Joseph Rainis
January 14, 2008

As a white kid, growing up in a predominantly white neighborhood, I was pretty white. The only things I really knew about black culture were the things I saw on television. After going to public school for a few years, where there were more black kids, I began to see more things about the black culture, but I still did not know much. Little did I realize, the black students didn’t know everything about black culture either. What I saw from the black kids at school was similar to the things I saw on television.
I began to think, about what black culture really was and what it represented. I thought that if even the black kids at school didn’t know about it, maybe it wasn’t even real. I also thought about white culture, and if that really existed. I also thought about why these cultures were so different, and why they hadn’t integrated after being together for hundreds of years.
“For a white kid, you sure are good at football!” A young boy names Rahim Harris said that to me at recess. It was 3rd grade, and we were friends. From that point on, we had been best friends. Rahim and I were not as different as I thought we would be. We both had families that loved us, we both went to school, got good grades, and even had similar interests. The new discoveries I was making about culture were beginning to confuse me.
Rahim didn’t know it, but he helped me figure out the truth about culture. Culture shouldn’t be something you’re ashamed of, and it shouldn’t take anything away from you. He helped me learn that good people are good people, no matter what their culture or background is. People can be so different, but still just click. Rahim and I grew up in two different societies. I lived in a good neighborhood, and his wasn’t so great. His friends tried to get him into things like drugs and violence, but I didn’t have the same peer pressures, yet we still were great friends.
On an average day, in fifth grade, Rahim wasn’t in school. It didn’t think much of it. Maybe he was sick, or even just running late. During second period, which was Reading class, the counselor stepped in. She said, “Boys and girls, I have an announcement to make. Rahim is not here today because he is in the hospital.”
That caught my attention. I was a little worried, but I was sure he was okay, thinking that if it were a big deal, the counselor wouldn’t just come in and blurt it out during class.
She continued, “Last night, Rahim had a fire in his house. He got out, but has some burns, and is going to be out of school for a while.”
“How bad are the burns?” I asked.
“Oh, well, um, we don’t know all the details just yet,” She replied. I realize now that she didn’t want me to get upset, as I was a nine year old child who just learned that his best friend was in a fire. All of us kids wanted to organize a visit to see Rahim, but the teachers decided that was a bad idea, because none of us were older than ten years old, and seeing a classmate covered in burns couldn’t be good.
For the next two weeks, I did nothing but worry. In school we had no work, as us students were still shocked, and too worried about our friend to read books and write math problems. Instead, we did fun things to take our minds off Rahim. We mostly colored in coloring books and played games.
About two weeks after we found out about Rahim’s accident in the fire. The counselor came in again. This time the news was worse. “Boys and girls, I’m very sorry to inform you that Rahim passed away this morning.” At that, I burst into tears, and so did many other students. We go out of school early that day, as many students were too sad to even color or play games. I was completely sick. I couldn’t stop crying, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t get it off of my mind. I didn’t go to school the next day, but students who didn’t come weren’t counted as absent. For days I thought about him, and finally came to the realization that he was gone forever. I went to his funeral with my dad. I saw some other kids from school, but most had come earlier. I had also found out that Rahim was 75% covered with third degree burns. I miss him. I wonder what he would be like now. Although I don’t think about him as much as I used to, every now and then, he pops up in my thoughts. Rahim was a great kid, and I will never forget him.

                                Victoria Monahan
                                1/8/08
                                Iron Stream
                                English
                                Benchmark

    
“So, if you want to really hurt me, talk badly about my language.  Ethnic identity is twin skin to linguistic identity- I am my language.  Until I can take pride in my language, I cannot take pride in myself.” (How To Tame A Wild Tongue by Gloria Anzaldúa)
     
“A telephone call makes my throat bleed and takes up that day’s courage.  It spoils my day with self- disgust when I hear my broken voice come skittering out into the open.  It makes me wince when I hear it.” (The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston)
    
    Language is power.  Or it power language?  Language can influence how people react to you and how you act to others in return.
    One time that I remember is when I was sitting at my bus stop and a man came up to me with an extremely heavy accent.  I couldn’t understand a word that he said; actually I could barely place his syllables in the English language.
Man With Accent: Ooo oh whaaa ee booose oh?
Me: I’m sorry, what did you say?
Man With Accent: Ooo oh whaaa ee booose oh?
Me: I’m sorry, I still don’t understand.
Man With Accent: Ooo oh whaaa ees booose oh?
Me: I’m sorry, can you please repeat that?
    This back and forth conversation went on for a little while until I finally came to the conclusion that he was saying: “You know where the bus go?”  I know for a fact that this small conversation made me feel like an idiot for not understanding him, and probably the same for the man.  
Also, I have a grandmother that was born and raised in Italy, who for the majority of her life has been living there.  At one point in time she had moved to the United States with her family seeking a better life, for it is dubbed the land of opportunity.  However, she refused to learn the language and adjust to the culture, so despite her living in a country dominated by their culture, she never desired to conform.  Just a few years ago, she came to visit the place she once resided and stayed with her family, me.  My mother, being born and partially raised in Italy, was the only one in my household who was able to understand her ways, and the only one who was able to speak her language.  So, along with her having completely a foreign background, she also was unable to relate and express the points in which she was attempting to convey.  An average day would go along with numerous hand gestures and repeated phrases, until whoever was receiving the message understood.  For example, she would ask if we were hungry, for she seemed to always desire to cook a pot of noodles.  So, she would say what sounded like manja while putting her hand to her face mimicking putting food in your mouth.  After a while, this word began to sink in to the point where she no longer needed to gesture with her hands.  It worked in both ways, we began to understand her more and she began to understand us as well.     
I believe that my grandma has influenced my sister’s love of languages, for now my sister is striving to learn and become fluent in as many languages as possible.  She has taken French, German, Spanish, is going to take Chinese over the summer, etc. Mi familia es moy diverso.  So, because of my sister’s multiple language interests I am constantly hearing small phrases originated from cultures completely foreign to me in my everyday life.  For example, my sister calls my cat, Isabella (which is Spanish for the American name Elizabeth), what sounds like mi ange lu, that means my angel or something of the sort.  My mother and my aunt switch between English and Italian in every one of their conversations.  My brother and his friends attempt to talk “gangsta.”  I am extremely quite at home.  My mother and my grandmother talk very formal.  Everyone talks a different way with everyone.  
To tell you the truth, I have not even noticed these small phrases being incorporated into my everyday life until I took the opportunity to sit in my house and observe what was “different” about us.   It grows on you.  It is something that becomes your identity that will make you or break you.  Language is power.