Blog Feed

11/21 - 12/2

Internet Sculpture

Best project of the year is this project. The project where we found a sculpture on the Internet and copied it. I found a dress made out of new paper. I got really excited, but I had to think how to make it. I took a cardboard box, and bent it so it can fit around my waist as a skirt. So then I grabbed a stack of new paper, and grabbed some glue and pencils. I stuck the pencil into the glue and smeared one side of the cardboard with glue like sheet rock. Then I ripped piece of newspaper up and crumbled in and stuck it on piece by piece. It took 3 hours to do this. Then when I was done with the glue and newspaper, I got the paint. On the web the dress wasn’t painted, so I added my own flare. I took purple and black paint and splattered each side, to add a retro look. I let it dry for a day, and then it was done. This project was interesting, because it’s different ways to interpret the skirt.

                                                     Chronic Rebellion

The air was crisp as Taylor stared at the envelope that was lying on his front step. Something about that letter intrigued him. Perhaps it was the fact that it was on the cement step rather then stuck in the crowed mailbox with the rest of the mail. Analyzing the letter, there were no postage marks or return address to be found anywhere. The only thing that the letter showed was mysterious lettering spelling out “Taylor Smith.” Something about this letter gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. But he knew that opening the letter was the only way to find out what was inside of it.

 

Taylor couldn’t take the pressure any longer but the intense urge was eating him alive. Sliding the door shut Taylor placed the letter down on the counter. The fact that he was skipping school for the second day didn’t even cross his mind. As he poured himself a bowl of cereal he heard the front door open.

He could hear the door’s lock having struggle will it was being fiercely pulled back and fourth before it opened.

“Taylor! Anyone home” Taylor’s eyes opened real big as he pour his milk. His dad’s voice made he jump as he scattered to close the milk. Throwing his bowl in the sink, with fast thinking he opened the back window from the kitchen and climbed out of it. Taylor’s dad entered the kitchen and found the back window opened. With an annoyed emotion on his father face he closed the window tightly. Squatting down beneath the sliding of the window Taylor felt the thump of the window being closed waiting for his dad to be away from the window so he could make a run for it. Before he could make a clear run for it, he waited for his dad to get into the car and pull out of the driveway until he was turned the corner and was completely out of sight. Taylor stood up and jumped over the back yard gate and onto the sidewalk. While Pulling out the crumpled up cigarette pack out of his rusty blue jeans he looked at the pack and began to light it. Placing the pack back in his pocket he found the note. Walking by the field he saw his 3 childhood friends Luke, Chris, and Steven.

     “Guys I was this close to being caught by my pops today”

“Good one bro, that’s all we need is for you to get caught” Chris said as he sat back in the dugout against the gate. Luke looked at Taylor and then down out his front pocket where the letter was hanging out.

“What’s this your little love letter”  Luke said as he grabbed it out of Taylors pocket before he could grab it.

“I don’t know what it is, should we open it?”

“What are you waiting for” Luke handed back Taylor the letter and everyone crowed Taylor to see what was inside of the envelope.  Ripping the envelope opened a tiny paper fell out of it and slowly floated down to the circled that was perfectly formed by their feet. Taylor picked it up quickly. This was it! This was the moment Taylor waited for all morning. Reading the letter outloud it said.

       Taylor, This letter is not to put you in any kind of danger at all. We would like to think of it as a gift or a responsibility Not only for the future and but the safety of others.

-       Unknown

Taylor stared at the letter.

“Someone’s just trying to mess with your head” Steven said as he took the letter out of his hand and reread it in a girly weak voice. Taylor grabbed the later out of his hand while the rest of them laughed.

“Enough guys! I’m not going to worry about it”

Taylor made his statement to the guys as a joke but he knew that it was becoming a seriously problem.

With a confused look on his face Taylors eyes rolled back into his head.

 “GUYS! I think Taylors going to pass out”

 

         The bright lights were all Taylor could see when he opened his eyes. The force of his hands felt tight and he felt like the pressure was unbearable to left. “Why am I here” Taylor thought to himself.”

“Who am I” “Where am I” Taylor had no idea where he was or even who he was but all he wanted to figure out was how he got there. Walking up on a what appeared to be a surgery table wasn’t what Taylor experienced ever in his life.

He was in a different room, one he never saw before. Where was here? And why was he there. Did this have to do anything with the note?  The force of his arms started to tighten up. Cringing to get away he knew it wasn’t possible to move.

Once upon a time, in a far away land there was a place. A place that only a select few knew about and only a select few could join. But no this was not just any ordinary place, no this was a place full of workers... alien workers. You wouldn’t imagine how many of them walk among us... the “normals” We try time and time again to make things equal but it never will be equal. One day I was curious... a little too curious and when all was quiet and it was dark I snuck in. All of the aliens were gone and probably taking off their faces... I break open a window and climb through trying to make as less noise as possible. It was dark and it was cold I guess they like this sort of thing. I walk around looking, hoping maybe to find some type of evidence to take back and show everyone I’m not as crazy as I may seem and that I’m actually telling the truth. As I’m walking through all I see are desks, cubicles and papers. It looks so normal but I know it’s a disguise I just know it. As I walk around I kick a box and a light turns on so I duck but not just any light... A flash light. A voice yells out “Hello! Who’s there? Come out.” I crawl, crawl as fast as I can but the light flashes on me and I know I’m doomed... *2 days earlier* “John stop with the nonsense ok! I’m sick of it.” Says my wife in a hushed angry tone. “I’m serious, baby if you just give me a chance to prove to you...” and she cuts me off “No John I said that’s enough! I’m sick of it. Everyday it’s something new and you come home late with a new excuse. I’m fed up” And she takes a long pause and begins again with her head hanging down “If things don’t change I’m gone.” The look in her eyes was intense and I knew she wasn’t kidding I knew things have gotten real, real soon. I made my way to the park to cool off and give Sarah some time to cool off as well. *The thoughts he’s currently thinking while walking around.* “How can I prove to everyone I’m not crazy and I actually am telling the truth? How oh how?” “I know just what to do I’ll go sneak in take a few pictures gather up some information and bring it back to everyone and show them I’m telling the truth.” I didn’t know what else to do, there was no other choice but that. I planned everything out once I got home, I could tell Sarah was still mad so I stayed out her path. I worked on my plan all day and all night. *The next morning* I finally went to sleep at about 3:45 in the morning and just woke back up at 2 in the afternoon. “So all you want to do it sleep huh?” says my wife as she walks in folding clothes. “Don’t start with me I’ve had a long night.” I respond then pause. “Why don’t you ever support me?” I get no response and she walks out. I know that today is the big day so I prepare myself. I walk past this place plenty of times plotting, planning. I know this is a big step. Later that night I pack my things kiss my wife goodbye. I make my way down and I break open a window and climb through trying to make as less noise as possible. It was dark and it was cold I guess they like this sort of thing. I walk around looking, hoping maybe to find some type of evidence to take back and show everyone I’m not as crazy as I may seem and that I’m actually telling the truth. As I’m walking through all I see are desks, cubicles and papers. It looks so normal but I know it’s a disguise I just know it. As I walk around I kick a box and a light turns on so I duck but not just any light... A flash light. A voice yells out “Hello! Who’s there? Come out.” I crawl, crawl as fast as I can but the light flashes on me and I know I’m doomed... The officer kicks the box I was hiding next to and yells “What are you doing here?” I’m frozen with fear. He picks me up by my collar and the last thing I remember is a blow to the face with his flashlight. When I wake back up I am tied to a chair surrounded by them…. The aliens. I’m dizzy and ask “Why am I here” and I plead “I’m sorry I’m sorry! I was just curious.” They respond and say “Don’t talk just listen. Now that you’re here and you have seen us there is no turning back from now on. You must now become one of us and never speak of this. You will work for us and live for us, you got yourself in this mess now you can’t get out of it.” They put a mask over my face and I was out like a light. Everything after that was a blur. When I woke up I was in a cubicle and everyone around me looked normal I thought it was a dream until I tried to leave and their was an invisible shield… I’m trapped.

 

​

“Behold, one of the Seven Wonders of the World!”

James whispered this simple, yet nostalgic thought to himself as he gazed at the towering Pyramids of Giza. The marvels of engineering glistened in the soothing sunlight that projected enormous shadows off in the distant desert. He was basking in excitement that could potentially rival that of a young teen at a Justin Bieber concert. Contrary to everyone around him, he lived an extremely dreary life as a second grade math teacher in the small town of Warrington, Kentucky. Faced with this stark reality, James decided to finally pursue his dream of visiting the Egyptian pyramids. From a very young age, he shared a distinct interest in ancient Egyptian mythology, culture and history after his mother began to read him stories about mummies. As he got older, he sought out more advanced information on the topic and soon fell in love with the engineering capabilities of the ancient Egyptians.

James always knew that he wanted to visit the place he pictured in his mind so many times. This drove him on a five year saving campaign to raise enough money to pay for his trip. This process was hampered when the State of Kentucky slashed his salary by 25% and he still had to take care for his mom. After each paycheck, James barely had enough money left over to pay for his trip. However, he made it work through sacrifice, dedication, and prayer.

As he walked up to the base of the Pyramid of Khufu, the largest of the three pyramids, he stated, “I am living my dream right here, right now. I am finally here at last!” As he made his way toward the pyramid to get a better look, the idea of climbing the largest pyramid popped into his head. There was an internal battle as he decided if he was going to make this idea come to fruition. Before he reached the security fence surrounding the pyramid, James had already made up his mind. “Yeah, I am going to do it. I have to make the most of this trip. I am coming back after dark.”

He came back after dark when all the security guards had left and hopped over the security fence under the watchful light of the full moon. As he neared the top of the pyramid, James saw a small golden eagle protruding from one of the stones. “What is this doing here?” he exclaimed, “I guess this is my lucky day.” He could not believe something this valuable was left lying around of this pyramid that is frequented by some many scientists and researchers. As James got closer to the eagle to pick it up, he soon realized that this was no ordinary piece of gold.

James suddenly lost total control of his body and stood motionless in the same spot on the pyramid for about two minutes. After this initial period of time, his body began to slowly jerk forward with his left arm outstretched, trying to grab the golden eagle. He tried to suppress these movements but his resistance was futile. When he finally grabbed hold of the golden eagle, he held it up in the air and turned his head towards the moon.

The next thing James remembered was waking up in a well-lit room surrounded by individuals peering down at his face. As he slowly opened his eyes, he realized that none of the faces were familiar and he sprang out of his bed, grabbed a small Swiss knife and threatened anyone who dared approach him. “Who the hell are you people? Where am I? What am I doing here? Is this even real?” James was so confused since it seems like it was only seconds ago that he was in Egypt with no control over his body while clenching a golden eagle. “How did I get here? Was it that eagle? Was it some kind of ancient magical instrument? ” James definitely suspected time travel and the golden eagle since he picked it up against his will and that was his last complete last memory. These series of thoughts were interrupted by a muscular, middle –aged man who stated, “Are you drunk or crazy or something. Please put the knife down.” James immediately complied because he was only making a fool of himself and he needed the help of these people to figure out what is going on.

“Excuse me, if you don’t mind me asking! Do you happen to know today’s date? ” asked James tentatively. The same man that urged him to put down the knife replied, “March 11, 3110.” This proved what James had thought all along since the date he visited the pyramid was July 1, 2010. He was a time traveler and the power of the golden eagle was the source of the power. “Where is my golden eagle? Please locate my golden eagle for me?” screamed James frantically. Without the eagle he could not go home to his original time period and if the eagles was not with him in the facility, it must be on the where he found it on the Pyramid of Khufu. James knew that if he was to return home, he will have to visit this pyramid again so that he could get access to the eagle one more time.

I soon realized that I was living in an underground military facility commanded by General Wallenberg of Fourth Stryker Battalion. In the year 3085, a type of humanoid species known as Ewigs invaded Earth with the hopes of establishing a new colony. Although the humans fought bravely, they were not match for the advanced weaponry and intellect of the Ewigs. This was a small band of soldiers that survived the initial war and now waged a guerilla war against the occupying aliens.

James explained to General Wallenberg that he wanted to journey to the Pyramids of Egypt but he did not tell him a specific reason. The general while scratching his beard replied.  “A dangerous trip like that is virtually impossible given the air dominance that the Ewigs possess. We would not make it ten blocks from this base before we would be shot down. I am sorry but I do no think that we have the necessary equipment or the resources to carry out such a mission.”

James’s heart quivered as he heard this news since he did not intend on living in this time period. His real life was back in his original time period. James knew that he had to keep his resolve strong and find a way to rectify the problem. After minutes of sobbing softly at the dinner table, James responded to the general’s comments stating, “Instead of trying to fly to Egypt in a human airplane, why don’t we just hack into the computer system of one of the enemy’s airplane and guide it to a safe location using remote control. This way, they won’t suspect one of their own jets.”

Over the course of the next six months, James along with other military scouts studied the flight paths of the jets. They recorded the acceleration, displacement and velocity of the particular jets that they could hack so that they would know exactly when to spring the trap. The main battle jet (MBJ) of the Ewig Airforce could accelerate from rest to a speed of 150 m/s in 5 seconds. James then found the acceleration of the jet, which was a whopping 30m/s/s and the distance the object traveled during this time is 375m. After the initial 375m of the jet’s flight path, the jet then slows down for 10 seconds and then moves at a constant velocity of 80m/s for the rest of the patrol. James knew that the perfect time to attack the jet was while it was moving at a constant velocity.

Armed with this key information, James and a team of two others soldiers settled into their positions in skyscrapers along the flight path of the jet. The jet approached right on schedule and was scanning the buildings and roadways for the signs of any humans. As the jet passed by James’s position, he shot the jet with a bullet that contained malware that bypassed the security firewall. He quickly gained control of the vehicle through remote control and guided it to a secure section of the city where the driver was taken prisoner and James was praised as a hero. James could now fly to Egypt in the captured vehicle without being fearful of being shot down.

The next day, James said his final goodbyes to the people who had cared for him and assisted him in achieving his goal. “I was a stranger to all of you but still treated me as one of your own. You treated me like a brother. I admire your undying loyalty and support for me in my quest to return how. I marvel at your values, brotherhood and intelligence. Again, I thank you all and I will never forget your kindness.” As James turned around to shake General Wallenberg’s hand, a tear glistened in his eyes. When he finally climbed into the cockpit of jet, he broke down crying because he knew that he would never see these people ever again.

As he flew towards Egypt, James knew that nothing was guaranteed. If the Golden Eagle was not on the pyramid, this means that he would be stuck in this world forever. Even if the eagle was there, there is no assurance that it takes him back home to his correct time period. However, James yearned for home, especially his elderly mother. He wanted to go back to his job in his small southern town. James realized that although his life can seem uninteresting to the outside world, he is happy with the decisions he made. During the ten-hour flight, James grew more sophisticated with a greater appreciation for life, the world and the role he plays in it.  As James landed in front of the pyramid of Khufu, the environment looked unchanged. He dashed out of the jet and ran towards the pyramid and began climbing up toward the spot where he first encountered the Golden Eagle. James constantly mumbled:

“Please be there, God please let it be there.”

 

Not Alone

 

 Smoke rose to the sky, leaving the impression that there will never be sunlight again. The smoke was so thick that it felt as though it was strangling me, almost wringing the air out of my body. The loud piercing sound of alarms wailed, off in the distance. I gazed over the land that I once called my home. My home was alien to me, unknown, foreign, unfamiliar.

I was rather frantic at first, in denial most likely; I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

I sat on the steps of a demolished building. The only building that I could still recognize; the only building that wasn’t turned to ruble. I pulled my shirt over my mouth so I could catch my breath and breathe air that was perhaps less toxic. I scanned the streets to see if there was anything that would help me figure out what happened. I started to question why I was still here. I have no clue what happened. The last thing I remembered was going to bed.

There was a slight breeze, the sound of grasshoppers outside my window. The peaceful calming whisper of the words, “I love you,” in my ears. It was the last words I had heard from my wife. The last person I had seen.

I woke to this, a desolate, barren, destroyed city, with no sign of life. At that moment, I realized something that made my heart drop. How did I get in the city? My house is nowhere near the city. “What’s happening!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, wanting anybody, anything, to hear me. There was nothing but the cracking of the fire that surrounded me and the slight breeze that fueled it.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep on the hard steps. It took a while, but sleep came. It was unpleasant. I had a dream, no a nightmare. Some beast snatched my wife up and I couldn’t do anything about it. I was restrained to my bed by something. I woke to the same thing I fell asleep to, a destroyed city.

I got up from the steps of the building and walked. I walked until my feet hurt. Everything looked the same, some structures still stood tall with only the frame of the buildings left. Everything else had been turned to ruble.

I neared my house. When I came up to the end of the block, I saw something off in the distance. I was again in total shock. Both fear and excitement rushed through my body. My eyes widened, I felt like my body couldn’t move; I was stationary. My house was there. The entire structure was in tact. It was as if nothing had touched it. All of the houses around it were completely destroyed, burning; nothing bush ashes blowing in the wind making it appear like there was black snow.

My head was spinning. Should I enter? I questioned myself. This overwhelming fear was pulsing through my body. Without my command I start to move towards my house. I don’t want to move, but perhaps I did want to at the same time. As much as I told my body not to move I still continued forward. I came to the door. I felt like I was going to drop over, pass out, because my heart was beating so fast. It was beating fear through my body with each beat.

I reached the door; hand reached out. I twisted the handle of the door, which was ice cold. I pushed the door open and stood in the doorway. Confused on what to do now I stood there. Everything was exactly where it should be. Everything was fine.

I dropped to my knees. Confusion at this point was more overwhelming then my fear. I thought maybe if I just sat here that something would happen. Darkness approached and as did the cold of the night. However, I still sat in the same spot. Hunger set in, along with thirst.

I stood back up on my feet and decided I needed to walk in. I took a step inside. I could smell the usual smell of cinnamon from the candles. “Karen,” I whispered. No response. “Karen,” I said in a normal tone. Still there was no response. “Karen,” I said once more even louder. There was no response once more and a tear began to form. “Karen!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I kept screaming her name. I kept hoping that my wife would hear. “Karen!”

It was silent. There was no answer. I stood in the middle of the living room. Looking around as if she was maybe hiding from me. Like this was some sick game of hide and seek. I didn’t want to play. I wanted to see my wife again; I wanted to pretend like everything I saw outside wasn’t real. I wanted to pretend everything went back to the way it was. In a way I wanted my house to be destroyed.

I looked over at a picture on the fireplace of my wife and I. We were on our honeymoon. I walked over to it and picked it up. Wishing that we were back on our honeymoon.

I picked my head up as I heard a sound behind me. I turned and as quickly as I turned I dropped to the floor once more. Stood before me was my wife. Alive, normal, healthy, beautiful, my wife, my wife was standing in front of me. My head was spinning. I got up and ran to her, wrapped my arms around her. I didn’t want to let go. “I love you,” the same peaceful words whispered into my ears. “I love you too.” I was so happy. As I talked to her about my day she just listened with a smile on her face. A smile that alone could light up the smoke filled sky. As much as I just wanted to sit there and lay with her the entire night I really wanted to get some sleep. As I started up the stairs Karen urged me to stay down here, but I insisted. I walked into my room.

Words can’t express how I felt in this moment. The overwhelming feelings that rushed back, the fear. I was so afraid. I was so afraid and so alone. My wife was lying there on my bed. There was so much blood that it seemed as though someone took a bucket of paint and poured it on her. Her body was mangled, extremities twisted in ways they shouldn’t be.  A creaking of the door behind me caught my attention and after seeing my wife’s twisted and mangled, I thought my fear couldn’t reach any higher levels, but it did. As I turned I saw my wife. What I thought was my wife. Standing in the door way. “I love you,” she whispered. With those words her head quirked and her body started to convulse. I wanted to aid her because she was my wife, she wasn’t but she was. I watched as she laid there squirming on the ground.

I walked over her body to get out of the room but didn’t take my eyes off of her. I started down the steps and the convulsing stopped. I wasn’t going to wait and see what happened. I was getting out.

I ran out the door. Ran down the street. Ran as far as I could. I ran until my feet hurt again. Then I ran some more. I was reaching the city; going back to the only place that still somehow made sense to me. I reached the building I sat at earlier. I tied getting a grasp on what was going on. Nothing made sense. It was over for me. I was going to kill myself. I was alone. There was nothing left for me, I didn’t understand what had happened here and I didn’t want to live anymore.

I walked into the building since it was still somewhat in tact. I took the stairs to the top floor. I couldn’t stop thinking about my wife the entire time. How my wife’s twisted body was just left there. How that person looked exactly like my wife, smelt like her too. Everything about her was the same. I walked to the edge where I could make clear that I would hit the ground and meet my fate. I closed my eyes and smiled. Knowing I would be with my wife soon. I felt warm. I could almost feel my wife with me. Her arms around me, whispering into my ears, “I love you.” The last words I shall hear.

I opened my eyes, to hear the words “I love you,” once again. I turn to find my wife standing there. “No, no it can’t be. You are not my wife! You do not love me! You are an imposter!” I grab a large piece of concrete that was once part of the wall, I ran at her and bashed her head. Over and over again I smashed the rock into her skull. Even after I knew she was dead I kept hitting her. There was blood everywhere, but she was dead for sure this time. “I love you,” those words came from elsewhere, from the door. My wife stood there saying those words. I looked down under me in disbelief as I had just bashed her head in. She was still under me, but in front of me at the same time. I’d had enough I ran to the edge and jumped. I was free, and I wouldn’t be alone anymore. 

 

I gave birth to the existence - No, Nascent of Quill meets Papyrus Breathing alliterations into fragments of personifications Literary tools are my children Illustrating vibrations of ink bleeding through the quilts The existence was too constitutional More than a conspiracy My creations sparked legacies of literature Now, through my kin, I speak the voices of the chapels Into gospel songs and hymns Verses and bridges crossed over - Now in juxtaposition to religion Genesis was Genocide The world began with a blanket of blood My womb had wounds - I forced a C- section So humans see the spectrums of the rainbow (The stitches of my vasectomy) Mother earth is tucked below my bosoms My warm, salty tears are drops rain But my smile… Oh my smile, Is the radiant rays of the sun Book One: Genocide I'se only as bright as day lets me be My chillun will roams on this here belly I wuz impregnated through the Anahata chakra Beat-box'in square locks off's the guard off’s ma-heart These here bonds made bones of de babe I'se not a being of's a human But the beings of a matter I wuz pregnant fo' seven days The big-bang theory wuz ma pregnancy I'se grew eyes wide like the twinkles yaw see in de sky The moon be my lustin lips Always shin' Immaculate masterpiece, De way I licks ma-lipsssss That's hows I made de moon shines Mother Nature is da motha of ma-nature My brown-honey skin was the surface made of dirt my kin learns to walk on My chillun, please, lean on me But don'ts breaks me Into wats ya wants me to be I be that - That Morning sunrise and sunset I'se brought ya into dis world And I'lse take ya out These here stretch marks ares the Separation of da continents I feels all the stuff that happens Sees it with my own eyes and I'se never forgets breathing life Eva' since I'se a little girl Playin double dutch in space With my brotha, Venus & my sista, Jupiter Dere be 8 of us And we all gathas round the milky way Count the stars Steals they shine and Puts dem in our eyes We saved the stars fo' good times We don't lets 'em burns out Muh hands be gettin' shaky And I don't knows if ma-back Can support all these chillun Give'in births to more chillun I'se gettin' tired, Gotsa let my voice save sum Sum up of ma-last words Ma-last words are found Where aint's nobody lookins fo' it …

My mother (guardian spirit) was always a pleasure to be around. Every sunrise, which to our surprise, weren’t that bright, created a balance in our atmosphere. Stars and the cosmos constantly surrounded us. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were in an abyss of blackness. And sometimes, if we were lucky, we got hints of the milky way without getting sucked in. Every morning, our guardian spirits would remind us of our legacy.        In a firm tone, she said to me, “Mother Earth, you are to create the people. You must complete this task before your chakras are too open to birth them. If you fail to create and carve these beings, you will cease to exist.”        I whined about it. Far too young to understand how the world would evolve. “But, Mighty Spirit, I want not to! Who shall deliver this world?” I said, in a low, confused tone. _____________________________________________        I never imagined being the mother of such a universe. My pregnancy was all the talk among my family. They couldn’t believe how big I’d gotten to be, nor the fact that I would continue to stick around. I hold the earth in the palm of my hands. Sometimes, I like to dance on the surface. As long as it remains in constant rotation, they’ll never know.        Sometimes I sing to my baby Earth, making the birds hum, or adding a bit more sunshine from the sun to their days. They created this thing called “generations”, and I’ve seen all of them hatch into disasters – and some of them turned out to be magical.        The funny thing is, I hear people talk to me. They think I’m not listening. They pray to “God” yet haven’t realized, I am Him of all things. Since the moment I set land to a prosperous planet. ____________________________________________ The last I spoke to Pluto, my eldest brother, he told me of how he saw the future, and my people would no longer call him a planet. He revealed all of his life, and last left me with these succulent words, “The world can be only what you desire it to spin as. Take the shine from the moon as your lips, steal the glow of the stars for a pitch. You can achieve it all with the universes as your pallet.”   That night, I cried candy-coated raindrops. My brother practically raised all eight of us, and I knew this would be the last we’d ever see him. But how can I blame a God if I am Him? Final Thoughts I never really understood where I came from. My existence has no roots as some would like to think. No expiration or creation date. All I do is the task I was told. Unlike humans, I have no soul. My memory is the entities that I’ve created. My words are never ending, because no one can hear them. You can only feel the way…   My hands scrape along lonely paths of dirt The horizon I’ve created with my fingertips Connecting the dots that some call stars And when I play ping pong with them, Shooting stars sometimes hit the target Humans will never realize, death is a cauldron Full of angels and devils, they both have wings Hell on Earth is when I let freedom ring. _____________________________________________

The war had ended over a year ago. Radio signals about a month ago. Minutes before the first impending explosion, Robert Oppenheimer appeared on the television. Standing at the podium in a suit with his porkpie hat, he cared a grim filled look on his face. He looked at the camera before looking back at the top of the podium, where his speech was. Taking of his hat, he began to read his speech.
 "Hello, America, Russia, and the rest of the World-"

 He stopped himself, then began to speak again, with a penitence look on his face.

  "When me and the team at Los Alamos labs created the first atomic bomb, we created a peacemaker and the destroyer of worlds. When we watched the test of the very atomic bomb, we knew that we created a power that shouldn't be used in anyway, but we knew it would be used, but we hoped not to a magnitude like this. To America, Russia, and the rest of the World, I'm truly sorry for the creation of our demise."
All radios and televisions went to static afterwards. Screaming, gun fire and utter turmoil was all that could be heard through the thick, concealed ceiling of the shelter. Sitting back in the seat at my single-seater dinner table, Leer looked at the glass of water that was in front of him. Waiting for the slightest signs of disturbance in the water's flow, signaling the beginning to the end.
The glass fell over, with all of the water spilling out to the right side. The books began to fall off of their shelves, covering the floor in an assortment of titles and pages. The shelves began to rattle, shaking violently, with the glassware in the shelves beginning to hit the ground below; The wire hung lights shaking back and forth, to the breaking point.  Leer sat there in his seat, away from the razed environment that sat around him. The shaking, the swinging, and the shattering began to cease. Everything layer motionless, with not a sound being made or a movement. It was like time had stopped. Droplets of water began to hit the table, which was the only standing object in the room, next to the seated chair. The only sound was that of the chair running over the floor, creating a hissing screech. The though that he could be the only living creature for hundreds of miles, or possible the only one left in the world. His mind was running into all sorts of places, and he knew allowing it to continue would lead to regrettable results. He put his head down on the floor, looked at his watch and closed his eyes.
   That was over a year ago.  Leer has stayed in this unit since the bomb droppings, not having set foot out since days before the occurrence.  The thought of an outside world without life was terrifying to Leer, what could be even worse, there could be outside life, who reacted to him in a negative way. The food and water levels in the shelter are imminent to run out soon, leaving Leer with two options, dying of starvation in this shell, or exploring the outside world in hopes of survival. While one option holds promised death, the other one lays way for an unforeseeable future, where the unknown is. Sitting at his dinner table with his hands to his head, Leer looks at his watch with, then back into the distance, back at his watch, then back into the distance of his base, this place that was his home for so long, but it wasn’t his home. His home, or rather where his home once had sat, laid near the grounds of this base. What lay left of it he asked himself? Did anything within his home survive the explosion? He knew that none of these questions would be answered, unless he got out of his seat and went above ground.

  He removed his hands from his head, placing them on the table in front of him. He began to lift himself up, rising from his chair. He walked over to the kitchen cabinet that was filled with chipped and broken dishes. Feeling around the back of the cabinet, he begins to pull out a rucksack that’s covered in fragments of plate and dust. Leer puts the bag on the counter top underneath the cabinet, going through the sack. Within, there’s a 32 oz bottle of water, a first aid kit, a rain jacket, and a thin knife.

  Closing the bag, Leer puts his shoulders through the shoulder straps and begins walking towards the exit. Turning the vault like exit counter-clockwise to open it, he stopped and dropped to the floor. What could happen if he stepped outside? Would he die of radiation poisoning? Would it be a field of raze? What if the bombs never went off, and the noises he heard a year ago were from something else? He couldn’t concentrate, or bring himself to open the door. The thought made him sick to the stomach, but he knew it had to be done. Without opening the door, he would never know what awaited him on the other side. He got on his feet, grabbed the vault knob with both hands, and tired as hard as he could, while pushing forward. The door opened, and he fell through, landing on something that has been unseen, but not forgotten - the outside world. Putting his hands on the ground to get up, he felt a grainy material, like sand. Leer got to his feet, taking in deep breaths, clenching his eyes closed. The air was different than what that of the underground, it felt un-recycled, like what was below.

  No longer being able to take being without visions of what the new world looks like, Leer opened his eyes wide. Before him was what was the neighborhood he had once called his community. All that stood before were the remains of buildings that had once stood. Once fully bloomed pine streets were blow into charcoal sticks rising from the ground. The surface of it all was covered in all sorts of debris, which would rise into the air when a wind came by and picked it up.

  Starring out into the distance of it all, Leer just stayed standing there, motionless, barely breathing. The wind hitting his face, scattering the remnants of what’s left of the place he once called. A feeling of abandonment came over him, which was physically unseeable, but leaving him a mental wreckage. He wanted to turn back around, to enter his shelter and die there, but he was curious as to what this new world was like. Beginning to take a few steps forward, he was about to find out exactly what this transformed land held. The remnants of the buildings that once stood were charred pieces of metal now. Pieces that once created the foundations for modern architecture were now broken frames. Art and life was scorched to nothing. Stopping now, he looked down at the ground, where outlines of a doormat were thinly visible. Looking even closer, you could see the outlines of a few letters that had once been a apart of the mat. Leer got down on his knees to examine the letters even closer. He started to look at the letters closer and closer. He saw a “W”, followed by an “E”.

“We?” Leer said to himself.

But there was more than that. He started to see another letter, a “L”, then a “C”.

“Welc?”

More letters began to become visible, with an “O” coming next, followed by a “m” and “e.”

“Welcome.” 

https://www.dropbox.com/home#:::92583230

            All throughout my life people have told me that I’m very well spoken. I take it as a compliment. Even though most of the people telling me that are friends of my parents, who say stuff like,

“Oh you’ve grown so much since the last time I’ve seen you.”

Or,

“Oh, you’ve gotten so much taller since last time.”

I think of myself as being pretty impressionable and easily influenced. If I see someone that I look up to doing something, I tend to mimic their actions because I look up to them and want to do things similarly to them. I think that both what I’ve been told and what I’ve assumed go hand in hand for me. I think it is because I tend to spend a lot of time around people who have wide vocabularies and are very articulate. According to my mom I’ve been that way from a very young age.

            I heard the phone ringing. I was only four years old and I loved answering the phone.

“Who could it be?” I thought to myself. “Is it for me? Is it about me?”

I picked up the phone.

“Hello.”

“Hello, am I speaking with um Karen?” the man behind the phone asked.

“No, this is her son, I’ll put her on.” “MOMMMM! Someone is on the phone calling for you.”

“Okay, thank you, Isaac.”

I walk into the other room to hand my mom the phone.  My mom put the phone to her ear.

“Hello… No thank you, bye!” said my mom as she violently hung up the phone.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Oh it was just some annoying person trying to sell me something.”

“Oh okay.”

I kept wondering why my mom would be angry with someone for calling and trying to sell her something? It didn’t seem so horrible to me.

“Why were you so angry with the person calling?” I asked.

“I’m on a list called the “Do not call list” and I get really annoyed when those people continue to call me when I’m on a list that states I don’t want to hear from them.”

 Finding out that my mom didn’t like when people called our phone trying to sell something to her gave me something new to look out for while being at home.

            A few days later I was sitting at home one night with my mom. The phone rang. I jumped up to go answer it.

            “Hello.”

            “Hi, is this Karen?”

             “No, it’s her son.”

            “Oh okay my name is…”  

            “Are you her friend or are you just trying to sell her something?” I asked.

I heard laughter come from the other end of the line.

            “No, no, no I’m her friend. It’s her friend Susan.”

            “Oh, okay. She’s here. I’ll go get her.”

I handed my mom the phone. I listened to what she was saying just in case the caller had tricked me.

            “Hello… Oh hi Susan.” My mom said.

All of a sudden she started to laugh.

            “He really said that? No, no, no. He is only four years old.”

A few minutes later my mom got off the phone with her friend.

            “Isaac…”

            I interrupted her mid sentence.

            “Who was that mommy? What were you…?”

            My mom interrupted me.

            “She is a new friend of mine.”

            “Oh okay. What were you laughing at?”

            “Isaac, she thought you were a teenager because of the way you answered the phone.”

            How did I sound like a teenager? I thought to my self. Is that supposed to be a good thing or… I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was my voice deeper than the average four year old? Did I have a wide vocabulary? I had no idea what could have led my mom’s friend to jump to that conclusion, but I guess I took it as a compliment.

             “Why did she think I sounded like a teenager?”

            “I don’t know but I heard you ask if she was either my friend or trying to sell me something so I guess it might’ve been the manner in which you talked to her.”            

How could asking such a simple sounding question make people think I’m more grown up than I actually am? On the outside I felt overjoyed and excited but on the inside I wasn’t sure how to feel.  It surprised the heck out of me that someone just, would assume that I was a teenager all because of a few things that I said.

            Before that, I never really had thought about how people’s ways of speaking can tell other people a story about them and their identity. James Baldwin who wrote the essay If Black English Isn’t a Language, Then Tell Me, What Is? Wrote,

             “Language, incontestably, reveals, the speaker. Language also, far more dubiously, is meant to define the other- and, in this case, the other is refusing to be defined by a language that has never been able to recognize him.”

            This quote is relevant to my story because it says that language can reveal a lot about a speaker.  Since the person had not ever met me or heard me speak, she couldn’t have known how old I was. Yet she thought I was much older. This occurrence really made me think about how powerful language can be. I guess now that I am sixteen years and in fact a teenager; maybe my language on the phone makes people assume that I am twenty-six. I’d love to find out how I can use it to my advantage, but I have no idea how that could occur. 

                                                    Introduction

​In Mr. Block's english class we had to write a language autobiography. In a language autobiography, the author talks about different aspects of language in their lives or family's lives. They also talk about the struggles language brings and the hardships or joy it can bring. Language is a powerful tool. Behind every person's language or dialect is a story. With that said I hope you take the time to listen to mine.

My language autobiography is about the term code switching, what it means and how often we subliminally code switch. My process was pretty sketchy for a various reasons. I felt like i didn't have a unique story because i was born and raised in America and I speak standard english fluently. Therefore, I had trouble finding an initial concept to write about. By the end i think i did pretty well. I did well with my conclusion and explaining moments in time vividly.  

The Autobiography "Code Switching"

I remember like it was yesterday. Picking up my cousin from his rural home in Delaware. I remember seeing fields of grass, single homes and cul-de-sacs. “Call Eric and tell him were outside!” said my mom. I picked up my phone and called “We’re outside bro.”

My cousin walks outside with his bags ready to go. “Yo Eric!” I yelled “ Did you hear about that new jawn by Young Savage?” “What’s a jawn bro you must have forgotten I’m from Delaware we talk nothing like you guys do” said Eric.

            We made our way to the family reunion in Cape Cod. On our way there we spent a lot of time talking about the mannerisms or “Philadelphians” as he would say. The crazy part is that his whole family is from Philadelphia but he just has been away to long.

 “Ok, as you know some of my cousins drawl heavy” I said not thinking about my dialect. “Drawl? Come on man didn’t we just go over this.” Eric said jokingly “I can tell what you mean by the context of what you say but I don’t fully understand.”  We just sat back and laughed it off. But in the back of my mind it made me think deeper. I never noticed how many “characters” can be played by one person.

The correct term is code switching. As the ride got longer I thought to myself. I would never talk to any of my teachers, principals or bosses using slang. So why do I use that dialect with others? Is it to fit in? Is it to impress? I couldn’t think of the exact reason but I just knew it was something I should look further into.

We arrived at the hotel ready to check in. “Time to wake up guys were here!” My mom yelled. On our way upstairs to check out our room we see my cousin Dior. “Follow me all of the cousins have our own room!” she yelled. We ran up ready for the fun that awaited us.

As I got to the top of the stairs I saw my grandmother with a few bags. With the sweetest voice I asked, “Hey, do you need any help with those bags grandmom?” “No, I’m okay honey. How is school?” she asked. “It’s not good but I’ll make it better when I’m ready.” I responded. “ You have always been that way and need to change boy. Well now isn’t the time to be worrying about it so go have fun with your cousins.” She said and walked away.

I guess looking back at the whole situation it made me realize the answer to all my questions about “code switching.” It is a form of identity and who you are or at least who you make yourself out to be. By the way you speak can often tell where you’re from, the people you hang around and want to be with. We often switch to a more proper dialect when talking to authorities to show that we are proud to be who we are, have a great education and are ready for the challenges ahead of us. I even went deeper thinking about different people in my life. A coach gets a point across by yelling and being assertive. I’m sure he or she wouldn’t be like that with his or her significant other. Simply because there is a place and time for everything. Code switching is more than just the words you say its how you say it and how you carry yourself overall. It’s more than language it’s the lifestyle you choose to portray to the people around you in order to be accepted. 

Aaron VanBuren                   1/13/12

The history of the language in the Present

“Quan, Come here”

“Here I come, Popup”

“Pick that up”

“Okay, wait what is this?”

What I saw was a book with the cover reading “The Brooks Family Heritage”. I started to flip through the book looking for pictures, as a little kid would do. I saw my relatives dressed in business suits and nice clothes. I came to the thought that my relatives weren’t slaves, so I asked and found out that my family were free Africans when they came to America. I started to wonder what did they do when they came to America and how did they get free? My grandfather and his sisters and brothers all had nice houses and were wealth, when my grandfather got sick I came over his house all the time to help out and I learned a lot of how to build and fix a house, learned how cook and also how to flirt with girls.

 

A couple years earlier when my grandmother alive, my mom, dad, sister and I visited her and my great-grandmother in Virginia.  It was like we were going through a jungle going to see my family in Heathsville. We came to a road named Brooks and I asked “Mommy is that street named after Grandfather’s family?”

“She said yes and she said do you see that old house right there?”

“Yes”

“Well that house belongs to our family”

“Really”

“We ring the doorbell”

“Who is it?”

“Hey Mama Daye, Its Tannie and the family”

“Hey baby’s come on in”

“Mama Daye what is that smell?

“Its fish, eggs, pork chops”

 “Mhmmm…”

“Mama Daye where did you learn how to cook like that?”

“There is a long line of skills passed through our family and cooking is one.”

Thinking back to the book I found back in Philadelphia at my Grandfather’s house, I thought this was different because my Great Grandfather on my mother’s side was Native America and Irish. My Great Grandmother are African American and Italian. The thought of my family never being slaves on my mother side was shocking because I thought everyone was slaves, Not being slaves, my family had opportunities to do more as free Africans who adapted into African Americans. One thing that came from not being slaves was education that led to wealth with in my family. From the wealth my family has or had I was taught how to invest, how to be a salesman and how to build a house and how to reconstruct a house.

 

Visiting my father’s side of the family and knowing where they are from, they are from an area where slavery was high in numbers. I was curious what roots ran through my father’s side and I found out that there is some Polish but mostly African American descent. I know I have similarities as my dad but not a lot. He is a hard worker and he can fix anything given to him. I think that’s where the roots of slavery fall into play.

 

I have seen how being a different descent or race can cause problems. People look at me differently because of my skin color, which is black. Although, within my bloodline I have Native American, Polish, Italian, Irish and African American mixed to form who I am today. “It goes without saying, then, that language is also a political instrument, means, and proof of power. It is the most vivid and crucial key to identify: It reveals the private identity, and connects one with, or divorces one from, the large, public, or communal identity.” My language is set up from my ancestors who went through hard times and made the best of them. My history defines my language. When I think about how differently I get treated I think about how worst some else has it and deal with the situation at hand. If my history is speaking then it is speaking through experience that will help form the next generation of my family and prepared them for all the drama and life loving experiences.

 

My history defines my language because over the years my language of being simple and needy has evolved into me being a definition of my heritage and the future legacy of the Brooks and VanBuren Family.  The roots of my Native American, Polish, Italian, Irish and African American ancestors show through the way I learn about new things and or just learning new things about my family and how I teach people about who I am as a person and how my history defines my language. Overall the language of my ancestors is my history of my language, which my language is define by my history in the present and past.

Do you change the way you speak, depending on who you’re talking to? Do you Code Switch?

             No, but I’ve had plenty of confrontation over the subject of code switching in my life anyways. I’ve noticed my dad does, for example when he’s at work, or when he’s with his friends. But even then, he talks differently with people he has recently become friends with, then when he’s with people he grew up with. It’s like a different side of him when he’s with people he’s always known them. It’s always natural, but it seems more fluid or…just normal, when he talks with them. Like with people he grew up with it’ll be more of a “yo, whats good” while with friends he recently acquired, it’s more of a “Hey man, what’s up?”

 

            Me , myself, I don’t do it as often or as severely as he does.  I’ve had people ask me why I talk “white”, or why I talk that way. When peopleusually ask me this, it’s generally not in a kind or happy tone, and it usually leads up to, the ever so wonderful. “So you think your better than me or what?” My favorite question…ever. I’ve lost friends over the subject of my speech. It’s like people think I’m just being rude, like I’m talking this way because I put myself above them or something.

 

           I live in Germantown, on the rougher side and I didn’t really have any friends that lived near me until I came to Sla. I’ve just never….felt like I fit in with the kids around there. I did used to have one friend around there, and I really liked her...but her friends didn’t like me. They’d question why I was with her, and why she even liked me…

 “What you mean why? I hang out wit who ever I want..”

“ Well you can’t jus leave us for…her.”

“Im not leavin yall, I’m just talkin to her calm down..”

“Why?? She think she better than all of us anyway”

 

           At this point I wanted to speak up….but I’ve never been very confident, or one to speak up when I’m nervous or shy….but I wanted to tell them I wasn’t being ignorant. That I wasn’t trying to disrespect them by talking the way I do…That it was just the way I talk, and that isn’t something I could change, even if I wanted to. She didn’t stop hanging out with me though, not until she moved one day. She was having a sleep over at her new house, and I really wanted to go, I begged my mom and dad. They’d met her, she’d gone places with us, but they said no…because they had never actually met her parents…After that we stopped talking…and I lost the one friend I had, who had lived near me.

 

          I went to summer camp at a church, behind my house, one year. The kids there were loud...and all seemed to know each other, and when I don’t 

know  anyone I stay to myself. We had an introduction circle, and the only person who spoke in the same “accent” as me was the camp counselor, and she was white. I felt awkward and out of place, not just because I was shy, also because these weren’t the people I generally found myself with. Some people didn’t talk to me because of the way I talked. So I never really had that many friends there, even the ones I did have, wouldn’t talk to me now if they saw me on the street. Some forgot my name, others just don’t care that much.

 

          I went to a private school most of my life, and as you progressed into higher grades, you could find less and less diversity in the student population. In about 7^th grade I was officially the only person who wasn’t white. There was a Mexican boy named Raul, who lived in Germantown too, and he always told me how I didn’t belong there…because I’m not black. He wasn’t the first to say that, and he surely wasn’t the last. When he said it, Ireally felt offended that he would take me away from my race like that. Simply because of the way I speak. I guess I got used to being told I’m not black though. I have friends who tell me it now, and I most likely will in the future, that’s not really something I can help though. They don’t mean it in a mean way. They just say it, like they’ll call me an “Oreo”, “White girl”, “ you’re a white girl, you just have black skin.”. These aren’t usually said to be mean, it’s just the way they see me I guess.

 

Zakee Jones

Gold stream

 

English essay

 

“Hahaha look a bol he a whole joke”

He talkn like he some time of professional person cuz ”.

“ Yo Zakee do you hear bol isn’t he a joke?

“Ehh  sure whatever” I said walking away.

 

Trying to walk away from the huge crowed I didn’t realize that this many people had come to make fun of this 1 kid. But I guess I couldn’t blame them. Everything he said he said  was formal and well spoken like he was some rich kid who was too good to speak like we did. I guess you could say that him speaking like that just mad kids angry because he was way out of their language.  People tend  to get angry because people talks differently, they break off onto their on way of talk and to fixed  how they see society. Often times they despise each other saying the way they talk is right and completely  ignore  that their will always be more then one way to talk to a person.

 

I didn’t really care how he talked as long as he didn’t start anything with me. In class he sat alone not one person even said anything to him. Until the teacher called on him to answer a question. At first he didn’t say a word. I assume he didn’t know that answer but he answered it right. Not only did he get the right answer  but he corrected they way she talked. All the kids snapped and stared yelling at him and started saying stuff like nigga this and nigga that and a lot more. Even after that he told her the right way to use it.

 

That night when I walked home it made me think about how I say stuff. I use so much slang I don’t know how I never noticed it. It just became my language. It annoyed me knowing I talked like this and I wanted to change it. Finding help was going to be the hard part. just about everyone  I knew used slang just as much as I did. I would have asked my mom for some advice but she works so much that I don’t see her. The only person I could have think of was the smart-ass guy who schooled a teacher. My phone rang and it was my friend ask me for home work. Within those few second I replied with so much slang that when I look at what I wrote I didn’t have even 1 word spelled right. I needed help quick. I didn’t want to become some street bum who didn’t have a job because of the way I speak and spell. 

 

I tried going to the new kid but he just ignored  me.

 

”Hello can you help my cuzz?

 

He said nothing but kept eating.

 

“Well if ya didn’t wanna talk den that’s all ya have to say.”

 

 He replied with “well if your English wasn’t  so terrible I could have heard you.”

 

Piss off  asshole,” I said walking away mad.

 

At this point I didn’t  even care about would happen. If I talk like dis all mah life oh well.the way I speak may sound wrong, but am kinda happy so I can live with it. The Phone rings and it my friends calling me about a party down the block from him and asked if I wanted to come at first I was going to say nah but then I changed my mind and said sure. Party time came and I was ready. I headed out the door and before I knew it I was there. People talked everywhere so loud I couldn’t think to myself. Look for my friend but the crowd was to much. I hear people yelling and screaming, I had to get away.

 

“yo zakee over here 

 

“Dude their you are wtf with all dez people?”

“ Most is my family I didn’t know they was going to come”

“Theirs this chick I want you to meet.

 

He walks me over to meet her “yo this they dude been talking bout”

At first sight she looked  ghetto. Her first few words were ghetto, every time she talked she ended every thing with n”s like talkn, sleepn chilln its was her accent with the words that drove me mad. But then again  I talk the same way. Does this mean I”m ghetto? Mostly likely  but at least I was trying to change that. A lot of other people I know just don’t care. I go home  my mom says,

 

“how was the party?”

 “ehh it was ok”

 

days past is and I don’t Care about anything, language what ever. Going back to my old English ways of sayn yo bol, ayoo,. Few years  past and we moved to another  place just out side of Philly. It was near the suburban area. Mostly whites not rally black. Before I even knew it I heard these two whites guys talking. While they were talking I noticed they didn’t use any slang at all. Pure English. It made me think. Where you grow up is how you learn they way you speaking. Basically if people live where people say Potahto potato there going to say it like that because they were raised in that area. Knowing this made it easier to grow out of this habbit  but what if this habbit was my own insecure about how I speak. James Baldwin  said “if black English isn’t a language, then tell me what is?” I think  then what it means is what is language other then understanding each other. That’s what I always  seen language as for that one purpose. It can stand for different things like power, and love ect, but with out communication would kill it whole  purpose of the word. That’s why when people talk slang as  long as they can understand each other then in my book that’s language. So I shouldn’t  change the way I speak but learn multiply was to speak withoutchanging the true way I speak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

after all of this im able to say that my speaking skills is now on a better level then It was on before. Saying all of this you could say that languges is  comucataing with each other to a under standing of who is saying what and then reacting to it using  your own style of lanuge.

 

 

 

 

 

 

            In my house, the five of us (six, with my dog,) speak many, many languages. Our languages aren’t the conventional “language” categories. We speak English and some Spanish, but those aren’t our favorites. Each situation we find ourselves in dictates which unconventional language we must use, and I personally remember many times when one of us has combined multiple languages so that they fit the circumstances. Growing up with these languages around me and using them for myself, possibly even creating a few variations, I have become attached to them. Just as the languages have become a part of my speech, they have also become a part of me and my family. These parts within us manifest themselves at certain times, quite often.

            One night my family was sitting around the table eating dinner, and I was about five minutes into explaining why time travel wouldn’t ever be possible. My mom was clearly out of it, my oldest brother had a look of bemusement on his face, my dad was nodding with a “I’m going to disagree in a moment” expression, the dog was waiting for dropped food, and my other brother, who had long ago stopped paying attention, reached for his phone because he thought nobody was looking. Sure enough, my father did in fact have an objection to my theory. In the next minute he interrupted, saying in Lawyer, “That argument is specious.” Confused, I responded in English With an Accent: “Don’t rightly know what ‘specious’ means, mate, but cheers for the disagreement, ey?” At that point, the dog chimed in, speaking Dog, of course, and brought to the table the counterargument of “Bark, bark… grrr… woof, roof, ruff!!!” My oldest brother, Andrew, said “on that note, I’m gonna go get some water.” On his way to get there, he stumbled and caught himself on the counter, clearly dizzy. This consistently happens to my father, my brothers, and me whenever we stand up too fast. Disoriented, he asked, “why does this happen so much?” My mom responded to this in Doctor, saying, “well you don’t drink anything all day, you’re probably hypovolemic,” resulting in blank stares from the rest of us. Times like that, where a few of us have no idea what the others have said, are more common than you’d think. But, with each time, we learn each other’s languages and add the knowledge to our vocabulary. I now know that specious means reasonable on the outside, but due to either faulty logic or already proven facts, it is false, and that hypovolemic means that you have a low blood volume.

A month or two later, my brothers walked up from the basement and I heard (and mostly understood) the end of a conversation, speaking Sports, regarding their latest FIFA game.

“…then he did a rainbow and bicycle kicked it right past the keeper, it was great!”

“Yeah, can’t wait to try that one myself, it looked awesome. Meanwhile, I’ll stick to juggling while they’re trying their hardest to win. A demoralizing tactic if ever I’ve used one.”

Not a week later, they were using Sports again, this time debating the merits of potential players the Phillies might target in “free-agency.” “Batting average is nice and all but it’s becoming an outdated statistic, OPS is much more indicative of a player’s offensive value.” I decided to break in and confuse them by talking about the computer that I built. I decided that Nerd was the best language for this task. “Hey guys, wanna play a game on the new computer? It’s got 8 Giga-bytes of RAM, a quad-core i5 2500 at 3.3 Giga-hertz and a NVIDIA GeForce GTX 460 with 4 Giga-bytes of video RAM.” They both stood there, looking quizzical, waiting for an explanation.

“…Fine, it’s really fast and good at doing things.”

“OH, that sounds cool, yeah, lets have a look!”

In the essay “Borderlands” by Giona Anzaldia, there is a section in which she talks about how certain things have became tied to her identity. For her, these things are food, the smell of something from her childhood that brings her back in time. I share that similarity with her, although my tied identity-pieces aren’t food or smells. The things that bring me home and have built up who I have become and will become are the languages that we use in the house. My family’s inconsistent code-switching and cornucopia of languages will keep spontaneity and creativity a part of who I am. I’m ready to take on newer languages and learn their ins and outs, and I’m eager to further my knowledge on the vocabulary of each new language. Outside of our house we keep a mostly constant language. I, myself, tend to speak Nerd to my friends, as we do all go to SLA. My mom speaks Doctor to her Med-school friends and co-workers. My dad speaks Lawyer in his law office, and my brothers speak some sports with their friends. But in our family, ask any one of the five of us what species Crookshanks is, and we’ll tell you half Kneazle, half cat. Which person in all of Hogwarts has both a first and last name that are colors? Lavender Brown. What is the name of Padma Patil’s twin sister? Parvati. As any witch, wizard or muggle in our house can tell you, the Lingua Franca is Potter.

“Yo I wanna go somewhere like!!”

“Where you wanna go?” I said

“Idk where can we go?”

“Uh….Ight lets see. You can go bowlin’, skatin’, play double dutch, go shoppin’, watch a movie, take a breeze, or go find outha people to hang wit.” I said thinking.

“Man, you know I can’t bowl r skate. And you know well enough I don’t jump no rope dats too girly foe me. I don’t want to go shoppin’ or watch a movie. I don’t want to take a walk. So let’s go find Keem and B Ran and see if dey can come out.”

“Ard.” I said

I grew up in North Philly, where you heard cops sirens everyday and people arguing. Where you never heard anyone talk proper and if you did you would get jump. The area where all the boys was on the corner trying to make money for a living. Since living here I could never talk “proper”, everything that came out my mouth was slang. All day and night that’s what you heard. I did it so much that I couldn’t even get out of it. My parents even told me I needed to learn to speak right because they couldn’t figure out what I was saying. They told me that I would need to fix the way I speak before I went to high school interviews.

“Why do you feel as though you’ll be a good influence into coming into Franklin Learning Center?”

“I would be a good influence into coming into Franklin Learning Center because I am supportive, helpful, and I’m excellent when it comes to doing my work and paying attention.” I said proudly.

“And what would you bring to this school?”

“I would bring my intelligence, my artistic skills, and my manners everyday no matter what. And I would never bring my problems to the school property.” I responded.

“Okay, very nice it was good speaking to you.”

“You too.” I said

It took me a while to learn how to speak proper but I finally did. I would only speak that way if I was interviewing somewhere or being nice or even talking to my the adults in my family. This became a problem to me one day because I was so used to speaking proper that I started using it around my friends. When they heard me talk they kept asking me why was I talking the way I was. I didn’t know what they were talking about at first because I didn’t realize how I was talking to them. After finally noticing, I told them what was up and about what my parents said. They told me that I had changed, that I was talking white and that it was creeping them out. They also told me that I was trying to be better than them now that I’m going to high school. I didn’t know what to do because how would I remember to keep switching up the way I talk when I’m around them. And after thinking about it I was kind of mad that they said I talked white and that I had changed, just because I talked different from them now in a more proper tone, I’m considered different. I’m the same person that they knew before but just talk a little bit better. So now every time I see them they would say “Do you still talk like a white girl?”  I don’t respond to them when they say stuff like that so they would think that I still do.

After thinking about it some more I came to realize something. Were they right? Did I change? Was I not that North Philly girl who talked nothing but slang? Was talking proper make me better than them? I started to frown upon the thoughts. I went to my mom to see what she thought.

“Mom do I talk white?”

“What do you mean do you talk white?”

“Like do I sound white…proper white?”

“No you just sound proper. There’s no such thing of proper white. Why you ask?”

“Because my friends said I sound white when I talk.  And that I’m trying to be better than them since I changed the way I talk. So now I’m trying to switch up the way I talk every time I’m ‘round dem cuz dey gonna keep makin fun of me. And I don’t know what to do. I’m just tryin to be me and I can’t help it if I talk dis way now. I’m not tryin to be betta den ‘em I’m not. Man, IDK!!” I said sadly.

“Well it look like it to me that you got your language back again. But don’t worry about what they say. They are just jealous that you are going somewhere and they not. And heck you just may be better than them if you keep up the work that you’re doing. They’re mad because they have to work on the corners to get money since they can’t keep a job when you’re going to be the owner of a job. So forget what they say just be you and do what you think is comfortable for you.”

            Ever since then I kept the words in my mind of what my mom had said. My friends got mad after telling them what my mom said and that I agreed with it but I didn’t care they wasn’t true friends anyway. I don’t worry about what people think or say about the way I talk or sound. If they don’t like, tough luck because I do. Yeah I may switch up the way I talk sometimes on purpose and sometimes by accident, but it doesn’t bother me. Language can either bring you to the top of the world or it can tear you down depending on what and whom you are dealing with. Like me, the way I speak at interviews are going to take me places since I sound professional but that same voice was going to ruin my relationships with certain people.

In the essay called “I Just Wanna Be Average” by Mike Rose it says, “I just want to be average.’ That woke me up. Average? Who wants to be average?” This quote from the story spoke to me a lot because people don’t think about what they really want when they say certain stuff. They always think that being on top is always good and the best but it’s not. You don’t always have to be greedy and be on top, you can just be in the middle and have a piece of everything. I knew so many people like this and I used to be one of them. All I ever wanted to be was on top, I didn’t want to be average; I wanted to be better and more popular than everyone. But now I just want to be and do me. Being average is the best way to go for me. You’re not in the higher class where everyone knows who you are and every step you make, but you’re also not in the lower last class where you would die for attention and to be popular. To me being average is the key to my life; I can fit into any group whether it’s with people who talk slang or with people who talk professional. And being average brought me so far and I don’t plan into letting it go.

            I have been speaking Spanish my whole life; it is, in fact, my first language. Many people are actually surprised when they hear the Spanish come out of my mouth. I don’t blame them; I don’t look Latino, I at all actually look white. But I am indeed Latino, I have an Ecuadorian passport and My race is registered Latino in the US, so as far as the US, Ecuador, and my heritage are concerned I’m Latino. A big shocker, I know, believe me, I’ve seen the expressions of some people’s faces before. The first words to come out of my mouth were “teta,” or “baby bottle,” as it’s known in Ecuador. But in most other Spanish-speaking nations teta is “breast,” so don’t go around saying you know how to say bottle because you’ll find yourself in some awkward situations.

            Now, being a first-born Latino American who looks white and has the ability to speak Spanish has its advantages and disadvantages. With my ability to speak Spanish I can talk about people right in front of their faces without them actually knowing, without actually saying their name of course. An example of this is when I had my friend Anthony over and my mom was making fun of him. We were all in the living room and Anthony and I were headed out somewhere and I was putting on my shoes in front of the door. Anthony was sitting on the couch and my parents were standing up and my five-year-old sister seemed to be very flirtatious towards Anthony.

Mom: “Mirale a ese ignorante, no sabe nada de español, no sabe nada de lo que estamos diciendo” (Look at him being all ignorant, not knowing any Spanish or anything we’re saying about him)

Jhonas: Hahaha!!! Si ignora el ignorate! (Hahaha!!! Yes ignore the ignorant)

Mama: “Mira le coqueteando con mi hija de cinco años el no tiene nada de morales” (Look at him flirting with my five year old daughter, he has no morals)

Anthony: “I know you guys are talking about me.”

Jhonas: “Hahaha!!! No tiene, pero ya tenemos que hirnos” (Hahaha!!! No he doesn’t, but we have to go now)

(My mom whispers in my dad’s ear)

Mama: “Voy a decirle que lleva estas chocolates a su novia solo para molestarle” (I’m going to tell him to take these chocolates to his girlfriend just to piss him off)

Mama: “Jhonas estas olvidando tus chocolates para tu..” (Jhonas you’re forgetting your chocolates for your…)

Jhonas: “Te escuche decirle a papi que solo estas tratando de molestarme” (I heard yo whisper to dad that you’re just trying to piss me off)

Mama: “Hahaha!!! Adios hijo Buena suerte y dile lo mismo al ignorante” (Hahaha!!! Bye son, good luck and tell the ignorant person I said the same)

Jhonas “Okay, adios” (Okay, bye)

Anthony: “I still know you guys are talking about me, you keep looking in my general direction”

I will admit that talking about someone in there face in a different language has its flaws. But for the most part it works; Anthony seemed to have no idea what we were talking about and it was in front of his face, it was a funny moment. For the record my mom did not mean any of that, she was just being funny.

 

            Like I said before, being a white Latino American who knows Spanish has its disadvantages, but one disadvantage is also an advantage. When I go to neighborhoods that are Latino dominant I see people give me looks because of the fact that I look white. I feel like a mixed African American from the 50’s because at that time neither the African Americans or the whites would accept that person because they were mixed. I feel discriminated in a way; it just hurts sometimes not being accepted by your own people. But there is an advantage to this disadvantage; they speak about me in Spanish in front of my face. They have no idea about the fact that I speak Spanish. So all I do is go up to them and say “Yo se de lo que estan hablando, tambien soy Latino entonces no hablan mal de mi en frente de mi cara porque te entiendo todo de lo que estan diciendo” (I know what you guys are talking about, I’m also Latino so don’t speak about me in front of my face because I know what you guys are saying). The expressions on their faces are priceless, jaws dropped and everything, I smile and walk away and think to myself “I got them good” and I giggle to myself.

 

            This is just a glimpse at what goes on in my life in regards to being a white Latino who speaks Spanish. It’s actually very fun, I enjoy being able to talk in Spanish and I love Spanish, more than English as a matter of fact. But it is, indeed, a great feeling to just being able to talk to someone from another country in their native tongue and it just sounds very sexy coming out which is a plus. This essay is mierly an appitizer compared to my whole life as a Latino, which is the whole platter. 

“Well is not lik I chos tah get in tah trhuble ovar this!” I say talking quickly as I got more, and more aggravated with the situation. I had just gotten into an argument with my parents over a few things that were missed in school. It was bugging me a lot they were making too big a deal out of it. They never seemed to understand much when it came to their youngest daughter.

 

 “Ok ok. I understand.” My friend tells me as my out bursts become more, and more hard to understand as my Irish accent comes out of hiding.

 

“It juhst not fairh! I dow mah best tah make them happy an….grrr!” I was too upset with my parents at the time to realize I was talking too fast to be completely understood. When I calmed down enough to speak normal it was more of a south philly slang then an Irish accent. It had been unintentional, and hard to understand. I could tell by the look on her face that she had no clue what I had been saying. It didn’t take me long to realize what I must of sounded like, and it wasn’t exactly a good thing. “Sorry, I just can believe they’re actin like this.”

 

“Yeah I know what you mean.”

 

 No, my argument with my parents didn’t exactly matter in this scene we don’t see eye to eye enough for it to matter. No, what I want you to see is that accent placed so oddly in my voice. That slight higher pitch, that quickened pace, the rolling r’s, all signs I had gotten too upset to keep my crazy Irish accent out of my speech. Was I born in Ireland? Answer no. I’m third generation in this country on my father’s side. Was I introduced to it a lot as a kid? Same as before no. My father only spoke it to show how his Grandmum spoke when she was alive. I taught my self by practicing every time I thought of it when I was younger.

 

 I hadn’t realized that with an already fast South Philly accent I could easily get myself into unconsciously to start speak with an Irish accent when upset.  I never intended to do such a thing as this. I admit at one point I did use the Irish accent on purpose to impress others, but after a few years of doing so it became a force of habit. I regret doing so though more then likely I speak with the South Philly accent I was born into. I hate to do things unintended, because it got me picked on sometimes. When in elementary I got picked on a lot, but I was laughed at because when I would get upset the South Philly in me showed in how I spoke.

 

 “Mon’ that ant cool! Could ya do me this one favore, an leav me the hell alone?” I would yell at the girls sitting there making fun of anything they could pick at to kill my already dying self-esteem.

 

 “Stop tryin ta be gensta, when ya know ya ant!” they would counter.

 

 “I ant tryin nothin you’re the one’s startin something wit me! Comon can’t ya just leav me alone already!” it was one thing to have my looks and personality looked at, and completely demolished by those who were my fellow school mates, but my speech was something I couldn’t hide for too long. When I would get angry not only would I speak like a south Philly girl, but I would yell, and make my voice shrill with rage. That always got a laugh every time. I began to hate talking at all not only was my emotion in it made fun of, but I got shut down by my classmates for even talking.

 

 It’s like James Baldwin says “Language is also a political instrument means, and proof of power”. What he said made sense to me who never seemed able to find power in my speech even when emotional. If language is power then it seems obvious that even when angry I had none. My voice was too shrill, the Philly slang coming out of a person so small, and proper under most circumstances was bound to be unthreatening. The fact that everyone laughed when I put my powerful emotions in to my voice shows that they had stripped me of that power. It also shows that I don’t have a complete understanding on how to use my voice, even when emotional, as a tool to be heard. It goes with out saying now that I have no real power in the voice I have.

 

 After being laughed at for so many years I learned better then to open my mouth. I became soft spoken, I would try not to answer questions I knew the answer to and would keep as quiet as possible when not with friends. As I got older I started to use my voice as a whip. I would spit out cruel words, and retorts when angry also without the yelling. I had gotten good at hurtful phrases with a tone of voice that could cut, and burn the ears of the people who had once used them to hurt me. After all my years of being the one stung, and cut I was now turning their hurtful weapons against them. The scars, and my rage coming together to turn the tables on the battleground that was my self-esteem, and theirs’.  I held on to those taunts, and words waiting for just the right moment to turn them against the people who needed some revenge induced karma as I call it.

 

 Maxine Hong Kingston said something that works very well with what I was doing in my head. She says in her story “Tongue-Tied” that, “The hearer can carry it tucked away without it taking up much room.” The ‘it’ being something a person says, like telling a person a story. What I did was similar, I took every horrible and painful thing they said to me, and tucked it away. I held on to them for years, and years they never got in the way. I waited until I finally had just about enough of their taking advantage of my quiet, and pacifist personality to unleash on them what they had said, and called me all those years ago. “Bitch” was the first word in my arsenal, and it came out as a shocker to every person in the class who heard me say it. “Did that just happen?” they seemed to be collectively thinking. Did the small person who was almost always invisible till someone wanted someone to hurt another just snap back with a cuss word? They were shocked. I on the other hand wasn’t, I had been holding on to that, and many other words for years just waiting for the right time to put anger, and memory to work.

 

In reality it had taken me much too long to learn how to put power in my voice the right way. It wasn’t so much how I spoke or how loud I was when emotional. If you didn’t learn the right words, and tone to use when trying to get the results you wanted you got laughed at, and hurt. I to this day can’t decide if that’s the right idea or not. Looking back at how much time I spent studying the right way to be heard by others I couldn’t tell you if I was wrong, or right. It had taken 6 years to even get a clue on what words to use, or how my voice should sound. In the end I think I learned how to use words as a weapon rather then a means of getting my point across, so I still get ignored at times, and it does still bother me, but I at lest try to be heard now, and again.

 

 

 

​

I walked into the room giving a quick look and releasing my breathe in sign of relief. I took my seat and quickly started a conversation with one of the students.

“We had homework last night?”

“No, but we do have a quiz on chapter 9”

“Oh my god, really? I still don’t have all the words memorized!”

“Tough luck, here she comes now”

“Buenos días señores y señoras, ¿como están?”

Everyone at the same time “Bien”

“Y tu, yacca. ¿Como estas?

“Bien, me siente un poco desprimida”

“Deprimida*, bueno comencemos la clase de hoy.”

I’m starting to get use to getting corrected all the time in a language I thought I knew so well. My mom would always brag about how well I know the language and that would always make me feel confident when Spanish comes up. Well it used to always make me feel confident, up until the day I stepped foot into room 204 Spanish 202. It was a small classroom. One wall of the room was full of books while a long table took up the rest of the space in the room with chairs around it. It was a similar set-up where meeting are usually held. Aside from that it was just 12 other students and I for the next 2 hours and 30 minutes.

            The first time I went to Spanish class I felt very confident, it was going to be an easy A. I was thinking that I had already learned to read, write, and speak the language and that there was nothing else to learn. I was wrong. The more classes I had the more I realized how little I knew the language and how much I needed the class. At home I would have normal conversations with my parents in Spanish. We would talk about my day, and everything in general and very little times did my parents ever correct me when I said something wrong.

After having passed midterms in Spanish I started to over think the way I talk. I started to realize how I was struggling in class trying to process everything the teacher was saying to me. I started to lose confidence in myself, began to believe I didn’t know Spanish the way I thought I did. It got to the point where I started to forget the name of things in Spanish, I would even have trouble finishing a sentence. I began to get quieter during class, scared that if I participated I would get it wrong. It’s never wrong to fail; failing just gives you another chance to make it better. In my case I was scared that being the only Hispanic in the class everyone expected me to know it all and if I were to be incorrect the other students would think less of me. Although, there were those moments where she called on me and I ran out of luck.

“Yacca, ¿puedes repasar numero dos?”

“Si claro, uhm. ¿Presente perfecto de subjuntivo?”

“No, es el pluscuamperfecto de subjuntivo. Lo usamos para expresar una de las categorías enlistadas por encima con referencia al momento anterior u otra acción pasada”

I would stare at the professor as if she were speaking to me in another language. I knew the words she was using but they didn’t seem to come together in my head when she would explain it to me. The more frequent encounters of being corrected left me believing I didn’t know the language. Therefore this left me to the point where I had multiple errors while talking, which usually wouldn’t occur with me.

            The more often I thought about it more often I realized that it wasn’t my fault as to why I spoke Spanish the way I spoke it. With unpronounced letters here, and different words over there, for different items it all was unclear. The way the teacher was teaching the rest of the students to speak Spanish was completely different as to how I spoke it. The way my family speaks it in the environment I grew up in. Since I only was ever around people who spoke Spanish the way I did I was prone to believe that was the only way to speak Spanish. Since the professor would always correct the way I spoke and wrote Spanish that made me feel as if I were talking wrong all these years. When really it was just different ways of speaking the language. You have the slang Dominican Spanish I speak and the proper Spanish I was learning.

            Until I made this realization I was losing pride in my language. Started to think less of the way my aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers, and parents spoke. I then had more pride in whom I really was, and I’m glad I talk the way I do and am the way I am. As the Spanish author Gloria Anzaldua said in Oye Como Ladra: el lenguaje de la frontera “So, if you want to really hurt me, talk badly about my language”. From now on I’ll take more pride in my language, Instead of thinking less of myself and losing confidence I will  defend my own. 

Henry Poeng

Gold Stream

“The Asian That Could”

“Ey yo, ching diggity!”

“.....”

“Do... you... under...stand?”

“....”

“Whateva get outta here Jackie Chan, your not worth my time.”

I was crushed. Do I look like a slow child or something? Why did he speak to me like that. Like I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. I just walked away defeated and powerless. When I got far enough, I turned around to see my harasser. He was a tall kid, rag bag clothes, and had a School District of Philadelphia ID around his neck. The back drop of the surrounding area just made it worse. Destroyed houses, wild grass, and broken side walks all matched the mood. The worse part is, it made me think of ESOL (English for Speakers of Other Languages). 

“Welcome to ESOL everyone, now i’m sure you barely understand me, but hopefully by the end of your time here, you should be able to have conversations with one another in English. Lets start by introducing our names. You seem quiet, how about you go first.”

“Ja, ja ,amesss”

“Hen... bry. Henbry”

It was just first grade, I was barely into school, and already I knew this wasn’t going to be a good year. New school, new people, and english was still slipping my mind. The only class I was doing good in was math. Why? because, math is a universal language that everyone can speak, and since I couldn’t understand english, why not math? That probably explains why most asians are good at math. Although it was still a struggle throughout most of  elementary school. I had the most difficultly in first through third grade. Why? Well because the quest to learn and dominate the english language is long, difficult and almost impossible as I learned over the years. 

“Henry would you like to read todays announcements?” 

“No”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes”

“Just know that this is part of your participation grade.”

So I started, slow, shaky, and scared.

“Come and.. jo... oin us at your fist frmerly di..nner.”

Laughter and humiliation bellowed from the heart of the room, crushing my morale. From that day forth, I vowed to never participate willingly again, regardless of the situation. But that didn’t last very long because the urge to voice my opinion overcame my vow, and eventually overcame my fear as well. It was frustrating to not understand what someone is saying, and to not be able to voice what I want to say because no one would understand me. Little did I know, it was a good push for me to learn. 

“Welcome back to school everyone!, who wants to tell me about their winter break first? How about you Henry?”

“Well it was pretty fun, but I am not sure of what I did on those days of break.”

Fourth grade is when it all started coming together. Confidence, accent, it was like a new me was born. The confidence just kept building and building, and it felt great. By 5th grade, my accent was gone and I spoke mostly proper english by my consideration. My spirit was through the roof, and I was proud to say that I had learned a third language. To this very day, I am still learning tips and tricks to further “enhance” the english experience.

“Yo ching chong wiggity wong!, going back to your sweat shop?”

“If by house, then yes.”

“Oh you can speak now, congradumacalations. Someone took long enough to learn engeresh, homeboi skilly bizdaddy.”

“Please, say it with me, Eng... Lish. For someone that likes to pick on other people, you sure don’t know anything.” 

“I gotchu, asian boi got some skills, and is all confident now huh?”

“I had enough of this.”

  The look on his face was priceless after I walked away with the biggest smile. When I got far enough, I looked back towards his direction. Same old rag bag clothes, and same old backdrop after all these years. It makes me wonder sometimes. 

Ever since that day, I assumed people who spoke like that were bad, not necessarily because they are bad people, but because of bad experiences. Kind of like getting hit by a basketball in the head a couple times and then developing a phobia to it. In “If Black English Isn’t a Language, Then Tell Me, What Is?” by James Baldwin, there is a quote that I strongly stand by. “To open your mouth in England is (if I may use black English) to “Put your business in the street””. This can be interpreted as “Letting people know who you are”. This quote explains how people subconsciously judge each other by how they speak. That’s what I do, and i’m pretty sure that’s what everyone else does too. It’s almost like reading a biography on that person, and each biography teaches a lesson.

Language is something that is  apart of who you are as person. As a young foolish teen once made up, “A well educated person will speak proper, but there ain’t nothin’ wrong wit showin da real you.” You can go to a job interview and dress to impress but you speech is weak, chances are you won’t get accepted. As for what I learned so far, language shows a couple of things about a person. Education, background, and history. If I were to say water in New York, they would be able to tell that I was from Philly just because of the way I pronounced it. If you are dedicated enough, you can bend your language and make convey what you want to.