Although Mandarin is the official language in China, there are also a lot of different dialects. Sometimes for people in different parts of China, it is hard to understand each other by oral languages though the written languages are similar. My families and I live in the Northern China which is close to Beijing, and we have some relatives in Guangdong Province which is in the Southern China and close to Hong Kong. I decided to visit my relatives during the summer vacation two years ago because my parents were busy. I told my parents about this idea, and they supported me. I was afraid that there might be some troubles in communication so I sent an e-mail to them. They replied to me at once and I could understand it. Therefore, I wasn’t worried anymore and went on my trip delightfully. But I found out I was wrong when I met them. 

I greeted with them at first, “你们好!”(Hello!) They showed a strange emotion, and I guessed they didn’t know what I was talking. But I believed that they greeted me, too. It sounded like “Niehoe!” Then, I said, “好长时间没见到你们了。”(I haven’t seen you guys for a long time.) I didn’t know what they were talking about, but they said something like “Hoegorxigandoeni”. I felt embarrassed and didn’t know what I should do next. They also found out that we couldn’t understand each other at all, and one of them who is my uncle pointed at a building. I understood that they wanted me to go to their house with them, and we walked together.

Then, I knew that they spoke Cantonese which is a southern dialect in China! I felt that I was an outsider although they were friendly to me because we always failed to communicate with each other. Since we couldn’t understand each other by speaking, if I needed something, I had to write it down on paper and give it to them. I was like a mute while I was living in their home. According to my plan, I would spend my whole summer vacation there. But I couldn’t stand life like this and returned home after a week. This is a failed trip, but it let me understand more about language. 

You might ask why there are a lot of dialects in China. As you know, Chinese history is long and complicated. There were seven kingdoms in China during the Warring States Period, and it lasted about two hundred years. If the people in one place couldn’t communicate with the people living in somewhere else, they had to form their own language or dialect. People in each kingdom had their own oral language and written language, but it was hard to communicate between different kingdoms. After the king of one kingdom called Ying Zheng united the other six kingdoms and established Qin Dynasty, he realized this problem and stipulated a unified written language, but he had no idea about unifying the oral language. Although he was the emperor and had the strongest power in the whole country, he didn’t have the power to change the way which people spoke. The oral language can’t be limited and unified because it is a kind of habit which can’t be decided by a certain person. In Han Dynasty, a foreign nation called Xiongnu which is next to the northern China communicated with China frequently during the whole period. So, the oral language of northern China was influenced by Xiongnu inevitably. After Han Dynasty, there were a lot of foreign nations communicating with the Han nationality which is the main nation in China, and this influenced the language in China, too. In Qing Dynasty, a nation called Manchu united China, and their tone influenced oral Chinese in the northern China so Mandarin was formed. After People’s Republic of China was established, Chinese government popularized Mandarin. But people who lived in Guangdong Province in the Southern China were used to using Cantonese, and Cantonese had already become a part of their culture. They didn’t want to change the way which they spoke, so they continued to use Cantonese till today. Dialect is connected with history. Dialect is a tool for communication and a kind of habit, and the reason of formation of a dialect is complicated. Wars can help form a dialect, because the tone of soldiers might be influenced by their enemies. Conquests can help form a dialect, because the conquerors might force the slaves to accept their languages, and the tone of slaves might be different from the conquerors so that a new dialect is formed. Also, trades can help form a dialect. If a person wants to deal with another person who speaks another language, he/she must communicate with the person, and their tone of speaking their own language would be influenced by each other.

There is also a dialect in the United States called black English. In the article If Black English Isn’t a language, Then Tell Me, What Is by James Baldwin, the author says that black english is a language, and it influences white english and culture. It introduces the reason of formation of black english. “Subsequently, the slave was given, under the eye, and the gun, of his master, Congo Square, and the Bible--or in other words, and under these conditions, the slave began the formation of the black church, and it is within this unprecedented tabernacle that black English began to be formed.” Black english is a kind of language which was spoken by black people in the United States. The reason of its formation also connects to history. Blacks were ruled by whites before the American Civil War, and they couldn’t communicate at all because they came from different tribes and used different languages. They wanted to find a way to communicate with each other, so black english appeared.

The reason of formation of dialects connects to history. It might be wars, conquests, trades, etc. Dialect is a way to communicate with each other in a certain area, and it is formed since it is chosen by history. Since this is the historical trend, no one can change it and that’s not necessary.

Will Amari

1/3/13

Silver

Wordz.

During the murky early mornings I am a man of very few words. My thoughts are focused on my dreams which I miss intensely the instant I wake. My eyes are towards the ceiling, and my back lays flat on the cushion of my nice soft warm bed. The darkness is a clown which fools with my mind. He bends the fine line between what’s real and what’s only fantasy. Which is why I lay silent trying to figure out the clear difference. 

“WILL!” That’s my father yelling from downstairs. I’m still in my dream phase thinking about women and riches. I flop over sideways facing my bedroom door and try to respond to him with a happy hearty “Good morning,” but before I can, my true feelings break loose, and I respond by saying a depressing, miserable, “MmmmWha?” 

“Oh.” He says surprisingly. There is a short pause, then he continues, “I think it’s time you start thinking about getting up.”

“Mnnn Kay— one minute.” I fall out of bed and quickly get dressed, walk my dog, eat breakfast, brush my teeth, pack my bag, and then I go to school. It all feels like one movement.

In the classroom I am a mouse, even though I’m totally there, I’m quiet and I speak with my eyes. Sometimes words are as meaningless as a Thrush who cannot sing. However, sometimes, if the right words are used by the right person, they can save a life. In the end, some words are beautiful works of art, like the pieces that are admired in museums and some words are stupid and are only meant to be used for The Mindless Small Talk of everyday life. 

“Sup Will.” Someone says.

“Sup man.” I say plainly, and with a sarcastic crescent-shaped smile glued on my face, I shake their hand. That to me is as low as it gets, the words I use for small talk have no personality or charisma. They’re boring and dimwitted, and there is no art or true beauty to them. There’s just that sort of, “I say this, you say this feeling”, you get when your talking to someone you don’t know and or care about. I feel like a social robot, until I get to lunch. 

At lunch, with my friends, I am Out Going, I am Free Spirited, and I am Happy— which is not a word I use often. Do I speak out art? I don’t know, but its eccentric and natural and my words mirror my personality— and that’s all that matters. 

“Will.” Tom says to me.

“Tom.” I reply. 

“Amari.”

“Sawyer.” I joke.

Tom throws a fake punch at my face. And I pretend to get hit in the eye, and start to grow fake tears while crying out a fake sob. 

Then someone says, “Yo. Guys we should definitely go bowling.” 

“I know, we really should.”

“Whites versus Asians again?”

“Hell yah bitch.”

“Were gonna kick your asses back to Viet-Nam.”

“Oh my god. You guys are so messed up.”

“You’re the one who can’t say one sentence without saying the word fuck.”

“Fuck you.”

“He looks like Hitler.”

“Lamborghini Muci Damn deez chicks are thirsty...”

“Shut the hell up.”

“Wait hold on I like that.”

“You see me rollin...”

“Oh my god. Will. Play that country music you like.”

“Its not country. Its folk man. Bob Dylan. See country is like yeee-haaawww grab your partner round ‘n’ round. Folk is expressive and sad like blowin’ in the wind and stuff. I like folk a lot better cause it’s like real poetry made into song.” There is a brief moment of silence. “Plus its fun to play on my guitar.” 

The conversations I have with my friends are valuable because they are so natural. The words from my mind, spill out of my lips, like the water that runs out my faucet. It’s a time where my words reveal the most of myself and the mouse in me becomes a lion. I am my own jungle. I roar instead of squeak. I swear instead of shake and I am not alone. 

I’m alone on my way home, I’m a shadow, and although I am happy, I am not me. As I walk through familiar streets and smell the familiar smells and hear the familiar sounds, my shadow grows. By the time I get to my door— no, by the time I get to my street, I grow my flesh and bones. I walk into my house, fully skinned and fully clothed. What you see of me is enough for you to know— I’m there. Dragging along my book bag, I parade up the stairs, and walk into the living room. There sitting on the couch is my mother. I am not a lion but I am also not a mouse. At this point, I don’t know what I am. However, I know what I follow. I follow a behavior and manner owned and invented by the house I live in and the roof I live under. I ask questions, instead of answering. I don’t declare or claim anything. I am innocent and ignorant. 

“Sup mom.” I said. “What’s for dinner?” I asked. 

“Well. Why don’t you look on the counter and find out for yourself.”

“Oh yah.” I turn around and...

“But wait, tell me about your day.” Demands my mother. 

I answer her in a few words more than one. I speak, but like the robot I am before lunch, I do not tell. I follow the rules and act as I am supposed to. The world inside the tower which I live in revolves around a small round table. Together we call it the dinning room. We sit and eat and speak and drink. 

“I got a eighty five on my spanish test.” 

“Thats good.” My mother admitted. “How are you doing on all your other subjects?”

“Pretty good.” I reply.

“Yah, you keeping up on all your assignments?”

“Yes.” I say emotionless and calmly. I finish up my meal and head up to my room. 

All through the night, until early in the morning, I’m alone in my room. Once again I am speaking, but not through my eyes or mouth, but within the inner roots of my body. I speak with my heart, soul and mind. These words, they are different than the ones that I say out loud and to me and me only— they are truly beautiful, a masterpiece made out of letters and vowels. Art. These words come from a big bright cabinet located in my dark dreary mind. These words, which I ponder all day keep me occupied and I become excited. These words have personality, style and grace. My heart is finally speaking and my soul is finally free from the tower I am forced to live in. There is no better way to use these words, so why use them at all. Words that are said out loud aren't special, they are wasted, wasted on something that is soon to be nothing. Nothing more than a memory, not worth being memorized. 

The words that are meant to be memorized have a true meaning that shows who you really are. Not as a human, but as a individual. Its poetry, art, truly beautiful, Bob Dylan and blowin’ in the wind, eccentric, natural, or whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t really matter, as long they reveal your true self.

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

“My words depend on my personality, my personality depends on my attitude, my attitude depends on who’s at the door. For I speak out my own creation and my creation is nothing more.” I typed that.  

Dropbox: 

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine, dear boy. How are your studies?”
“They’re just fantastic, thank you. All A’s, you know.”

“As expected! You read a lot, don’t you?”

“Every day, sir.”

It was a bitter winter night, and I was sheltered in another victorian age cesspool of boring conversation. I felt a cold, pudgy hand on my shoulder. It squeezed roughly, turning me around to face the bland, dark blue tie of a scratchy grey suit. The suit held an apparently impressive man. He boldly told me he was the “Assistant Coordinating Manager to The General Assignment Contributor of The FFSA (Firefly Financial Service Advisors)” and had the nerve to ask me what I thought about that.

Luckily for me, I had mastered the art of pretending to be interested in someone else’s transparent successes. “That sounds like a big job, sir! You must have a lot on your plate, not to say you can’t handle a load.” Today, I was beyond uninterested. “I’d better let you get back to those pastries.” I walked away as quickly as possible, weaving in between these pure, civilized, undoubtedly drawl citizens. 

A greying housewife stopped me before I could pull open the unnecessarily heavy, maple wood door. “Oh, thank goodness. Won’t you be a dear and fetch me a few more bottles of 1978 Montrachet from the cellar?” 

“No.” I walked out, finally taking a breath of fresh air.

I was just fifteen, and already feeling the heavy effects and the rebellious attitude that came with the year. By this time, I was aware of the warmth in this world, no longer comfortable in the ice chest of privilege. I wanted to experience the relaxed atmospheres of the world made possible by casual language and rhythmic speech. I wanted to hold a conversation rich with expression, as opposed to the boring speech patterns that filled my life with a redundant story of white entitlement.

In James Baldwin’s short essay “If Black English Isn’t A Language, Then Tell Me, What Is?” he said that “...language is also a political instrument, means, and proof of power.” In privileged white speech patterns lies power of society, automatic success, and unearned wealth. Unfortunately, there is no single person in influential political power who speaks in “Black English,” for the history of the language is tarnished in an “equal” world. Yet I was intrigued by the language, by the dialect. As I grew and began to associate my own language with a stifling future I saw before me, a pathway already paved, others fascinated me. I observed true freedom only in dialects different from my own, while my language oppressed itself, suffocating its people in a self-invented stereotype.

“Son, why are you sitting out here all alone?”

“I can’t stand it in there.”

“These are our neighbors, our friends. Be respectful.”

“They’re your neighbors, not mine.”

“You should consider yourself lucky to be born into this culture.”

As I walked home, I thought about what my dad said, and what my language said about me. This world relinquished control to pale skin and expensive suits a long time ago, giving power to a community who would quickly grow accustomed to it, stepping on the feet of those climbing the ladder below them. A culture associated with power gained by trampling the potential of those different from them, never impressed me. No, what impressed me were the countless cultures who rose from nothing, stepping up each rung slowly, yet diligently, striving to be heard in society. The minorities of this earth have accomplished more than the “successful” ever did. There’s a certain pride that follows these successes. Something you can not experience if you enjoy what you have not earned. I wanted to be proud. 

In an essay by Richard Rodriguez, “Hunger of Memory” he spoke of his comfort with the Spanish speech patterns. “Conveyed through those sounds was the pleasing, soothing, consoling reminder of being at home.” I can say with certainty that as I grew, and my ear developed, the words I heard at home became sharper, rougher, another reminder of my humility. Instead of the linguistic comfort described by the minorities I admired, was the tasteless reality I was raised to carry on.

Fifteen was the year I broke the cycle. Growing up in privilege stifled my expression, and conformed me to a majority I would soon distaste. I knew the history of my culture, and I spoke the language associated with it. I hated to think what the sound of my voice triggered in the minds of my peers. It impacted my pride, my sense of belonging, and my view of the reality I knew. It changed me, made me want things out of my reach, and created a distance in my family. I still speak the language, but with reserve, an attempt at the absence of pompous inflection. In a simple alteration of linguistics, a change in attitude, a new culture is spawned within me. I was born privileged in all aspects, and died, born again, humbled. I struggled with privilege, but then rose above, victorious.

     Language can make you who you are. It can help you in some cases and in others, hurt. Sometimes using a different language others may look at you questionably. Language can tell a story about who you are. One language may comes with several different accents. Having an accent makes you even different as a person. You have to understand that even if you or anyone else had a slight accent there’s nothing different about that person, the only thing different is the way they pronounce a word. You can’t judge a person based off their accent, everyone has something they can’t control and their accent is what it is. 

     With that I will tell you my story. I am a girl that comes from south Philadelphia, born and raised. I can say I live in a pretty good neighborhood, which people generally call “dego land”, but if you go up or down a few blocks you will hit places you wouldn’t want to go. My surrounding are mostly asian and black with hints of white here and there. If you closed your eyes and get a white and black person to speak, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, but for some odd reason, im different. I hang out with every race, nothing particular. The questionable wonder from people about my accent is unanswerable. With this some accent judgement comes to play. And the even worse thing is that I get judged by some of my best friends.

      Have you ever been asked that question “where do you come from?” Well I do, all the time. Its all because of the way I speak. Its only a few words I pronounce differently. The worst feeling is when your own family and friends the ask the same question. The way I pronounce some words puts a slightly small toll on my life. I guess just because I grew up with a better education and payed attentions to the speaking test that I was blessed by being able to say words you would hear in the rich south.

     I’m very dedicated to my sports. If someone is playing a sport I’m interested in, then I’ll ask to play. But one day something happened at softball that I wasn’t expecting. That day it felt like it had to be at lease ninety five degrees out, and with the sun beating down on you makes it ten times worse. I needed a drink of water, I was so parched.

“Hey bri, throw me a watuh?”

“Sorry lex, we only have wateeeerrr, you know W-A-T-E-R.

     That day, was a day where I felt less than everyone else. That day at that moment, I was very tempted to quit something I really loved. All because my whole team was laughing at me because I said one word different. I realized that day that my accent could ruin things I really truley loved. 

     After that day I started to realize that I pronounced other word more differently. The first was “watuh”, then it was “bull” instead of “ball”, “gulf” instead of “golf” and “dughter” instead of “daughter”. What I learned through out this time period is that I was different from some others and it felt good. I was happy that I found out that I talk differently from others. Who wants to be just like everyone else? I know not me, because I like being my own person. 

      Something interesting was that some other people that passed through my life also spoke similar to how I pronounce words and others really liked the way I talked. So my little accent helped me meet new people who wanted to consistently engage in conversation just to hear me speak my words just a little differently. I kind of felt special after a while, people introduced me to their friends just because I tend to take away the “R” in water and the “A” in daughter.

     You can’t take something so miner to the head because you’ll never really know who’s going to like you for who you really are. I learned that my little accents helped in situations like when I have to talk to an important elder. When I encounter this situation I speak more properly. So in cases like that I feel like I do have an advantage.

     With that something else came to mind. The worst feeling is when you and your best friend get into a fight, right? Well one day me and my best friend Briana got into a little disagreement about something completely childish. She came at me with “I think im better then everyone and I act to grown for my age”. That right their lead into so much more, but she was referring to how I don’t talk with so much slang like every other child from around my neighborhood does. I told her, its not that I think im better then anyone. Im just a person who was raised with class and It was tough to speak with manors.

     I no longer get upset when people make fun of my little accent that I have, I just tell myself every time that this accent that people torture me with is what makes me different from a lot of other people. My accent makes me who I am and I wouldn’t change my experience with this accent for anything because it showed me a different view on life. This small accent I have helped me in many ways and I believe that it will help me because a very important part in many peoples lives and my very important future. 

     Don’t ever let something so little get you down, remember the people who hurt you with anything are just people who are mad, and if it is your friend, in any case, they aren’t true friends. Be who you are then you’ll realize that the people who come through your life and stayed are the people that will be there forever.  

The War of The Worlds is about Martians who come to earth after they have faced major climate change in their own planet so they then came to earth to seek out a new home planet. Astronomers in the story take interest to the rapidly growing subject. Ogilvy (one astronomer in the story) goes to investigate the meteor form which the martians had fallen. He goes off to warn everyone of his findings. Later on there is a large crowd around the pit where the meteor had crashed. The martians are described as being about the same size as humans, with tentacles and big black eyes. The narrotor goes to tell his wife of the danger that they could possibly be faced with. The civilians who stayed around the area were killed by the Martians. As the death toll rises the military becomes involved. As the narrator attempts to gain more insight on the Martians another cylinder lands on earth with Martians in it.

The Martians begin to use heat rays which kill civilians of the surrounding area of London. So the humans in desperation to escape head for the docks which are letting people leave on ferry’s. As the narrator and his wife get away the fifth cylinder lands. Now the narrator comes across of house to take shelter in. Policeman walk from door to door to warn everyone that the Martians are basically unstoppable. After fifteen days of hiding in a coal cellar he comes out and goes to London where he is astonished to see that there are dead bodies everywhere. There was literally a war outside that no one is safe from. He looks around then he hears a strange sound and realizes that the Martians are dying. The earthly bacteria in which the Martians are not accustomed killed the Martians. Life becomes normal again, the narrator returns home.

The way my song and the story connect is in the song I explain how life is like in an inner city and how it is a war in itself. I know kids my own age who have been shot, or even killed. The story is about how no one is safe in the society at one point in which the Martians were there but it is like that everyday in Philadelphia; at any moment it could happen to anyone. One line in particular I said was “this is not opinion ; nor fact versus fiction this is my mission to make it to twenty-five not dead I don’t mean mummified, all they know is Killadelphia because that’s what surrounds us walk in to a dark room they found trust in what surrounds us.” That to me means for young men or teens who are in the street will be lucky to make it to the age of twenty five, but since ‘Killadelphia’ or Philadelphia is all they know they become used to it so they put their trust in their guns.

In Stephen Emond's second novel, the relationship of two childhood peas-in-a-pod, Lucy and Evan, is written as well as the script for any indie-movie. As children, they were virtually inseparable; they went to the same school, lived within walking distance of each other, sat around and illustrated stories via comic strip, and created mythical worlds (Bridge to Terabithia-esque) in spare time that they always seemed to have while they were with each other. Lucy moves out of town as a result of her parents divorce and Evan anxiously awaits her arrival every winter; one year, however, he is met with a 'surprise'. The once clean-cut, semi-nerd, good-girl Lucy has transformed into an eyeliner-wearing, baggier, mysterious Lucy. What could it be that has changed her so drastically? The book follows the two as Evan tries to bring Old Lucy ™ back and as New Lucy ™ makes attempts at gaining Evan's acceptance, and finding herself. 

In this unit, we learned a lot about language and power. This unit really helped me reflect on language, and it helped me realize that I judge people based on their language when the truth is that you cannot tell a persons character from the way they look or speak. 

My mother is white. My father is black. I have never really considered myself black. I am black, but I don’t feel black. Yes, black DNA runs through my veins, giving me nappy hair and a wide nose, but I don’t feel black. I was raised in University City, the bourgeois part of West Philly. There were some black people in my neighborhood, and my best friend growing up was black, but she struggled with language in the same ways I did. We were both physically black, but not culturally black. 

I went to a very diverse elementary school. About 70% of the students were black, and about 50% of the students were classified as “economically disadvantaged”. None of this really made a difference to me (or anyone else). We all got along (for the most part) and I had lots of friends, both black and white. It wasn’t until middle school that I really noticed the cultural divide between other black students and myself.

My middle school was not as diverse as my elementary school. Although it was a public school, most students were white and middle class. There were some black students, but they only hung out with each other. I didn’t really notice this until my best friend Ivy said to me “Ruby, why don’t you act black?”. At first, I was very offended. 

“How can someone act black? Is it because I’m smart? Because I speak proper english? You’re a racist”

This isn’t what she meant. I know that now. She was referring to my language. I don’t speak in Ebonics, Black Vernacular, African American English, or anything of the sort. But, probably due to some internalized racism, I associated speaking in Ebonics with being dumb, and (indirectly) I associated being black with being dumb. 

I didn’t realize that I was harboring some serious internalized racism until about 8 months ago. I stumbled across a few social justice bloggers, and one wrote a really long post about code-switching and African American Vernacular English (AAVE). He basically said that AAVE is a first language for most black people, and many have to change the way they speak in professional setting because AAVE is seen as “unprofessional”. This is still a common belief, and it’s really racist. Saying that AAVE is unprofessional or wrong is like saying black people are unprofessional or wrong. AAVE is a dialect of english, just like people from California and New York speak in distinctive tones and have different words. The only difference is that AAVE and the black community is the only dialect that is singled out to the extent that it is. This reflects a greater issue: racism in America. 

Africans were brought to the US by slave traders. They were forced to learn english, and (like most english language learners) developed a distinct accent. Because the Black community was (and still is) so isolated from white america, this accent stayed. AAVE does NOT include slang words, and has rules and pronunciation.

After learning about AAVE, I realized that I judged black people for using it and immediately wrote them off as dumb and not worth my time. Since many black people use AAVE, I made judgements about the entire race and didn’t associate myself with them. I was a racist. Not the kind that you see on TV, burning flags and wearing t-shirts with bright red swastikas, I was the kind of racist you most often find in the US. The kind who scoffed at black teenagers on the bus, and the kind who said things like “Just because I’m not dumb doesn’t mean I’m not black”. I thought that I was a champion for my race, but I was just whitewashed, and because of this I saw myself as superior. This was wrong, and I understand now that AAVE doesn’t make a person dumb, it’s just another way of speaking.

I don’t feel black. I have never experienced black culture. All my life I’ve listened to white music, eaten white food, and spoken in white english. But, I don’t feel white either. My tanned skin and curly hair have always served as a reminder of my otherness. I still don’t know where I stand with my race. When I refer to the black community as a whole, I never know whether to say “them” or “we”. I feel silly saying “they”, but “we” feels strange. I’m not black, but I’m not white. I don’t really know what I am. 

• Of the 27 people that took the results 1 was Asian. The majority of the participants were Black and the second major race was Caucasian. One person was Hispanic and three where either mixed, or not one of the available races. 
• When asked the question "Do you Know that North Koreans aren't allowed to step outside of North Korea?" 36% said yes, 32% said no, and 32% said I no a little bit about it.
• They were the asked the question "How would you feel if you weren't allowed to leave America?" the majority of the people said something along the lines of feeling trapped or they would feel bad.
• I also asked "How would you feel if you were trapped in America, often having shortages of food, not being able to buy any food for your family, dying from famine?". I got a mixed amount of responses varying from "I would die" to "I would go crazy and try to leave" to "This is a badly phrased question because the only responses you could get are bad and terrible" 

Also in the Language Autobiography, it puts together how high school and middle school is not the same as the being with latinos 24/7 to what it is now to be a non-latino school, but to be in every race.

 Resources (Citations):

One of the book’s primary idiosyncrasies is that the titular character and protagonist, the invisible man, also serves as the story’s antagonist, and is shrouded in mystery for the majority of the book. Despite the narrative focusing almost entirely on him, little is known or revealed about the mysterious, bandage-clad stranger who arrives in Iping, West Sussex in the dead of night. The story follows this secretive man and hostile interactions with all others during his tenure in the town. Eventually he is shown to be a brilliant research scientist, who sought to create a race of perfect humans by making the first invisible man. In a fit of impatience, the man took the medicine he had created himself, rendering his body entirely invisible, and retreats to the quiet of the English countryside to reverse his condition. 

While these events are not particularly the most relatable, considering my current visibility, I find the concept of the pursuit of invisibility to be a very human one. After all, who hasn’t wanted to disappear before? This, coupled with the charming depictions of quiet life in the English countryside made this a surprisingly easy book to relate to. It is this pairing of the mundane with the extraordinary that makes this book so unique and so much fun to read. 

I can recommend this book to anyone who enjoys a thrill. It is fast paced and slow paced, funny and terrifying. It is a perfect illustration of a psychopath, and you will not regret it.

If I were to move to Boston right now, about a year from now I’d catch myself saying things like Pahhk, and Caaahh instead of pronouncing the “AR” and “ARK” of the words. A person’s surrondings, can play an enormous part in the way someone speaks, where they come from, how they live their life and just there everyday surroundings. I find myself altering the way I speak in several different situations. I’m proud of who I am, and where I come from, but I realize that if I use my regular tone of voice, and use some of the words that I’m use to using with my friends and close family, there is no doubt in my mind that I would be judged.
In 8th grade I had to shadow at a wide variety of schools in several different parts of the city, one of the schools I visited was, Spring Side School for girls, located in Chestnut Hill, a very suburban area, the school itself sits upon 62 acres of land. Riding up to the school on the day of my shadow I saw that the homes surrounding the school were beautifully built, each of them had huge yards and at least two cars sitting in the driveway. There were country clubs, and community and rec centers that actually looked clean and safe to be in. When we got there my mom pulled into the congested parking lot, not only did it seem like every student was old enough to drive, but they had their own cars, but they weren’t the typical “starter” cars a lot of high schoolers receive when they first get their license, these were top of the line mercede benz and range rovers sitting in the lot. I already didn’t like my visit, when we got into the school and I actually started my day, I got a better feel for the school. I saw that the school was very diverse when you’re judging from a mile away, but when you’re up close and person you see that every kid was just about the same. Yes, there were African Americans, Caucasians, Hispanics, Asians, and Russian, but the way they spoke was all the same. Each of them tended to drag out there words, a lot of them talked like they were asking a question instead of stating a fact, and just about everysingle one of them used atleast 6 acronyms in their sentences. I remember a conversation I had with my shadow host, Stephanie, she asked how I was enjoying my visit, and of course I couldn’t express to her how uncomfortable I felt, so I lied, smile on my face turning to her and saying,

I remember thinking to myself, how the hell was this girl from Southwest talking like that? I use to go to school in little Charter School in West Philly, my classmates in middle school were generally from the West and SouthWest Philadelphia area. They used terms like, “jawn” and “cuz” and they often cut their words to make them shorter and easier to say in sentences. So, instead of saying ‘might as well’ they might use a term like “mineswell.” The way my shadow host spoke was far from that. She pronounced all of her syllables and she tended to drag out her words instead of shorten them like the kids from the Southwest neighborhood tended to do. It was intriguing to me how someone who came from a part of the city I knew so well, spoke so similarly to a group of people that lived miles away in a completely different part.  Even though I couldn’t really understand all of what she was saying, I just shook my head, nodded and said,

Looking back onto that day, I realize that the way she spoke at SpringSide school had nothing to do with where she came from, it had everything to do with where she was currently. After being at SpringSide School for awhile, the way everyone else spoke around her rubbed off on her, she adapted to their speech just like she adapted to her new advisor, or her classmates, or the rules and regulations of the school. Everyone else spoke like that so she had to blend in with her surroundings. She transferred halfway through 9th grade, so not only was she the new kid which is already scary enough, she was also different from the others. I see that a lot here at my own school. Although my school is a pretty diverse place racially, when you’re up close and personal and actually surrounded by all of us, we’re actually the same when it comes to dialect. We all speak the same language,  if I were to go up to someone outside of the SLA, and said something like, “Pause. You’re such a weenie, you better chill and start working on that benchmark before Reddy hits you with fladdaapp.” or if I go to people outside the SLA community and instead of saying “True” when they something that I agree with I say “True Black” people will look at me different like I’m the weird one. A majority of people at this school, know what the fladdaapp is, everyone knows what a benchmark is, everyone knows what it means to be called a weenie, everyone knows the saying “that’s dead.” and everyone knows the meaning behind saying “Trueee Black” instead of plain old “Trueee.”