I heard my dad’s footsteps coming up the stairs and I groaned.  Great, I thought.  I wasn’t really in the mood for a conversation.  He stepped through my doors and opened his mouth.  He didn’t really have to say anything; it was always the same afternoon question.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Um, ok, I guess,” I replied, not lifting my head from my homework.

“What happened?” he probed, knowing that something was wrong.

“Well, like, in health class a whole group of people, like ganged up on me,” I spit out. 

“They did what?”

I gingerly sat down at a chair as I waited for the dean to trail behind and sit at his desk. The tiny room looked as if it was put together in the seventies with muted oranges and yellows sprinkled in the small space. A poor contrast to the rich cherry and mahogany wood that composed the hallways. I was sitting in an orange leather chair with the side facing the front of the desk. I quickly remembered I was still being briefed on a few things as I observed the room through peripheral vision.
"So, did, you have a good day?" I quickly recalled the day shadowing a student.
"Yes, it was great. I saw a few people I knew." I said in a confident cheered
"Greaat." His voiced dragged as he processed the paperwork in front of him. "Great. So, what would you say if we were not going to accept you here at CHA?"
I replied breezily in an overly confident voice, "Well, I know I'm a good student and if you didn't accept me, I would just say it's your loss." I said this with truth behind my voice because I actually believed it. I knew this school would be a higher step up to a more quality education. Ivy Leaf was no place for a truly quality education.
"Alright, good answer."
The interview went on for 20 minutes longer with me growing more conscious of the tight collar and Hilfiger tie wrapped around it. A teacher had commented on its colors, featuring the school's blue and light blue colors, "smart brown nosing," he had mentioned as I was put on the spot at the beginning of that class. I walked out of the school feeling like I was for sure not going to be denied a spot.
A couple of weeks went by when my mom mentioned to me the status of me at CHA. Not accepted. I didn't mind, there were better schools that I might have liked. Plus we had gotten wait listed at Shipley... But I couldn't help but think about the things they didn't like about me enough to not accept me. I spent a long time, I couldn't figure out who wouldn't have accepted the recipient of student of the year. Of course I didn't get that title until after I chose a school, but there must have been some reason.

I came to realize what was gold standard at the school I was transitioning from, would have just been mediocrity at real private school. I went in there thinking I was the best, communicating that through my language. Maybe even strutting it in my step. I eventually came to blame my school for its lack of long-term preparation.
Two years earlier I had come The Meadowbrook School in Abington. I graduated under a cloud of average grades, kid-like antics and a rep that wouldn't invite me into a private school. It was the summer and each one of the students from my old school had already chosen a new school. Me, being behind on the application process, in early august had no school. So my mom set up an appointment for an open house/admissions sort of day. There was an entrance exam that I passed with flying colors. They said later on that there were scores of kids whose parents would give up anything for their kids entrance, so it made me feel good about myself and academic quality. At any rate, it was half a year after I realized that I math class wasn't going to get any harder. Along with that decline in my education, the people in my environment were from the city. So in order to be down, I reformed almost everything about me. I had to talk like them; I dressed like them and even changed the person who I was. Over those two years, the young Jerome who had once been on the way to be the proper talking straight edged token, became Jerome who was on his way to being the angry black man who would have never thought to associate with white people. Ivy leaf was the best cultural experience I could have had, but it didn't teach me about the world, and mine had become something as small as my immediate surroundings.
It had been two years after that when I applied to real private schools to transition from middle school to high school. I applied through "A Better Chance," a program that helps minorities apply for a better chance at getting into boarding schools and private schools. It was there that I got formal training in interviewing with potential schools. I started to notice my horizons widen with what I was starting to believe. While I was learning how to interview I was following the methods by which I was to impress school administrations: by speaking properly. Quickly the space in-between the newer Jerome and the older Jerome began to open up.
It isn't until now that I can realize how much my environment influenced the way I talked. For me, I hold other people's perception of me pretty high. So, trying to fit in by code switching, or basically changing the way I talk can happen in my daily life. In my case, I can tell that humans in general, when it comes to language, conform to their environments. And after realizing this and reflecting on my life, I can really believe that.

“mommy it aint no more cereal” Monique whined as she opened the walnut brown, wooden cabinet doors.
“datz kuz I ate dem jawnz and dey wuz good az iunno wut” I teased them sticking my tongue out, inhaling the fresh crisp air in the house.
“aiite now yall, yall betta stop fightin before I take yall games or somethin” my mom yelled as she twisted and turned in her big white, king sized bed, in her white painted room, in which there lingers a perfect harmonization of vanilla and lavender.
“he alwayz eatin urrythang up man, dang!” destiny complained as she ran down the bright burgundy stairs, with a very forceful attitude.
All of the children were in kitchen and I just got done eating the cereal and drinking the sweet, delicious, icy, cold milk, and washing the bowl. Then that’s when they came downstairs to get some cereal, but there was no more. I had eaten all the decadent, sweet, crunchy, mouth watering, “Captain Krunch Berries” cereal. They didn’t take to kind to that.
“didn’t I tell yall to share da cereal, yall always bein all greedy and stingy towards each other, kant neva jiz share wit each otha” my mom said as she got dressed to go to the corner store to get more cereal.
“u greedy karan dang, kant even leave uz jiz a lil bitta cereal” Monique yelled
“I know, next time we wakin up early so we kan eat all da cereal from him, so he kant have nona da cereal” destiny said
“yeah !” they yelled in unison, to symbolize the fact that it was a plan.
“well aint no more cereal in da store, so yall gotta eat oatmeal or something” my mom said, exhausted as she came home from the store.
 “itz not fair and I hate u, u dummy, datz why im keeping da rabbit away from u” my little sisters cried and complained in unison.
My life is based on the slang. I live slang, breathe slang, speak slang, but there are times where my slang is completely irrelevant. I can’t use it in job interviews, I don’t use it when I’m speaking to figures of authorities who has a problem with something I’ve done.
I use slang when I’m with friends, family, and maybe even teachers, it all depends on the comfort level I have with them.
Experimenting with language was always a huge factor in my life. I always played with language and made up words that no one understood except for a few people. There was this one time where my little sisters and I made up this word and kept saying it to my mom, but my mom had no idea what we were talking about. To me that was experimenting with language, for the bad, for the good, for the great, for the worse, no matter what the case was, it was still experimenting with language.
There’s always going to be somebody who doesn’t understand a word you’re saying no matter how you say it.  My language always said that I was a real person and that I was not afraid to share my feelings. A lot of people on this earth wouldn’t understand what I was talking about if I just walked up to them and started talking to them. They would have the most confused face that you’d ever see. But in doing that it proves that I’m proud of my language, how I speak, and the way it defines me.
If I were in a business meeting, or talking to someone of very high importance I would have to code switch. I rarely code switch because I’m so stuck in my regular language and speech.  
“What the flipmode!?”
Experimenting with language is a good way to keep you from using foul language or saying something that you really don’t want to say. It keeps me from cursing or using foul language. It also helps me relieve stress, it’s hard to explain but me making up my own words and just laughing at them makes me feel really good inside.
Language is just one huge project and it’s meant to be experimented with, so experiment, live, and have fun with language.

                                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.

“Where you from?”

“Here. West Philly.”

“Huh? You can’t be. You been here all 15 years?”

“Why can’t I? But no I grew up in the suburbs.”

“Oh ok that makes since.”

The language I use demonstrates how different I am. It makes others think about where I am from. The funny thing is to me it’s just the way I speak.

I am constantly asked where I am from and why I talk the way I do. I am an African American teen and when I walk down the street that’s all people see. But when you talk to me I am said to talk like a “white” girl. Yes it’s true I don’t use any kind of slang. Sometimes I cut my words short or I may say one or two things considered black talk, but I even get shy to say nigga. For some reason it just doesn’t sound the same way when it comes out my mouth.
Maybe it’s the stereotypes that influences people to think I am suppose to talk a certain way. Maybe people create a certain image for blacks and if you don’t follow those typical guide lines your different. Or in my case you’re white.
To explain my background I am from the suburbs. I grew up in a neighborhood called Harleysville. Where everyone was friendly and they felt it was ok to leave their doors unlocked all the time. I went to Christian Academy, my teacher there was also my babysitter. I lived down the street from my church. I couldn’t complain.
I moved to Philadelphia after about 4-5 years living up there. Life in the city. I still go to church up there and I still have family there. I even have friends there. The person I was up there has followed me down here too. Maybe that is why I seem to connect to people who are diverse.

SLA is a school mixed with all kinds of people. There are so many different ethnicities and so many unique people you never see the same thing twice. And my group of friends show that diverseness.
My friends are called the G’s. We are made up of African Americans, Puerto Ricans, Whites, and Indians. Each person speaks some type of a different language. Hector, Steph and Dan speak Spanish, Sharon knows some Spanish too. Jay and Mithun speak Bengali, Mike and me speak English.

All the time we are sharing ideas about our religions and our different views. Being friends with them opened my eyes to other cultures, and it helped me learn that it’s interesting to learn something other then what you’re used to.

That is how I am shaped now. I like when Hector, Steph, Dan, and Sharon speak some Spanish to me. I would love to be fluent in it. Also I try to remember little sayings in Bengali and that’s how I want to be for now on. I think it’s important to be flexible. It’s important to be able to communicate with all kinds of people. The world shouldn’t be separated because of communication issues.

Samuel Beccaria

Band – B

English

Language Autobiography

            I was born white. I’ll die white. All my life people have seen me as white. People only see what they see, and they see only the color of my skin. But what they hear is a different story. Sometimes they hear a man with authority, with strength and wisdom. Sometimes they hear the kindness, warmth, and humor, other times they hear the scorn, bitterness and wrath. Yet all the time, they hear the voice of a scared child, frightened of getting his words wrong, terrified of when the next thorny root will trip his speech.

I have always had a problem with the way I utilize language. Speaking to people would be a chore for me. Repeatedly I would either mumble, stutter, or trip over my words. Having to constantly say again my simple, “Hello”’s and “How are you”’s in a voice that could rise above the mumbling. Sometimes I even jumble the first letters of two words with each other, tike lhat, a curse inherited from my mother. These things were, and still continue to be, my weaknesses, inspired by the frightened child cornered in the back of my mind. As a little boy, in my head Math played with Logic and Intuition flirted with Reason and Morals, but Language always would be stuck at the corner of the playground, afraid to come out of its safe place.

My brother was a constant offender of my tongue, insulting it and battering it with mocking language. It was a while ago when I was twelve, when my tongue was plagued with constant error that my brother had offended the lumbering and somber muscle in my mouth. He and I were at home during the midday, in the summer time. The closed basement walls shook with our bickering over who would get to use the computer. The chill of the basement seemed to try to cool our argument, but the sheer heat of it was too much for the cold to quell. I began to stutter and shouted in fury, “I want to use che tomputer!” He cackled and mocked my blunder, “I wanna use che tompoooter! I waaannnaaa uze che tompoooter!” He chanted it with the voice of malicious intent. I screamed, in a high pitched infuriated voice, “Stop it! You jig berk!” I blushed, and he laughed even more. I decided to end our argument in traditional way brothers end it, and I launched myself at him and we began to fight.

When I look back on it now, a lot of the fights between my brother and I was over or instigated by the way I spoke. My brother would always find it in him to mock the way my tongue tied, only because he found a need to feed off of that weakness. And by that means, he could dangle me upon strings like a puppeteer; coerce me into things that I would refuse to do at first. That is how people are in today’s world; they take advantage of those who are weak in the tongue. It is so easy for a person to take control of you if that person can talk to you with a commanding voice, with devious tongues that can guide puppets with mocks and harsh words.

The way he made me sound was to my general distaste, for we all want to sound great in the eyes of our superiors. We can always put on the façade of strength and wisdom in the way we look, but the way we sound to others determines truly what we are. For language is more powerful than sight, it can explain what is under the skin. It is the direct representation of the character, mood, and feelings of a person.