“Identity+Language=You”

“Whuya Meee! STOP KECKING! Para, Por Favor, Me duele!” I yelled

“NO, Shut up, you STUPID MEXICAN!!? ENGLISH!!!” Yelled the boy that was kicking.

“Stop, PLEESES!?” I yelled as the pain started burn as if they sat my body on fire.

I was the bullies punching bag, or as they said “The MEXICAN trash bag”. I’d sometimes wish that I was die. Not being able to pronounce word in the  third-fifth grade, it makes you stupid, dumb and worthless, that you're no good in this world. I didn’t know why people bullied me for. I’d cried all night, wishing that someday it would stop, and wishing to correct my english too! English is too hard!

“I no like thet projeck” I get made fun off for a long time from these stupid project, reason was about me and where I’m from and all the other thing. This was my second year at Olney Elementary School. The year before, people kept asking me where you taco, other  asking “Can you go do yard” I’d cried because I was scared, I never did nothing about, because I was weak, fat and slow at everything. People didn’t like me, maybe because I wasn’t cool for them. Many people said that I was stupid for what I did, for example I’d help the teacher clean up in whatever we did in class. My parents raise to help people and care and not be mean or rude to other, so that people wouldn’t do back. I was that one kid that the teachers like but not the student.

“Stupid!”

“Ugly monkey!”

“Go make me taco! Or go my yard!”

This was all 4th grade year. It was that dumb project, people don’t need to know where I’m from and what I do or don’t, what I believe and don’t. All I had is to go thought the year, i’ll start soft, but end strong.
A year later, school is about to start in 2 weeks for now. Summer was a peacefully time where I don’t have to worry about people messing with me or other thing like that. Summer goes by fast, it splits by our hands and you have to go to school, that is when my worrying start, only for me (sadly!!!).

“Mi hijo, despertate, la escula esta a punto de comenzar...Rapido Mi Hijo!!!”

“No, madre, no quiero, Por Favor!!! “

“Rapido o te meto tu chinga!!”

“Ok, ja voy!!”

Who knew that even days could go by fast too! School was up now. (I’d wished that I was dead!!!)

“What the hell is he wearing on his feet?”

“Theyua a tiype uf shoes in mexico…”

“Yo bro, you homeless or wat!”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Great, my day stupid is starting off crappy. One special thing that help me go through the day was learn, learning help ignore these dumb people didn’t know any better. The first day has end, now I have a whole year of school. Great, that was amazing. Second day, it might be better than, yesterday. When I got to school, people were hearing to rape song, in my opinion I didn’t like rap, because they didn’t make sense. Everybody got hype and that, it was just song!

“Yo these song tough right!”

“I guess…”

“What! You GUESS, Yo something is wrong with you, bro, this song is the shit

bro. Oh right, you're mexican, you wouldn’t understand, LOSER”

“Sorry!”

Why was he so rude about, it is just a song. I guess I was supposed to get hype,

just for a song. I got bullied for not liking rap song. People got hype for the most stupidest thing in the world, that they don’t realize that the most important thing the world is your family, not the material that you get. For example, I was happy that I got new shoes, other people in school super hype that they got the new, very prices shoes that were $200 or a shirt that was $50, in my head, that was stupid.

Into the month two, a very big boy was coming from home and I was walking next to him. “HAAA!”(uh-oh, I got to get beat up) I tripped on my shoelace and scrapped his shoes, I think they were jordan.

“Sorry, I’m very sorry. (Inside of me, I was scared as hell, my body was paralyzed)”

“What, loser… look what you did, clean or else you trash bag”

Obviously, I did it, because so far I did get beat up, not yet!! I was happy that he didn’t punch or something like. (Hopefully this school year goes by fast, I need it to)

“Madre, ja es Junio, la escuela java terminar!” I yell to my mother.

“Ja lo es!”

“El verano ja va a empezar!”

School, this school year was a lot better, this was the very first great school, that I had ever have in my 5 years of school. All I had to do is survive the last 4 more day of school.

“3….2….1….I DID IT!!! Summer, YES!! No School, Mean No Worries”

My heart was rushing fast because I had made it through the year, without big problem.

Overall, now I bigger, older, smarter and braver. I’m now in 10th grade, my english has gotten a lot better over the years, and english has many way to be spoking. Identity and language are a great mixture, reasoning why is because without language you wouldn’t like the Identity, and if you know the identity and don’t know the language then what is the point of having that identity, if you don’t know it.

The Untrained Ear

¨What’s bout to be the move?¨

¨Ion even know forreal!¨

¨I’m tryna go to the movies… I need a laugh¨

¨We gotta see a movie that’s gonna be the bid though¨

¨That Kevin Hart jawn did just come out...¨

¨Ard then. That’s the move¨

 One of my closest childhood friends and I were trying to figure out what we were going to do in order to keep us from staying bored how we already were. A conversation that to some will sound foreign and to others sound ignorant. Yet to us, it’s the language that’s most comfortable to speak. It is a combination of ¨Black English¨ and what I call ¨hood slang¨. Languages to me, but nonsense to most others.

  People who do not speak either of these languages, Black English or Hood Slang, may hear me speaking a foreign language and they usually do a series of things. The most common is a signature look. The look has ¨I bet she can’t even read correctly¨. Another reaction that’s common is the stare of confusion. A stare of disarray. The stare of uncertainty. My overall favorite reaction is when there’s a comment made. Usually it’s something as simple as ¨Huh?¨ or ¨What?¨ that’s said. A blatant remark that slips through their ignorant lips. People judge and base your knowledge of topics off of the way that others talk and carry themselves. It’s not fair or just.

¨I’m bored… ¨

¨Find something to do. I don’t know what to tell you!¨

¨You feel like takin me to H&M?¨

¨You got H&M money?¨

¨No. But you do! I ain’t gotta job.¨

¨Well I guess you ain’t goin to no H&M¨

¨MOMMM! You drawn...¨

I was bored over a long weekend when I had off from school. At the time, nothing was more important than subduing my outrageous shopping addiction. As most spoiled teenagers would, I resulted in asking my mother to take me on a quick shopping trip.

  A common tone of conversation that’s typically held in a Black English household.While reading it, plenty of people may think that how I speak is in no way shape or form appropriate to talk to your parent. That’s just like telling a French mother and daughters  duo to not speak French to each other. It’s our language. It may sound unusual to the untrained ear, but there’s really no other way to communicate. People try to connect the dots and interpret an entire life story by simply hearing how someone speaks. Except it doesn’t work that way. I can speak as ¨illiterate¨ as possible, but no one will care that English has always been one of my best and favorite classes. They won’t care that my mom is highly intelligent with multiple degrees.

   One summer a few years ago I attended a leaders conference camp that took place in Washington D.C. It hosted children from ages 11 to 15 that lived all over the United States. I was in a line to sign in and to get my room key. A girl in the line decided to spark a conversation with me and our conversation ended up taking a different path than what I had imagined.

¨Hi, Im Carolyn, what’s your name?¨

¨Hi Im Jamilah¨

¨Where are you from?¨

¨Philadelphia, How about you?¨

¨Really? I bet you eat Cheesesteaks every night for dinner and say all these weird words¨

  ¨Weird words¨? The way how I talk is weird because I live in Philadelphia?  

¨Hello¨

¨Hi, How are you?¨

¨I’m good and yourself¨

¨I’m well. Thanks for asking¨

  ¨Standard English¨ is a language where you have to make sure you pronounce all of the vowels, consonants, and syllables. There’s a lot of work that goes into just saying one word correctly. Just like many others in the world, I am also more than capable of speaking ¨Standard English¨.. For the simple fact that many people speak it, is the exact reason why I despise speaking it. If a situation does not cause for me to speak ¨proper¨, I will not do so. ¨Proper¨ to me includes pronouncing my words correctly, using correct grammar, and etc.I also despise it because I find it boring and it has no personality. It’s no fun. Speaking ¨Standard English¨ makes you sound like millions, if not billions of other people across the world.

   There’s nothing to differentiate you from the others that are out here in the world. The language is very general. You greet people saying things such as ¨Hi¨ or ¨Hello¨, and depart by saying ¨Good Bye¨. There’s no energetic approach to a conversation by saying ¨HEY¨ or  ¨Wassup¨ or leaving someone yearning to converse again by saying ¨See ya later¨. There was a quote once stated by Jay Danzie stated, ¨ Your smile is your logo, your personality is your business card, how you leave others feeling after having an experience with you becomes your trademark.¨ Your trademark should be unique and like no other. Your business card should be fun and also like o other. And your logo should be all of the above. ¨Standard English is like a white business card with black font. Boring. Bland. Tedious. It’ll end up being just another unwanted conversation.

When I came to Philadelphia from Bethesda,Maryland, I talked different than everyone else. It was weird to hear everyone without an accent like mine. It was not a rich,or thick accent but it was enough to know I’m not from Philadelphia. On the first day of kindergarten at my new school , I was nervous what would happen. I knew I was going to be the odd one in the class because I didn’t talk like everyone else.

I walked into the room, with my backpack and my lunch in my hand.As soon as I walked into the room, I was ready to get the day over with. The class scared me a little bit, the wall were painted white, there was educational posters all over the place.We were told to sit in a circle on the alphabet rug in the center of the room. It was time to take the attendance, Oh boy I said to myself sarcastically.

“Amanda?”

“Persent.”

Instantly the whole class laughed at me and I was embarrassed so I sunk in my chair. The class thought I was weird, what a great first day so far.  My teacher would have us read a sentence from the morning paragraph on the chalkboard. The teacher called my name to read the first sentence. I had to read it in front of the class.

“ Good mmmorrninng cccllaass, tooday iis sseepttember 8th 2005.”

They laughed again.

At least I came into kindergarten knowing how to read some words.All but one person laughed at me. She had long brown wavy hair, and a very nice smile.Her skin was tan, and she had big brown eyes that sparkled.  At that moment in time I wanted to thank her.

I did everything in my power to stay away from talking.I did try to talk when necessary, but that was only when the teacher asked the group a question in general. I had to ask go to the bathroom. “ Mrss. Paaagggee, maaay I goo too thee bathhroomm ppplleeaasee?”

It was play time,everyone went off to the different centers. There was a housekeeping area, dolls, coloring, blocks, and legos. While my classmates played I stood in the middle of the room looking for something to play with. I noticed the girl who didn’t laugh at me was playing with some other kids. I thought I would ask to join them.

“ Con I playy too.”

“Sure, I’m Brittney and don’t worry about those other kids they mean.” I knew we were going to be best friends. I joined the group on the rug and we played with the legos and bears.

“Whhaatt, the nnamme oof the cciitty?”

“ Wee are gooinng too naamme it beaarr ciitty.”

It was hard adjusting, to my new friends and how they talked. If I wanted to fit in I needed to learn to talk the way they did. Then I could be normal. I listened to how they talk and try it on my own.  After a few tries I got the hang of it. My friend Brittney helped me realize that I can adjust to the way they talk pretty easily.It didn’t matter if I talked different it was my peronalitily that they liked. Now people don’t even realize that I have an accent. They only notice if I tell them I’m not from Philadelphia.

Sometimes when I get annoyed my accent shows more than I intend. In one of the stories we read in class I notice this one part that spoke to me. “ I used it to win in arguments, to express myself, and to show who I am.”  When I saw that sentence I felt moved by it. I use language not only to express how I feel but to describe who I am. I use my accent for power sometimes. When I use it for power I will get very defensive.

Everyone laughs or thinks it cute because my face gets all red. My accent will get thick and heavy and it’s pretty scary but pretty cool at the same time. When I sing a country song it’s strong and sounds amazing. I enjoy it because it makes me different and unique.  My friends love hearing my voice when I sing country. It sounds so natural.

Language is one of the best ways to be yourself. It is always cool to hear others talk if they don’t speak English. So many cultures have languages that have cool dialect or accents. There are many ways to express yourself. whether it’s art, music, or writing. Language shows people how you speak. Everyone has a different way, but they need to learn the correct way to speak. That way is not using slang words and incomplete sentences.

Evolution of the White Dove’s Whispers

By: Shaina-Nicole Keenan

Pure. Fine. Untainted.

I was born and raised in southwest Philadelphia. The majority race in the region was and still is African-American. There are handfuls of Asian and Hispanic families, and a very sparse amount of white families. I am apart of one of those very few families.

I attended the elementary school in my neighborhood from Kindergarten to Fourth grade. I was one of three Caucasian students in the entire school. When I was five years old, starting school for the first time with larger classes, I spoke properly and clear. I never used slang. Up until I was in third grade, I never let people tamper with my dialect. I was a fine dove, with pure feathers. I flew my own path and sung my own song.

Inside and outside of school, I spoke impressively for an elementary school student. My family has many friends, and I was introducing myself to new people constantly. I was also a true “chatty kathy”, I loved to talk. Here’s an example of a typical scene with stranger and I:

“Hi cutie, what is your name?”

“Hi, my name is Shaina-Nicole Margaret Keenan,”

“You have the prettiest eyes, sweetie.”

“Thank you so much. They are from my daddy,”

Reading impacted my language and dialect incredibly when I was younger. I always had a book in my hand. This is how I learned to speak and use proper grammar. Adults were amazed whenever I opened my mouth and let the words fly out. Yet, my peers were not always so intrigued.

As I gained more and more friends, my original dialect and vocabulary was tampered with. My feathers were starting to get dirty, and ruffled. As one of two white girls in the school that is centered in a neighborhood where language was a dying cause, it was hard not to be manipulated into speaking like my peers.  

There was an unrealistic difference in my dialect in the span of three and a half years. My language evolved along with my personality. I was blind to fact I was growing up in a time where kids everywhere had no sense of language. By the fourth grade, I was someone else. Here’s an example of a typical scene with a friend and I:

“Yo, dat teacha is so f***** irkin’.”

“Right yo, she was really drawlin’ the otha day,” I would say.

“I was finna pop her in her ugly mouf.”

Once I graduated from my neighborhood school, I went to a prestigious school in Center City. The population of students was very diverse. There were a lot of African-American students in my class from neighborhoods just like mine. So although I tried to escape bad language, it followed me.

Before I started at my new school, I thought about why I truly spoke the way I did, and the person I had become. I tried to find a common ground between my old dialect and the dialect I wanted. No matter where I went, Southwest would always be a language I felt comfortable with. Despite feeling at home with the improper dialect, I wanted to start fresh at my new school. I did not completely abandon my old dialect, I migrated it with my original dialect to feel most comfortable talking to new people.

James Baldwin once wrote, “People evolve a language in order to describe and thus control their circumstances, or in order not to be submerged by a reality they cannot articulate.” This relates to my situation incredibly. My language changed so much over the course of many years; I continuously evolved it. I felt like I had to describe my struggles with language with people who would criticize me, it needed attention. Since I was constantly obsessing over how I would sound to certain people, I let my language overshadow my life and personality. My reality was muffled and lost. Submerged by the circumstances of my undecided languages, this quote resonates and encompasses my struggle perfectly.

I kept that constant new dialect throughout middle school. Yet, language is always evolving. As we grow older, day by day, year by year, we are always changing. Our language and dialect is shifting along with us as humans.

I will never be the pure white dove I was. My feathers will never be as bright of a white as they once were. I am okay with that. I am still soaring, and although my feathers are ruffled, wrinkled, and a little

dingy, they are mine. I sing the song of my ever evolving language. My language is my own. The whispers of my white dove’s songs are my past, my present and my future; I am always soaring high, singing my broken song that I am proud to claim!

“ Sianneh!!” my mom would scream

“ Yeah?” I would reply

“ Did you leave this trash here?”

“No,it was Josh.”

“ Alright, pick it up then.”

“ But shouldn't Josh have to pick it up since he put it there?” I would say in a calm voice

I was rude, by my parent’s standards anyway. The way they thought a child should respectively address someone who was older than them, was different from my own understanding.

“ Just pick it up and stop being so disrespectful !” she would yell.

“ But I wasn't-”

“ I said do it now! Are really going to have a problem with this?” She says this  with the look that told me that if I pushed any further, a smack would surely and painfully follow. No questions asked. So I do myself the biggest favor in the world and keep my trap shut and put away the trash. She gives a nod that says “Smart move” and walks away.

This is what usually happens in my house. I have a brother and sister, so sometimes things can get really messy. It gets on my mom’s nerves so I try my best to clean up after myself so she doesn't blame me for it. However, she always shifted the blame on all of us and I thought that that was unfair of her to do that. I tried to speak my mind, but she always seemed to misinterpret my intention and associated it with me using rude language on her. Having parents that are from a different generation and culture, can be really difficult when trying to understand their morals and values that are so different from your own.

“ You guys need to learn how to clean up after yourself more. I am so sick and tired of cleaning up after you guys” she screamed.

In my parents’ generation, discipline was everything when they were my age. It was especially enforced in language. The way you talked showed how much respect that you had for your elders. Because you were a child, it was believed that you didn't know any better. Being that your elders had been around longer than you, it would only be right for you to just listen to them because they knew what was best for you. These were the kind of things that my parents were used to when they lived in Liberia. It is a country in Africa and they had lived there for their entire childhood. Growing up, my parents had a hard. They had to escape a civil war by having to leave behind their loved ones to come to the United States that they barely knew about. Never growing up where they came from, it was always hard to follow through like they had done. I developed the belief to speak my mind if something my parent were doing bothered me or upset me, yet they always took it the wrong way.

James Baldwin had said in his essay “ If Black English isn't a language, then tell  me, what is that language “is the most vivid and crucial key to identity: It reveals identity, and connects one with, or divorces one from, the larger, public, or communal identity. There have been, and are, times, and places, when to speak a certain language was dangerous.” Now I know that the way I speak to my parents doesn't put me in mortal danger.But, I still can’t help but relate to what he is saying. I always used to feel that I needed to be careful about the way I was speaking to my parents because any wrong word could set off a massive argument that never ends well for the child. And I mean never.   

I had started to think that maybe I was getting rude on them and I that I should try to change the way that I talked to them.So that was what I did.I would try to just follow their instruction without putting any comments that they would take as a sign of defiance. So that usually meant that I kept quiet. They seemed to be really happy with this and I thought I would be too.

However, I quickly learned that I shouldn't have to do that.That was when I decided that I just needed to talk to my parents and figure things out with them.

“Mom, Dad I need you to understand that I am not getting smart with you when I respond to one of your comments. I am sorry if you took it the wrong way, I really am, but I feel like I should have the right to say something if I see something that is unfair and feel safe enough to voice my opinion” I said to them when I sat them down to talk to them one day. And they had agreed with me. 

“ I understand that you are growing up and that you live in an age where it is encouraged for you to freely speak if you feel wronged. Thank you for coming to us and telling us how you feel. We will try to be more understand and talk it out more.” My father said. And my mom agreed with him too. 

Because of that, I am able to communicate more effectively with my parents. I learned to just try and sit down and talk to them to explain that the language that I use with them does not mean any disrespect to them.  

“Maybe I can do use this when applying for a job.” I’ll say something like that but it won’t really be my full opinion. This is pointless and is a waste of time. I don’t understand why this must be done now. I’ll think something blunt, yet truthful like this, but I wouldn’t dare say it like that. This way, I’m being respectful and courtesy to the feelings of others. My mouth and my mind are connected by thoughts and nothing more. My mind will have many thoughts about the same topic, but my mouth will filter these ideas into a single and usually positive phrase that should be said. I learned from a young age that “everything has a time and a place,” and that adjusting to these schedules is the hardest part in following this rule.

I filter what I say a lot because I can easily offend a person when I don’t. There have been many times when my mind has gotten the better of me and said something that didn’t need to be heard by others. My mouth is like a gate and my mind, a prison, ideas and sentences regularly attempting to escape away into the ears of others. No matter how big and strong the gate is, there will always be that one prisoner that escapes somehow. This is a continuing conflict when I speak with people.

“How-”

“What Devia?”

“Nevermind…”

“No, say it.”

This constantly gets me. I will want to say something, but stop halfway through when I come to terms with what I was about to say. It can be that my sentence may have been bad or offensive, or it just may not have made any sense. I’ve continually had to take my time and reevaluate the words that I was about to say because of the latter. Sometimes, I’ll have words ready in my head but won’t know how to phrase them correctly. Then, before I know it, I’m saying something that sounds stupid because it isn’t proper English or sounds muffled and inaudible. Even while I write this, I am still not using proper English. When I was younger, my speech wasn’t that good and I unintentionally worked to change that.

Everyday, I went to my Pre-K school and each day I had to go upstairs to a special teacher. In my brain, the brain of a 5 year old, I thought that it was just another thing to do. The teacher was actually my speech therapist; I just didn’t know she was. I was there to learn how to keep from stuttering and stumbling over words. Instead of learning anything, I remember playing a bunch of games each day and doing different activities. Little did I know that by doing these things, my speech was improving. I came from not even trying to pronounce words to sounding them out, and from barely speaking to speaking all of the time. I felt comfortable with what was supposed to be my English, but it was really just society’s view of proper English. Then I went to kindergarten.

When I began, everything was alright. Then, some weeks went by and my teacher realized that some of my words didn't sound right. My teacher was the one who recommended me to go to another speech therapist that worked in my school. When I did go, that therapist said that I didn't need her. She told me that there was no need for me to come to her any longer and everything would work itself out; I would just grow out of it. Even though that's what she told me, that never happened. I often find myself struggling to get out words or thoughts and get frustrated in the process. My speech has improved naturally and tremendously, but I still have to take my time as I say certain things because my pronunciation isn't at one hundred percent yet.

I can't help but say that my speech therapist is someone who helped me speak more. Before her, I was very uncomfortable speaking in public and with other people besides my immediate family members. I became more comfortable using the way I speak to communicate with people around me. My voice became something that I wanted to use more than not, so I began speaking. Maybe I spoke a little too much, because that’s when I started saying things that had no need to be said. This is when I had to learn what a filter was, and I had to learn how to use my filter at an early age.

No matter what was going on around me, I still had to take the time out to realize what I was saying may not be the best choice at that moment. With this, on top of having to make sure my words were correctly enunciated, my speech has always had to be something that I take my time in doing. I know that it isn’t perfect but I know that I still have time to get it there also. I’m grateful that I had the opportunity to enhance my speech with a therapist and I’m grateful that it isn’t as bad as it could be. What I say and how I say it may not always be what I mean to say, but I try to make it something that needs to be heard instead.

I may say something because it is socially acceptable, not because it is what I really think. In an 1970’s paper written by James Baldwin, he said, “Language, incontestably, reveals the speaker.” This is something that is nearly always true that I never wanted to be. People should not be able to read you by what comes out of your mouth and yet they do anyway. No one should know anything certain about you unless you have told them yourself, and this is what I try to make sure of.

My language, My life

“Ah yo, come here real quick” they always say.

“Naw I’m chillin’. Imma just go in the other direction.” I answer.

“What I say.”

“I don’t care, so what you gonna do stupid.”

“You think this is a game, huh?”

“Yeah always. All day every day, keepin’ it one hunnit. Thought y’all knew me by now.”

“Yeah there he is. My manz is back (laughing continues). What you been up to?”

“Nothing much really. Just chilling as always.”

“You still down for the party?”

“I don’t know. Momz not going out tonight.”

“Come on man, you got to. I know you remember what happened last time. Now don’t lie, it was crazy sick.”

“Yeah I know, but I can’t always do it. Remember I’m trynna go places. I can’t have this coming back at me. I got ya’ll next time ard.”

“Yeah yeah but bail on us next time then.”

My old friends...always able to speak freely with them. They were the ones to get me to open up. You know, actually live a little. It was because of them that I was to have fun. Before I met them, I jut nothing but study, which is good but I wasn’t haven’t any fun. And at that moment that we started to hang, I got my new idea of the world. I figured out that I couldn’t be happy with myself if I wasn’t able to have fun and so I did. I adapted to their way of speech, and understood their mindset, but I didn’t let that control me. I wanted to have that in mind, but still able to obtain new ways of communication.

My mind is continuously moving. Constantly reminding myself not to fall into the trap. It’s trying to stay above ground, no slip ups, no mistakes. I really wanted to go, I really did, but I would be pushing it with all the extra work my new school likes to give me. I didn’t really expect it all, but I choose the school because it would help me better myself. It gave me new opportunities to explore so I can experience all I need to. I need to be able to make a difference.

“Can  I get a ‘Amen’ now?” says pastor. “I said can I get a ‘Amen’!”

“AMEN!”

“We have here today brother Kareem and he wants to say something to the church this Sunday morning.”

“Well really I just wanted to thank you all for helping me get further in life. You all have motivated me to push harder, strive for the best, conquer the odds, and be a better person that people outside of here will know as the one who succeed. The trials you put me through has proven that I can live up to the challenge, but the only fight left is with myself. Thank you.”

That was when I was the worship leader for one service. They caught me coming back from my vacation and I just decided to just do it. I was able to lead the service, tell them what’s going on, and afterwards they wanted me to say something in response. So I said that to them, and that left them a little shocked. They didn’t think that I noticed what they did for me over the years, and so that was just one of the many things I did to repay the favor.

Me personally I have a mask over my face that I’m always doing the best I can making it seem like I’m someone else, but truthfully, they both are me. They’re just the different sides of me. You have the civilized, and the uncivilized me. They just change with the degree of my mood.

“Yes mother. I did that already. No you can’t do that. Just let me fix the wires when I get home okay? Okay bye.”

“She needs your help again?”

“Yeah but it’ll wait, I gotta finish this first. This is just too cool to miss.”

They show the side of me that fits with you better. The side of me that you’ll most likely accept. I don’t really mean to, but it kind of just happens. I do it to find my place, to get a better understanding of myself, to know what I need to do in order to succeed. These voices, sounding different, all show the pieces of me. It’s just your job to fit them together so you hear, see, feel, know everything that I do. So really, I feel like I don’t change myself. Yes I code switch, but I only do it so people can understand me. From one to the other, the change makes me fit in. The change is my way to survive.

“Kareem!”

“What!”

“Excuse me!”

“Yes. How may I help you?”

“You better watch yourself”

“How can I help you?”

“Just do what you have to do in the house.”

“Yeah okay.”

“What was that?”

“Yes master. I mean mom”

Just a usual confrontation with my mom. It’s not bad, but since it happened so much, I started changing my way of responding. You saw I said “master” and at this point it comes out from time to time. I can’t use my regular way of speaking when it comes to her even though she uses it towards me. It seems a bit backwards but I just switch it so she can understand me.

“I’m gonna go to choir after school,” I said to my mom as she cooked dinner.

“Going. -e-ing,” my mom extended the sound.

“An I need you to sign my permission slip.”

“An-duh.”

“An I…”

“Let me hear you say the d first.”

“I don’t have time, I need to do my homework.”

“Say an-duh and then do your homework.”

“Why?”

My parents were born in a neighborhood in New Jersey where the lawns are perfectly cut, and the dialect is almost clear standard english. Ever since I said my first full sentence, my mom has corrected every mumbled or dropped consonant. While in younger grades, I thought the corrections were no different than ones from my teachers.

When I recently took a survey from the New York Times, the results showed that it is most likely that I live in New Jersey near Philadelphia based on the words I use and how I pronounce them. This accent comes from learning to speak from Jersey relatives and visiting my grandparents across the river, while living in Philadelphia..

“I want to axe you something,” I announced as I walked into the kitchen on a different day.

“You’re doing it again,” my mom said.

“What? All I said was I want to axe you a question.”

“You are talking like a Philadelphian.”

The first few times I heard this, my heart sank.

“What do you mean?”

“The word is as-kah, not axe.”

“I said [pause] ask.”

“No, you said axe.”

This discussion repeated throughout the first years of my life. The words echoed in my head, even when my mom was not around. I began to repeat myself, pausing mid sentence. This time coincided with my acceptance into a mentally gifted elective.

“Can someone tell me what [science term] is,” my fifth grade teacher would ask.

“[short answer]. I once saw on Nova [extra details].”

“That is fascinating, Miriam, although I was only looking for [expected answer].”

My fifth grade teacher encouraged my input, working the outside knowledge I connected to the lesson into the discussion.

“Haven’t you seen that episode before,” my Dad asked.

“Of course. I even know the words by heart.” I was currently sitting on the couch, watching a tv show.

“Why watch it then?”

“To refresh my memory. Besides, there is nothing else on.”

I would watch cartoons daily when I was younger. I learned to multiply from Cyberchase and vocabulary words from Martha Speaks and Word Girl. The contests on Fetch caught my imagination, and I loved the storytelling on Arthur. While watching repeats, I would draw the characters and say their lines with them.

“Who can work through the first part of this problem,” a math teacher would ask.

I was the only one to raise my hand, even though I knew my whole table had completed the class work. The teacher scanned the room as if no one had their hand raised.

“Nick, can you tell me what I should do first,” the teacher looked straight at him.

“I don’t know.” Nick glanced at the work on his paper, and then stared at the teacher again.

“Come on, it’s easy.”

“Subtract x from both sides?”

“Correct.”

I understood that my teachers wanted to encourage all the students to speak, but there were entire weeks where I was not called on in middle school. Teachers only gave me help upon request, knowing I got all As and Bs.

“Miriam, sing louder,” my music teacher said at choir practice.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Don’t you yell in the recess yard?”

“Not really.”

I became quiet, yet not unsociable. My friends often spoke softer than me, afraid a teacher would not seat us together if we talked loudly, even though my friends and I only talked about work in class. Collaboration was not valued in my middle school. In some classes, I was quiet, and in others, people thought I was shy.

“Can anyone describe what global warming is,” my engineering teacher asked. He scanned the room for a raised hand. “Miriam.”

“Global warming is caused by greenhouse gases in the atmosphere. Greenhouse gasses, such as carbon dioxide, trap heat from the sun when the heat bounces off Earth’s surface,” I answered.

During the first few days of my freshman engineering class, most of the students were quiet. Every time our teacher asked a question, only two or three people raised their hand, and I was one of them. For some reason, the teacher told me after class that I should not be shy because I know so much.

At that point in my life, I did not consider myself shy. My classmates and I were all quietly adjusting to a new school. If anything, I was talking more than I had in years. However, every once in a while, the high pitched soprano would appear in my voice, and I would pause to clear my throat. Some interpreted this as shyness. Every time someone said I should talk more, I promised myself I would. The more often this occured, the less confident I felt. This continued to occur in poetry club.

“It was bedar to wear a masq than let mounans of acne show.”

“Say it again slowly.”

“It was be-agh. It was better to wear a masq-agh.”

“We can’t have you saying agh on stage.”

“I know Mr. Kay. I am having trouble with mumbling.”

“Try tasting each syllable of your poem. Say the line again as slow as you can.”

“Maybe we should write it on the board. What was the line,” Chella, who was one of the coaches, asked.

“It...was...better...to wear...a mask...than let...mountains...of acne….show,” I said slowly.

“I heard mountains! Chella, did you hear mountains,” Mr. Kay asked.

“I thought it was mounds,” Chella answered.

“It is mountains,” I said.

“Try saying it again.”

“It was bedar to wear…”

“Bet-ter. Say the t.”

“It was better to wear a mask…”

“Remember to move your mouth. It was better to wear a mask than let mountains of acne show.”

“It was better to wear a mask than let mountains of acne show.”

“Great. Now, say the whole poem at that pace.”

James Baldwin once wrote “It goes without saying, then, that language is also a political instrument, means, and proof of power.”  When I stumbled over my words, people hesitated to absorb my points. The correct pronunciation would echo in my mind while my tongue was weak. My mom always corrected me, thinking it was a Philadelphian accent. I would pause to correct myself, which led people to believe I was shy or lacked confidence. Confidence is a form of power. I did not stop mumbling until the time Mr. Kay helped me say my poem clearly. If I had mumbled through my poem, it would not have grabbed people’s attention.

I taught my tongue to say every consonant and vowel in that poem. I performed without a single stutter, allowing my team to receive a high enough score, and win the slam. Doubting my ability to speak properly made me believe I was shy. This was my weakness. When I was little, I would lose my breathe mid sentence. Singing in choir taught me to breathe. Reciting poetry trained my mouth to speak clearly.

“Kara, say water.”

“Wooder,” I said.

“No, say it right. Like this. Wah-ter.”

“Wawter.”

“You say it weird.”

I hear that a lot. I am a Philadelphian. I don’t say water, I say wooder. I don’t say towel, I say tal. I don’t say aunt, I say ant. This has been something that stood out about my language. Ofcourse, not at home, not in this city, but everywhere else, I stand out because of the words I say and how I say them.

My family and I do a great deal of traveling, mostly in this country. We’ve been to Maine, Virginia, Nevada, Tennessee, North Carolina, Florida, and most of the local states, New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, New York, Vermont, and Rhode Island. Nothing really stood out about us but the way we spoke.

Most people in all of those states didn’t notice. The state that really noticed our way of speaking the most was probably Tennessee. In a particular place in Tennessee, Dollywood, a waitress there liked to separate the Northern people from the Southern.

“I like the way ya’ll speak,” she said, “and ya tip good.”

I was young at the time, about six.  I didn’t know I was different. To me, she was the one that spoke different. I thought I spoke “normal.” But what really is the “normal” way of speaking?

Everyone in Philadelphia is different, we speak mostly the same way, but some have different words or ways of saying things. Instead of you guys, some say yous. I don’t use this, nor do I ever say jawn, a made up word only known here. But I admit I do say “yo” a lot.

I know that some words I pronounce different, even from people in Philly. For example, the name of my eighth grade teacher, Mr. Rossi.

“Mr. Raw-si. That’s how Kara says it,” I overheard my friend Diana say.

“So? Isn’t that the way everyone says it?” I asked, confused.

“No. You sound British! It’s supposed to be Mr. Rahsi!” she said, laughing.

That annoyed me. If it’s “Rahsi” then why is it spelled with an O?!

After that, I classified my way of speaking as different. People constantly pointed out how weird I said things. I didn’t really care much, it wasn’t a big deal, it was a little annoying, but in reality everyone has a different vocabulary and language and you can’t classify anyone’s as weird, because there is no standard language or way of speaking in my opinion. Now, I would like to go back and tell every person that judged the way I spoke just that.

“It is the most vivid and crucial key to identify: it reveals the private identity, and connects one with, or divorces one from, the larger, public, or communal identity.” - James Baldwin

Language is what makes you. James Baldwin says it reveals your identity and is the most important part of it. You can tell who a person is by their language. It is what individualizes us in a society. It can connect you to a group or exclude you.

Here’s a scenario. You have a group of friends. You and the rest of a group of people speak Spanish, you fit right in. But there are many different Spanish dialects, and you happen to be the only different one. You feel weird or left out, but really you should feel unique and amazed at how amazing language is and how you stand out.

I, with my Philadelphian accent, don’t feel like I stand out. I feel slightly different, yes, but not excluded from society. I’ve never really gotten bullied, people just said things. My language does reveal who I am. When I can’t think of a word for a certain thing, I say thingy. This reveals my bad memory. I’ve gotten into the habit of saying “kk” instead of ok, this reveals my vulnerability to internet slang.  I added the word “ain’t” into my vocabulary in the second grade, which really ticked my family off, “it’s not in the dictionary!” I inherited the word from friends, which shows how easily my vocabulary can be expanded from others’ vocabulary.

“I’m done.” My friend Darius says a lot after seeing something funny.

“That’s crazy!” My friend Kat says in a high pitched voice after seeing something slightly shocking to her.

And now, when I see something funny I say “I’m done.” When I see something shocking, I say “that’s crazy!” It’s funny how my language and vocabulary can be easily influenced by friends, that I’m around them so much that I talk like them. This happens to mostly everyone. This is how people develop their language. By using others’, but making that into their own.

I don’t remember learning how to speak, gaining all the words I know now, and learning what most of them mean. It’s weird thinking about how big my vocabulary is, and how I got all these words and lessons along the way in my life. In third grade, I won a lot of spelling bees and my highest grade was always English. Grammar and spelling were always my strong areas. I felt happy and proud of myself for being good at it. I’m glad I still have this skill now, for writing.  

As you can see, language is something that I've used throughout my whole entire life, but never really thought upon till now, with this project. I realize the importance of it, how it connects us all as a society, how we get to know each other, and how we identify ourselves. Language is really the most important thing in the world.

Accent

The question written on the board in Spanish class was, ¿Que hiciste en la semana pasada? (What did you do last week?)  

Confident in my ability to answer the question, I raised my hand.  I had the perfect answer to the question in my head: “Yo hice mi tarea y practiqué tenis (I did my homework and practiced tennis.)”  

Don Marcos called on a few others while I continuously recite my answer inside my head.  Fearing if I make a mistake, I will be vulnerable to Don Marcos’s harsh criticism.  Finally he calls on Jose, which is my Spanish name.  I start to say my answer, “Yo hice mi...”

Don Marcos promptly cuts me off.  “At least try to fake an accent Jose.”  The whole class erupts into laughter.  I try again, now shaken by his remark and the laughter, “Yo hice mi tarea (the class begins to guffaw again) y practiqué tenis.”  

Don Marcos proceeded to call me a “Gringo,” defined by Merriam Webster as, “A foreigner in Spain or Latin America especially when of English or American origin.”  Originally I did not know what this term meant but the person sitting next to me explained as she chuckled.  Then Don Marcos told me that my accent was something I will work on this year in his class. He then complimented me on my knowledge of written Spanish; this was possibly an attempt to lessen the blow to my confidence.  But the damage was already done.    

My Spanish accent was not always the subject of ridicule.  In fact Srta. Manuel told me that I had a natural accent early last year.  Maybe I rested on my laurels a little bit too much the rest of the year.  As the year progressed, Srta. Manuel made no effort to correct my pronunciation.  I assumed that I still had a good accent throughout the year.  I think pronunciation was most likely not as important to her as Don Marcos.

I just cannot seem to get the sound of the language down.  I believe there are many reasons I struggle.  The greatest reason I struggle to do this is my English dialect has a very clipped rhythmic structure; which is the complete opposite of Spanish’s smooth and consistent flow.  I have also have never successfully rolled an “R” in my life.  Many people have tried to explain to me how to do it; however, most of the the time, the sound just comes out like a fake growling sound as if I were trying to impersonate a bear.      

Since this experience I have lost some power to speak in Spanish class.  Even though I am a confident person when it comes to academics, I now am fearful and afraid of getting laughed at every time I speak Spanish.  My peers are ready for my poor accent, waiting to pounce on my first mistake, whether it would be holding a vowel sound for far too long or using the wrong emphasis in my accent. It has gotten ridiculous lately as even before I speak some people begin to chuckle in anticipation.  This hurts my feelings but I can understand why others laugh.  It is just a natural reaction when somebody is bad at something or dumbfounded. I must confess to laughing in similar situations and thus cannot fault them for it.  

Just last week I was sitting in geometry, my math teacher asked a girl in our class to identify the Y intercept on a graph.  After spending all of last year’s math working on it, I would assume that she would be able to do such a simple task.  However, all that came out of her mouth was “Uhs” and “Ums.”  I must admit to suppressing a few snickers at her confusion.

While people’s self esteem in a school is important, this pales in comparison with what struggles happen in the real world on a daily basis. For instance, in the personal memoir, Hunger of Memory by Richard Rodriguez, Richard’s parents are immigrants from Mexico.  Richard Rodriguez explains his parents struggle when he wrote, “In public, my father and mother spoke a hesitant, accented, not always grammatical English.  And they would have to strain their bodies tense - to catch the sense of what was rapidly said by los gringos.”  

While my struggles in Spanish class are a problem, I can’t imagine what it would be like if my daily survival depended on being understood by people around me.  This experience in Spanish class has made me more sensitive to people who speak English with bad accents. Before, though I would not laugh out loud at poor English accents, I admit to holding back laughter or snickering on occasion.  Writing this memoir has made me reflect more deeply on what having a poor English accent would entail in one’s daily life.  I thought about the struggles that it would take to even order food with a poor accent because of people’s lack of understanding.  It would also be problematic to get a job because of people’s judgment of you.  These are issues that did not cross my mind before writing this memoir.  

           I also have reflected on what laughing in class at somebody’s academic struggle can do to one’s confidence.  As I said earlier, it is something that most people are guilty of at least once in their lives.  However, I had not been on the receiving end of this type of abuse on a consistent basis since second grade. Now after this experience, with my poor accent in Spanish, I’m going to make a more conscious effort not to laugh at someone’s struggle in class.