The AP Literature class was noisy as all students discussed William Ernest Henley’s “Invictus,” the summer assignment. Despite the noise, I could not remove my eyes from the poem. The words refused to free my attention. Thus, the reading began. “Out of the night that covers me.” A vague image of darkness grew in my mind. “Black as the pit from pole to pole.” The world around me seemed to gradually disappear. “I thank whatever gods may be.” Henley�...

Growing up in Mexico, one belief truly comes to mind as I reflect about my environment: only when the individual learns to appreciate the work of his hands can the transition to maturity occur. Each drop of sweat in his face, each cut in his soft fingers, each sore muscle in his delicate body, only resemble his passion and dedication, thus his shift to maturity. Or at least that is the misconception of maturity by the Hispanic community. Maturity, on...