarrassed by the small sum.
Steph smiled. “How much for all of them?” Jasmine calculated quickly. “Seventy-five dollars.” Steph shook his head and handed her several hundred-dollar bills. Jasmine’s hands shook. “I—I can’t take all this.” “Yes, you can,” Steph said. “Artists deserve to be valued, especially those who have to fight to create.”
He turned to his assistant. “What school do you go to?” “Martin Luther King Jr. Elementary,” Jasmine replied. Steph nodded. “Let’s see how we can help develop this amazing talent.”
Jasmine’s mother arrived, breathless, and Steph explained everything. He wanted to help Jasmine—art supplies, lessons, maybe even a scholarship. Denise’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” was all she could say.
The story spread like wildfire. The video of Steph Curry kneeling to admire Jasmine’s bread-paper art went viral. The next day, Jasmine received a call from the Steph Curry Foundation for Arts and Education: a full scholarship to the Oakland Young Artists Program, professional materials, and mentoring.
Three days later, a van delivered boxes of art supplies—paints, pencils, canvases—more than Jasmine had ever dreamed of. There was a note from Steph: *Keep drawing. Keep dreaming.*
A week later, the old store at Market and 7th reopened as the Sidewalk Art Studio, with Jasmine as its first student and ambassador. The grand opening brought crowds, cameras, and hope. Jasmine stood in the sunlight, surrounded by her family, her drawings, and her community, her heart full.
She had drawn her hero on bread paper. In return, he had given her a future.
