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“Never do anything by halves if you want to get away with it. Be outrageous. Go the whole hog. Make sure everything you do is so completely crazy it's unbelievable.” This quote is an affirmation I tell myself often. I write it in my planner with colorful pens. I type into my phone's notepad. I say it under my breath when I feel like I've taken all I can take. "Matilda" is THE book that hooked me into Dahl's storytelling- the unique characters he created, the relatable yet unimaginable plots he wove, the worlds he snapped into existence with succinct words. Matilda as a character is described as, well, different. She's unlike anyone in her family or class or school. She is a young old soul. She sees the world in technicolor while everyone else sees it in black and white. And- she's magic. As soon as I could read, and as soon as my teachers realized I was quickly advancing through reading levels, I tried to read everything I could. I probably read things far beyond my comprehension at times, but I wanted to know Huck Finn and Olive Twist and Wonka- just as Matilda would have gotten to know them. In many ways, I always felt (and still feel) like the weird "Matilda" as a student and in my family. I remember my 8th grade Language Arts teacher calling me a "know-it-all" in front of the entire class just because I answered a question. I remember the embarrassment of being called out and being told that Gifted students like me were "insufferable." I remember trying to let those comments slide off my shoulder when I really just wanted to cry then and there. I also remember my 7th grade teacher who saw in me a love for reading and who gifted me her copies of Edith Hamilton's "Mythology" (which I still have today) and "The Scarlet Letter" and "The House on Mango Street." I remember the time she spent with me after school guiding me through my understanding of what she knew I COULD read, but might have been out of the scope of my life experiences to understand at 13. And my memories of Mrs. Dorsey and few other teachers like her who put up with Matildas like me are the only ones worth holding onto.

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My mom named me. She doesn’t really remember how she came across the name as it’s not a family name. She originally planned to name me Julia and was set on that until I was born and I guess Julia didn’t quite “fit me.” She just went with Verenice. My father wanted me to be named after his mother, as she passed away before I was born. But her name was Socorro and that means “mercy” in Spanish and it was just a name for another time like Mildred or Ethel or Hortense.

I do have nicknames and, honestly, there is a time and place for each one. There is “Vee.” Only my high school friends still call me that. “Vee” happened at a time where I wanted to be anyone else but me, but changing your name isn’t exactly viable for a 15 year old girl. “Vere” is what my family calls me. No one in my family calls me “Verenice” unless I’m in trouble or someone died or I’m in trouble because someone died. Hearing “Verenice” yelled out from the distance was the sound of my parents finding out about something I shouldn’t have done and it was the feeling of immediately regretting doing that thing. But “Vere” is sweet and short and calm and it’s the sound of my grandpa coming home from work and the smell of his lunch break smokes and bites of chocolate we'd sneak together (before dinner). “Verenice” in English- the way I decided I wanted people to pronounce it- is just fine and alright. She’s that weird girl in class that always has stickers and drinks way too much coffee for her own good and probably knows the answer to whatever you’re wondering. Some people try to pronounce it- in what I call- “the French way.” They’ll contort the “-nice” into a “-nique” or will actually try to fish out that second “e” vowel as in Spanish. “Veh-reh-nee-seh.” That’s how I wish everyone pronounced my name. But “Bernice” is already a thing and all the extra syllables aren’t really me. “Vur-neice.” No frills and to the point.

The annoying part of my name has always been how rude people are about having to say my name right. “Can I call you something else?” No, I’d rather not. “Do you have a nickname?” Yes, and only friends and family can call me that and you’re neither. “Isn’t it spelled with a ‘b’?” No, my birth certificate literally uses a “v” so let’s not complicate things, thanks. It may seem like “going out of your way” to ask someone how they pronounce their name. You could even go the extra mile and ask what the origin of the name is, if you’re really so perplexed by it. But please do not ask people to allow you to: call them something else or name them something different or “easier.” I don’t know the story of my name, but many people have names inspired by grandparents or cities or history or literature. And, unfortunately, those names won’t always be in English. And there are so many more languages out there in the world- how ignorant is it to expect everything to accommodate the English tongue?

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For my self-portrait I wanted to depict myself as I usually am. I don't smile much, I don't look too friendly and I don't care. I have glasses now, so that's a thing. My hair starts off straight and tame in the morning, and by the end of one of my crazy days, it's everywhere. This was a good hair day. I wear things that make me happy and I'm a student teacher and I rush back to GGC to work in the library after field. And when I'm studying I listen to music- usually instrumental scores from Studio Ghibli movies or lofi hip-hop. And that is all pretty much me.

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I am Verenice.
My mom named me
And people have decided how to pronounce it ever since.
I don't smile much,
I don't look too friendly
and I don't care.
But I do care about lots of things-
Promise.
I like to read books to my sister
And my brother
Until they cannot breathe from laughing so hard at a page
And I can't breathe
From laughing so much at their laughter.
I like to write.
I like to write with wooden pencils
Until I get a callous
On the inside of my right middle finger
And I start clicking my nails
In frustration.
I like to write until I make sense-
Any sense-
Of what I have learned or what I have lived or what I have felt.
Mostly I write of learning,
But I like to write of me.
I like to write of my dad
And his bushy mustache
And the drunken wisdom he shares with me
And the pain we have shared together.
I reflect on my mom
And how hard she was on me
And how much I miss her softness
On my birthdays
And I much I miss fighting with her.
I think back on my grandpa
And the ghost stories from his hometown-
And my mom's hometown
And our entire family's hometown.
I think about him reading to me in Spanish
And him falling asleep
While I read to him in Spanish.
I once thought reading
Was just
Books.
And essays so heavy with jargon that they became
Unreadable
And textbooks so heavy with pages that they became
Unreadable.
But reading and speaking
And listening and writing
That is all culture.
It's history.
It's sharing stories and memories and laughter
And pain.
And putting it into words or pictures
Or sounds or writing.
And letting someone else learn about your stories
And your memories
And you laughter
And pain.
How lucky I have been to be able to share stories
With you
With classmates-
With students.
How privileged I am
To be a student
To struggle through classes
And complain about writing
And reading.
I am Verenice.
My mom named me
And people have decided how to pronounce it ever since.
But the one thing no one
Not one person
Can ever tell me how to say
Is my story.
I am Verenice.
I am determined and willing
And tired
And strong.
And my story will be told anyway I feel and it will be true
(And long)
Because it belongs
To me,
Verenice.

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At first, I was struggling to determine what my favorite literacy experience is without being disingenuous. I do like reading for pleasure, but I don't do it as often during my semesters as a student. However, one day I was planning a lesson and I took a break. At this moment I realized that currently my favorite literacy experience is being a student. I read textbooks to inform my craft as a teacher. I read children's literature in order to give my students reviews of hot books. I write... and write... and write.... AND WRITE. And though it is hard work, it also involves a lot higher-level skills such as researching, evaluating sources, synthesizing a writing piece and editing/revising to clarify my message. I consult all types of texts while planning lessons- college textbooks, elementary textbooks, leveled texts, worksheets and visuals- and I use all that to consolidate my plans for instruction in all subjects. All in all, being a student is laborious, but it is also very rewarding and I would not be as successful a student as I am without engaging in reading, writing, speaking and listening.

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To represent my everyday literacy practices, I created this visual in class which I believe covers all the major ways in which I engage in literacy. Through my experiences in this class, I have come to realize that I am constantly engaging in literacy, even when I am not explicitly making time to read a book for pleasure. In my job as a legal assistant, I review documents and complete applications. I summarize immigration processes and I translate everything from Spanish to English, and vice versa. At home, I read labels on my food and I compare products based on marketing and I listen to ads on Youtube. As a consumer, I compare and contrast products and I evaluate brands and I make decisions based on research. In my relationship, I share jokes I read on Facebook and we discuss news articles and the credibility of news outlets. Some of my greatest joys are watching movies, critiquing shows and experiencing children's literature with my siblings and students. Literacy is present in all aspects of my life from sun up to sun down.

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Weakness Teaching Culturally Diverse Students

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Weakness Teaching Culturally Diverse Students

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I think something that I will have to work on in my future years as an educator is exposing myself to students and families with alternate or "difficult" home lives. I feel that because of my the limited (though enriching) experience I have had around students, there are so many more stories I have to come across in order to learn how to deal with them. This semester, in fifth grade, is truly the first time in which I have encountered students that exhibit emotional behavior problems. It's been a challenge to manage their behaviors some days, and some days they can't even stand themselves and prefer to sit outside in the hallway to process their emotions. One student in particular has really come to appreciate my help and genuinely likes talking to me about, well, anything. But, as he says, he has "anger issues" and we have gotten to the point where he doesn't rip up his work or flip his desk anymore, but things could be better. The other day I had him in a small group outside of the classroom and his behavior had become a distraction for others. I asked him to collect his things and return to the classroom, and I thought that was that. Well, I returned to the classroom and on top of my notebook was a book I had lent that student with a note. "You can take your book, P.S. you don't like me anymore." I felt bad, but I also realized that this is just another example of how he can't help himself when he's mad or upset. I reassured him that my disappointment in his behavior was not a disappointment in HIM... and then he continued to ignore me for the rest of the day.

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Strengths Teaching Culturally Diverse Students

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Strengths Teaching Culturally Diverse Students

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When it comes to my strengths teaching culturally diverse students, I think I have learned to see the student for who they are- their learning styles, their weaknesses and areas of growths- in order to best differentiate instruction to meet their needs. My case study for READ, for example, comes from a Bosnian family, though she is fluent in English. In order to best develop lessons suited to her needs, I assessed her and determined how best to engage her in her own learning- despite any pre-conceived notions I may have had about her language background. By sitting down to her interview her, I learned that her mom is a college graduate and her dad is very involved in her life even though her parents are separated. If I had just clung to my perception or past experiences with children of immigrants, I could have made a lot of assumptions about why she is still struggling to read and comprehend in the third grade. But rather than make judgments about her life and family, I sat down to get to know HER. When coming up with a word work lesson, I remembered she had mentioned how she missed working with magnet letters in Kindergarten because her current teacher "doesn't teach how to read." I made sure to incorporate such an activity to give her that kinesthetic outlet and when before being asked, the usually shy case study said as we cleaned up, "this was fun!"

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I have often reflected on how devastated I would be if I lost all my belongings in a natural disaster. After the initial shock, I don't think I would mourn the loss of 99.9% of the items I own. I am not attached to stuff, I am attached to people and family and friends- and as long as they are safe, I can lose it all and rebuild with their support. And then... there is Chester. Chester is an old stuffed animal I have had since I was a baby. He was a hand-me-down from a 15-year old family friend who in 1991 had become tired of her friends mocking her for still caring for a stuffed animal. After forgetting him for several years, I found him in the toy box when deciding what to keep and throw out before moving out to Georgia at age 6. And Chester was kept and he has stayed with me since then (he's approximately 38 years old). I randomly named him one day when asked by a cashier what his name was. She laughed and said, "that'd my brother's name!" Chester has been with me through the hardest of situations, and he reminds me of good and bad times. I have cried into him, I have screamed into his body, I have hugged him tightly after the best days of my life. More important than his physical representation are the memories he represents.

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Some values that my family have instilled in me are respect for traditions and valuing family above all else. Though about 98% of my family lives in Mexico, I have a few cousins and my dad here in Georgia, and other cousins in California. As much as we drive each other crazy, family is family and we have to have each other's back. If you can't depend on family, who can you depend on? However, I also am of the belief that you don't have to tolerate poor treatment from someone just because you are blood relatives. There are plenty of people that can come into your life as friends and stay in your life as family- despite a lack of blood relation. Family is whatever you make it, but it is sacred no matter that it looks like to you. Respecting traditions comes to play with the value of respecting family because keep traditions alive helps keep family alive. The way we party too hard at the kids' birthday festivities. The pushing and shoving that comes with breaking a pinata (shown in the image). The pozole and tres leches cake and homemade jell-o that follow. The conversations about family gossip and local news and hard times had over beer and leftover cake and mezcal. All of that- the good, the bad, the crazy and the fun... all of those traditions help keep families alive and separate the Romos from the rest.

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Because I have been dating someone for four years who is not Mexican, but is Latino, I have interestingly enough had to confront my biases and challenge the biases of others. My boyfriend's family is from the Dominican Republican and their culture is different from ours except the Catholicism and language. Even with the language, a lot of Mexican slang is unknown to them and vice versa. I have butted heads with Ruben's grandma and though she does cook a very fully and hearty and delicious breakfast (as seen below)... she can also be difficult and rude and brash. So, I have developed this opinion about islanders like Dominicans and Puerto Ricans and Cubans. Not just from my experience with his family, but they have added to my opinions nonetheless. I tend to think they are very loud, obnoxious and inappropriate. They have two volumes: loud and louder, and I can't stand either when it's accompanied by how they talk. They often use words that are vulgar to Mexicans- or that at least I wasn't allowed to hear in my home, much less say. Over the past four years, I have tried to let go of my negative opinion and prejudices, because in the end we are all in this together. We share a language and some customs and though we may annoy each other as ethnic groups, we do share some struggles that should keep us united.

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I consider myself an open-minded person when it comes to cultural experiences outside my own. Learning about different cultures has always been exciting to me because it keeps me grounded in the idea that my people's way is not the only or best way. I particularly enjoy the boom I have witnessed in Gwinnett in regards to small Asian businesses. There is something that feels like home in a bowl of Vietnamese pho or a glassful of Thai tea, even if those foods and experiences aren't part of my Mexican culture. With that said, I often feel awkward when I walk into my favorite authentic Korean bakery shown in the picture or Japanese sushi restaurant. Sometimes, when I attempt to order from menus that have poorly-translated descriptions of items, I feel awkward asking for an explanation or not knowing how something is pronounced (despite it looking really good in the accompanying image). If a waiter or employee says something in a language I don't understand right after I placed my order or asked a question, a feeling of dread washes over me. "Did I say something dumb... did I sound like a ridiculous, ignorant American?" I try to overcome my discomfort by being polite and making sure I pronounced something correctly if I even attempted. If it's not my language, I don't have a right to butcher it and laugh it off.

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I will never take for granted the immense privilege that it is to receive a higher-level education. My parents arrived in this country, as the expression says, "with the clothes on their back." Everything I have, as little as it is, it is due to my parents' determination to open doors for me that they felt were not open to them in their country. I obviously chose GGC as the subject of my photo because it is my last stop in my bachelor's education, but it is also the place of departure on my road to success. I believe that teaching is an act of social justice, as once I graduate from GGC I will be able to service children in the very community that fostered my learning. It has been a privilege to receive an education (though I will have to pay Uncle Sam back eventually, yikes) and it will be honor to teach children who don't have many privileges to speak on, but have so much potential.

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My favorite character trait about myself is my determination and this photo sums up why I am the way I am, why I'm so persistent, why I don't take no for an answer, and why I never quit. My dad would always tell me (and still does) that it doesn't matter WHAT you do in life- what matters is HOW you do it. He has instilled in me the importance of determination in achieving your goals. At one point in life, his goal was to be a rodeo star. Then he fell off one day, was trampled by a ton of bull, ended up in a body cast... and met my mom during his recovery. So, while his dream of stardom waned, he later became determined to give me the best life and opportunities possible. And judging by where I am now, I'd say he has succeeded.