About Ourselves A Collection of Essays Written by Fresno City College Students in Developmental and Preparatory English Fall 2016 – Spring 2017

Fresno City College Humanities Division English Department 1101 E. University Avenue Fresno, CA 93741 www.fresnocitycollege.edu

State Center Community College District

About Ourselves The 26th Issue A Collection of Essays Written by Fresno City College Students in Developmental and Preparatory English 2016 – 2017 Edited by Anna Boyle, Marisol Baca, Michael Medrano and Katie Beberian Acknowledgements

The editors would like to thank the following people for their help and support: Humanities Division Foundation Dr. Jennifer Johnson, Dean of Humanities State Center Community College District Foundation Mary Doyle, Manager, Print Media and Communication Ben Lozano, Graphic Designer Debbie Nichols, Webmaster Cover artwork: Joseph Jernigan, Untitled (Self-Portrait), oil on board, 2017

From the Editors

In this publication, the Fresno City College Developmental English Department proudly pres- ents the best of our students’ writing submitted for Fall 2016 and Spring 2017. The editorial staff published the works with minimal editing. All of the essays were written in response to assign- ments; some are serious, some are funny, and some show the remarkable ability our students have to write about difficult experiences with honesty and grace.

The journal is also available at: http://www.fresnocitycollege.edu/index.aspx?page=3424

Fresno City College 1101 E. University Avenue Fresno, CA 93741 Table of Contents Devotion, Anissa Alhadi ...... 1 In a narrative essay that talks about Anissa’s 3 favorite items she owns, Anissa uses description to explain why the items are so memorable to her. Pick Up The Pieces, Luz Ayala ...... 4. . . Using descriptive language, Luz uses her five senses to describe herself. Inhospitable Jungle, Roy Cammon ...... 6 A narrative essay about a time Roy encountered wilderness. The Unexpected Phone Call, Misty Macias ...... 9 . . A narrative essay that reflects on an experience. Soul Searching, Khloe K . Martinez ...... 12 . . Khloe illustrates a point (thesis) regarding her hobby. Man On the Hill, Fredrick McCarty ...... 15. . Frederick shares a local story told to him by a family member. A Touch of Margie, Margarita Medrano ...... 18 . . Who are you? Using descriptive language, Margarita answers this question. The Shine that Makes the Star, Jaloni Newsom ...... 20 . . A narrative reflection on an experience. The Key to Happiness, Jayden Rea ...... 24 . . Jay writes about a lesson learned from life. The narrative describes the person who taught him this lesson, the situation and how he learned from it. He ends with a reflection on how his life was changed from this experience. I’ll be Back..., David J . Rushing ...... 30 . . A Cause and Effect essay on why David returned to college after a thirty year gap. What is Judgment?, Marilyn Sataua ...... 34 Modeling her essay after Jo Goodwin Parker’s “What is Poverty?” Marilyn writes about a value she learned from people around her. Freedom from the Bondage of Suffering, Savun Sean ...... 36. . A narrative reflection on an experience regarding mental health. The Importance of Education, Alecia Scott ...... 40. . In this narrative, Alecia writes about a lesson she learned from life. She describes the person who taught her this lesson, the situation and how she learned from it. She ends with a reflection on how her life was changed from this experience. Mother knows Best, Denise Sifuentes ...... 42 . . Denise writes about a lesson she learned from life. She describes the person who taught her this lesson, the situation and how she learned from it. She ends the narrative with a reflection on how her life was changed from this experience. My Silhouette in Detail, Paul Soto ...... 44 . . Using descriptive language, Paul focuses on his five senses to describe himself. Anger Makes You Smaller, Forgiveness Doesn’t, Choua Vang ...... 46 . Choua writes about a lesson learned from life. The narrative describes the person who taught her this lesson, the situation and how she learned from it. She ends with a reflection about how her life was changed from this experience.

Devotion Anissa Alhadi

I believe the most important material possessions we have are not treasured because of their monetary value, but instead their significance is based on the emotional memories they may invoke within us. The impact of the emotions we feel can empower us with strength, happiness, and a hope for a better future. My most memorable material possessions are my hijabs, my wed- ding ring, and my daughter’s first newborn dress. I am a Muslim; I follow the teachings of Islam and as a tenant of my faith, I cover my hair with a scarf called a hijab. Wearing the hijab is not just part of my faith, to me, it is an exten- sion of who I am. As I was growing up, I wanted to understand the meaning behind the hijab and what it represented to me as well as others who shared the faith. I began asking the women from my immediate and extended family why they chose to or not to wear the hijab. I noticed something interesting through this process, my aunts who chose not to wear the hijab feared dis- crimination above all; they feared they wouldn’t get far in their careers. While respecting their decisions, what encouraged me the most to begin wearing the hijab was the example my mother set. She was widowed at a very young age with six children; she took the modest savings her and my father had, and began a small business that grew to be successful. My mother being the matriarch of the family, influenced my decision to wear the hijab. How she chose to go against the gradient of society had taught me it is the hijab that gives us the strength and con- fidence to overcome any challenges we may face for being different. Over time, I realized whenever I wore the hijab, not only did I feel closer to God, but I also felt much more confident and stronger in myself. I enjoy that I can express myself with my hijabs, not just by the color or style, but how it allows me to communicate in a non-verbal way to others that I am a proud Muslim woman. As for my wedding ring, it isn’t the ring itself that is so memorable, but how it represents the strength of the relationship my husband and I have. Our marriage is a strong foundation that we have built together for raising our amazing daughter. On the day of my wedding, I had what I am sure every bride experiences on her wedding day: cold feet. My feelings of nervous and worry if I am rushing into this marriage had almost overpowered me, but then I saw him, my best friend, my husband-to-be, my love, and at that moment I knew I would always be happy. Throughout 1 our relationship, whenever we would face struggles and hardships in the past, my husband would use comedic relief as a way for us to find solace, and it is then when our love for one another is amplified, and we’re able to find happiness even in our darkest moments. For instance, a few hours into my labor, my husband and I were told by the physician that the best chance our daughter had to survive was via an emergency C-section, I went into shock. I felt so emotionally numb. My husband saw the blank stare I had and his instincts kicked into what he does best: make me laugh. My husband was given a medical jumpsuit to wear to be beside me during the surgery. He works in the medical field and has had to wear the jumpsuit in the past, so I know he’s familiar with how to put the suit on correctly. So, not only watching him “struggle” to put it on right, but how ridiculous he looked in the blue full-body jumpsuit with the hoodie, mask, and shoe covers on, somehow brought me back to reality. He looked like a bald smurf; my

bald smurf. I laughed so hard, my oxygen mask had fallen off. When I look at my ring, I remem- ber all good and bad moments that not only made us closer, but made our relationship stronger. The day my daughter was born, my husband went out to purchase a newborn dress—I had my eye on it since we found out I was pregnant with a girl because prior to my delivery, at my 20-week pregnancy ultrasound, the sonographer checked the growth and health of my baby as well as the gender. It’s here where my joy of finding out I was having a baby girl is halted. I was told that my daughter’s umbilical cord was not attached properly, instead of the center of the pla- centa like it should be, it was attached at the edge, this is called marginal cord insertion, and we wouldn’t know the severity of it until I delivered. This black long-sleeve valor dress with a full off- white tulle rosette skirt, and a matching sewn-on heart-shaped rosette that took up most of the chest with an attached red satin bow that had a rosebud in the middle, represented hope, some- thing that I had to keep at bay because I was now considered a high-risk pregnancy, due to the fear of detachment which would result in a stillborn. When I was about 30-weeks pregnant, I suffered from an illness that caused me to become severely dehydrated; due to the fact I was not able to keep fluids down for almost 24 hours, it was then that I learned that severe dehydration was causing me to go into premature labor. I was given an injection to stop the early labor contractions, so I would be able to deliver as close to full term as possible. A week later, I began weekly ultrasounds and twice a week I had done a neona- 2 tal stress test(NST). I went into labor at 36-weeks in which more complications occurred. I had roughly a dozen more complications in labor whereas the average woman would only need one complication to justify a cesarean section. As the complications kept piling up, the marginal cord insertion was the doctors’ last concern, and I was rushed into an emergency cesarean section. I don’t know if it was a combination of the anesthesia and shock, but I found myself unable to feel anything, not even the simplest sensation or feeling of pressure. At that moment, all I wanted was to hear my baby’s cry. An immense feeling of relief washed over me as soon as I heard my daugh- ter’s screams. Those emotions were so overwhelming that I too began to cry. My healthy baby girl was finally here, my little hope: Mariam. When I wear the hijab, I feel empowered and I can accomplish anything when I have faith not only in God but in myself. My wedding ring is a symbol of my marriage, being he and I are together, I will always have love and happiness. My daughter’s newborn dress is a reminder for me to never give up on hope. Even against all odds, anything is possible. The importance of the hijab,

my wedding ring, and my daughter’s newborn dress goes beyond the material possessions them- selves, they represent the devotion I have in my faith, marriage, and family. They have shaped who I am today, and for that, I will always be grateful.

3 Pick Up The Pieces Luz Ayala

If I listen close enough, I hear the sound of painful thoughts that echo in my head. My cries for help follow me everywhere I go. The sound of my own voice sounds foreign to me at times. I wonder if it’s really me I hear, or maybe just someone I long to be. When I’m alone in the safety of my room, I finally hear silence. I hear my steady breathing, I hear all my thoughts slowly disap- pear, it’s as silent as a heart that beats no more. As soon as it goes, it all comes back and all I hear is the violent return of all the thoughts I wish stayed in the back of my head. When I see myself, I see the toll that life has taken on me in such short time. I see the bags under my eyes, a clear sign of all the unwanted stress that keeps me up at night. I see the scattered pimples on my face that stick out like a sore thumb. I see my dimples, probably the only thing I’ve learned to like about myself. When I glance into the mirror I see regret flash through my eyes, it’s so quick to come it leaves no trace behind. I see myself in such a different light than other people see me. I see the person I never wanted to become, and yet I can only hope to better myself. I feel a pounding in my temples getting louder and louder in my head as my migraine gets worse. I feel at peace with myself when my medication starts to kick in. On nights when sleep is impossible, I feel the loneliness hit home. I feel an unbearable pain in my chest that threatens to tear me down. I feel the familiar lump in my throat that at times has been my only reminder that I’m alive. Suddenly I feel numb, I feel as though nothing can hurt me but in reality that’s when I’m the most vulnerable. I feel like I’m my own worst enemy and there’s little I could do about that. I smell of fear, fear of so many trivial things. I smell of unshed tears, it makes me feel strong

but I know I’m only hurting myself even more. I smell the sweet lingering scent of my sham- poo, it’s one of the few little things that brighten up my day. I smell of defeat, a defeat so strong it knocks me off my path. I smell the rivers of sorrow that make their way through my veins. When I’m alone, I smell of all the broken promises that I’ve failed to stay true to. Pretty soon I realized

that for so long I’ve been surrounded by the smell of false hope that learned to creep it’s way into my everyday life. I taste the venom in my words when I’m angry at myself for doing something wrong. I taste the lies at the tip of my tongue when my mom asks if I’m feeling alright. I despise the taste of all 4 the bad memories that have been etched into my brain. The bitter taste of the tears I wish I could cry, remind me of how hard it is to feel. Sadly, I’m used to the taste of all the medication I take in order to once again feel in control of what goes on in my head. For so long I’ve tasted the heart- rending words that pour out of me when I sit down and write. I taste the silence in my voice when someone asks me why I express myself the way I do.

5 Inhospitable Jungle Roy Cammon

Every morning, I take the bus to school. Today, I paid in pennies as I take my seat with my head down in shame, as if it’s not okay that I am one of many struggling in this Godless jungle I’ve been forced to call home. I look around at the other people on the bus and see struggles, sacri- fices, and stories in the people’s postures. There is a man on the bus. He looks emotionally fatigued. I wonder what his struggle might be? That question always takes me back to a struggle of mine, which is figuring out what really happen the night before my dad took his last steps out the door and out of my life. I just remem- ber the anger in my mother’s voice and the pain in her posture. It is late on a school night. I am walking out of the kitchen into the hallway that leads to my room. As I walk towards the hallway, my father is walking through the front door off balance, his words sound muffled and slurred. My mother is not happy. She yells at my father, “where have you been the last two days?” “Don’t worry about where I’ve been, be happy I am here now,” he says. “Where have you been?” She asks again. My father doesn’t respond, instead he puts action to the rage that filled the air I was breath- ing that night. I watched my dad push mommy into the wall with his fist, and he leaves his mark with a new hole in the wall on display as if our hallway was a museum. The next morning my father walked out on my two sisters, our mother, and me. From that moment on, my mom put pressure on me that no seven-year-old mind could be ready to handle. One day my mother told me “Son, don’t be like your father, don’t be like your father.” She said this to me on repeat, like it was her favorite song to sing. All right, Mom, I won’t . I had no clue what she meant; I just knew I did not want to let her down. I was handed the alpha role, I have to find a way for my family to survive in this jungle of a world. I had to do this without a father excessively early in my life, a sad thought, but also a very common reality in this community.

I am still on the bus, thinking about the sacrifices made just to have an opportunity at adapt- ing in this jungle. I see a single black mother with her son who looks around the same age as me when my father left. I quickly understand what the years have in store for him. I think about what 6 I had to sacrifice. I had to sacrifice a part of my childhood. Sure, I had friends, toys, and a color- ful imagination; but there wasn’t much room for that kind of innocence in my life at home. My childhood was filled with a lot of expectations. I was held to a different standard than my sisters; my mom had a fear of losing me just as we had lost my father. I remember her sitting me down every chance she got. “Roy,” she would say, “you are my only son, I cannot lose you to this world; you must be different from the men of our family. You must build a future for yourself because your sisters will need you one day more than you all need me now.” I did not understand then, but now I know she just wanted me to a successful example of a black man for others to see. I remember the level of attention I was given to make sure I was always on track to be the man she wanted me to be, and the moderate attention my sisters received. I sacrificed my inno-

cence when I started making decisions for my family more than I made for myself. Often times from childhood to my teenage years, I was the one cooking for others. I had to wake up earlier than everyone else and was responsible for getting up every morning. I am the middle child of three, and sisters and me are all four years apart. There was a time when my younger sister was in elementary, I was in middle school, and my older sister was in high school. My mom would leave for work at six in the morning, that’s when I would wake up, too. My mom would walk into my room and tap me a few times. “Wake up son, I am going to work my sure you wake your sisters for school.” If I didn’t respond fast enough she would retreat to get the water and “make it rain” as she would say, so like any twelve year old would do, I would jump out of bed quickly. I would get myself ready first, then walk to the room my sisters shared to wake them up. They’re not morning people, they always wanted to fight in the morning, I would shake them to wake up, and tell them it was time for school. They would both argue about having to go to school. They often reminded me that I was not their father, that they didn’t have to listen to my rules. I didn’t think much of how they talked to me then, because I had a job to do and that is how I saw my sacrifice, just me doing my part to fill a role that was not mine to fill yet, I just didn’t want to let my mom down. I sometimes feel I am letting my mom down, even while on this bus going to school to get the education she always told me I would need. I continue to look at the people around me with a calm haze in my eyes. My mind, my body, and my soul are peaceful. The world looks better this way; it doesn’t feel so wild. At some point, I stop seeing people on the bus as people; instead 7 I begin to see them as stories. That is when I wonder, what is my story? And, what do I want my story to be? Is my story one of a boy who grows up in a single parent home, blaming himself for his upbringing? Or is it the story of how I’ve let a fear of letting my mom down control my entire life? Am I bigger than the circumstances that have towered over my existence? I do believe that I am. I want to believe that the wilderness of the world has not affected me at all, but I’d be lying to myself. I know the wilderness is responsible for a lot of my struggles throughout my time in its abyss. I know it took my father from me; all its poisons that it offers got a hold of my father’s arms, and refused to release him. My father took the white rocks this jungle offers, the ones that sparkle like hope in a poor man’s eyes, and made it his life. I know the wil- derness has help me get to this point on the bus telling myself it’s temporary, and that I am going to find a way out of the jungle, I know I won’t repeat the wrong that has been done to me and my family. I can adapt, I will adapt. I must adapt. My stop is coming up; I wonder will I ever make it out of here? I fear I can become another victim, other product of my environment. I fear I will let my family down. More importantly, I fear I will let myself down. The driver is at my stop; I exit the bus and tell the driver thank you, as usual. I begin to walk to my English class. As I walk past the nice houses that sit in front of Fresno City College, I look at them and envision myself in them, and convince myself that I deserve a house like the ones in front of me. I start to take comfort in my efforts to be more than the story I retell myself every morning when I’m on the bus. I feel good about walking through this jungle. I know I am heading in the right direction as I step foot on campus and towards the Language Arts building. I feel like I have found a way out of this cold and harsh jungle, I made a the decision a while ago to invest my efforts to get out of this jungle in my future, and my future lies in finishing school and making something of myself. Just as my mother told me to do, I think about her a lot while I am at school. Along with my sisters, they remind me of why I deal with this cruel jungle in the first place. They give me purpose in this journey out of this hellhole. I also think about my dad, I think about all the things he wasn’t in my life. I think about how he wasn’t a survivor of this jungle, how he let it take him and turn him into empty promises with a living body. I think about how history repeats itself, but then I look at how far I’ve come and look down to see my hand opening the door to my class and know I am right where I am supposed to be. 8 The Unexpected Phone Call Misty Macias

American Ambulance runs an average of six to eight hundred calls a day. I’ve never experi- enced my own medical emergency nor have I ever needed to call 911, but on August 12, 2006 my husband needed an ambulance, and that day changed my whole outlook on the subject forever. I sometimes say I didn’t choose the paramedic life, paramedic life chose me. Although I had never been interested in emergency medicine before, my husband being critically wounded and receiv- ing lifesaving interventions is what inspired me to become a paramedic. It all started with a phone call. The phone rang as it did any other day, the only difference today was who was on the other end. When I answered it was my mother-in-law, normally this wouldn’t be surprising, but this week was different. My husband and I had an argument and when this happens she always takes his side and stops talking to me, so to hear her voice gave me a bad feeling. What she told me shook me to the core. She told me my husband had been shot multiple times. When the information finally sunk in, I knew I needed to get to the hospital right away. I went to the hospital expecting to see my husband and father of my children lying in bed injured. I thought maybe he’d have some bandages here and there, they would probably tell me how lucky he was to have survived the incident, but nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. Everything I expected to see went right out the window as I went down to my knees. My whole body shook, my knees were wobbling, the room was spinning, a thickness came over my throat and tears ran down from my eyes. Through all the pain and dizziness, I conjured up courage and looked again. There he was as I looked closely I could see it was my husband. My man was lying there unconscious, swollen, and practically unrecognizable. He looked vulnerable, dependent, and so close to not being there at all.

Tubes came out from everywhere, bags hung about near the head of the bed with IV tubing com- ing from almost every part of his body. There was this loud machine making so much noise that it

seemed to be coming from the tube sticking out of his mouth. There were so many machines that were beeping, pumping, and swooshing. The room was so loud I could hardly think, but it was him. While I was in the hospital room with my husband, a nurse came to my side helped me to a chair so I could sit next to him. She handed me a cup of orange juice, my hand was shaking 9 as I slowly sipped it. She started to tell me how he was brought in, what his injuries were, why he needed all these machines, and what was in the bags of fluid going into him. She said he was unconscious because he needed to be in a medically induced coma. Due to his injuries and treat- ment going on, if he was conscious his body couldn’t handle all the stress. I could hardly take it all in; the whole thing seemed so surreal. One thing the nurse said to me resonates with me still to this day. I could remember it clearly. She said, “The emergency crew that brought him in saved his life.” Since we had been arguing I thought about the last thing I had said to him, I said I hated him. So to think that these words could have been the last words I ever spoke to him made me sad. I felt so grateful for that crew and everything they did for him. They have no idea what an impact they made on my life and my family’s life. They gave us the opportunity to have him in our lives just a while longer to make more memories and lovingly say our good bye. Following that horrific day, my husband stayed in the Intensive Care Unit for five months in and out for surgeries while also enduring medically induced comas. Some injuries were healing and some were not. He still had some wounds that required drainage tubes and the doctors said these injuries needed to heal from the inside out. They told me that despite everything that was going on, the good thing was that none of his major organs had been hit. The only issue was that his intestines had been pierced and they were not healing. The weekly surgeries were to go into his abdominal cavity to clean out bacteria being built up from the intestinal fluid. After a while, my husband was finally strong enough to have the tube taken out of his mouth and he began to breathe on his own. The doctors then took him out of the medically induced coma. I remember when he first opened his eyes; he looked at me. His face was still swollen from all the fluid they had been giving him, but I could tell he could recognize me. He tried speaking, but nothing came out. The nurse said it was normal for the first day because his vocal cords were most likely inflamed from the tube. The next day he began to speak and he started to tell me and the medical staff what happened to him. He said after work he got a ride from a co-worker. She was going to take him to his par- ent’s house. His parent’s area was so bad she didn’t even want to drive into the neighborhood, so she dropped him off a block away. As my husband was walking to his parent’s, a white car pulled up next to him. My husband said a man stepped out of the passenger side, came up to him, and 10 said, “Give me everything you got.” As my husband started to pull out his wallet, the man, and the other men in the white car started shooting at him. As my husband ran away, the men in the white car immediately sped off. He was able to make it to the front porch of his parent’s house where he collapsed. He remembered his mother screaming when she opened the front door and telling his brother to call 911. Apparently, everyone else in their neighborhood heard the shots too. The neighbors must have called 911 because the cops came quickly according to my husband. He said he heard loud sirens then looked up and saw a medic that started cutting off all his clothes. My husband remembered feeling very cold as they put him on a hard board. He said the medics put a mask on his face that blew cold air. My husband said it smelled like plastic. The last thing my husband remembered was the medic telling him to keep breathing and to stay alive. The next thing he knew, he was in and out of consciousness at the hospital. Hearing his story, then remembering what the nurse had told me about how the ambulance crew saved his life, made a huge impact on the decision I would later have to make. My husband ended up passing away over a year later, and I knew I needed money. I could not raise my two kids on the money I was making. I needed a new career, and I wanted to do something I would actually like. It didn’t take long to realize what it was. I wanted to help other families the way the Emer- gency Medical Service had helped mine. A year later I was inspired to take the necessary steps to become a Paramedic because I wanted to make a difference in someone’s life too. Instead of some- one getting that horrible phone call that their loved one is dead, I want to give the phone call that their loved one is in the hospital. In addition, I aspire to do my best to give that family time with their loved one, the same time that I was given, and the satisfaction of being able to say good bye.

11 Soul Searching Khloe K. Martinez

I love all types of music. Music makes me feel at ease, and it relaxes me a lot. It also “defines me in a certain way depending on the genre, and it opens my mind and soul. When I am having a bad day, it keeps my mind focused on positive things, and when I am having a good day, it helps me feel calm. Music always helps me get though the good and bad things going on in my everyday life. I have always enjoyed all types of genres of music, and my taste in music also changes with my moods and emotions. For example, I listen to empowering songs when I want to feel stronger or more open. My taste has changed because my family and friends introduced me to new genres of music. Growing up in a typical Hispanic household, I was exposed to all kinds of Hispanic music that would include Jose Alfredo Jimenez, Pedro Infante, and Vincente Fernandez. I also was exposed to many Tejano singers like Little Joe Y La Famlia, Freddy Fender, and Selena. Even though I do not speak Spanish, I still enjoyed their music very much because of the beats and how beautifully written it was. “Si Tuviera Con Qué /Compraría Para Mí /Otros Dos Corazones” (if he had millions and millions he would buy 2 more hearts). This quote is written by Jose Alfredo Jimenez in the song “Gracias.” That lyric has a very powerful meaning. This is seen in the way he expresses himself, and he has a lot of strong and powerful words in the song. As I got older, I started listening to my own music which included a lot of teen pop or like they used to call it, “bubble gum pop,” in the early 2000s. I listened to a lot of singers like Brit- ney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and Mandy Moore. I enjoyed them a lot more than my male classmates. They were listening to rap music, which I disliked. I thought it was very disrespectful towards women. All my male classmates made fun of me because I was interested in girl’s music, and I did not like the music they enjoyed listening to. I did not care about what they thought. I

just ignored them. I truly loved Mandy Moore’s song “Candy.” “So baby come to me /Baby, Show me who you are (yeah yeah yeah)/Sweet to me/Like sugar to my heart” (oooh baby).

I loved those lyrics because it was very upbeat and sweet. Also Katy Perry’s “Roar” is one of my favorite songs because it speaks to me in a very special way. I don’t let anyone push me around because I am different than everyone else. For example, in the song “Roar”, Katy Perry shows her true self in the following lyrics: 12 I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter Dancing through the fire ‘Cause I am a champion, and you’re gonna hear me roar Louder, louder than a lion ‘Cause I am a champion, and you’re gonna hear me roar! This part of her song has a very special meaning to me. I don’t let anyone judge me in anyway shape or form. I am a different person on the inside than I am on the outside. Since I am louder than a lion, I feel more female than a male, it makes me very proud of who I am. Around the same time I was listening to pop music, I fell in love with oldies. Growing up I listened to a lot of Carlos Santana, Santo and Johnny, War, and Malo. My mom was always play-

ing their music in her car, so I grew up listening to their music. For example, War’s song, “Why Can’t We Be Friends,” reminds me of when I used to go see the San Francisco Giants play the Los Angeles Dodgers. Growing up I found out they were the biggest rivals in Major League Baseball, and they always got into fights on the baseball Diamond. Their fans would even get into fights in the stands. That’s why the song “Why Can’t We Be Friends” by War reminds of me of the San Francisco Giants and Los Angeles Dodgers games. The beat makes me want to tap my feet, dance, whistle along, and sometimes just sing the song to myself. I also remember watching “La Bamba” with my mother. The song “Sleepwalk” by Santo and Johnny is very slow and smooth; that makes me want go to sleep. It also allows me to have peaceful dreams. Ten years ago, I started listening to country music and watching Carrie Underwood on Amer- ican Idol. When I went to see her in concert, I fell in love with Country Music. I really liked her and wanted to listen to more of her music. For example, her song “Jesus Take The Wheel” it is a very powerful song because she sings it quite beautiful like an angel rising from the kingdom of heaven. In addition, I started listening to different country artists like Blake Sheldon, Lonestar, Martina McBride, Leeanne Rimes, and Reba McEnire. I got more into Taylor Swift and Carrie Underwood because their lyrics were very powerful. I also started to feel more calm and relaxed while listening to country music. I know certain songs have a special meaning or connection to me. At times, I feel like Carrie Underwood and Taylor Swift are directly speaking to me in their songs. My taste in music changes frequently because I like different genres. My choice of music may 13 change in the future, or I might end up liking the music I used to listen to. For example, I might go back to listening to oldies, and teen pop like I did back in high school. Who knows, I could end up loving a music genre that I have not heard yet. Ten years from now, I may be listening to different music.

14 Man On the Hill Fredrick McCarty

As a child, the man standing at the peak of the dirt hill frightened me to my core. The set- ting of the sun caused the sky to turn reddish-orange and fell behind his silhouette. I could not breathe, and he did not move, he just stood mannequin-like and I stood from afar, watching him. A light, dusky breeze swept around us and carried the aroma of the poisonous berry bushes not too far off. I gasped and could not help but reflect on my mother’s cautionary tale lingering in the familiar fragrance of the bushes. I had eaten from those bushes months prior to this moment. My mother spent days nursing me back to health and frequently warning me never to return to the hills. I clearly remembered, “You’ll be snatched by a strange man and he’ll force feed you poi- son-berry pies,” she had scolded. There he was in the flesh and covered in shadow at a distance. My deepest childhood fears of being kidnapped had manifested from the man on the hill. It is through my own experience that spine-chilling stories such as “man on the hill,” help regulate the actions of disobedient children. There were many speculations leading up to my encounter with the man on hill. He came to life in night terrors, underneath beds, in closets, and the shadowy places I had not dared to ven- ture. I was first introduced to him by three gangly teenage boys huddled near the berry bushes in the back of my apartment complex. I had strolled clear past the safe zones my parents desig- nated to keep watch on my sisters and me. Their watchful eyes hindered me from adventure. I crossed the apartment’s car lot, and headed behind the buildings to find the three teenage boys horse-playing. “What you doing back here?” they abrasively questioned. I pointed towards the hills. Their greasy faces were slightly covered in acne, and they had proceeded to cackle like wild

hyenas. “Don’t you know about the man on the hill?” they scoffed. I paid no mind to their ques- tion and had continued walking to my destination. “Want some?” said one of the boys. He had a fist full of berries in the palm of his hand, berries I had not known were poisonous. With no hesi- tation, I grabbed and swallowed them within seconds. “The man lurks over near those hills and locks away little kids in his hidden dungeon,” said one of the boys. I was instantly at attention to his words and had begun to sweat. It felt as though a string of Chinese fire crackers had exploded in my small intestine. “He looks for little boys like you!” they yelled. I realized that the berries I 15 had consumed were not for eating. Fear rushed through my veins; I felt like a sheep that had wan- dered into the jaws of a wolves. Trembling in my dismay, I ran full speed back home and burst through the front door. My intense terror for the man on the hill had passed away with time. At a young age, I did not understand why humans hurt others with words and actions. I had consciously chosen not to think about the man on the hill and the teenage boys who had deceived me. In no time, I was back to exploring unmarked territory. It was early in the evening and my inquisitive mind had lead me back to the dirt hills. This time, I was alone and ready to dart up those slopes of dirt. While walking towards the hills, I gazed upon what was ahead of me. To my utter disbelief, there was a man motionlessly planted at the peak of the hill. My heart sunk to the soles of my shoes. He had not been there seconds ago. I was sure that this was my last moment of freedom. The figure shot down the hill towards me, and the chase begun. I sprinted so hard that the lower part of my stomach cramped, but that did not slow me down. The felt the figure closing in behind me. Every fear that had gone instantly resurfaced all at once, and I began crying loudly into the open. What was only a few yards from home seemed like miles. “Fredrick!” the man on the hill yelled out behind me. I thought, “How does he know my name?” “Fredrick,” he called, and then I stopped.

My heart continued pounding like the hooves of stallions galloping along a muddy trench. How- ever, I knew the voice that called out behind me. I quickly turned around, and there was my father collapsing to the ground in laughter. My father wanted to teach me a lesson about wandering off past my designated safe zone. The man on the hill was who my father had to become in order to fully grasp my attention. He and my mother were partners in crime. She entertained the idea of a man who kidnapped children so it would scare me into playing closer to the house. I still tremble at the thought of my father racing down the hill towards me. This prank may seem harsh and at the time I would have agreed, but I needed the experience. I did not understand why I was commanded to play close to home. My father becoming the man on the hill showed me how fast danger could strike, literally! I did not fear the man on the hill anymore because he was only my dad, but I never returned to those hills. In retrospect, I realize that stories like the man on the hill exist to govern the actions of peo- ple. Many of the stories evoke fear into the hearts of its audience. The stories are handed down 16 from generation to generation and the purpose changes each time. In some instances, the stories are purely for entrainment but leave scars in history. The man on the hill is a bittersweet memory of my childhood and makes me laugh at times. The mysterious man still resides in the shadowy places I dare not venture, but it is a story I tell over and over again.

17 A Touch of Margie Margarita Medrano

I am often told by family and friends that I am a positive person. I always try and greet my classmates, friends, and family by saying hello with a smile, and I always try to be optimistic when I am having a bad day. I try to turn all the negative around into a positive day whenever things don’t go as planned. I don’t believe in having a negative attitude because that would be wasting a day of my life; life is too short to waste on a bad attitude. I work as a massage therapist in the Tower District, and my clients comment that they enjoy coming in to my office and receiving massages from me because of my positive attitude. My clients also say that they can feel my posi- tive energy in my touch. That is why I am known as “A Touch of Margie” in the Tower District. Another reason why I am known as, “A Touch of Margie” is for one of my favorite pas- times, and that is preparing meals for my family and friends. I love cooking; cooking is an art and expression of love. I express my love for my family and friends through my cooking. I put much thought and preparation in all the meals that I cook. My specialty dish to prepare is chile rellenos con carne de res. I pick out the best chilies and char them to perfection. I then add in queso fresco cheese into the chilies. Next, I bake a boneless roast until tender. I shred it and simmer the beef with sautéed vegetables and spices. I dress the chile rellenos with the beef and drizzle a crema sauce as a topping for flavor. My cooking even attracts the small members of my family, particularly my cat. I love to see my family’s facial expressions of enjoying a sinful taste of pleasure when they bite into what I have prepared for them. It is a touch of Margie in every bite. In addition to cooking, my cat, who is my love Rubio, also enjoys a “Touch of Margie.” I call him Ruby for short. I adopted Rubio six years ago from a no-kill shelter. It was love at first sight. I think it was his big, blue eyes that won me over. Rubio means blonde, but he’s not blonde. He is a chocolate, Siamese cat. When I’m in the kitchen cooking, Rubio likes to harass me. He will sit in the middle of the kitchen floor staring at me with those big, blue eyes and his serious cat face. I

can’t help to smile from ear to ear; that face softens my heart because he is so stinking cute. How- ever, he can drive me a bit crazy with anxiety when he will continuously meow until I give him a piece of cheese, bacon, or milk. When I’m not cooking, Rubio and I enjoy sitting and relaxing on the couch, and when he allows me, I pet his soft, slick, brown fur on his head, back, and tail. I 18 like to listen to Rubio purr because it makes me feel calm, and when I watch his paws open and close making a kneading motion, I feel loved. I hear that a pet and its owner tend to adopt each other’s personality. I would say what Rubio and I have in common is that we both have the same serious, resting bitch face when we don’t like something. I still love my cat even though he doesn’t always love me back. I am so thankful to have a touch of Rubio in my life, and I’m sure he toler- ates having a touch of Margie in his.

19 The Shine that Makes the Star Jaloni Newsom

In the sixth grade I was casted in my first show ever; Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I was an Oompa Loompa, and I hated it. I was so disappointed that I didn’t get casted as the role I wanted I would come home and cry to my mom about how foolish I felt. My mom looked me in my eyes while holding my little head and told me, “everyone has to start from somewhere.” At that moment I had no idea what those words would mean to me. Since my first college audition my dream has been to inspire those from small towns with aspirations of acting in films, and big productions to follow their hearts, just like my mom motivated me to follow my own. As a child I have always been a bit dramatic, my mom would always say that I was a drama queen. It was not until the summer going into my freshman year of high school that my mom encouraged me to take a drama class. I was a little skeptical to join at first, because I didn’t think I was good enough. Eventually, before summer came to an end I decided to give it a try, and to my surprise I actually loved it. I remember my very first day, my heart was racing, and I had a mil- lion things going through my head. “What if they hate me? What if I’m not good enough? These kids have been acting for so long; how can I compete with them?” I decided that I would give it a chance, and put my best foot forward. I started to be more interactive with my classmates, and see them more as peers instead of threats. Fortunately, they took me and a few other newbies in with open arms, and drama became a safe haven for me. I remember my first performance like it was yesterday, I played a financially and emotionally

unstable widow with four kids. In the scene my character was talking to her disobedient teen- aged daughter and had reached her breaking point. I was shaking walking up to perform. I could just hear my mom’s voice in the back of my head...“you got this babygirl; believe in yourself baby- girl.” I introduced the piece I was performing, took a deep breathe, and let the words flow out of me like a bloody nose. When I finished; knowing I did the absolute best I could I felt so amazing.

It gave me a feeling I knew I could not live without. The next day walking into class I felt like I earned my seat, but never auditioned for any shows. I was still doubting myself and was too afraid to put myself out there. My mom gave me her golden advice once again: “everyone has to start

20 from somewhere”. I trustingly took my mom’s great advice once more and pushed myself to audi- tion for my school’s summer play, The Man Who Came to Dinner. The audition process was definitely overwhelming and stressful for me. All of my friends were telling me to stay calm, give it my best, and to remember every role matters. I kept their advice in mind as I auditioned. A couple days later the role list was posted. I played multiple small parts; a ditsy friend, a police officer, and a radio technician. I was so glad that I went through with the show, and believed in myself. I realized I enjoyed working with a large group of people who loved doing the same thing I love to do. Also, being in an actual production boosted my confidence as a performer big time. After my first audition I was hooked; I started to get this sort of high off of auditioning. I

think it was the anticipation building up to performing, putting that energy into your perfor- mance, and then finally being so proud of yourself after. The next production that came up I was overjoyed to audition. Opportunely, for me my audition went really well, and I was casted as one of the lead roles in our last show of the year; The Craving. As I gazed at the cast list I reminisced my beginnings. I thought to myself, “Wow, I’ve come from playing an Oompa Loompa to one of the leading roles.” When I came home I ecstatically told my mom the news, and thanked her for everything. In The Craving I played a very rich, entitled, selfish, pretentious diva named Tasha Lee. I loved every part of playing that character, because it gave me permission to do and say things I usually wouldn’t have the courage to. The Craving was by far my favorite show. I formed friendships with people in that cast that I think will last a lifetime, and it also helped me discover my everlasting love for comedy. During our last curtain call of The Craving I stood alongside my cast members; mesmer- ized by the lights as they gave my skin the sweetest kiss. At that moment I knew this was more than just a hobby, but something I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I told my parents that I wanted to take acting more serious, and look at it as a career. They told me that they were going to support me no matter what. To this day I am outrageously grateful for that support because, without it I don’t think I would have accomplished as much. With their blessing I started apply- ing and scheduling auditions for acting schools in Los Angeles. The first audition I booked was for “AMDA” or “The Academy of the Musical and Dramatic Arts.” For my audition I was to prepare 21 two monologues: one classical and one contemporary. The pieces had to be contrasting, and per- formed under five minutes. For my classical piece I chose a monologue from the play, A Streetcar Named Desire, where I played Blanche Dubois. Blanche was a high maintenance, spoiled, materi- alistic woman who was losing her riches and youth while struggling to find a husband. As for my contemporary piece I performed a scene from, Pensacola, where I played Marie Baker. Marie was a naive, energetic, passionate young woman who was determined to be Miss America. I enjoyed playing Marie Baker a little more than Blanche Dubois, because Marie Baker was a comedic char- acter and I was able to be more creative while portraying her. Meanwhile, portraying Blanche; who is a dramatic character required me to be precise and stick to the script a bit more. My first college audition experience was so refreshing, and what I would call a huge growth spurt for me as a performer. My audition took place in a hotel in Sacramento. When I arrived at the hotel I was trying to keep my poker face on like I wasn’t nervous at all, but I was completely freaking out in my head. All I kept thinking about was putting on the perfect performance. I just kept going over my monologues in my head continuously. Later on, a representative from the school presented a PowerPoint, and shortly after gathered all the applicants and brought us to the audition room. We were all given name cards then divided into two groups, musical theatre and just regular dramatic arts. I was in the dramatic arts group simply because I can’t sing a lick. I was about the fourth to last person in line, and as I watched the line get shorter and shorter the anxiety inside me built more and more. Finally, it was my turn, and I remember putting literally everything I had in me into that performance; I mean I was out of breathe by the time I was done. After, I walked back into the holding room smiling ear to ear I then glanced at my mom and found that she was smiling so hard I could almost hear it. Seeing how proud my mom was of me in that moment made me feel like I could carry the whole world on my shoulders. A few weeks later I was accepted and granted with a couple scholarships and merits that I was very proud to have received. Unfortunately, even with the scholarships and merits given it was still too expensive for me to attend. Although, that plan was unsuccessful I feel that my dreams still can be, and I am absolutely grateful for the experience. I can always say I did it, I put myself out there, and I was good enough. I still believe in myself, and am still going to pursue my dreams. I cannot see myself doing anything else, and being genuinely happy. I believe when you feel 22 extremely passionate about something you should chase it. I come from a small town called Stock- ton where big dreams are doubted, and you’re constantly told no if you try to break social color lines. Well, I don’t agree with being told no. Life is too short to put your time into doing some- thing “more realistic” because of someone else’s closed mindedness. I want to give hope to those back in my hometown, and anyone else that comes from a small town with dreams of becoming a performer, and show them that your dreams are valid no matter where you come from. Because, at the end of the day it does not matter where the star is located or what galaxy it belongs to...the only thing that matters is how bright it shines at night.

23 The Key to Happiness Jayden Rea

“You know, you would make a very handsome man, Jay.” This was one of the last things my dearly, departed friend, Reese, said to me before he passed away in the fall of 2014. At his zenith, Reese was a well-known Transgender activist and he had known me since I was a teenager. He would often talk to me about the positives and negatives of transitioning. How society viewed transgendered people, and what it meant to be a Female-to-Male (FtM) transman. Although he is now gone, the lessons he taught me live on. You must be true to who or what you are to be truly happy in this life. I first met Reese in the summer of 2011. I was a junior attending Clovis West High School. Since I was one of the only “out” students on campus, the responsibility of maintaining the schools Gay, Straight Alliance (GSA) fell into my hands. It was my job to provide the necessary information and support to any student that came to the club meetings seeking help. I would often spend an entire week researching to ensure that all the information and advice I shared was correct and up to date. Towards the end of the last semester, I had come across a flier for a confer- ence that was to take place a few weeks after school was to let out for summer break. “Expression Not Suppression” was the name given to the event and the GSA Network was sponsoring it. The GSA Network was a national Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) non-profit organi- zation dedicated to fighting for equality. The Network was encouraging all GSA’s from around the Central Valley to attend. The forum was an all-day event with classes and a dinner-dance party later in the evening. Being the dutiful GSA President that I was, I quickly informed my group about the affair and a 3/5 majority vote declared that the Clovis West GSA was to attend the “Expression Not Suppression” seminar.

On the day of the conference, the five full-time members of my GSA group as well as, my sis- ter, and cousin accompanied me. When we walked into the conference hall, which was located

here in Fresno at the Big Red Church, they presented us with a pamphlet of all the different classes offered that day. According to the conference policies, each person had to attend at least three class lessons in order to gain admittance into the dinner-dance party afterwards. Because I was the President of a GSA, I had to attend four classes: three of my choosing and a mandatory 24 “Running a GSA 101”. I asked my group which classes they were interested in taking and nearly everyone wanted to try different things. I suggested that we try to stay in pairs to avoid any type of discrimination and they agreed. Once we all paired off, I was displeased to find myself fixed with my little sister. My sister, Elisa, is nothing like me. She is gregarious by nature and wanted to take all of the girlish classes that she could find. At the time, I was living my life as a lesbian and a hyper-masculine one at that, so taking classes like “Drag 101” was not something that I was overly fawned about. How- ever, I reminded myself that I had a reputation to uphold. I had been entrusted with a duty to set an example for my fellow students who looked to me for guidance. Therefore, I swallowed my pride and went along.

Thankfully, “Drag 101” was not as bad as I had imagined. It was more facetious than any- thing actually. The class was taught by a few local Drag Queens who explained what a Drag Queen was and then showed us the art of preparing for a show. I had to give kudos to these entertainers when I saw the transformation. The next class she took me to was, “Self Defense for Women.” Although I viewed it as entirely sexist, I quite enjoyed myself. Members of the Fresno County Police Department provided us with some helpful tips and tricks on how to defend our- selves against armed attackers. We got into groups of four and took turns practicing what we had learned. While those classes were informative in their own way, the real story began when we got to the “Transgender 101” classroom and I first met the man that would forever change my life. As we made our way to the “Transgender 101” classroom, I experienced a strange sense of fear. I could not explain why I did not like the idea of that class. It was not because I was Trans- phobic or anything like that; honestly I did not even know what being Transgendered even meant back then. Something about the class that set my nerves on end, made my heart start to beat a hundred beats per minute. I somehow knew that if I actually went into that room, everything would change. I did not think that I was completely prepared for that to happen. The sensations that I was feeling were so overbearing that I stopped short of the door. I felt as though I could not breathe. My legs became heavy to the point where I felt I would not being able to walk. I would have stayed there until it was time for the next class had it not been for my sister. She had been walking behind me and bumped into me when I had stopped. She gave an exasperated sigh, 25 which I knew meant that she was tired and ready to get her last class over with so that she could go “bust a move”. “What are you doing? We’re going to be late, god!” She said, irritably before she pushed me into the room. When I got into the class there were two people greeting everyone. A short, ginger haired man of about 30 years named Reese and a tremendously tall, plain looking woman named Karen. The way they greeted everyone was totally stereotypical of their gender. First, Reese would look each person in the eyes as he extended his stubby hand out for a handshake. Then, Karen handed out warm hugs to those she encountered. It took well over 10 minutes before they had greeted every- one and people found their seats. After all the greetings were completed, Reese brought the class to attention by asking a loaded question. “Hello. My name is Reese and I am a Transman. How many of you know what a Transman or Transwomen is?” Reese allowed a few moments to go by with no one answering before he continued. “Okay. So no one here knows that is perfectly fine. We will get to that in a minute then. How about this one, who knows the difference between sex and gender?” “Sex is an act of demonstrating one’s affections for another and gender is biological.” Someone from the back had said in response. “That is a very good answer but it is not the correct answer. You are right about some parts but gender and sex are fluid.” Reese replied. We all just sat back, dumbfounded. How can someone’s gender be fluid? As far as I had known, there were only two genders, male and female. As I strained my eyes to see, the chart that was behind them my mind was reeling. My mind could not wrap around the idea that there was

something in between the two genders and yet right behind Reese was a whole diagram of differ- ent genders. Looking around the room, I could tell that a few others were thinking the same thing that I was and apparently, Reese had noticed it. He went on to defend himself. “Let me explain. Gender is fluid because, contrary, to the popular belief it is not just male and female or masculine and feminine. You can have a biological sex that is female and still have a gen- der that is male. How you wonder? Because of your gender identity. Gender identity is how you 26 see yourself; your mind set. If your biological sex and your gender identity do not match up then you may experience feelings of depression. This is something that most Transgender people fight with every day. The best way I can describe it is using an analogy. Think of your cellphone, your sex is the battery and your gender is the battery port. Now if the battery matches the port then your phone can be powered on no problem. But what if your battery does not match the port?” “Your phone doesn’t work.” I chanced. “Exactly! That is what being Transgender is, in a sense. Your mental and physical attributes do not match and so there is no peace. It may feel as if you do not belong or fit in.” I could not believe my ears. It was as if he was speaking to me. For years, I had felt as though something was wrong with me. I had a female body and yet, I did not feel like a girl; I felt like a boy. It had always been that way for me for as long as I could remember. People referred to me as a boy whenever my mom and I went out somewhere. In school, I played all of the “boy” games and activities and stayed as far away from the “girl” ones as possible. I knew that I was different because I detested dresses or any tight clothing, especially the ones that other girls would wear. I felt most comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt. I liked girls and hated my body. I lived most of my childhood in a fantasy praying that I would never have to grow boobs like my mom and sister. ‘Am I transgender?’ I asked myself upon reflection. The remainder of the class period I was on the edge of my seat. I was hanging on to every word that Reese was saying. As promised, Karen and Reese first took turns going over the chart that was behind them. They said that it was called the “Transgender Umbrella” and that many people fell under it but that did not make them transgender. Then, Reese brought everyone to tear when he spoke of his childhood. He explained in detail how he had known, that although he had been born with a female body, he was not a girl by the age of three. How his mother begged and pleaded with him to be “normal” so that he would not have to live a difficult life, and how he finally came to terms with who he really was after attending a lecture about Transsexuals. At the end of the class, I stayed behind hoping to get a one on one with Reese to talk with him and gain some insight. ‘I’m only doing this for the club.’ I told myself as Reese turned to face me. “What is your name young man?” He had asked me.

27 “My name is Georgia and I’m a girl.” I had awkwardly corrected him, as I had been forced to do with nearly everyone since childhood. “Oh. I am so sorry. I did not mean to misgender you. It is just that…you look so much like a boy naturally and I mean that as a compliment. It took me a year on Testosterone to look this good.” He joked, wiggly his eyebrows to make me laugh. “No”, I said through a small smile, “it is okay. I get that a lot actually. I guess I’m used to it at this point.” “Have you ever considered transitioning from female to male?” Reese had asked me, com- pletely serious now. “Um, no. I cannot say that I have.” “I suggest that you think about it. I could tell by the way that you answered my question that you are hurting and uncomfortable in the skin you are in. You need to know that it is okay to be different. There is nothing wrong with you and you have nothing to be ashamed of; you are not alone. Many people out there feel the same way that you do. Some of them try to bury the way they feel, like you, but it ends up tearing away at them. It eats them alive until they cannot stand it anymore and they kill themselves. I do not want this to happen to you, Jay. That is why you need to listen to me and please heed my advice…If you truly want to be happy, than you must first accept yourself. I do not mean the happiness that comes with having a good job and a family; I mean the happiness that comes from loving yourself. You need to do some soul searching. You do not want to be stuck living a lie, do you?” Reese said, and pulled me in for a hug as I began to cry, “You really would make a very handsome young man.” I left that class and spent the rest of the conference in a daze. My club and family forgotten as I allowed myself to wallow in self-pity. I kept replaying Reese’s words repeatedly in my head and thinking about my childhood but it made no difference in the end. I was terrified. Even though I knew that Reese had a point, I was not ready to be any more different then I already was. I would spend the next three years in this daze, always denying how I felt and avoiding any kind of talk about Transgendered people. It has been five years now, since Reese and I had had this conversation. Many years of him repeating himself, years of him trying to pursued me to transition because he saw how depressed 28 I was having to live my life in a body that I hated. In a world that did not understand nor accept me. Reese was not only just my friend, he was my mentor, and ally as well. The only person who ever saw me for me. He accepted my fear and often consoled me when the depression became too much to handle alone. He would say remind me of that first conversation, tell me how to find happiness and I, in turn, would push him away out of fear. I am ashamed to say that it was not until a few months after he died that I finally decided to lead by his example. In November of 2016, I began my transition from female to male. It is because of Reese’s teachings that I have had the strength to accept the things that have come along with it. I have stood inside a courthouse and legally changed my name and gender. I have injected bi-weekly hormones into my body and have undergone a puberty that was right for me as a result. I have spoken out against society in hopes of providing education for a safer future for the LGBT. And at the end of the day, I am left

with a single thought: ‘Reese was right’. I have never been happier than I was the day I acknowl- edged who I truly was; and I have only one man to thank for that.

29 I’ll be Back... David J. Rushing

“What are you doing in that class...? You should be in English 1A!” I was recently asked that question by one of the tutors that helped me last semester when he found out I was taking English 125. He said that I was a very good writer, and he wondered if I was wasting my time taking basic classes such as English 252 and 125. I reminded him that I did not know the things that I learned in English 252, like using a “hook,” going from general to specific in the opening paragraph, and how to write a thesis statement, until I took that class. Also, I reminded him that I was expected to know those concepts already when I take 1A. Nevertheless, a very good question is, “What am I doing going back to school?” There are numerous factors that led me to return to school, such as not having a Bachelor’s degree, wanting a more fulfilling career, and hoping to be able to write better; it has been a long process, but the consequence of that decision has been the discovery of a wonderful new experience. I am not even sure when I originally started thinking seriously about returning to school, but in a sense the “seeds” were planted in the early 1980s when I left Fresno State University (FSU) to pursue a technical career. I did not get my Bachelor’s degree; rather, I got an AS in Electronics at Fresno City College (FCC). Because I did not receive a Bachelor’s degree, it has been my desire for decades to remedy that. In addition, although I generally enjoy my work, I have often wondered if there was some other career that I was better suited for. I thought that if I went back to school, maybe I could dis-

cover what that might be. At various times I spent a large number of hours looking at the college catalogs of both FCC and FSU. Then, more recently, changes and growth in my personal life have made it clear to me that I could successfully complete a class or two each semester and maintain a good GPA. Because my work day ends at 2:30 PM, I am able to take a class in the late afternoon or early evening and still finish my day at a reasonable hour. All of these things contributed to the

decision to return to school, but the main cause for me to return to school is a much longer chain of events that led to a wonderful discovery. I had never learned to write well. In fact, in the past I had actually expressed the thought that I would rather have a dentist drill on my teeth, without the benefits of Novocain, than write 30 an essay. In a true sense, there are many contributory causes of this belief. First, my father strug- gled in school. Then, because he did not know his father, he lacked some skills in being a father. A men’s counselor once explained that because he was in two wars and by necessity disconnected from his feelings, he struggled to connect emotionally with his children, especially the boys. Being a middle child in a large family, I was a bit lost. Because he struggled in school and did not know how to be an exceptional father, he was not very helpful to me in my struggles at school. In the early 1960s, the stress he experienced as a correctional officer contributed to his problems with alcohol and led to me feeling even more isolated. About that time, I transferred to a new school and had the worst teacher possible. I had her for both 4th and 6th grade. There is a good chance she was the worst teacher that anyone has ever had. She split the class in half: She put the smart kids on one side and the stupid kids on the other. Guess what? I was not on the smart side. Because my teacher was not very good at teaching and I did not want to be at school, I did not learn to write very well. However, I have returned to school and now I am actually enjoying learning this new skill. The main reason I returned to school was the desire

to explore the possibility of writing better, and now the main reason I am continuing is the inspira- tion that I received from my professor, student peers, and others that have read my writing. What caused this change? This change was a gradual process. It started over four decades ago in the early 1970s. I had first started Solano Community College in the fall of 1972, after gradu- ating from high school, but I had little motivation. I started and withdrew from English 1A every semester for a year and a half. Then I quit school. After working for near minimum wage in a fac- tory for about a year, I gained the motivation to want to succeed. I did not want to be stuck in a low-paying job. Soon after returning to Solano, though, I found that I could not read for more than about half an hour before I would start falling asleep. A counselor suggested I have my eyes examined. After I obtained glasses, I was able to read for long periods of time without falling asleep. Because I could read for longer periods of time and that same counselor helped me with study skills, I started succeeding in school. Originally, I mostly did well in classes like math and technical classes, such as welding and drafting. I had another break from college when I joined the United States Navy. After I was honorably discharged from the Navy, I returned to college with greater motivation and confidence. Because 31 of this motivation and confidence, and because of my desire to work in the medical field as well as my spiritual awakening, I was now succeeding in the sciences and any other classes I took. Yet, I never felt confident about my writing, and I was never expecting to have a desire to write because I did not think I could. Somewhere inside, I still believed I was stupid. It was only a couple of years ago that I was told some of the specifics, which I had forgotten, about that teacher who had split the class in half. Then, I also remembered I had been told by a specialist, after she had tested me, that I was very intelligent. I am not sure I believed her, but this knowledge made me wonder if there was a possibility that I could learn to write well. It was only recently that I figured out that maybe I had missed something in grade school, and that I should consider going all the way back to the basics. Therefore, in the fall of 2015 I took a grammar class, and the next semester I took English 252. I thought I was going to learn how to write simple sentences and then eventually paragraphs. The original class I registered for was canceled after two or three weeks. I was able to add another English 252 class on a different evening, but imagine my surprise to find out the students were turning in their rough draft for their first paper the night I joined it! That paper needed to be at least five paragraphs! I was alarmed! The professor, who taught the grammar class I had just taken, reassured me that she would help me and would take into consideration that I had joined her class late. The process of writing that narrative paper was quite interesting, if not convoluted, but it turned out well. In fact, after some re-writing and encouragement from that professor, the first paper I wrote in about forty years was published locally. The most surprising thing to me about all that has happened, regarding my writing, was the response I got from so many people. Quite a few people have told me how much they liked the essays I wrote that semester. One tutor I showed them to, who saw them for the first time, was so excited about what he read that he insisted that some of the other tutors read them as well. Originally, when my professor asked me if I wanted to write a book someday, I dismissed the thought out of hand. Since then, I have realized that it really might be an attainable goal. The most surprising thing to happen, though, was when I read my paper to some teachers I had met at work. I saw their reactions as I read the happy and sad parts of that essay. Seeing their reactions and hearing them talk with each other about their own memories moved me immensely. I saw and felt what writing could convey. 32 Returning to school to learn to write has been a long process. I had hoped to get a Bachelor’s degree. Also, I wanted to explore career choices, but most of all I wanted to see if I could learn to write well. Returning to school as an older adult has been mostly a great experience. I have learned to enjoy writing. I hope to learn how to write even better. I am excited to know, if I con- tinue to improve, that I may be able to affect people in positive ways. Because I returned to school, I have had the life-changing experience of reaching others with my writing and also of sparking a new wonder in myself at the power of writing. What is Judgment? Marilyn Sataua

“Look at those other kids; they are doing something with their lives.” “You are too fat; you need to lose some weight.” Judgment is something people boldly expressed in my childhood. My mother tends to say hurtful things without any thought to how it might affect me. She wanted for her children to do better in life than what she did as a child. Critically judging me throughout my life made her feel that it was helping her in sculpting my future for the better. As a child, I took everything in like a sponge because of respect I had for others. Being judged as a child is impor- tant to me because it branded my life in a way that I can never pass judgment on someone else. Judgment is waking up depressed and despondent. It’s the voice in my head that repeats my mother’s comments like a heavy metal song everyday I wake up in the morning: “Why can’t you be like those other kids?” It’s picturing her face when she looks at me with disgust and disappoint- ment. I can’t say that I had a horrible childhood, but it was far from perfect. I had no father figure in my life and my mother was hardly around because she had two jobs to support us as a single mother. There was never a compliment or a pat on the back. As a child, I didn’t understand the hardships she was going through to support a family of four, but I was her child and I wanted to feel that I was accepted. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me but I want to hear my heart cry. Throughout my childhood, I squelched my feelings and told no one. I will no longer be reticent. Today, I speak out. Judgment perceives as if it loves you; constantly comparing you to others and saying in the name of love is why they curse at you. Judgment lingers in your mind and soul trying to confuse you. It makes you feel that you need to change yourself just because someone else says. I question myself, why? If you love me, why do I feel that my life has depreciated? Judgment is silence. In school, they tell me that I am too fat or ugly; I shamefully walk away as I hear a group of kids laughing hysterically. They judge me for my appearance but have not even gotten to know me yet. I rush home from school desperately wanting to vent my frustration, but I’d rather not in fear of being judged from my mother. Instead, silence is where I feel I can find my peace.

34 Judgment is rebellion. The more my mother judges me, I start to fill my mind and heart with anger. Such anger that my heart begins to harden like a rock. Why should I listen? Judgment has already been set on my life. “That’s why you will never get anything in life”, “You will always be a failure” she says with a disgusted look on her face. A blank look on my face, I take it all in like a sponge. I am to a point where I feel like I’m going to explode like a volcano and everyone around me will feel the wrath of my flaming hot lava. Judgment is motivation. Through all the criticism and judgment people threw at me, I per- severed. Finally, I realize that it does not matter what other people say about you; it’s what you think about yourself. Any place you go or anyone you meet, there will always be someone that will judge you for whatever reason. Judgment is making a decision and saying, “I had enough.” Judgment is proving them wrong, waking up every morning and telling yourself today is another day closer to your goal. What everyone else says or thinks is irrelevant. It’s walking past them with a smile on your face because you see a light at the end of your tunnel. Being judged throughout my life played a special role that made me the person I am today. We are surrounded by these types of people everyday. Experiences like this have molded me into a stronger and better person today. Judgment is a disease. It affects every aspects of your life. At one point in time, someone will

suffer the side effects from this horrible disease. It is up to us to determine how it will affect us. Judg- ment is not a value someone should posses, but unfortunately, many people wear it proudly. This value is important to me because it taught me to never judge a person but to help build them up.

35 Freedom from the Bondage of Suffering Savun Sean

As an adult living with Transgenerational Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and the child of a survivor of a Cambodian Concentration Camp, I have experienced the freedom from depression and healing from the emotional harm caused by a damaged individual with the help of others, which is why my career goal is to help others in the field of Mental Health like those who helped me. I was raised by my mother who was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; a men- tal disorder that affects the thinking process including comprehension, experiencing high levels of fear causing severe anxiety, depression, and physical reactions. All of these symptoms had latched onto me and I suffered much of the emotional harm. I exhibited the feeling of unworthiness and self-hatred for the majority of my childhood and adult life. My mother never used to be this way until she was enslaved by the Khmer Rouge; an army lead by Pol Pot who was a leader of a Com- munist party in Cambodia from 1975 to 1979. Before her slavery in a concentration in Cambodia, she had to forfeit her home, her car, aban- doned her business, and all her heirlooms including family pictures that were destroyed. Seventy percent of our family members were put to death either through drowning, shooting, starvation, and or executed in one of the most inhumane ways. I recall the time she told me about how she found her sister’s lifeless body, poisoned in a cabbage farm. It turned out from an anonymous source that her sister poisoned herself to avoid being raped from a group of Khmer Rouge men. With this experience, she expressed to me her devastation, anger, and sadness for this atrocity. My

mother held onto this pain and every time this crosses her mind, it triggers violent and physi- cal reactions. It was very uncomfortable for me to watch her show this side of her but with her untreated PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) this was the only way she could express herself. As her son, I could only give her the attention and care she needed. Regardless of the level of fear that was going through her mind, she tried her best in keeping herself safe and was permitted to

work in the kitchen at the concentration camp. While working in the kitchen, she was not allowed to eat and was caught stealing a hand- ful of rice to feed herself and my then eight-year-old sister. My mother was chained with heavy shackles and placed in an underground cell which, would have been about 105 degrees in the 36 extreme heat due to the climate. From this experience, she learned not to steal and put herself in danger because she was pregnant with me. Thinking back, I can see that she suffered so much ter- ror that she never experienced mourning the loss of loved ones. She experienced frustration from not allowing herself to express grief. Slowly, she was brainwashed to believe she was worthless, doomed for failure, and left with scares all over her body. The biggest scare that was left on her was the feeling that she would never escape and there was no hope for her and my sister. Fortunately, my father rescued my mother and sister from the concentration camp and fled to Thailand. However, my father had stepped on a landmine and lost his life. Before his death, he told my mother to escape to America and promise him to build a new life and remarry. He wants her to be happy and nothing more. Before the rescue, my father searched for my mother in nearby

destroyed towns but had no luck because of the chaos that was going on during the war. Luck- ily, he obtained the information from an anonymous source in regards to her whereabouts and infiltrated the concentration camp and rescued her. Through his sacrifice and demonstration of love, he freed her from her hopelessness and gave her a reason to live and have hope. Every time my mother would watch any war movies, like The Killing Field, which was an adaptation of the Khmer Regime, she would get angry and use so much profanity. I believe it triggered her with so much trauma from losing my father that she exhibited high level of anger and emotional stress. This is one of the main symptoms of PTSD. In addition, many survivors from the war suffered this condition and can transfer onto the next generation, which is named TPTSD (Trans-genera- tional Post Traumatic Syndrome Disorder). My mother and I suffered many of the same symptoms. For example, we exhibit high level of anxiety, negative thinking, fears, irregular appetite, sadness, and emotional stress, which leads to the belief of unworthiness, low self-esteem and severe depression. One day after her doctor vis- its, she came home with psych pills, which was to elevate her mood but she threw them away. She refused to take them and said, “They are not natural. Those doctors just want to make money off of me!” I appreciate her stubbornness. She always had that fire in her, which I believe helped her persist and flee from the concentration camp. To my knowledge, she had received help with her mental health however, she refused to take the prescribed medications which, left her exhausted to live the way she did for the rest of her 37 life. My mother and I related not just because of our blood relation but the fact that we have suf- fered emotional and mental harm. Although, my mother and I love each other immensely we lack the ability to express ourselves when we have our moments. For example, when I was about eight years old, I came home after being bullied and beat up at school. My mother would suggest that I go back to school and beat them up. The thought came to me in these words, “Even your mother does not care for you. You are a nobody.” I felt like I was talking to a brick wall because she was not listening to me. Could she see that I was afraid, hurt, and needed comfort? In spring of 2012, my mother developed cancer and faced with this, I fell into a deep depres- sion. It was hard, knowing that my hero and best friend was slowly deteriorating from the inside out. I felt as if quicksand had stretched around me and swallowed me up little by little. One day, I heard my mother pray and it hit me like a giant iceberg. She was accepting death and I am still holding onto my depression. With this thought, I realized how selfish I was becoming because I was more concerned about myself, than be the son she needed in her life. Depression is a mental illness and can take joy, peace, and zest out of anyone’s life. In my depression, I was afraid of her losing her forgetting that she lived a full life and accomplished many things. On October 25, 2012, in the Community Regional Medical Center in the Critical Care Unit,

while leaning over and massaging my mother’s feet, I closed my eyes and I could see how won- derful it was to have her in my life. Watching her with tubes coming in and out of her frail and feeble body, I felt broken yet; I had a thought in my mind that she will be okay. As I watched her breath slowly, I started thinking this could be the beginning of a new journey. I remembered her late night prayers and suddenly, I felt a loving presence in the room. As my mother took her last breath, I felt a big relief and knew that her emotional, mental and physical pain was gone. She was freed of pain and suffering. Because of the passing of my mother, I learned about self-care and compassion for myself and for others. If I could do things over again, I would have been more involved with her doctor’s vis- its, taking her medication and be more emotionally supportive. I was wrong for my neglect in regards to her PTSD because I assumed that she was misdiagnosed. I did not recognize the signs of PTSD nor had the education to be supportive. This lesson brought me to a place of love, accep- tance and to not be crucial on myself due to my TPTSD occurrences. I found support groups 38 and reached out to genuine people that became my friends, who later became a part of my family. I found that meditation, prayers, practicing mindfulness, gratitude and taking an honest inven- tory of myself was healing from my emotional and mental scars. I am still healing today and continuously exploring more expressions. In wanting to help others who have experienced simi- lar emotional and mental trauma like my mother and I had, I am now in college with an intent to major in psychology so I can help, like those who help me did.

39 The Importance of Education Alecia Scott

Albert Einstein once said, “The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education.” When I think of this famous quote, I think of my husband who taught me just how important education is to me. My husband is a very intelligent man who always goes beyond while thinking outside of the box as Albert Einstein. My husband also believed that if you finish your education, it will open many doors of opportunities that life has to offer. He’s also a very successful Sub- stance Abuse Counselor who, wears nicely creased suites, ties that are neatly fixed with a soft silky feeling, and Polished jet-black Stacy Adams shoes so shinny that you could use them as mirrors. Lastly, he would then spray on his favorite cologne from the Nautica collection that smells like a rich hint of an ocean breeze. He is a man who I admire very much and who also inspires me to reach for my dreams despite any impediments that may come my way. By struggling financially to support our family, I learned just how important it is to have an education to provide and build a future for my family. Six years ago, on April 18, 2011 was the day that I decided to complete my Associates Degree in Early Childhood Education and for my husband to finish his Bachelor’s in Psychology. We were going to be expecting our new little bundle of joy within. Our first initial thought was, how I could juggle being a part-time student at Fresno City College while raising our five-year old son, and having a new baby on the way. My anxiety then started to kick-in as it drove me to panic and gasp for my air. My heart began to tremble and race so fast, that I could feel the vicious pound-

ing while hearing its piercing scream for help. I then started to feel this soft warm hand lay gently upon mine which instantly diminished my over flowing emotions of fear. It was my husband’s hand that had grazed upon my hand to remind me that everything would be okay. Afterwards, we pulled ourselves together and developed a two-year plan of what we wanted to accomplish as a family. Our list consisted of buying a cheap lemon car. Relocating to a better

place to raise our family instead of a decrepit apartment. Finding higher paying jobs with benefits like medical and life insurance. Most importantly, reaching our goals in life by finishing our edu- cation. My husband was currently interning for six long excruciating months at the Fresno Rescue Mission as a Substance Abuse Counselor before a pay check. As you can imagine, working eight 40 hours a day for six days a week out of six months without pay for a family of four was a financial burden that became very hard to swallow. We already knew that times were going to get tough, money was going to be tighter than before, and we still decided to grab life by the horns and ride it out. We were on a monthly bud- get of only receiving $480 dollars from Cal-works, $500in food stamps from Cal-fresh which the Welfare provided for people who fall into low-income, or have no income at all. We miracu- lously managed to stay afloat with our $980-dollar monthly budget for ten long months until our new addition to the family arrived on 18, 2012. Thankfully, four months prior before our baby’s arrival, our prayers were answered when my husband finally received his first check after he com- pleted his internship. Things were starting to look brighter as our income increased to $2, 580 dollars to provide for our little family. By struggling financially to provide for our family, I learned just how important it is to have an education to support and build a future for my family. My life has changed tremendously because, this lesson taught me how important my education is to me and if I wanted a better life for my family. It is now 2017, and I am still currently attending Fresno City College as a proud Child Development Major with a 3.8 GPA. I have also completed thirty-one units out of forty- eight which is required for General Education and other Child Development classes. Once I

complete my last year at Fresno City College with my Associates Degree in Early Childhood Edu- cation, I will transfer to Fresno State to finish my two-year Bachelor’s Degree of Science (B.S) in Early Childhood Education with a Teacher’s Credential. I strive to succeed in my education because, the lesson my husband taught continues to prove how important my education is today. Alexander Graham Bell stated, “When one door closes another one opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door, that we do not see the ones which open for us.”

41 Mother knows Best Denise Sifuentes

My mother Mrs. Yolanda Alvarado is as strong as a lion. She is most definitely my protector. She’s always been the type of parent to put me in my place when needed. She would constantly tell me over and over again, “Denise you need to stop drinking mija, you’re going to end up in trouble”. I never listened to her. I was as stubborn as an angry cat trying to be showered. It wasn’t until one night I decided to go out with my cousin for her birthday. We went to this club called Club Rome. I ended up getting so drunk that I blacked out and went missing from the night club. I was found later the next morning in the middle of nowhere beat up. From that day forward I took my mother’s advice seriously. I realized and learned that if I didn’t stop drinking the way I did that I’d end up getting raped or found somewhere again but this time dead. It was my cousin Cassandra’s birthday. Cassandra and I were the only ones of age to go to a club. So we got all dressed up and were ready to paint the town red. I had my little black dress on, hair did up and lips as red as a rose. We were feeling fabulous. As we started having what we call “pre gaming”, having drinks before we get to the club, my mom calls. I hated that every time she knew I was ready to party she would say, “I have a bad feeling” so I wouldn’t go, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me and she knew it. So instead she prayed for me and told me to give her all the information of where we were going to be. Now looking back, I learned that it wasn’t to stop me from having fun or enjoying myself but only to protect her baby, me. I knew in the back of my mind that she was only trying to look out for me. My cousin had reserved the V.I.P. section with unlimited drinks. We walked in like we were superstars on the red carpet. The drinks started flowing and the music was pumping. We were having a great time. I remember some really good looking guys surrounding us and we just started dancing with them. We were pretty buzzed by then. They ended up inviting us to their V.I.P. section. I begin to feel myself getting drunk and dizzy. As I drank more and more it kept coming back to me in the back of my mind more and more., that I needed to stop already, but I

couldn’t help myself, especially because I’m one to be known as the life of the party. So me know- ing the consequences of my actions would reflect in total disaster, didn’t care about my mother’s distinct voice in my ear telling me to stop. I felt like I had a little devil and angel on my shoulder 42 arguing. I knew that I should listen to the angel but the devil got the best of me with my alcohol- ism. So typical of me, I was as drunk as a pirate and blacked out into oblivion. I woke up the next day in pain at my mom’s house. I was confused and drunk still. I went outside to sit with my mother and asked her, “mom how did I get here”. She started telling me that I disappeared from my cousin and they couldn’t find me for hours. She started cry- ing because she said she felt like she could hear my cry as she searched for me. She had finally received a call from some strange woman at five in the morning saying that some guys were trying to rape me and that she helped me and was going to meet my mom at this little store on Golden State Avenue. My mom said the lady who had me said I was already beat up. I was horrified and ashamed that I let myself end up in a situation like that. I learned that my mom was truly my pro-

tector and this happening to me was what her fear was from the beginning. I know now as a mother that when we have bad feelings about something bad happening to our children, to go with that gut feeling. My mom has always tried to tell me for my own good. As I look back I don’t regret what happened because it made me learn to be more responsible as a per- son and adult. It could have been worse for me but luckily I have my mom who never gave up on me. I realized that I was an alcoholic. If I could take myself to that point by drinking, what would have happened next? I was not about to find out. I’m not perfect and I may never be, but one thing I am is wiser now, and I’ll never give up on working on myself. I will always thank my mother for encouraging me to make better choices. It’s because of her that I have a second chance today. Now my focus today is not on my childish ways, but being a better mother, daughter and person.

43 My Silhouette in Detail Paul Soto

When I get up and start my day I look tired for the first thirty minutes. My eyes look puffy like an Afro. I am slim like an athlete and tanned like a life guard. I am bald headed and have the lux- ury of looking the same or ready whenever I wake up. When standing in the sun, the sun reflects off my bald head causing it to shine like a bright light. I have little and short hair on my chin. I consider myself to be short. Others consider me to be the average height of a male; I stand 5’7. My skin feels soft and smooth in some areas. While other areas have slight hair on them, the texture changes from slightly rough to as smooth as a new Mercedes Benz off the lot. The skin on my head is also soft and smooth when you pass your hand along the grain. When passing your hand against the grain it feels rough like sand paper. A day after shaving my head the tex- ture changes all around, it feels as prickly as a cactus. The skin on my elbows feel as loose as a stretched out t-shirt and as wrinkled as crumbled up paper. Before applying hydrating lotion to my skin it feels dry like a desert. Once the creamy lotion is applied my skin feels as soft as silk. After exercising in the morning and before taking a shower I smell like sliced onion. After a hot shower I smell good and clean like freshly printed money. It’s a different story for my breath in the morning. My breath kicks funkier than a funky base line. Good thing I have Crest max toothpaste. After a good brushing of the teeth my breath quickly goes from funky to as fresh as an ocean breeze. After doing some yard work outside I smell earthy like freshly cut grass. The fact is I need to keep up with hygiene or have a strong odor linger around me like a skunk. Although I eat fast I still take the time to taste my food. When I finish eating, my lips tend to taste like whatever I just ate. Today was fish tacos. When running around in the kitchen to

cook a big meal I taste as greasy as fast food. When barbecuing outside I taste like smoked bar- becue chicken. After brushing my teeth with some minty toothpaste and vigorously washing my mouth with Listerine mouth wash my mouth tastes as cold as the snowy mountains. A good meal

deserves a good exercise. After an intense run I taste saltier than a salted pretzel. This leads to a hot shower. After a steamy shower I taste like old spice body wash. When first waking up my voice is sounds deeper than it usually does. After being awake for a little while my voice is good to go like a car that has been warmed up in the morning. My voice 44 is not too deep but it’s not too soft either, it’s somewhere in between. When I laugh a simple burst of ha - ha comes out. I don’t consider my laugh to sound weird. Many people’s laughs I’ve heard sound weirder than a big man with a little voice. When I cry my voice uncontrollably trembles like an earthquake. When I’m excited my voice gets as loud as a siren. When I am mad my voice gets as firm as a drill Sargent.

45 Anger Makes You Smaller, Forgiveness Doesn’t Choua Vang

We encounter many life lessons as we age; we learn from our mistakes, and some we learn from others. My mother had always been a very sweet person who never hesitated to help anyone. Most of the time she does not realize that people take advantage of her kindness. She had always taught me never hold grudges on anyone, even if someone had done wrong to you. From this les- son, I learned to forgive and always be the better person. My mother became an orphan at four years old. Her father passed away due to the war and her mother remarried another man from a different village in Laos. She considered herself an orphan, because she had no parents and had to live with her uncles. While living with them she and her siblings practically became their slaves. At that young age they were forced to farm, do chores, and babysit. She lived with them until she was a teenager and got married to my father. My father who was also an orphan because he lost his father and his mother also remarried. When they got married they lived with my father’s grandparents. During this time, they lived in a camp site in Laos due to the Vietnam war. My mother thought she would have a better life now that she had escaped her uncles. Instead, my father’s family also treated her badly, especially my great-grandma. During this time, they had very little livestock and meat was expensive. My mother told us about times that they would send her off to the farm, and when she returned the family would had already finished eating. My great-grand would tell her, ‘We saved you some rice in the kitchen, so go eat since you went farming all day”. My mother said as if they purposely wanted her to know they had eaten meat, they would leave an empty pot of bones next to the rice. In addition, my aunts would gossip and laugh about her for no reasons. They would said untrue things and cheer on my father to scold my mother. The family had no respect for my mother because they knew she was an orphan and had no one. As a result, my parents moved out of his grandparent’s house. With no help from any of their families, they built a shack a couple houses away from their grandparent’s home. My mother became pregnant and gave birth to my oldest brother. At that time the Americans was helping the

46 Hmong people come to the United States, because they helped in the Vietnam War. Luckily my parents were chosen and was sent to the United States. Meanwhile, both their families stayed behind in Laos. After a couple years my parents was able to get on their feet and helped the rest of his family to the United States. By this time my mother still felt the bitterness from them but slowly forgave them. Not long after their arrival they became mean and spoke badly of my mother again. She felt hopeless and hated them. From these events, my mother suffered from anxiety and depression. She had to dealt with being an orphan, forced to be her uncle’s slave, survived the Vietnam War, and endure the pain her in-law’s put her through. My mother had no one to lean on and kept all the anger she had inside. She cursed bad upon them and nothing but the worst. As the years went by my mother kept to herself. She stopped attending family gatherings on my father’s family side. She was tired of walking into a house full of people ready to talk down on her. They liked everyone else except my mother. My mother knew she had done nothing wrong and what these people said of her wasn’t true. Instead of involving my father, she kept quiet and never told him how she felt. One day, my great-grandma became very ill. She was going in and out of the hospital every other week. After many testing’s, she was diagnosed with a late stage of colon cancer. My great- grandma got weaker and more fragile. Her illness was sucking the life out of her. She became incontinence and bed bound. The Doctors gave her a time frame of six to eight months to live. At this point, none of the family members wanted to take care of her. My father being the person that he is, with the biggest heart he offered to take care of her. At first, my mother disagreed and said to let her die at a skilled nursing facility, because of all the bad things she had said about my mother. Instead, my mother saw how badly in shape she was and openly welcomed her into our home. During this time my mother took care of her. Within a month they became two totally differently person. After school one day, it was my senior year at the time. I walked through the doors into our house. The aroma of rice cake filled the room. I could hear the rice cake maker pounding away. The house was hot due to the sticky rice steaming. I could hear giggles and laughter coming from

47 kitchen. As I got to the kitchen, there was my mother and great-grandmother talking and laugh- ing. It felt weird at first but then it suddenly felt warm and happy. A couple days later my great-grandmother became weaker than ever. We knew this was the day she was ready to leave. All the relatives were in our house and surrounds my great-grandma’s hospital bed. My mother sat next to her as she reached out and held her hands. She said to my mother, “Sorry that I am old and not understanding. For I had put you through a lot and said mean things to you. Because you had no parents, I thought you would give my grandson a bad life. Due to my thoughtless reasoning I got to meet you too late. Within just these few months I got to know you, you are the most kind hearted and beautiful person I had known. I bless you with only good things in life.” An hour later, she passed away. Therefore, since that day none of my father’s family spoke badly of my mother. They witness the most bitter old woman spoke nicely of her, and because of that, they knew her words are true. From that day on, my mother got closer to the family, she had always wanted to get to know. Till this day my mother will remind us of this story. No matter how much people hurt you, as long as you forgive them and be the better person you will live in peace. In conclusion, I learned from my mother’s experience is to avoid all the negativities around you. If you are able to forgive and be the better person, you will not have to live having those bad

thoughts in the back of your mind. If you become the better person you will live in peace know- ing you’ve at least done your part. At the end of the day, if you do not let out the negative things in your life, it would be only your own mind suffering, not someone else.

48

About Ourselves A Collection of Essays Written by Fresno City College Students in Developmental and Preparatory English Fall 2016 – Spring 2017

Fresno City College Humanities Division English Department 1101 E. University Avenue Fresno, CA 93741 www.fresnocitycollege.edu

State Center Community College District