Language Autobiography

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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