Personal Essay

By Elizabeth Estrada

Elizabeth Estrada of Southold High School.

The first time a student called me “Ms. Queso,” I corrected him immediately. “That’s not my name,” I said, laughing, assuming it would pass. But it didn’t. Within a week, every student in the room had adopted it as if it had always belonged to me. It started because, on my first day volunteering at Community Action Southold Town as a Bilingual after-school STEM teacher, a student asked my favorite food. My initial answer of “cheese” was met with a blank stare, so I tried again: “queso.” That was enough. The next time I walked through the door, a student ran up to me and yelled, “Ms. Queso ! I missed you.”

At first, I didn’t know what to do with that. I had come into the classroom wanting to be structured and organized, someone who could guide students clearly through STEM lessons without distractions. And suddenly, I had been reduced to a midday snack. But the more I tried to redirect them, the more natural it became for them to call me that. And more importantly, I began to notice what came with it. Students became more willing to speak, more comfortable asking questions, and quicker to laugh instead of shutting down when something didn’t work the first time. The room felt lighter, more inviting. Eventually, I stopped correcting them, and the name “Ms. Queso” stayed.

And in doing so, I began to understand something I hadn’t when I first started teaching. I had assumed that structure would create comfort–that ifl explained things clearly and maintained order, students would naturally feel confident enough to participate. But what they showed me, without ever saying it directly, was that comfort doesn’t follow structure. It has to come with it.

‘Many of the students at CAST are still learning English or navigating school systems that were not designed with them in mind. Some enter the classroom already convinced that subjects like science or technology are not meant for them, not because they lack ability, but because they have never been given a reason to believe otherwise. In many ways, they remind me of my younger self.

When I first moved to the United States, I struggled to learn English, often understanding less than I wanted to admit. Speaking felt like exposing a weakness rather than participating, and it was easier to remain quiet than risk saying something wrong. Over time, that kind of environment teaches you to shrink–not because you are incapable, but because you are trying to protect yourself from being seen as less than.

The difference is that now, I am on the other side of that experience. And I have the ability to shape what that space feels like for someone else. That realization changed the way I approached teaching. I began moving between English and Spanish more fluidly, allowing students to engage in whichever language felt most natural. I stopped rushing to correct mistakes and instead let students work through them, recognizing that confidence often develops more slowly than understanding. And I started to see that what I had initially dismissed as distractions–side conversations, laughter, even being called “Ms. Queso”— were actually signs that students felt comfortable enough to participate.

One student, who spent weeks sitting quietly during lessons, eventually stayed behind one afternoon and asked how a project we were working on actually functioned. It was a simple question, but it marked a shift. We worked through it together, not just identifying what each part did, but exploring why it worked that way and how it could be improved. Over time, he began to participate more, arriving early, offering ideas, and eventually helping other students. His ability had not changed, but his sense of belonging had.

Experiences like this have reshaped how I understand diversity within my community. It is not only about who is present in a space, but about who feels comfortable enough to engage within it. Inclusion is not something that happens automatically when people are invited in; it is something that is built through the environment that surrounds them.

I have tried to carry that understanding beyond the classroom, whether through organizing cultural events in International Club that create opportunities for students to share their identities, or through bilingual tutoring that supports students navigating the same challenges I once faced. In each case, the goal is not simply to include more people, but to create spaces where that inclusion feels real and lasting.

Growing up between Guatemala and the United States, I became aware early on that access to opportunity is uneven. Language barriers, financial limitations, and unfamiliar systems often shape what people believe is possible for themselves. That awareness has influenced both my commitment to community work and my interest in engineering, where I hope to design solutions that are not only innovative, but accessible to the people who need them most.

Anne MacKay’s life reflects a deep commitment to community, expression, and advocacy, and her work reminds me that meaningful inclusion is not defined by large, visible achievements, but by the spaces we create and the people we uplift within them. Looking back, I do not think my students will remember every lesson we completed or every project we built. But I do think they will remember that they felt comfortable enough to try–that a space that might have once felt intimidating became one where they could speak without hesitation. And if being “Ms. Queso” was part of what made that possible, then it is something I am proud to carry with me. Because sometimes, the smallest, most unexpected moments are the ones that change how someone sees themselves. And those are the moments that matter most.