“The heart only speaks coded language when the spirit forgets who it was born to be!” Greg Corbin

In my life language is an art form that I use to communicate with other people. I am like broken glass; every word I speak is about individuality. In my family the way we communicate with each other is important. When I’m with my friends, who are hearing impaired, we create conversations with our hands. When I am around poets we speak in metaphors people may never understand.

“Get Free! On the line. Go in Toni!”  Silence. The moment when the silence takes over and all you can hear is the butterflies, flapping in your stomach. I close my eyes and step to the microphone. I picture all the words in my head like a broken VCR tape that just won’t play the right scene. I breathe an unsteady heartbeat that comes out my throat. “I know a girl who once made phantom memories and turned them into figurines babies she was meant to have.” I expected some snaps for that line. That one line played in my head for weeks. It wasn’t worth it. I continued my poem. People just stared at me as if what I was saying wasn’t worthy enough to be on spoken stage. I forgot my poem my VCR of a brain stopped working all together. I backed up as if I would run off the stage and never touch a microphone again. I walked back up to it and in very exhausted tone said “there is always a clamp disguised as snake ready to bite and tear that egg out you.” Usually when a person messes up and forgets their lines the audience would snap and encourage you. Everyone just stared at me and waited. They expected something to come from me, some type of miracle. After my poem my mentor came up to me and said in a very nonchalant voice “You did good, your performance could’ve been better. You need to work on delivery.” I accepted the advice and said very robotically “Thank you.”  My friend, who is also a poet, came up to me with disappointment stitched in her smile and exclaimed “The reason why people didn’t like your poem was because you don’t sound like everyone else. You don’t write like everyone else.”

When I feel like something gets stuck in my throat such as my feelings, I go missing. As a result of me not knowing my voice in poetry and my purpose as a writer I decided not to go to slams or show up for any events. When I do not fit in because of my language or cultural background I tend to distance myself because I am uncomfortable. I feel as if, if I am not like everyone else I do not fit in. There is a certain standard I must live up to in order for myself to be comfortable in the skin I am wrapped in. When I don’t know a language it makes it harder for me to trust what people might think and do to me. Every time I think of speech and language it reminds me of a poem that stated, “language is leverage boasting on the teeth of a lightning bolt all spiteful and screen splitting.” People tend to take advantage of the ways they are different from you. There are constant reminders all around us from places such as the media, family, and everyday activities. The idea of language plays hide and go seek with acceptance.

“Everyone must sit with someone not from your running group.” An unfamiliar voice shouted out. I was extremely nervous; this was my first time at running camp. I walked over to the nearest table where a guy with hazel-brown eyes like the forest's floor stared at me. Without a word he moved over and watched me as I took my seat. I turned and looked at him and very politely said, “Hi, my name is Toni.” He turned around very quickly and began to scramble around. I could tell he was looking for something. I figured it was his identity because he couldn’t tell me his name, I thought that was rude. He turned around and had napkins and a pen; he wrote, “Hi my name is Hiram, nice to meet you.” I wrote back and said, “Why aren’t you talking to me?” He giggled and quickly wrote back “I’m deaf, I can’t hear sorry.” Immediately after that I became even more nervous than before. I asked him to teach me my alphabet in sign language. He smiled and wrote back “You can’t learn it in a day!” I was very determined because I didn’t want to miss out on a wonderful person because of language barriers. I wrote back and showed him I was excited and wrote, ” I can learn in a night.” We sat there at the dinner table and went over the letters more than thirty times each. Each time I messed up he would look at me with those eyes and paint me a picture of patience and appreciation. I finger spelled to him about 2 hours later and said “I told you I can learn in a night, thank you for teaching me.” He signed back but I have no Idea what he said, all I could recognize what the letters “Goo- Ht” I assumed he said “goodnight.”

I became about seventy- five percent fluent in six months. Although now I am fluent in sign language I still become very nervous and self-conscious around hearing impaired people because I am not deaf. I even use a translators sometimes, making conversations with your hands isn’t easy. Your facial expressions are important and valued. I think I am more comfortable with sign language because they cannot hear my insecurities in my voice, the scratchy tones of regret for starting the conversation in the first place. But hearing impaired people seem to be more grateful because a lot of people in the world do not use sign language. Yet I still have doubts and internal issues because of acceptance of not being them. Sometimes I wish I could switch my disadvantages on like water from the faucet and let it pour through my fingers to guide me. I think I need guidance in order to understand I can’t learn every language and people might not judge me because of it. And again language is equivalent to acceptance.

There are some people who actually appreciate it, when you take the time and effort to learn and embrace their culture. In many of the cases I have experienced people have treated me differently from my perspective but maybe I am just paranoid. I am still trying to find my identity in the world. Acceptance is the key to happiness and appreciation for one’s self, if I do not know a language I will not be happy and therefore I won’t be accepted.

My definition of what language is has changed dramatically. Language is a reminder of how I will never be what the people around me are, no matter how hard I try. I tend to find myself depending on a translator for confront. Maybe one day I’ll over come that internal conflict I have within myself. That Venus flytrap stuck between my throat making it hard to breathe and speak when I come around people that are not like me. I must remember "Word are more powerful than a gun. Watch what you say. Watch what ammunition lies under your tongue and inside the clip of your soul. It can either heal or kill" (Greg Corbin) My spirit is killed when I feel the lack of identity because of language, standards, and my art form. I must accept that language is like broken glass it’s all about individuality.

"We allow our ignorance to prevail upon us and make us think we can survive alone...alone in patches, alone in groups, alone in races, even alone in genders."
-Maya Angelou

“Get free, Ashe, Humans aren’t built in silence.”

Those are the thoughts that run through my mind every time I a,,m about to do a poem. Regardless if I am in my room, a slam, or the middle of the school hallway. All those thoughts set me up for how well I perform. Before any one does a poem if you are from Philadelphia you take your shoes off, contemplate your words, visualize whatever you are talking about and know your truth. I was told by my mentor the first time he saw me say a poem he asked “what’s your purpose queen?” I didn’t know the answer so I just shrugged my shoulders and said “I have no idea.” Then he just walked away. I felt ignorant and fake. Later that night he called me and said, “know a writers purpose, our purpose is to save lives.” I didn’t understand when he explained it to me, he said that “you never know if someone in the audience is beating there wife or the women who is getting beating is in the audience, your poem could be the thing that gives the women the courage to walk away, or the man beating his wife the strength to stop hitting her. We save lives.” I never thought of poetry that way, I always fell into the clichés of what it was, such as every poem has to be about love or poetry is only used for you. 

            Before a slam you have a meditation stage where you imagine whatever it is that you’re writing about, next you “black” which is when you have an outer body experience. And “get free.” I remember semi finals to be on Philadelphia’s slam team. There were three rounds which consisted of a haiku, a 90 second poem and a three minutes and forty second poem. . My first poem was a short haiku about beauty. My second poem, which was the 90 seconds one, was about how poetry means to save a life. My final poem was about a little girl sleeping with many men to find herself and shadow her beauty with makeup. My strongest and most moving part I blacked on was “But occasionally she needed to feel loved like a “dime” ...with all that makeup she was to blind to see that  if she peeped behind the blinds she would see the world is so much prettier  than a wet hole and a long pole trying sink through it.”  I didn’t make the team but I did have the opportunity to travel to LA with the them and I was the youngest who lost by a couple decimal points. The experience was very humbling and helpful. It is true that “humans aren’t built in silence”

            But actions, Our actions as poets help shape the world. They also help other point of view be shown across peacefully. The thing poets do a lot are hide behind figurative language as if we are trapped between a mask and morals.  Visualizing a change happening before your words are resurrection-taking place in your lungs. Where invisible

 possibilities become legendary.  Poets make movements come true and makes acceptance easier.

Poets are created solely to make a change through words instead of violence and protest, instead we make testimonies to ourselves and others.  People in the world usually think they understand the general idea of things such as metaphors, they can be interpreted a lot of different ways. But there is always someone’s truth behind it.  Through writing and whatever we do in life. Every step we take is art, we loose a piece of ourselves everyday and gain something better back.  When I look back I realize everything I’ve been through in my writing only made me better, as a poet, a person, and a lifesaver. “I am Samurai and Avatar a whole Public Service Announcement for little girls and boys who are contemplating breaking their necks for the silence. Sometimes it’s safer when no one can hear you think but you.”

I think we’re waiting for a super hero to come and save us from our ignorance.

It doesn’t matter if you are creative with writing or not it is your feelings. In a general idea of life we can all make a difference we just have to be able to see things as a metaphor and view them in different perspectives. Also we need to be aware about the fact we don’t know it all there is always something different we can learn. Things we might not notice are right in front of us or where it comes from. I’m just beginning to understand where I came from. We as people are so concerned only about the things we know already and who we know. We haven’t spoken up yet heard, just listen.

"I was going to die, if not sooner then later, whether or not I had ever spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you. What are the words you do not yet have? What do you need to say?" - Audre Lorde

    I feel like Amy Tan in her short story. Her mother speaks ‘broken English,’ and she speaks proper English when she’s talking to people outside of society, but when she’s talking to her family, she code switches to broken English. Sometimes, I need to do the same with my elders. Not necessarily my mom, but with the older aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Code switching affects my true identity because depending on who in the family I’m with, I will speak differently or add bits and pieces of another language with English when I speak to them.

            SWOOSH!!! I threw it so far it went past the doorframe, into the hallway and made a loud “swooshing” sound. There it went, the baseball gliding and hurling through the air with so much ease that it took the sound of a very evident crash to wake me out of the daze. As usual, something important has broken. However, panic had not yet come to play, as I figured it was only something small, thus easy to hide until I could explain myself. However, as I turned to corner into the hallway facing my parents’ room, the damage was clear, and it stared at me blankly. I looked in horror as a saw the baseball roll on the ground in the room, straight through the broken glass on the door.

            The stylized glass on the double-paneled door only covered the upper panel, however, I soon realized that now, nothing covered that top panel, and that all of the pieces of the glass were scattered amongst the floor. Being one whose been in situations like these many times over many years, I knew that panic was inevitable, yet useless, and so as quickly as I could, I ran downstairs in order to acquire a broom and dustpan to clean the mess. Once I got to stairs, however, I saw my older brother was briskly coming up, curious to inspect what was going on. “No use in stopping him,” I thought. “I’ll just be wasting time.” So, we passed each other on the staircase as I continued on my mission.

Justin Pullins

Iron Stream

Language Autobiography, Benchmark #2

December 20, 2010

I’ve always wondered about accents. They tell the history of any person you speak to immediately; they are the gateway to understanding a person’s culture. Many Americans can recognize a British accent instantly, and they worship it religiously. A Dutchmen can quickly distinguish a Dutch accent with influences from other European countries. And a native Boston citizen knows exactly what neighborhood another his from after merely one word. Accents give prestige, and a level of distinguished honor to the speaker.  Accents are exciting to hear and decipher, and add a level of interest to a person.  However, when one has a bland accent, or one that cannot be determined, does this make the person themselves bland? I’ve always wondered this.

Me being born and raised here in Philadelphia, I always felt that I had no accent, or that my accent is so bland it doesn’t even register to most people. I have, what many consider, to be a standard “American accent”. It comes off just as that, too: standard.

A few years back, I went to a global student leadership forum for a week, held in Washington, D.C. In the first day, I was just as nervous as everyone else, not knowing any one there. While waiting in the hotel’s ballroom on the first day, I met Sarah, an Australian born exchange student who currently lives in the Midwest. She was nice, cute, and very interesting, but I wondered what it was about her that had me so interested, besides her great looks. We talked, and talked, constantly interrupted my other kids in the forum, introducing themselves. Once she spoke, however, they were just as hooked as I was, and it was hard for them to turn away. She spoke of her days in the land down under, of when she moved to the US, and of her life now, and every word she uttered just seemed so surreal.

“Are you from Australia?,” new people asked as the first introduced herself.

“I’ve heard a lot of things about how fun it is there!”

“Why did you move to the U.S.?”

“What do you think about our accents?”

The questions went on and on, with hesitation, from everyone, and during the conservation we had, I continued to wonder what about this Aussie-born girl that made her so interesting. 

Later, I finally realized what it was: her accent. The beautiful way her words were executed made all the difference to me, and to everyone else. Her accent made her unique and interesting, and served as a glowing light into a dull room of indistinguishable accents.

I realized that with her accent, came assumptions of her life in Australia. People wondered if she did all of the things that Australians are known for, and if she stated she didn’t, they were confused and wanted to know why. I concluded that when one speaks with a distinguishable accent, one becomes an “ambassador” for the area in which their accent hails its origin. In other words, when Sarah spoke in her Australian accent, she embodied all of Australian hobbies, cultures, and lives, which thus made her more interesting in contrast to dull accents. When people heard Sarah’s accent, as they would for any accent that is not their own, they caught interest, made assumptions, and compared and contrasted their lives to hers.

I feel that people like me, whose accents bare no exciting and unique characteristics to be easily distinguishable to the majority of people, often have problems gaining an identity instantly. When I meet new people, people openly ask where I’m from, as there are no clues or indications as to where I am from. With the “bland” accent, I feel that sometimes, it takes me some other interesting ways to keep an appealing conversation going. It is a commonly known fact that interesting accents keep people interested, and those who don’t have these accents are left to pick up the pieces on their own.

However, there are advantages to having a bland accent. Like I said before, when one has a distinguishable accent, others often make assumptions about them and their personal experiences. Not having such an accent allows one to tell their own stories, without having their accents do it for them. People with no accents are not subjected to the stereotypes that those with accents would be. The lack of a distinguishable accent, in short, allows for others to truly get to know a person and find other things to make them interesting.

In conclusion, accents, as I stated before, have always interested me, as they do for many other people. The ways the words are pronounced, phrases are used, and other things provide a large contrast to the way I speak. However, there are advantages and disadvantages on both sides of the language spectrum.

            Whoosh! AHHHH! As the monstrous roller coaster of Kingda Ka takes its turn on the scarred but wanting riders. I am only 11 years old and this is the first roller coaster I’m going to ride! I think I’d rather eat worms than go on this…thing.  I need to find a way out of here but its hard to do when your surrounded by hundreds or thousands of people and my dad and 6 foot brother are right next to me. They both are starring at the roller coaster as if its something they would want to do again and again. I’m looking at it like it’s an insane serial killer. As we moved closer I could see how the riders were literally launched into orbit because I couldn’t see the top of the roller coaster. And they would come down what seemed an eternity later. Supposedly the ride lasts only 30 seconds, think they tell you that so they are able to do what they want to you in the sky. When the people get off the ride they are groggy and look crippled. I tried to tell my dad but to no avail, we stayed in the line. Another thing going on with this ride is when it starts they don’t make a noise, I can hear them talking and poof they cant speak.

I found out that I wasn’t alone. There was another kid my age but much shorter and he was trying to do the same thing with his dad and sister. But his dad actually let him go over to his mom while he and his daughter stayed in line.  Now I figured my dad wasn’t going to miss this or let me do what the other kid did and we were going to all die or become cripples. There had to be at least a thousand people waiting in line all knowing what was coming and yet they had an eager look on their faces. As I looked around I saw that everyone had there eye on the gates that locked you out of the roller coaster except for when the men and women in the blue blazers opened them. We were only a couple groups behind from going onto this death coaster. I had heard in commercials that it was one of the scariest rides in the world, and my mom said that you wouldn’t be able to pay her to go on the ride. She said she would probably look like a ghost at the end and her blood would be at the top of it, wherever the top is.

            As we stepped into the pitch-black seats and the big red bars slammed down and pinned me down into a seat I almost screamed out for help. Then they told my dad to take his glasses off. My dad asked “why do I need to take them off? Not to be rude, just curious.”

            “Because,” The man in the blue blazer said “a couple of weeks ago a woman that cared too much about her looks didn’t want to take her wig off. So when the ride went her wig flew off and got wedged in the ride and t had to be shut down a for a couple of hours. Also the amount of G forces could make them fly off or break”

 What does that mean? I thought to myself, is that some sort of radiation or weapon? It sounds like 50 cent but in superhero form. My stepmom and brother were talking. My stepmom got to sit out on the side but she said “’Have a good ti-“ and that’s all we heard. While my brother, my dad, and I were slingshotted forward and my head was slammed back into the so-called cushioned headrest. All I could see was blurs of the Amazon in the background. But once we hit the top of the 456-foot high green monster everything was in slow motion and I could see absolutely everything in about a mile radius. There were the monkeys jumping on top of a car, some gazelles running out on the sandy plain like a national geographic magazine picture and then swoosh! We were heading straight down toward the ground at an extreme velocity; I could see my end coming once again. I was going to be headlined on the news as boy turns into pancake. In some odd way we turned horizontal and went up a slow hill and landed safely into the landing dock. When we got off I yelled with surprising joy in my voice “I want to go again” as my hair stood on end from the amount of air rushing at me.

­Nick Manton

Iron Stream

Y-Band

English

            Language means many different things. It can be from what words you speak such as English, Spanish, German, etc. Language can also be the way you speak to one another. It’s not an easy thing to describe, because it is not a dialect but it is very similar. It is the wordage choice you use with different sets of people. You can have change between conversation personalities subconsciously or consciously. It can be different between friends, family, fellow employees, etc. Conversation with your friends might use a choice of words like these, “Hey man, what’s up?” While with your employees, the conversation would be much more formal.

            When I am at my dad’s house the conversations last much longer and are usually education, sports, or family related. It is a flow of words and has its serious moments, but then the conversations can be extremely funny with a word here and there while the rest of it is a foursome of cackles and heavy breaths from laughing too much. The conversations not only are educated or hilarious or serious but there is a tone that we use with each other. It seems like a very common way of talking to us but to many other people such as friends who come over to our house and listen to us talk usually are confused at what is being talked about. It can’t be put into words and can only be witnessed. Sometimes we just love to confuse a guest and we do it on purpose.

            “So when are we having dinner?” says my friend Paul.

            “What dinner?” my dad replies with believable wondering voice.

            “You know” Paul replies confused “when you ate in the evening.

            “Huh?” I say going along with my dad.

            “What the f*** Nick!?” Paul’s voice rising in frustration. “Are yous high or something?”

            “I think you’re the one that’s on something” my dad replies matter-of-factly.

            While at my mom’s house the conversations are short and usually pointless. The conversations tend to be a little awkward, not really a flow of words. If you could imagine small talk that’s big, that would describe the way talking goes on in my mom’s house. It does have moments of decent conversation but for the most part it is something like this:

            “Hey Nick.” My mom says uninterestedly “Are you finished your homework?” I could reply that I blew up the school and she wouldn’t notice. But instead I usually reply “No. Not yet.” Then there is a log pause and she either leaves or asks more pointless questions.  Sometimes there can be spurts of actual deep long conversations that really do mean something to someone in this world. The time where there are conversations like those are always over text messages or voicemails.

            Around friends conversations usually happen extremely fast. We go through subjects in matters of minutes and seconds. Using words that probably do not even exist. Sentences that are so improper that every English teacher in this world would want to line up to smack each of us. A conversation listed by subject would look something like this: Sports, Comedy, sports, comedy, video games, school work, and then we all get mad because someone had to mention school.

            We all for the most part will act differently and speak differently depending on the people who are around us. Whether it is with your parents, friend, co-workers, or even your pet. It’s not a bad thing or a good thing it is something that we automatically do. It is an interesting aspect of the brain and I wonder what part of our minds controls this reaction. I haven’t meet a person yet who hasn’t spoken differently around me than when they do with their parents.

The Connection Between Two

Grinding her teeth as she looked up at the clock seeing that she was now over 20 minutes late from when she had made plans. She started throwing the towels out of the bathroom door, into the hallway to form a pile to take down stairs to the laundry room. Next thing you know all you hear throughout the house is “Crash!”    

My mom, my sister and me all dropped our current work and ran to see the catastrophe that had just happened. One of the high-speed towels thrown by my sister hit the wall and had knocked down my mom’s personal thimble collection that consisted of every trip she ahs been on, everything from the shore to the islands. Luckily not all had fell and out of the ones that did fall only three broke. The thimbles sat on a shiny thin shelf and had three shelves built in. It was stained dark brown. It was open to touch and look at but I guess that’s not the best way to keep them on display, but it was still extremely upsetting. 

From the look on my mothers face, I just completely understood, the emotion of losing something, something really special. My mother’s collection of thimbles is like bits of memory of her past life, where she has been and what she has seen. The breaking of one if these thimbles are like losing that memory forever. It was heartbreaking; I could see it in her eyes. I feel that this feeling is mutual; everyone has been there and knows the feels. Everyone has that one thing that gives their life meaning, the one thing that shows their life in a nutshell. From everything bad you encounter in life comes something so great, that one thing that tops the bad and keeps your train chugging on down the tracks; it’s when something so great happens. Not something huge in life, but that tiny little surprise that really makes your day. We have all been there, and so have I. 

We all waited recklessly while my mother was gone, we all waited for the bells on the door to jingle to let us know that she was home and that the dinner too. My mother walked in the door, no not with a big brown paper bag with grease stains, she walked in with a huge bat and pumpkin orange bucket with a high thin handle which my mom was holding it from. The bucket had lines of dark purple as well.

After dinner that night, I was honored to get the empty bucket of where our dinner had been the hour pervious. It had been washed out and scrubbed hard to get rid of all the sauce and the smell. It now smelled like show kind f apple, that’s the kind of soap we had that week.  I was blown away at the fact that this bucket had just become mine! I knew I had to use it for something good and what was better then to make my stickers into a great big collection, because it was something that was important to me and was something I used often. I wanted to show it off and make people wonder what is the content of this bucket. “Thanks, mom. I love Halloween!” I remember saying to my mom, while I waked away with the bigger grin that I can ever remember on my face. 

The smallest things can make one so happy. When it relates to something so great, like ones collection. Though this collection of mine is just pieces of paper decorated with random picture with a layer of sticky glue on the back, making easy to put these picture everywhere. Adding on to collections no matter what kind, it feels great, it makes you feel that you have expanded on life and that your life is meaningful. It’s a measure of where you been and your amount of effort. 

This material things that we find so important, important enough to cry over and important enough to spent more on, why are they so important. These material things all have meaning; like my mom says only you know where you have been and what you have gone through, only you know how to live your future, it all depends on your past. It is important to reflect in your life, look back on what you have done and know what you want your future to look at. Collects are pictures and objects that show this in a nutshell. 

Now that I am older, my collects are still with me and I am able to look back and see the Teletubbies stickers that I had when I was 6 and remember how important they were to me, and that my favorite one was the yellow Teletubbie whose name was Lala. They aren’t something you can find in stores anymore. I still have the stickers from my clown birthday party that I had at my house in pre-K. I even still have my Pokémon book full of all my teaching stickers that I used for when I played school. Everything shows different chapters in my life, and allows me to hold onto that memory. Collections help adults and teens hold on to the child in them and always remember the stages in their life and reflect them. It’s like the retro clothes your mom still has from when she was in high school in the 70s. It allows you to grasp the meaning in what life truly has in store for you. 

Madeline walls

Iron

Crash! My head jerks towards the unexpected sound. It was my best friend fighting with her ex over the couch looks of shock plastered to their faces. I follow their stares to the floor they had knock over the table which held my moms favorite candle. Panic fell over me as the shock faded from the two sitting in front of me. They jumped up and started a heat argument this made my face twitch and my heart kick into over time.

“Look what you did you idiot” screamed the boy. “Me? You’re the who slammed me into the side.” She hissed back. This argument continued for a while but all I could think about was that I had let my friend come over because she had promised me she wouldn’t fight with him, who was always at my house being my brother’s best friend. I couldn’t believe they had the nerve to use enough violence to knock the table over. I just started screaming at them my face hot. “ Are you kidding me how dare you two come into my house and disrespect my home? I trusted you two to be more mature you guys promised I cant…” But just then my moms walk out and I started shacking in fear. Her face was sad she looked at me and hung her head; I thought she was mad at them but truly she was disappointed in me. “Maddie you should over react like this you can’t let a candle ruin your whole day. You can always buy a new candle but you can never buy a new friend.”

When forced to examine natural human reaction you can see that some reactions are uncalled for and just make the situation worse. Instead of taking a moment to judge the situation people react without thinking which creates an unfair judgment on what to do this creates a lot of unfair conflict which will could later result in the end of a relationship or eve n worse the end of a life. I believe it’s important to learn from my mistakes and see what heated arguments can cause for me they have never done more then upset me for no reason but for other they can do a lot worse.

When I was younger my parents used to fight a lot but it was always over the little things and never about anything important. At one point it looked like it was going to end the marriage lucky for me it didn’t because they realized they were spending too much time on the little things and were ignoring the big things. I sadly developed these quick outbursts of emotions, which can easily kill a relationship and this scares me. For many marriages people never learn this lesson, which is why I believe that most marriages that end didn’t work out. In less you take time to see the whole picture and parts where you might be at flat you will never fix the problem and it will just become worse.

For example of when I have over reacted here was a time in my life. The room was black but wasn’t quiet the sounds of the music playing from the open laptop blared. I walked in using my small blue cell phone to light my way. Little did I know it didn’t light up well enough to help me avoid tripping because before I knew it smack! I hit the floor. The person on the couch jumped up as my head span mixing all the different shadows together I felt sick from fear. Angry grunting sounds of anger started from the couch the noises blended together. “Ouch.” Was the only moan that left my lips before the yelling started. “What are u doing it’s 3 in the morning?” the pounding of the voices footsteps heading towards the light switch echoed in my head. When the switch was flicked the light that flooded from the ceiling made the spinning worse colors joined the dancing shadows until the show became only color. I grew nauseous but that angry face staring back at me forced me to keep quiet. At the time I didn’t know this face well he had only come over a few times and was my older brothers friend so we never said more then hello to each other. The face was young way younger then the massive body that it was attached to he had to be over 6ft which made me more nerves but that face was so young and those eyes they held something the more I looked the less they looked like anger and the more they looked like something else. Looking up at the face I realized that fear was on face not anger it was compassion and sympathy that stared back at me. He walked over to me on his baby face grew a smile his hand reached out to mine less fear and spinning I took it and was lifted towards the air. “Are you okay what hurts you want me to get your mom.” he said. “ No I’m okay I just banged my head don’t get my mom I’ll be fine I’m just going to go back to sleep I think I can go back to sleep again.” I said no fear now. “How about you stay up for an hour that’s what my mom makes me do I don’t think you should sleep yet we can watch TV and get to know each other.”  He said with concern but kindness the kind of voice that can draw you in. So we did and laugh had great time and that was the beginning of a great friendship.

That night instead of waiting and to see or thinking of what would happen I immediately judged the situation and assumed the worse this cause unneeded stress and caused me to feel physically ill. Really I wasn’t hate he had felt towards me it was concern but I had prejudged who he was before even getting to know him. When I was trying to walk into the living room I saw him right away as a dangerous person he was my enemy. Thinking about it now my theory of who he was didn’t make sense why would a guest at your house be mad at you for getting hurt. 

When I was reflecting on this sense it showed that it could have also worked in the opposite way I could walk past a friendly looking lady who needs help with her bags. I could bring them into her house and she could kill me, it shows how easy it is to miss judge because you would never assume that the women would hurt you. It is important to think before your actions. Knowing that your first reaction may not always be right may also go to far. Constantly watching from the sideline and waiting to see can cause you to miss out on a lot in life. It is important to have healthy balance of caution and instinct when judging a moment. If doctors’ miss judge people die police officers miss judge they could die or innocent people could get lock behind bars for something they didn’t do while the guilty go free. You must think carefully about the decisions that you make. You never know what results they could have.

Living is something everyone does, and everyone lives on the same place, Earth, but why is it that we all live so different lives? What could be the independent variable in which we have complete control over, in this experiment of life? Language, the way people talk is key here, everyone starts the same on the same path, but from a early age, to early to really know what you are doing the way of speech puts you in a place. This place defines you and is the reason for where you stand in life, how life plays out and most importantly who is in your life to help mold it into what it becomes in the future. 

“Why you in my pocket, yo?”  My sister said with a raised tone in her voice. 

“What? Amber, what? What is that even suppose to mean?” my mom said getting kind of mad at this point in the conversation.  “Amber, your sister was just asking you a question, do not get all hyper and what is ‘why you in my pocket’ even suppose to mean? That doesn’t even sound nice.” Her voice was starting to sound concerned about the language my old sister was starting to use.  

This conversation with my sister followed a discussion of where her paycheck went. My sister, Amber had been complaining about how she was broke and had no money to go out nor to fill her pocket, even though the day before this she had gotten a thick pay check. To me this didn’t make sense and from hearing her complain multiple times it made me eager to confront her. When this simple question was asked by me her response was ‘Why you in my pocket’ which isn’t correct grammar or anything close to what my home family speaks like. This type of language reflects the friends that she surrounds herself with when she is out. This quote from her, plus her tone did not sound pleasant nor did it make me want to continue the conversation. It concerned us more and made both, my mother and I shake our heads with disappointment. Differences in language make people uncomfortable when it comes to conversations, mainly because they cannot understand the differences and the questioning factor of, is what I am saying going to be accepted by this person. Everyone no matter if they have a really strong and noticeable background everyone has different ways of talking with different people. When it comes to many different ways of speaking, that causes another challenge to arise. When to use certain languages and how to make sure it doesn’t slip in front of the wrong person. Which is what happened in this case. This phrases said by my sister probably would have been okay to say to her friends and she would of “won” the argument that she was in.  

“Today was the worst day ever, it sucked mom.” I said, as I walked in my front door and dropped my school bag to the ground. I tore my shoes off my feet and through them against the upstairs steps. Then took a deep breath and stared in the eyes of my mother with no energy. 

“Chelsea Ann, what kind of language is that?” my mom said ignoring the fact that I was in a not so good mood. 

“Mom, you don’t understand my day literary sucked, it was the worst” I said reassuring her that the language I had used was for a reason and was being used to describe the degree of how bad of a day it was. 

“I don’t care, I don’t want to hear that, it just isn’t a very nice word, you can use other words to describe your day. I don’t like that word, it just sounds fail.”

This is a normal conversation that happens with my mom. The content normally varies but the same things happen, I always get told about my use of words and how they do not sound nice. My mom works in a school and deals with little kids all day from the grades of K-3. So you can imagine her language being very PG rated. She is also quit proper when it comes to talking because she is use to kids picking up everything she says, so she is almost always formal. Another thing that really bothers me mother is the phrase “my bad.” It has just become one of her pet peeves, but I often use it because I have caught on to it from school and friends. 

“Oh, no not yet, my bad. I’ll do it when I’m done writing my English paper.” I said as I said on my computer at the dining room table, listening to music and checking my Facebook. 

“Chelsea, what is this my bad? You know I hate it, it sounds so ghetto.” She said in a tone that allowed me to know that she was appalled by my language.  

This situation above was not a serious issue with my mother so I said “my bad” like I normally would to anyone my age. Saying ‘I’m sorry’ is a lot more formal and I would use it after I did something wrong so naturally ‘my bad’ came out but to my mother’s ears it sounded ‘ghetto’ and trashy to say. 

In one of the short stories we read in class in-titled Tongue Tied, The mother of the main character had cut her daughter’s frenum, which is the thin piece of skin under a tongue connecting it to the jaw. The daughter is the only one with this piece cut and she wonders about it a lot, when she brought it up to her mother, her mother’s response to doing it was, “I cut it so that you would not be tongue-tied. Your tongue would be able to move in any language. You’ll be able to speak languages that are completely different from one another. You’ll be able to pronounce anything. Your frenum looked too tight to do those things, so I cut it.” (Kingston, p.164) In the long run the daughter had a lot of problems with her speech and had a speech impediment, but the reason her mom did it was because in her mind she thought it would help her daughter. She did not want anything to hold her daughter back, which leads me to believe my mom has similar goals to the main character mom. 

My mother did not cut my tongue or do anything so drastic to come close to that mother, but my mother does want the best for me. My mother does want my life to be amazing and she does want all three of her children to shine. So when she gets upset over our language I guess it makes sense. The little habits we pick up while with our friends, over time it turns into bad habits that could break us when it comes to job/college interviews. I know my mother does not want that, she is always pushing us forward to type proper when on Myspace or Facebook and to talk proper and normal. When it has come to job interviews she has me run things and stresses the importance to me, I know she wants the best and means well. Sometimes she comes off strong and from difference sense in my life I can see her anger and degree of her being upset, but I shouldn’t take it to personal because she is only trying to better me and push me to be the best. I can see that now and what really made this clear to me was the movie we learned in class about the different ways of speaking throughout the country. The movie has really made it clear that different dialects are looked down upon and looked at as being stupid. Listening to the people talk and hearing what parents of people in the film told them, about because of their accent they always need to be one step ahead and they are stuck proving that they are just as capable. I know my mother does not want me to fall under this category and I guess now I will not argue with her about my speech, I will just aim to do better because I know it’s my future that’s in the hands of my teenage speech. 

Tenzin Ngawang

Iron Stream

Talking about myself is really not my thing but I’ll have to write something as my autobiography for my english project which is specifically for my language so here it goes.

Language from my perspective is a way of communicating in one specific community and that can be learned by foreigner. I have always been interested in learning different languages. I pick up languages quicker than everyone because it fascinates me the most. My favorite way to learn languages are to watch TV shows or look at how people speak it.

In my earlier years, I lived in a rural place in northern India with small amount of people. I went to tibetan school and took hindi classes. My family spoke tibetan at all times, my god grandpa would speak heavy tibetan with big tibetan words but I was little so I only knew couple of big words. When I visited my parents in south India during winter vacation, I’d blurt out big tibetan words and my mom would be in awe. I didn’t know a lot of different languages existed.

I remember this one time when I said “thamp tu” meaning like the stamp with blue ink. It was a really hot day like always and it had been a week since my arrival in south india. I was around 5 years old and my mom just got home from her shop. My grandma was working on some paperwork and I picked up a stamp that had our address on it.

“Mommy, how do you have our address on this thamp tu (stamp)” I asked curiously.

“awww my baby said “thamp tu”! I’ve to call your dad. He’s going to be so proud of you!” my mom replied in awe. I was pretty surprised to see her so proud of me. I overheard my mom talking to my grandma saying something about being happy that I got into the tibetan school in Dharamsala. Also that she sees the improvement in me already and that it’ll be good for my future etc. I wanted to learn more and more new words in tibetan when I went back to my school in the spring. All my teachers were pretty surprised at how well I was doing in every classes. Then during my 6th grade, I had to take hindi classes. I had the most strict teacher in my whole entire life. She’d hit us with broom if we failed our quizzes. In India, teachers were allowed to hit their students. The whole hitting part made me want to pass all the quizzes and it actually helped me a lot in learning hindi even though I speak it already. I learned hindi just by living in India of how people talk, for example, in a store, you’d want to ask can I get this? or how much it is? etc. Basically wherever you live, you’ll catch up with the language pretty quickly.

One day, I got home and my god grandpa told me that my dad fled to United States and I wondered how would he manage to speak english when he only had a 5th grade level of knowledge. He is a smart man but, he knew only few words in english back then. I later learned that he went to my uncle’s first and my uncle was like the eye to his body. He taught everything he needed to know.

I started learning the full english in 7th grade. Meaning I already learned alphabets and everything in 3rd or 4th grade but we were finally starting to learn meanings to passages and or paragraphs of english essays. During my 7th grade, I flew here, in US. I had to 4 months till I can join school because we arrived in may. In June, american students were suppose to have summer vacation and there was no point in going to school for a month. My siblings and I started watching TV shows to catch up with the language because my siblings were even worse with English because they hadn’t started learning english yet in India. Then during september when school started, I could easily understand what people were saying when they asked questions. I didn’t have a rough first day in middle school like every book I read said. I even made couple friends.

Nathan Giello

Did you ever notice that the way you speak changes with you current environment, I mean it happens all the time.  Like when I home with my mom or something I will enunciate my words more, and censor what say, but when I'm with my friends I’m a totally different person, I curse, use slang, and just have a different tone in my voice. Which leave me wondering which one am truly I? The version at home, or the version with my friends?

I was with friends the other day on south street, we went to Jims Steaks, and did some shopping We were walking down the street to sneaker store, and I saw a pair of sneakers in the window, and I turned to my friends and said “yo look at dees, they mad fresh.”, so later that night when I went online to show my mom the shoes I said “Look at these, I think they are really cool.” But then I laughed, I caught my self, I saw then my change in vernacular. It was amazing to see that I could do that, and not even recognize it. It’s kind of like art, the way you don’t really realize that you’re a good artist until some one says they like your doodle in your notebook.

So then after I realized this, I started to think back to previous conversations that I could remember to see if I was code switching, and it astonished me to find that I’ve been doing this since fourth grade, which is when I started to really begin to develop my vernacular, and I really started to create my self.  The thought of a 10 year old me sitting in the lunchroom, using new words to create my self without even knowing it.

I remember sitting in the lunch room at W.M.Meredith elementary school, which smelled like burnt cheese and Windex, talking to a large headed kid, and being looked at like I was insane, and going home and trying to figure out why he was looking at me like that, was it my cloths, my hair, or I smell funny? It was eating away at me, so the next day I asked him “ Why do you look at me like I’m insane when I talk to you?” he replied with a smirk “ Why you speak lyka white boy?”. That was it I sounded white, not that there is anything wrong with the way white people speak, but non-the less it was weird.  The next day I came into school speaking totally different.

I walked in the next day and started a conversation with the same kid:

“Yo Reef, whats up bro?”

“Sup new boy?”

“nuffin chillin, what bout u?”

“hahahaha!”

“what the hell you laughin at?”

“You young boy, why you talkin like dat?”

“This how I normally talk, I just talked like a white person because….”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see if I could do it”

“Oh ight”

After that I got invited to do things with the kids at school, I had new friends, and eventually was one of the guys. That conversation had changed everything, I never again spoke the same way in the two parts of my life, there was a home langue, and a school langue. I still slipped up every once in a while, but never for long, actually most of the time I would be able to play it off. And the best part was that, this was just the beginning as I got older everything got smoother.

When I was in eighth grade I felt I would begin to reinvent myself for high school, I changed everything, the way I dressed, the way I acted, the way thought, and the way my speech got more intercut, I figured a way to use less brain power when switching langue, by slowly merging them into one. Yes they still had their differences, but the base of speech was the same. Conversations were so different, like the time I was on the way to a party with my friend, my mom gave us a ride:

“yo so did we have to wear dress cloths?”

“Naw I don’t think so dude”

“ Well the invitation didn’t say that you had to, so I would think not.”

“Oh ok, its cool.”

The conversations were just different, I wouldn’t have used “yo”, or “cool” with my mom in the car before, I but if I was just with friends I wouldn’t have used words like,  “have”, or “wear”, I wouldn’t have even said anything like that in the past. But that’s not the end of my evolving.

In late ninth to now, everything has just been different, I decided that the integrated langue wasn’t the best, so I went back to using two separate langue’s, but now I was able to switch them without thinking about it, I could be talking on the phone with a friend walking to my house, hang up when I open the door, and have a totally different persona. Like the other day I was talking to my friend Chris walking home, and stepping into the house still on the phone, and just automatically just changed the word:

“Yeah brov, she kept dickeatin so Ah hadda cut her loose”

“Yeah Ah gotchu, she always all up on you”

“Right? But what bout your shawty perediciment?”

“Ah don’t even f***in know brov, sometimes she all good then other time she jus make me wanna scream!”

“Ah I gotchu, but what bout da other gurl? Was goin on wit dat?”

“She really tryin to talk and she bad as shit, but I don’t even know what tuhdo”

“Ight Ah gotchu, (walking into the door) but like, what do you think your going to do?”

“You home?

“Yeah how did you know?”

“ Jus text brov, ard?”

“Yeah alright”

But that’s what I mean everything changes.  Through out the course of life your langue changes.  I am no longer wondering which version am truly I? The home version? Or the friends’ version? And I realize that they are both me, they are both sides of who I am, and who I always will be.

Loren Jenkins

English- Mr.Block

12/14/2010

Essay: Language Autobiographic

I’m use to being called the little sweet girl since I was in elementary school.  I always was the one that was know for doing the right thing and paying attention is class when the rest wanted to act like fools.  But what they really didn’t know was that I was code switching. I’ve been code switching since I was little. I was quiet and paying attention in class at school, but when home I was just a regular talkative rugrat. For example when I’m home running around getting into a mess. While in school I know if I act up I will get in trouble at school and at home.  I’m generally nice to those that I meet, and tend to stay that way until you disrespect me.

I would never speak to my parents the way that I speak to my friends. When talking to my parents I speak politely and on a very comfortable level. I speak the way they can understand and not the use of a lot of slang because they wouldn’t understand most of it. As if I was with my friends just relaxing, or going out I would be more loud and wild talking. Using slang and silly phrases that I just made in my head. I would be on a comfort level where we both are understanding each other when we’re talking it doesn’t matter if it’s slang, regular, or something that one of us created.

There are types of friends that I do act different around. For example, my best friends I can kiss them on the cheek and sit on there lap. When in the process of all that we laugh and play around acting silly. They won’t judge me because they understand that this is who I am. Kissing them a little on the cheek when used in a form of greeting they don’t think that I’m hitting on them. For my casual friends people I see around and speak to a little I just don’t start saying things that I would to my best friends because they might feel insulted or uncomfortable. I can relate to this because I wouldn’t want someone that I don’t know coming up to me asking me about my personal life or kissing me on the cheek.  If someone actual did something like that I think that I would snap.

I remember when I was code switching in school because there was two types of friends I had. The one pair of friends I had was the one’s who was popular and knew everyone in the school. The second group of kids where the ones who really didn’t care if they stood out or not. I’m not the kind of person to judge on how many friends you have ,and if your one of the open stand out guys. When I was talking with my best friend who was kind of the unpopular group, one of my popular friends had the nerve to walk up to me and pull me away.  I turned around and ask “What was that for?”. Her reply was “ Because there is no need to talk to people who are not in your click especially people that aren’t popular as us”. I was so angry that I actually cursed this person out due to such rudeness and being immature. When I was with the popular kids I would be more controlling, being bossy, and acting tough. When I was with the kids who wasn’t know, as much I would act just like them. It wasn’t to fit in, but to show that I can multiple friends not judge on who they are.

I believe that everyone code switches even when we don’t do it ourselves. Code switching can be a really from the talking to your teacher to talking to someone on the street. It could go from talking to your cousin to you aunt. It’s form of natural talking that we do everyday. Some of us can control how we speak to different people, and keep in track how and when to code switch. Also, for those who do that they can try just being normal and watch how fast this can come naturally to you without speaking code switch. I somewhat think that maybe we naturally do this to help us stray away things that can harm us from things. Sometimes I think that or bodies can control our chemistry on who we won’t and don’t won’t to connect with each other.

For a long time I used to be the one who liked to observe before I decided who I wanted to be friends with. I learned from a lot of people that you have to watch out for those who you call your friend because they come and go. I learned that people will trade on you and would try to tale control over you. I was the type of person who loves to have fun and meet new people. But just because I know you and see you time-to-time doesn’t mean that we are friends. I mean I will still respect you and recognize you if you are doing the same for me.

I think that the point that I’m trying to make is that I code switch because that’s something that I do everyday. I do it because it comes to me naturally. I trained myself to be more careful on whom I choose to be my friends and who will not be my friends. You may see me as a person who is quite lonesome and afraid in the world. To me that’s crazy and so not true. I’m open, always smiling, and always being polite to everyone. I laugh and enjoy life just like everyone else. People ask me “How come you don’t never talk”. Then they’ll laugh like it’s a joke to them.  I’m the kind of person a nature human being that believes that I’m me. I make myself and no one makes me!

Madeline walls

Iron

12/20/10

Society is in a constant struggle to fit in, but in our current society it is ever possible to truly belong to anything?  Once you feel like you are accepted someone makes you feel like acceptance is so far away. Whether on propose or not people have a way of treating people different or talking down to them if they sound or act differently. The struggle for acceptance deeply hurts many people. You can be told you’re dumb because you have a southern accent or that you are rude if you have a New York accent. The fact is so many cruel things can be said even by the ones you love not always to be vicious but simply because they have been thought to think this way.

Sometimes living in one place your whole life makes you blind to how it feels to sound different. I know I never realized how hard it was to be the one that sounded different. I didn’t realize how easy it was to get so lost in the words of what is supposed to be your own langue. This was all until I had to spend a few weeks in West Virginia.

 I looked like I could have lived there except for the way I tried to tip toe around the mud. My uncle knew me as the classic nervous city kid, which made him laugh and want me on the farm even more. He loved laughing at the way I would stay as far away from the animals I was feeding as possible. My face would true a bright pink whenever they move to close to me. Lets just say I wasn’t very good at farm life but to me it was all worth it if they would bring me into town so I could be around people in the afternoon. I had come use to seeing many people after living in a very busy community my whole life. So the slow loneliness of that farm with only cousins and animals to talk were not cutting it. 

Finally after two days of waiting they decided to take us all into town. I was so excited to go and see the friends that I had known since two years ago the last time I had come here. They had been emailing me every week since we meant and I couldn’t wait to see them. As we pulled up at the restaurant that I would meet them at I grew very excited. I could see Jessica with her long brown hair tied into a bun standing next Carrie whose short brown hair was bobbing back and fourth as she talked right outside the door. I got out of the car the and ran up to greet them we were all so excited we couldn’t talk for the first 5 minutes then Jess started asking me a million questions all at once her voice seemed to drag on for ever and had that weird kick to it that I had been hearing form my cousins for days. I started talking my words were fast they seemed to dance off my tongue after I finished I looked around to hear an answer and all I saw all I heard was laughing.

“Why do you sound like that”? Carrie giggled 

“Like what.” I stuttered sounding nervous.

“Like a you’re in a race it sounds so funny.” She said as she continued laughing. 

I was now really upset now for the rest of the day I had to listen to joke after about the way I sounded. The next day my aunt offered to take me down to see them again I refused to go I didn’t want to talk I spent the next week trying to talk just like my aunt just like my cousins they would never laugh at me ever again.

I realized now that changing to fit in was more work then it was worth I was only able to hold on to a week where I felt belonged before I had to come back to Philly and try to sound like I belonged there. I felt so rejected by both sides like I would never feel like I was normal again. 

This is a big problem for so many especially for many adults who can’t change how they sound as easily as young people. The inability to fit into this perfect mold that people feel they need to belong to feels like rejection. When people feel rejected they find it easier to reject others. I think this is because they find things to be black and white after that. That is why I think its so easy for it to continue on in a long cycle of sadness and rejection.

 People start to try and change like the way the woman in American Tongues hired a speech coach to get rid of her Boston accent. This almost made me sad because she felt so rejected and mocked by her accent that she couldn’t just leave her natural accent alone. I think the current issue of unhappiness with accents can never change because not only are other people judging the person themselves can’t stop judging how they sound. I feel that this is said and think we should all just accept who we are.

My dad had just gotten home and I was eager to kick the soccer ball outside with him.  It was my first year playing soccer on a team, and I refused to be the worst one there.  I was playing on a Fairmount team for kids ages 8-10.  I had only ever just kicked the soccer ball around, and was not very good.  I was in dire need of practice.  My neighbor was on my team, and her mom was the coach.  I could have practiced with her, if I asked.  They knew how to play soccer well, and could easily help me.  But nothing is better than getting to spend some quality time with your dearest dad by kicking the soccer ball around. 

We would stand three yards apart in the middle of the small street, and kick the ball back and forth to each other.   He would help me when I needed it, and teach me new tricks when we were getting bored. We would kick the soccer ball for half an hour and talk.  We would talk about what it was going to be like to play on a team, what position I may want to play, and what it was like when he was on a team as a boy.  It would be the perfect opportunity for us to bond.

My dad was always at his office working.  My mom was the one who picked me up from school, took me to violin lessons, and tried to keep me occupied when I was bored.  She was really good at tennis, but dreadful at soccer.  My sister was usually at home doing homework and talking with friends.  She was always “too busy” to play soccer with me, which was not much of a loss, since she was worse than my mom.   My dad was the only person in my family who knew how to play soccer.  But he was also only at home in the early morning, and three hours before my bedtime.

When my dad would plop his bag down by the brown wooden chair by our stairs, he would say hello to my mom, and go down stairs for a beer.  After a long day of work, a bottle of beer was his usual reward. Then he would come back up stairs and tell me the name of the beer, some of which had funny names. He would then head downstairs and plop onto the cream sofa in our living room.

            One day, when he came home after a long day of work, I had barely given him enough time to find the television remote to watch the news before I interrupted his relaxation.  “Dad can we kick the soccer ball around outside?” I asked eagerly, he looked up down at me, for I was still really short, and said “No.”  He explained to me that he had just gotten back from work, and needed some time to relax, and that we would practice after dinner. 

This was our daily routine.  I would ask, he would say “no,” and we would play after dinner. I would protest when he refused to play soccer with me. I would tell him that it would get too dark after dinner, and that all he was doing was kicking the soccer ball, so it wouldn’t take up much energy.  I would beg and whine, hoping he would give in.  I would tug on his arm, trying to press him up.  Then I would get so tired of whining that I would just give up, and sit at our table waiting for dinner.

I understood why he wanted to rest.  After my short day of school, I was exhausted and in no mood to do my homework that I would needed to be completed by the next day. While I had my short seven-hour school day, my dad was working from eight in the morning to six in the evening.  And his work was much more tiring and required more patience than math-baseball and dodge ball.  But I was his daughter, and I wanted to play soccer with my dad. His duty was to play with me and I expected him to reserve some time in his day to do so. But did have three hours to myself after school, while my dad had just gotten home from work, and I was already begging for him to give up more of his time.

When dinnertime ended, I would slip on my shoes, run to the cubby were my soccer ball was sitting, and run out the door, calling for my dad to hurry up.  My dad and I would start out kicking the soccer ball back and forth.  Then he would say we could only use our right feet.  Then he would switch it to the left.  We would switch to our toes, heels or knees.  My dad always came up with new challenges for me.  He said it was to keep me interested in the sport. 

Streetlights would turn on; he would say ten more passes each.  I would try and raise it from 10 to 50.  And as we were kicking the soccer ball back and forth, we would debate the number of passes we got each.  After I passed the soccer ball to him, he would scoop it up, and say, “that’s twenty,”- ten more than we agreed.

My dad works 10 hours a day, and has four hours at home.  Those four hours are his time to relax and whined down from his busy day.  All I wanted was a little bit of his time to play soccer, when I wanted to.  But despite his long and busy day, he did always leave some time for us to play soccer.  And although I did not think to care when I was in third grade, that time after dinner was something to value.

So when I was in wildwood a few years ago I bought this spray paint painting and this is what is looks like. I will start off by telling you the major parts in this. There is a circle that is about the diameter of the board. Inside the circle there is the USA flag that appears to be the sky. Also in the circle it the twin towers that show the reflection of the American flag on the two towers. The reflection isn’t precise it is more like a watery reflection where it is kind of distorted. Below there are several other building. There appears to be a straight line of buildings TOWARDS the bottom where underneath there is a body of water. The water fills the bottom portion of the circle and at the bottom of the circle the water becomes a waterfall and flows off the bottom of the circle. The water shows a nice white foam effect when flowing over the circle, which adds some realistic effect to it. Right under the row of buildings there is a foggy mist. Behind the twin towers you will notice a few smaller buildings that show distance effect because they and they are to the left. They also show the reflection of the flag in the background. Around the circle you will notice that there are white spots everywhere outside. The artist I believe was trying to make it appear as though the circle was in fact a planet. There is a dim red outer circle the surrounds the bigger circle/ planet to show the atmospheric effect. 

(My scenes, free write, and hot words got deleted, if you would like me to work on them again I can) 

It was the beginning of a hard day. It would be full of work, work, and more work. It started off with me waking up. I woke up with a bit of a headache and not wanting to do anything. My hair looked as if I had just got done a pillow fight. It was everywhere.  I walked into the well-lit room. The sun filling me with warmth and I thought maybe this wont be such a bad day after all. It was nearing the time I needed to leave for work. Hair fixed and ready for work I brought my bike outside and rode off. 

The breeze was wonderful; filling my lungs with fresh air was much needed. I arrived to the job that I had both hated and enjoyed at the same time. Angelo my boss greeted me just as he does everyday. The smell was the same. A smell that was full of pizza goodness. My boss is a very generous man and allows me to eat a slice before I get to work. So I take a slice and sit down. I taste the delicious pizza as it enters my mouth. It fills my taste buds with joy. When I got done drooling over the delicious pizza I grabbed the some pizza menus and walked to my destination. 

My job requires me to deliver menus to doors, so that hopefully the pizza shop will get more business. It is a very tedious job. Requiring me to go up and down  must go through. With 8$ an hour I get more money then most people in Philadelphia. Kind of pathetic if you ask me, but ill take it. 

Money in pocket, pizza box in my one hand, it was a pretty good day at work. I didn’t have any problems. The smell of the pizza was permeating up through my nose. The hills were brutal. Making my legs burn with intensity as I pedaled up the large slopes. Almost home, just 3 more blocks and then I can dig into this awesome pizza. My hair was being a pain so I flipped it out of my face. BAM! Was all I heard and a car was all I saw. I stumbled, hand in pain, leg scratched up. I had lost my balance when I flipped my hair and ran straight into a car. Pain was intense, shooting up my arm. I couldn’t move anything. Hurting, throbbing, pain like I never felt before. “Is it broken?” I asked myself. My bike was twisted and mangled just as my arm was. I fought through the pain to pick up my bike and move it out of the street. The pizza box was demolished but the pizza was still in tact. The pizza was good but my arm wasn’t.

 I called my mom told her I had crashed. Away she went to the spot of my tragic crash. My arm was still in excruciating pain. The cuts and scraps that lay all over my leg have no effect on me because the pain in my arm was so intense. My mom put my bike in the back and we drove those 3 blocks back to my house. I rested my arm on my other arm. 

No smell, no sound, nothing but pain. I walked into my house. Suddenly I thought that 16 dollars wasn’t worth this. I never broke a bone so I couldn’t tell if it was actually broken or not. I have a ton of homework to do and with this pain I’m not going to get anything done. A two page paper due in 2 days, a 10 page packet due in 2 days, and even more. I’m in pain and now I’m panicking about all the work that I now have to do with only one arm at my disposal. 

I started with math. I was hungry but there is no time for food right now. My stomach is growling; mad at me because I am denying it food. The frustration overwhelmed me and I was not very successful with the math. I didn’t even finish half of the packet. Now, more pressure lays on me. Demanding that I do more work with so much pain. It wasn’t going to be a fun next day. I went to sleep with a brace on my wrist so that my wrist wouldn’t move in my sleep. 

I woke to a mother that demanded my presence, however she wasn’t going to get it because my arm was in so much pain. It was un bearable. I couldn’t move at all, not a single part of my body without wanted to scream in pain. Such a pain should not be forced against someone, not anyone. Still I knew I had a ton of homework that I had to do. 

I got up and wobbled to the kitchen. I got out the cereal and a bowl to pour it in. I poured the cereal half way just as I usually do. Walked over to the refrigerator and got milk and continued to pour milk in there until the cereal rose. Just the way I like it. I grabbed a spoon and began eating the wonderful cinnamon toast crunch as I walked to the table. I wasn’t very successful with just one arm but I got one spoonful before I reached the table. I set the bowl down and enjoyed each and every bite. 

The birds were chirping and the sky was blue. It was set out to be a beautiful day; that I of course could not enjoy. I was forced to suffer indoors and do homework.  The hours past and eventually I come to present. I sit here in pain TV in background. Still have a lot of math to do. Obviously not done this essay. 

Every time I even try to use my thumb for any reason a sharp pain travels up my arm. Making it impossible to type with that hand. Now I’m in a predicament, one hand to type, one hand to do everything, and still a lot of homework. Its now 8:26 and I still haven’t eaten dinner and I am not even half done my math. 

What a way to end my weekend. My eyes are heavy, my arm still hurts and I have school tomorrow. I am supposed to be getting x-rays tomorrow to make sure that it isn’t broken. Hopefully its not broken but I never broke a bone before. If its not broken I would hate to know what it feels like if it was broken. I probably wouldn’t be able to move my fingers at all. The smell of chicken is starting to fill my house. I sense that dinnertime is coming shortly. I’m starving, my stomach is growling and I think it is about time to eat some food. A good day at work gone wrong. A new experience in which I will learn from. Next time I wont flip my hair. 

Yasmeen Brownlee's Language Autobiography

 Autobiography of my life

Well in my family I don’t have any other languages that I speak at home. I may hear an Islamic greeting from some of my relatives though I did really understand until now what it had meant. Because of my limited array of languages that I have spoken in my life, I will settled on moments of uncertainty of a language such as Spanish from a Spanish speaking country. Including some of my experiences in Italy and France. I grew up in life learning to speak English I didn’t really acquire much of a noticeable language change until the 2-4 grade I don’t quite remember what grade but there was a Spanish course at my elementary school that started early and ended early. All I really remember is watching muzzy without subtitles and being on the carpet singing and dancing along to interactive Spanish music. I also remember sitting in rows and columns facing the teacher at all times and the hand signals to go to the bathroom. That was what my Spanish was while I was younger. I feel as though when I was younger my teacher should have taken the advantage of teaching us more advanced Spanish because it would be easier for us to learn. Watching muzzy without the provided information of what was said was visual representation of Spanish in action, even though she used it to teach us.  It didn’t help because we ignore what’s being said and is not in the language that you fluently speak or even understand, because of that to some it became a silent cartoon, with self-righteous humor. When I was in 7^th grade about to be in eighth grade. I took a Chinese class that I wasn’t very fond of near the end of the class. One of the things was that it was a classroom full of fifth graders and I was the oldest. My best friend was in the program but she was learning a different language. I learned a limited amount Chinese though most of the time I was at an art class for senior citizens. Which was amusing but we can get into that another time. All my life I have lived with people only spoke English now that I think about it I learned some Swahili when I was in pre-school though I don’t currently remember any of it. Through out my life I have many if not all Muslim relatives the greeting is As-Salamu Alaykum, and the response would be Alaykum As-Salam. I never really understood the actually meaning of the word I just remember it being either hello, or how are you? the response being hi, fine thank you. But I didn’t find out until recently that it had the same meaning of what I thought but it translated into something completely different. I was going to learn how to speak and write in Arabic but no one ever got around to it. 

The nerve wrecking decision is going to happen as soon as I step off of this bus. That’s fine I don't have to step off right? Wrong, 

I’m biting my nails a shivering with the nervous anticipation for the worst. I'd get pair with someone I didn't know well. It seemed everyone one was following the same code walk slowly to the area of the meeting and the crowd of native families one of which for be your temporary parents. I was hoping that I got paired with two of my best friends on the trip Katie Kozak and Zoe Stiles. Little did I know I wouldn't get exactly what I wanted, but isn't that what we find out about everyday of our lives? I took the opportunity of the awkward silence to scope out the people that could be my future foster family. My eyes were caught on the woman holding a dog.  I secretly wished that I went with them. The image of the lady who assigned the kids to there families is now blurry and completely obscured from my memory. I don't even remember put a person to the voice that called out the names of the families and students. We were each handed pamphlets of our families though I didn't know which person belonged to each name I anticipated watch the other get picked first so that I could see who they went with. Kerry, kale, Chelsea. A Wave of comfort washed over me but didn't linger as I felt the cold tremor and flutter of butterflies as I shivered at the sound of my name. My name I was called second shock hit me but not for long as I heard one of my best friends name Zoe stiles. Her name warmed the frozen shock but it didn't go away. Mariana Stuve another warm sensation, I knew them both, and closely at that. The name of our father I don't remember what it was but I remember what he looked like a short man with grey hair with a really dark tan? A t-shirt and khaki's. I was disappointment that I didn't get the family with the dog, yet the anticipation overrode that sense.

“Lets go to the point of the island,” I said to my cousins while in North Carolina. “Okay” said my cousins Sam, Max, and Jake. We were really excited to go to the point, we had only been there once and it was really fun. They are all my cousins, and mean the world to me. My cousins are some of the most important people in my life; we influence each other so much. We love spending time together, and do it as much as possible. We started making our way to the point. We walked along the beach thinking how long it would take to get there. The beach had many shells on it, and the water was amazing. The water was so warm and calm that it was like we were in Florida. After the mile long walk to the point we got in the water.  I noticed another section of the beach that we had to swim to. “Lets go over there, the water is pretty shallow here” I said. We all walked through the surprisingly shallow water to the other section. As I look back at it now, we could walk through this water because it was low tide. We knew that we might spend a while there, and by the time we got back low tide could have gone away, and high tide or somewhere in between high and low tide could have came through.

As soon as we got there, Jake said “whoa! There’s an island across there, let’s go.” I noticed that the water in-between the island and us had a very strong current. I told my cousins, but they said we could do it anyway. The current pulled us so strongly that a bird on shore looked like it was on a treadmill. We had gotten pulled about 75 feet down from where we expected to end up because we couldn’t stand on some parts of the swim. While we were there we hung out and talked for a while. We laid down in the shallow water because it was so warm, and just talked about school and how our lives were.  Sam and Jake live in Florida, and we don’t get to spend a lot of time just talking. We always have to do something, and don’t just get time to talk about what’s going on. This was special because we almost never get to do it; there is always an agenda.

After about 45 minutes Jake and I decided to leave. We made it past the water with the strong current, and onto the other part of the beach that we had almost been able to walk to. It had gotten much windier since we started to walk to the point. The water that we could walk in before had turned to a churning jumble of strong waves. As we tried to get across we got hit over and over by the waves. We realized that we couldn’t move because of the current the wind caused. We had to go back to the extended part of the beach, and walk around on the pavement. The pavement was extremely hot, and we didn’t have any shoes on. Every step hurt, because it was burning hot and the little pieces of it made cuts on our feet as we walked. We finally found a place from the burning hot gravel onto the beach again. The sand felt very cool and relieving against our feet. 

At this point I realized that we should have understood that this would happen. We had seen the wind picking up earlier, and could have left then without having to struggle through the water and walk on burning hot gravel. If we had been responsible we would have done that, and made it back safely without anyone worrying, or any important people in our lives getting in possible danger. We walked for about 15 minutes before we started to realize how tired we were. We were dehydrated, exhausted, and starving. The only water around us was the beach, which we could not drink because of the salt. We continued to walk at a much slower pace because of our state. Finally we got to the beach in front of our house. 

The only problem was, when we got there we saw my parents talking to the beach patrol. Because we had been gone for so long my parents had asked the beach patrol to help them find us. Sam and Max had not left yet, so we didn’t know if they were okay. The beach patrol said that in this kind of weather, at this time of day, they had probably drowned. If we had communicated with my parents, saying “we will be back in 2 hours”, or said anything about when we would have been back it would have turned out much better. Without us saying when we would be back, they probably thought it was going to be about an hour like most of the other times we went to the point. We waited outside on the beach for them for about 20 minutes before heading back inside. For about 30 minutes we waited, becoming increasingly more upset by the minute. By minute 20 Jake and I had almost started crying because he thought he lost his brother and cousin, and I thought that I lost 2 of my cousins. This would have been the worst days of our lives by far; one of our cousins that was gone was the oldest cousin. All the other cousins looked up to him, we did whatever he told us. To loose someone that important to you is one of the worst things that I can imagine happening to a person. We need people in our life who influence us, and are always there for us. For me it is my cousins, but for others it is different. Finally, after those 30 dreadful minutes were up, we saw them. Coming up from the beach, having no idea why we were so happy to see them. 

As we begun to get out of the car I looked at the surrounding area. It didn’t look like anything special. It just looked like another Hospital. Large windows, multiple floors and it’s name of the side.  Nothing stood out, besides the name, “Nazareth Hospital.”  My Dad cracked a joke.

“Tell them were looking for Jesus.”

I chuckled.

      My Grandmother was in the hospital 3 months prior to now due to a urine block. This time she was in the hospital for a broken shoulder. As we walked into the building, I got a whiff of that hospital smell. That dank, old wood, and medicine smell. The interior of the hospital was a combination of Wood and Marble.  The Marble was white with speckles of black and it covered the floor. The wood covered the walls and it had a 70s retro feel to it.  

           As we navigated our way to her room we found out she was sharing a room with someone else. The room was dark with just some sunlight coming it.  Their family was in the room as well.  We moved to the far right of the room where my grandmother was. She was happy to see us and had a plate of untouched food next to her that was from earlier this afternoon. She doesn’t eat often. The room was white with medical equipment surrounding the beds each patient was laying on and a curtain dividing the room into two parts.  We talked about how we were and how she felt. Understanding her was hard. She suffered a stroke 9 years ago, which paralyzed the left side of her body. When she spoke it was a soft mumble and Apraxia of speech due to her stroke. I just sat and smiled and shook my head up and down as if I knew what she was saying and that I agreed.

       My mom gave her a drink of water, several minutes later my grandmother got sick, which resulted in me almost getting sick. I felt noxious and wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. For the rest of our visit I spent most of my time waiting in the bathroom.

            Time flew by and within 10 minutes we had to leave. The nurse came in to check her out and replace her uneaten lunch with fresh food.  As we step outside of the room, my eyes had to readjust to the light from the hallways. I begun to hear, “beep, beep, beep” over and over again due to the various heart rate monitors dispersed throughout the floor we were on.  We pressed the elevator button and waited for it to come to our floor. When it arrived and opened up, it had a metal interior and smelled like the hospital entrance.

              When we finally arrived to our floor, I attempted to get out as quickly as I could. I don’t necessarily have a problem with hospitals, but I get sick around old people who are hospitalized. I navigated my way through the hospital as quickly as I could, till I was right outside of the hospital. I stood there breathing in and out air, till my parents came. We then walked over to the parking lot where the car was. The sickening feeling went away and I was ready to get out of there.  We got into the car and begun to pull out of the parking lot. That was the last time I had to visit Nazareth.

              She’s out of the hospital now and facing 2 options. Staying at home with her husband or going to a retirement home. She can’t make a decision, on one hand she could be in a safe environment, but she doesn’t want to live her life knowing that she is incapable of taking care of herself. Her husband has already been taking care of her for the past 10 years and so has my Aunt. Her only independence is being capable of living at home and not in a retirement home.

               Her fear is being institutionalized and feeling that she can’t do anything for herself. She wants to feel independent and capable of making decisions for herself. The problem is, she hasn’t made decisions for herself in 10 years, since her stroke, it left her incapable of taking care of herself.

              She made a decision. She decided she’ll live at a retirement home or how it was refereed as, “assisted living.” It’s a large step for someone of her age, her liberation of independence and her own private home, but from it comes good. My Aunt and her husband won’t have to sacrifice their lives to take care of her any longer. From this, they gained some independence that they didn’t have for years.  It’s like America, actually. They liberated their independence from Britain and gained their own.

            I think she should do it. After so many years of taking care of herself, then having family take care of her, it’s the best option for her. While, she may not like it at first, she’ll grow to like it. She’ll almost everything will be the same. She’ll have someone taking care of her and a relative visiting her. It won’t be different at all from what she’s been doing for the past 10 years, except she’ll live there.  It’s a step in the right direction for everyone.

Sammy. Zeisloft

12. 13. 10

Iron stream

            Everyone has a different way of speaking. Whether it’s the way that they pronounce words, a certain rhythm in which they speak, or the amount of slang terms they put into one sentence. Each person creates in their mind their own individual sort of linguistics; and from one persons mind, to the ears of another, through a call to your friend, or an email to a pen pal across the world; language spreads like wild fire from one friend to another or from one man, unto an entire nation. Although it goes without saying that even in a world of such high population and different ethnic groups, language is probably the most diverse thing that can both define a person and set them apart from a group of people. Language can also bring people together…or people can come together and create their own language.

            My friends and I have developed our own language over the years, a code per say, which any outsider attempting to listen into our conversation would be baffled by. We speak in foreign tongues I suppose but nothing like a dialect you would learn about in an English class or read about in a textbook. We speak in codes of serious tones, which throw off the passer bys as our lungs boil up with a comical explosion, which soon erupts through our lips as outbursts of laughter. We speak of funny or outrageous things in more quiet, serious, monotone voices, which then spark the reaction of laughter to those around us. I guess you could say that by our lack of expression or any obvious intentions to appear as comical stand bys, we’ve already planned out the reaction of our crowd, the ones that stand around us. It may seem like we aren’t trying to be funny, but we know that we can count on your laughter as the fuel for our next sentence that we spit from top of our minds, off the top of our heads.

            Amanda sat slouching in an upward position against the table in the café. She had an expression on her face that screamed more negative drama. I quickly signed in with my school I.D and went to see what was wrong. She saw me approaching and got a slight shift in her facial expression, but she was a terrible actress, because I saw right through her sad attempt to paste a smile on top of her tear stained face. I put my schoolbag down on the floor and immediately gave her a hug. “What’s wrong baybay?” I asked in a light tone. “Nothing” she said in a groan. She pulled away from the hug, I cupped her face in my hands “You a terrible liar dumby, I’ll ask again, what’s wrong?” Dumby was a name we would call each other, which later defined itself as a term of friendship or endearment. “Nothing stupid, you so dumb I was only lookin sad to get a hug from your pretty face”. I stared at her for a minute, and she stared right back with those big brown puppy dog eyes. She was beginning to lighten up and then we both burst into laughter.

There was something about our secret little language that always made one another feel better some how, like we felt understood or maybe it was just the fact that we had each other to laugh with when times like these got us down, but either way, our little system we had, was fail proof. “ I love you dumb dumb” I said to her and I wrapped my arms around her like a blanket of comfort, because although I had gotten a smile from her, I knew her problems weren’t solved. “ I love you too baby” she said in her normal calm tone. We sat there in our warm embrace as she told me of the things she was going though, like stupid arguments with her boyfriend and other teen queen dramatics that everyone had gone through, was going through or would eventually have to face in the mere future. When the bell finally rang and the school officer yelled that it was time for first period, we picked up our bags and went to our first classes. Our conversation hadn't been over yet but I guess you could say that we momentarily paused it due to the inconvenience of our separate classes. We went our different ways but our special little language seemed to keep us close no matter the distance.

People everyday stray from what we may call “proper English” whether they mean to or not. For some reason we feel that saying things in our own individual tongues will make our voices more different or heard; and it does, to certain people on the outside looking in. But to those who speak your tongues, it seems like nothing out of the ordinary, or possibly, it makes you feel all the more extraordinary knowing that you and a group of people share something that others may not know or understand. Language is not defined by the accent you have or the way you roll your tongue on certain letters, its something deeper and more complex, its about being able to speak differently to the people around you, and have them completely understand what you mean. 

Language Autobiography

            I was born in Philadelphia.  I was raised right in the center of the city, only a few blocks away from downtown, and right around the corner from all the museums.  I have gone to three different schools, all located in the city and within walking distances from my house.  It’s a city I feel comfortable in.  I am a true native Philadelphian.  But I do not speak like most other Philadelphians.  In my family, I was taught to speak our most proper English, with our best grammar.  I don’t speak in slang, and I try to pronounce my words.  To my family and me, I sound perfectly normal.  To my family in Scotland, I sound very American.  But to my friends in Philadelphia, sometimes I sound British.  I grew up with a Philadelphian-scotch accent, always begin too British or too American for either sides of my friends and family.

            I am not sure if it comes out when I am excited, angry, or what; but on rare occasions it can be very noticeable.  On one occasion, it was so obvious that my friend began to yell at me.  “Why are you talking like that?” my friend exclaimed at me.  “What are yeh talkin’ about?  I’m talkin’ normal.” I questioned her in confusion.  “You are talking with a British accent!  Why are you talking that way?” she said frustrated.  At this point I had become increasingly puzzled.  I’ve heard people say my dad talked with a Scottish accent, and I’ve heard my sister talk with a really lousy Scottish accent, but never me talk with a Scottish accent.  “I think yeh’ve gone mad” I told her doubtingly.  “Why are you talking like you are British?” she asked my impatiently.  “I’m speakin’ the same way I always talk.  This is shtupid.”  I replied, trying to listen closely to my own voice.  As I said stupid, I began to hear it.  It was as if I was mimicking my Scottish cousin, if she had a more Americanized accent.  I had no idea where it came from or why.  I began to get worked up about something and it just slipped out.  The more I got “my knickers in a twist” over it, the stronger it became, and I had not the slightest clue why.

            On rare occasions, you could easily tell that my dad was from Scotland, and if you had a good ear, which part.  The r’s are more pronounced, the words are spoken faster, and words like you and speaking and said like yeh and speakin’.  This could have been the source of my selective accent.  Even though I was raised in a community where American was the accent, my dad had a greater influence on my speech.  It is often said that kids learn the most from their parent’s behaviour and language.  When my dad was in a familiar environment he resorted back to his natural language.  I suspect this the reason why I occasionally spoke with a different accent. 

            Although I speak with a slight Scottish accent on some occasions, my more dominant accent is no dubitably American.  Every year, my family and I take a plane all the way to Scotland.  In Scotland we see my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandmother, and friends; all of them of finding me sounding too American.  “You should come stay with us for a year.  Get a real authentic Scottish accent!” My auntie would exclaim to my sister and I.  “I wish!” we would both wishfully reply.  “You could pass off as one of the girls in the village with your appearance, all you would have to do is get rid of that accent.  If you lived here you could get a strong quite fast.” My grandma would tell me every time I bumped into her in the hallway.  I am never sure whether she is genuine or just wants us to move so she could be closer to us.  My family in Scotland, I couldn’t sound any more American, yet my friends at home criticize me for sounding a bit British.

            For the most part, having a American-scotch accent has not been a bother.  Most people that I converse with do not even notice the Scottish part of my speech.  On those rare occasions that it becomes noticeable, most people shrug it off as if I was speaking the same way as them.  There are very few occasions where people find my accent fictitious.  My friend confronting me on the way I speak was an example of how she thought that I was choosing to speak that way.  Which is not the cause of accents.  A person and their environment determine accents, not whether they decide to be British for a day and then American the next.

            While most of the time I get off as just sounding American, there are those rare occasions where I am both American and British sounding.  Due to my family, my background, and surroundings, I have adapted my own variations of both accents.  My accent has taught me that people do not choose the way they speak, it is something that happens due to their environments. 

Everyone gets a thrill out of something, for some its running, for others its school, for me it’s doing things I’m not supposed too. Ever since I was in kinder garden I had a soft spot for being bad, for getting into as much trouble as I possibly could. I liked the feeling of being the most bad, I changed my language with each bad girl move I made having everyone gossip about how “out of control” I was. I was the first too kiss, the first to smoke, and the first to get arrested.  

It was Memorial Day weekend, my last few weeks at Germantown Friends School, the long weekend was perfect, I had a week of exams coming up and I just wanted a break. On Saturday afternoon my mom and I decided to go to the mall.  She went with her friend from out of the country, so while my mom was showing her all the stores that I hated, I asked to go to another store, and walk around for a little, she agreed and we made our separate ways. Leaving my mom was the biggest mistake of my life, I had a problem, I was a kleptomaniac, I couldn’t walk into a store without stealing something, I got away with jewelry, makeup and even shoes. The first store I went into was Saks 5^th avenue, I took a look around found some things I liked, and snatched them. The adrenaline I had when walking out a store without the alarm going off, made me feel like the greatest person alive. The next store on my hit list was Neiman Marcus, little did I know it would be the last of my shop lifting days. I was feeling lucky and went straight to the shoe department. I found the pair I wanted I slipped them on my feet and walked out the store, no alarm no nothing, until out of no where two men and one woman ran at me, they took me into the back of the mall. I didn’t know what was going to happen

            “I swear I didn’t mean to take them, I swear” I said behind all the tears

“Please whatever you do don’t arrest me, I’ll never do it again” I screamed behind tears as I dug my nails as hard into my skin as I possibly could, thinking it would take the pain away, at that moment I wished I could have taken it all back, and just be with my mom. I knew she was worrying they took my phone from me, they took everything.

“Stop crying, it’s not worth anything, you’re not getting out of this” the tall man looked mad. I wanted to change his mind so bad, just let me free. He looked me in the eye, and let out a sly smile, not in a mean way just in a “I feel bad for her” kind of way.  I felt alone, it was honestly the first time I felt as though no one was there for me, my father didn’t know what was happening and neither did my mother, nor did my friends, only I did and the scary men that watched me.

“You’ll be in the cell for six to eight hours” The cop had a rather horse voice, it didn’t make me feel comfortable, but then again I had no merit to feel comfortable I didn’t deserve any comfort, I was going to jail not candy land.  In the back of the cop car I tried to slide the handcuffs off my arm but it didn’t work. When I got to the jail cell they put me in a room, one wooden bench and a bottle of water… nothing else.

“PLEASE LET ME GO PLEASE”

“Shut up, stop crying” the cops laughed at me, as if it were some sort of joke, as if I were a clown or something

“It’s your own fault you’re in here”

I couldn’t speak , my voice was clogged my head was throbbing considering I had been crying for 4 straight hours, it was too much I couldn’t handle it.  All I wanted was my mom, I wanted her hugs and her love, I couldn’t wait for it, I wanted my cell phone I wanted a large piece of greasy pizza, I wanted to be with my friends laughing talking in my most annoying Miley Cyrus voice.  But I was in jail that’s where I was, I was stuck no way of getting out, at least not for another 5 hours.

“All I want is my mommy that’s all I want” I kept repeating to myself quietly, I didn’t want to look crazy by talking to myself but I couldn’t help it the words just kept spitting out, I could barley understand what I was saying to myself behind all the tears.

“Taylor, your mothers here, you’re free too go” The cop didn’t have any emotion in his voice, this was the scariest moment for me, having to see my mother, when she saw me she ran up and hugged me, she didn’t look angry or mad she looked sad, I had broken her heart. In the car it was quiet, I tried to let out a laugh but it didn’t work.

“I’m really hungry can we go to McDonalds” I said, I couldn’t cry anymore my voice was just sad, empty to say the least.

“No, I have to drive you too your father immediately” My mother said, her voice sounded as if she was about to cry.

“I tried to hide it from him, but there was no way I could” She said to me after a long awkward silence. That night my dad was staying at the Ronald McDonald house, doing an overnight volunteer shift.  When I got there my dad came out to let us in.

“Did they put you in handcuffs” The first thing he said to me, I looked at him solemnly and nodded my head yes, his voice wasn’t angry either much like my mothers he sounded really sad. He hugged me tight, and sent me up to his room, he brought me cake and cereal and put the t.v on and told me to wait there. While in there I checked my phone, I had about 30 missed calls. Both my parents made me promise not tell a soul, it was something they wanted kept as a deep secret.

This changed me forever, it changed the way I acted and who I was, which resulted in a change of language, the way I spoke and acted like the nothing ever mattered changed, I started too care, I dropped the bad girl language and moved on too a more mature settled language, never would I want to relive