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- Low reading levels
-Struggled to get AR points
- I would read, but not comprehend

-This was around 3rd grade going into fourth. I had a hard time digesting information and was a really slow reader. I had to go to summer school for extra help, and remember always feeling so frustrated. At the time, I had little to no interest in reading but I realized the following year how much I had progressed.

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-First English honors class
-Introduced to Shakespeare
-First essay about theme

-I was in the 8th grade when I first read Romeo and Juliet. I fell in love with the language even though I didn't exactly understand it without my teacher's explanations. I remember this time very clearly because it was the first time that I actually enjoyed reading and learning more about how many different themes can be found in one piece of literature.

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-Regular English class
-Stressful
-Disconnected

-My Sophomore English class was a class that I actually dreaded. My teacher wasn't the most passionate person and was often ready to just dismiss work and glaze over potentially interesting topics. It was highly focused on vocabulary words and little on critical thinking. I felt really disconnected from English and felt that my teacher really held me back from learning more.

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-AP Literature
-Frankenstein, more Shakespeare, Catcher in the Rye
-Poetry

-I took this class my senior year of high school, and it was the class that solidified my plans for college. It was the class that encouraged deeper thought and questions, analysis, and conversation. During this time I had written my first lit analysis paper, my first poem, and the first time I had read my own work aloud. I was able to make connections between what I read,to my life and realized it was something I wanted to continue to do.

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-Creative writing

My third semester at Fresno State I took my first Nonfiction writing course. I've always like writing in a journal, but I never considered trying to turn it into something that could be read by others. I found that creative writing was a great way to express myself while also using poetic elements like metaphor and imagery, while allowing myself to be vulnerable as a writer and a person in general. It made me see writing as a great way to connect with others and as something that my students could benefit from as well.

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-Women's studies

By the time I got to my second year in FSU, I thought that my critical eye had grown when it came to analysis and perspective. However, it grew much more once I took my first women's studies course because I didn't really recognize the purpose behind different representations of all people in every platform (literature, pop culture, etc.). By broadening my perspectives and including gender, stereotypes, and history, I was able to make connections to many more topics and issues in my analysis about literature and made me more aware as a writer.

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-"Homage to Their/My Hands"

-My first published Nonfiction piece was published in an online journal and it was a really rewarding moment for me as a writer. I felt extremely proud of myself, and is something that I continue to use as a motivator for my writing.

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I hate the term "working hands." I hate it because we just expect those hands to be stained with oil or mud and have dirty nails.

It's not that I don't appreciate those hands, because I do. There are more of those kind of "working hands" in my family than there are actual people (obviously if you do the math right). But these hands do the "men's work" (not that I couldn't do it if I wanted to, but because they don't want me to and frankly I don't really want to either. I just don't like having dirty hands in general; like eating something that'll make your hands sticky ( eww).). I love those hands though. They've built the shelves that hang in my bedroom, the tree house I'd always wanted, and kept my car going when it decided to take a shit on me. It's these hands that have held my bike up when I was still learning about balance, and stole cookies for me when no one was watching. These hands taught me how to block a soccer ball from meeting the goal, how to plant flowers and showed me what a good game of chess looks like. Those hands are rough on the edges. They're scarred and scabbed, they ache with carpal tunnel and arthritis from the long days work while they hold the sweat-drenched bandanas, a Corona and a Camel cigarette bud. They look a lot older than they really are with their age spots and wrinkles displaying their past struggles. But beneath the calluses and imprinted dirt particles, are the hands that held me close when I was scared, wiped away my tears as I cried, and patted me on the back to give me that extra push. Those hands taught me that I don't always have to be so "hard," because "it's okay to not be okay sometimes." I appreciate those hands.

But I don't understand why are those hands the only "working" ones. I've seen hands much more delicate, clean and polished doing just as much "work." Those hands did my hair, prepared enough beans and rice to feed an army (and my family being as big as it is, it might as well be). They've taught me how to do my makeup, how a tampon works and how to change a diaper if I ever needed to. I've seen these hands cure fevers and belly aches, repair clothing that could still be put to good use, and make the best tortillas from scratch. As I got older, they taught me how to use my hands to defend myself "just in case, because you just never know." They taught me how to measure spices in "pinches" and "sprinkles," and how to feel for the best avocados for guacamole in the grocery stores. These hands held mine when I needed support, pushed my hair behind my ears and cupped my face and said "you're enough," when I needed it the most. They rubbed my back when i needed comforting, and blessed me with the sign of the cross each time I was about to leave the house. These hands mean the world to me, they taught me how use mine to show love when my voice wasn't saying it.

My hands aren't like any of those hands. They don't know a lot about manual labor and barely know how to make anything edible. But my hands are working hands too, I think. These hands know how to take hold of my thoughts and put them to paper. They can tap along to the beat of my favorite song of the week for hours on end when I feel overwhelmed, and can play an advanced game of charades when I can't verbally find the words. My hands know when something sounds cliche enough to slash a line through (though I think this whole essay is walking the very fine line between bearable and making me wish I was lactose intolerant). They know how to allow me to word vomit my emotions onto a single page (if I really wanted to) and get my eyeliner to look exactly the way I like it. Each day they remind me that not all animals are nice and want to be my friend and that it's probably not a good idea to grab something right out of the oven, but that holding someone else's hands in mine is when I feel the most content. My hands don't have constant dirt in their nails, and may not pick the best fruit in the pile, but they do have those weird bumps from holding my pen too tight and sooo many paper cuts that it's almost unhealthy. But I love them anyway; they're my working hands.

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Homage to Their/My Hands by Michaela Mendoza - San Joaquin Review Online

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I hate the term "working hands." I hate it because we just expect those hands to be stained with oil or mud and have dirty nails. It's not that I don't appreciate those hands, because I do.

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-Greek Mythology
-MORE Shakespeare

-I had taken these courses within the last two semesters at Fresno State. Though they were my absolute favorite topics in the English subject,it was a time when I felt the most defeated in my academic writing. I would spend countless hours writing, editing and workshopping with friends and my professors to try and make it better. It was a very stressful time, but I loved getting feedback and constructive criticism. I can't say that I miss feeling stressed all of the time, but I feel like it was also the time that allowed me to grow more as a writer.