The Evolution of the White Dove's Whispers

Evolution of the White Dove’s Whispers

By: Shaina-Nicole Keenan

Pure. Fine. Untainted.

I was born and raised in southwest Philadelphia. The majority race in the region was and still is African-American. There are handfuls of Asian and Hispanic families, and a very sparse amount of white families. I am apart of one of those very few families.

I attended the elementary school in my neighborhood from Kindergarten to Fourth grade. I was one of three Caucasian students in the entire school. When I was five years old, starting school for the first time with larger classes, I spoke properly and clear. I never used slang. Up until I was in third grade, I never let people tamper with my dialect. I was a fine dove, with pure feathers. I flew my own path and sung my own song.

Inside and outside of school, I spoke impressively for an elementary school student. My family has many friends, and I was introducing myself to new people constantly. I was also a true “chatty kathy”, I loved to talk. Here’s an example of a typical scene with stranger and I:

“Hi cutie, what is your name?”

“Hi, my name is Shaina-Nicole Margaret Keenan,”

“You have the prettiest eyes, sweetie.”

“Thank you so much. They are from my daddy,”

Reading impacted my language and dialect incredibly when I was younger. I always had a book in my hand. This is how I learned to speak and use proper grammar. Adults were amazed whenever I opened my mouth and let the words fly out. Yet, my peers were not always so intrigued.

As I gained more and more friends, my original dialect and vocabulary was tampered with. My feathers were starting to get dirty, and ruffled. As one of two white girls in the school that is centered in a neighborhood where language was a dying cause, it was hard not to be manipulated into speaking like my peers.  

There was an unrealistic difference in my dialect in the span of three and a half years. My language evolved along with my personality. I was blind to fact I was growing up in a time where kids everywhere had no sense of language. By the fourth grade, I was someone else. Here’s an example of a typical scene with a friend and I:

“Yo, dat teacha is so f***** irkin’.”

“Right yo, she was really drawlin’ the otha day,” I would say.

“I was finna pop her in her ugly mouf.”

Once I graduated from my neighborhood school, I went to a prestigious school in Center City. The population of students was very diverse. There were a lot of African-American students in my class from neighborhoods just like mine. So although I tried to escape bad language, it followed me.

Before I started at my new school, I thought about why I truly spoke the way I did, and the person I had become. I tried to find a common ground between my old dialect and the dialect I wanted. No matter where I went, Southwest would always be a language I felt comfortable with. Despite feeling at home with the improper dialect, I wanted to start fresh at my new school. I did not completely abandon my old dialect, I migrated it with my original dialect to feel most comfortable talking to new people.

James Baldwin once wrote, “People evolve a language in order to describe and thus control their circumstances, or in order not to be submerged by a reality they cannot articulate.” This relates to my situation incredibly. My language changed so much over the course of many years; I continuously evolved it. I felt like I had to describe my struggles with language with people who would criticize me, it needed attention. Since I was constantly obsessing over how I would sound to certain people, I let my language overshadow my life and personality. My reality was muffled and lost. Submerged by the circumstances of my undecided languages, this quote resonates and encompasses my struggle perfectly.

I kept that constant new dialect throughout middle school. Yet, language is always evolving. As we grow older, day by day, year by year, we are always changing. Our language and dialect is shifting along with us as humans.

I will never be the pure white dove I was. My feathers will never be as bright of a white as they once were. I am okay with that. I am still soaring, and although my feathers are ruffled, wrinkled, and a little

dingy, they are mine. I sing the song of my ever evolving language. My language is my own. The whispers of my white dove’s songs are my past, my present and my future; I am always soaring high, singing my broken song that I am proud to claim!