Advanced Essay #2: Robbed Of My Identity

My goal for this essay was to use clear language to describe an experience in my life that has influenced my literary identity. What I am proud of in this essay is how much I have opened up about this topic in my life. An area of improvement is to increase my descriptive vocabulary when I write about topics such as this one.

Amelia Benamara

English 3

10 December

Robbed Of My Identity

It was my third day of kindergarten when a woman with dark grey locks extended her gigantic palm to mine at my side before she began to shake it. She was a completely new face to me; I smiled and gladly accepted the gesture, nonetheless. At the time, I was a child of the age six who couldn't speak a single word of English.

“Hy, my nom es Mes Hyd,” she returned the smile.

“Azul! Je m'appelle Amelia,” I enthusiastically responded with a mix of French and Berber. Gloria Anzaldua demonstrates this skill in her infamous story: How To Tame  A Wild Tongue. Anzaldua describes her ability to speak more than one language in a sentence, “I may switch back and forth from English to Spanish in the same sentence or in the same word.”

Observing her gestures, I could tell she introduced herself. She seemed very excited to be meeting me, although I wasn't so sure why. As a toddler, I was always the type who was open to meeting new people no matter where I go. Her anticipation glued to me, as I began to be jumping with excitement ― literally. This lady didn’t intimidate me not one bit. Shortly after her and my parents had a conversation while I roamed the paintings drawn on the hallway's walls, Ms. Hyde grabbed onto my tiny hand and talked as we walked. I couldn’t understand, but I seemed to nod my head and agree with what she was going on about. The teacher leads me to a door with the labels ESOL on it. I was familiar with the letters when I write in French, however, I had absolutely no clue how to pronounce the word. We entered the room and sat across from one another. There were posters with words and drawings all over the walls. The elder woman pulled out a large printed paper with a flower design on it. There were multiple labels surrounding the colorful drawing, each pointing at a specific area. I wasn’t at all familiar with what the letters spelled out, but, I automatically figured out what the labels represented. It was almost like slow motion, where everything in the room was silent but Ms. Hyde’s lips continued to move while she pointed at the labels on the poster. I blocked all of what she was rambling about until her lips stopped moving as she waited for me to answer whatever question she asked.

“Dee farraowen,” I casually responded in Berber.

A smile appeared on her face but it wasn’t that same friendly smile this time. She wanted to let out a laugh but tried hard not to. Although today’s version of me wouldn’t have smiled at that embarrassing response, instead, her laugh was passed on to my face. This strange exchange gave me comfort at the time because I was a kid who knew nothing about people’s reactions. I thought she smiled because she was happy, which made me happy. I was not used to embarrassment and what that was at all.

This experience was almost the same as what happened on my very first day of school. I walked into a classroom full of American kids who I shared the same height, uniform, and excitement with ― the only difference was the language we spoke. Most of the students were talking to one another and making new friends. They used words that my brain didn’t quite register, however, that didn’t stop me from attempting to make friends too. I approached the students and instantly began to speak with a mix of Berber and French. The kids around me laughed and I laughed along. Little did I know, they were laughing at me. Looking back at this moment, I can’t blame them; a classroom of kindergarten students laughing at words that were very unusual to my brain.

Let’s fast forward a few years later in 5th grade, I had spoken English by that time and had proudly graduated from ESOL with an honor roll certificate. Two of the friends I had at the time mentioned that same incident in kindergarten for the first time.

“No one had a clue to what you were saying, it was hilarious,” Ryan could hardly speak due to the laugh attacks he was having.

“I think I even saw Ms. Karacomaza laugh with us!” Brianna nudged Ryan’s arm making him choke on his laugh.

Nothing much changed, they had the same laughs that caused a flush to appear on my cheeks ― this time I felt the embarrassment I should’ve felt five years earlier. I had long forgotten that memory, hoping no one remembered it but they killed that hope I clutched on to.

Now, as the teenager I am, I hardly speak the French language, as well as Arabic. The only language I seemed to have held onto was Berber. Moving to a country such as America, I feel robbed of my origins. I had moved here speaking fluently in three languages at only age six, and now at age sixteen I only speak one of those three. Gloria Anzaldua’s How To Tame A Wild Tongue explains a similar memory with her own Spanish language: “Through lack of practice and not having any others who can speak it, I've lost most of the Pachuco tongue.”

However, not all was misfortune because when I came to Philadelphia I learned a new language, English. I am lucky enough to go to the school I currently attend that gives me opportunities to expand my linguistic knowledge. As a junior in High School, I am taking Spanish classes. Although I am not fluent just yet, I am proud to have this experience. Speaking Spanish in school reminds me of speaking French in Algeria. The Spanish and French language are so incredibly similar that it truly brings back beautiful memories I had as a kid.

I only speak Berber in the house with my family, my parents say it is good to always remember a piece of culture I grew up in. I am afraid to even say a word in public that isn’t English because Berber is a very ancient language that a very small population can speak. When people hear the words, they stare and make unpleasant faces. I prefer to speak it with my family who will not judge the person I grew up as. A stranger can hear me speak, observe my face, but one thing they do not know immediately is my childhood story and what makes me who I am.