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Rondel Calloway                                                                                12/14/10

Juniors’  step was where we hung out when we weren’t at my house. It was like our second bat cave.  “Yall drawin.”  Yall always tyrna flame somebody.” (Rondel)  “Chill we only do it if they deserve it.” (Phil) “So everybody who walk by deserve to get flamed.” (Rondel) “Yea depends on the way they look.”  (Savon) Savon is the second tallest of the crew, he is also the second lightest and the second tallest.  Savon is also known “Arab” because he had the most facial hair but he was the one of the youngest.  Savon was best at playing basketball.

 It was probably due to the fact that getting a rebound off of him was like trying to jump and touch the top of a skyscraper.  “You see this bull wit his cowboy stroll, he look like a donkey and a koala bear.” (Phil) Phil was the lightest out of all of us and the clown.  Phil’s about 5’9 and muscular, he always made all of us laugh.  Phil always found   something fun for us to do when we were bored.  Even if meant talking about people who walked down the block.

It wasn’t anything personal; it’s just what Phil came up with when we were bored. “Yo lo…” (Dean) “Chill be quiet it’s my mom.”  (Rondel) “Hello.”  (Rondel)  “Where are you?” (Mom) “I’m on Forrest Ave.”  (Rondel) “Okay I want you home before 12:00 am.”  (Mom) “Okay mom, love you.” (Rondel) “Love you too baby, be careful.”  (Mom) This is what usually happened, when our parents called our speech changed.

  My friends and I would be talking slang then one of our parents would call and there we were changing the way we spoke.  It’s actually pretty interesting, “I can’t wait to get a whip” turned into “I can’t wait to get a car.”  Seeing this change was like a magic trick.  You think that you know someone then his or her speech just changes when a new variable is introduced.  Sometimes you forget where you are and you forget to make that change in your speech.  “Is that you?” (Mom) “Yea” (Rondel) “Where were you this whole time?” (Mom)

“I was out chillin on Forrest Ave. wit the crew.” (Rondel) “What did you just say?” (Mom) “I meant to say I was on Forrest Avenue with my friends.” (Rondel) “You might talk like that out there but you don’t come in here talking like that.” “Especially to me, I’m, your mother and you show me the upmost respect.” (Mom) “Okay mom.” (Rondel) My mom was very strict about talking to her with respect.

To talk to my mom I had to code switch.  Conversations between my friends and I were different between adults and I.  To adults I said “Hi” or “Hey” instead “Sup” because it is the way that society says that we are suppose to talk to adults.  So in some ways society supports code switching, with adults you are suppose to speak “Standard English” instead of, in my case Ebonics.  Many people worry about being their self, but how can you be yourself if you have to code switch depending on who your talking to.  Basically what I’m saying is that Society makes you contradict your self.  By code switching you can’t be who you really are because by code switching you are hiding the way that you truly speak. 

Growing up, I thought being independent at a young age was bad because I felt as though my parents weren’t able to help me. Being home alone and trying to sometimes raise yourself can be difficult. I remember after finishing the homework everyone at school called “hard” during the first grade, I used to sit around in a variety of positions in my couch until I was pooped and eventually thought something else to do in my leisure time. Going to school was the only “pizzazz” thing in my life.
 As I was carrying my navy blue and red backpack through the filthy halls of my elementary school, I walked up the steps to the dull, boring classrooms that I spent my 6 ½ hours in. While going up the staircase, an evil looking boy named Talib say to me, in a very simple sentence. “You’re going to die”. That idea persisted in my head and replayed itself throughout the rest of the day. Death was beginning to be my new phobia. I can’t explain why I felt that way. Or why it scared me even if I knew that eventually we all had to encounter this mysterious event called death.
    I didn’t really know how to react to that the time. Keeping it to myself, and thinking about it over and over, time after time made me insane! “Hey are you okay?” people would ask, as I looked at them with a ditzy look in my hazel eyes which eventually turned into purple hypnotic swirls eyes of a crazy child.
    Mom and Dad were the ones who put me into psychotherapy.  All the counseling was a waste of time in my opinion. I was deeply disappointed in myself for not being able to be stable. But it made me feel better that I had someone to play board games with every Saturday. To me, whoever was on the other side of the Monopoly board, was considered a friend and that friend’s name was Rachael.  The reason I felt Rachael was a friend was because even though I knew she was pretending to care about my problems, she did it in a friendly manner. Little by little the outcome of Talib’s words was decomposing, but I never went back to school as my old social self.
There were times I talked to my parents about my problems, just like any other kid would. We understood each other completely, we also understood each other so well, that sometimes my mom would go to the crowded schoolyard and start those embarrassing talks with the teacher before class.
As I went on to higher grades in school, there were things that Talib could have said, that didn’t hurt me. It’s as my life experience helped me change to who I am today. I no longer needed mom talking to teachers because I was simply to “old” for that, even though other kids my age at that time went home crying because someone said they had a wig on.
    I knew I was a bit different, when I looked at the insanities my friends used to do, I felt responsible for any injuries. Some told me I was scared to do it because I was always the “good kid”. I was far from being a good kid, I did do little sinister things, and held malice towards people I didn’t like, but only to the people I thought that deserved it. The real reason I didn’t do those idiotic endeavors was because I knew people didn’t expect things like that from me. I kept learning in everyday life, and started to comprehend that the reason I was taught to be an independent kid, was to make up for the lack of presence of my hardworking parents. So maybe I could eventually tell the difference between righteous rightness and wicked wrongness, and avoid having to complain about why my parents cant let me do this, or that. Today, they see me as a successful experiment, they trust me with things like staying home alone for hours, and finally this year my mom trusts me 79% with the stove (because last year I opened a can of sprite with a pot of boiling water). I turned out okay, my parents only wish they could do the same with my younger and ignorant brother.

Marina Pyfrom 

Descriptive Essay

My dad passed away when I was about 3 years old. Since then my mom and I haven’t been the same. My dad and his family are originally from the Bahamas. He used to take me there when I was younger. We haven’t visited the Bahamas, or my dad’s family since his death. There are times where I wish my mom and I could visit again. I miss the feeling of running through the smooth gritty sand or watching the turquoise waves hit the shore, with water so crystal- clear that you can see the nail polish designs on your toes. When I visit places such as Atlantic City or Wildwood I am suddenly reminded of home. I miss getting up early to see the admirable, glowing sunrise that would slowly rise across the sky bringing a beautiful radiant light to both land and sea.

            Music, feeds my soul, it helps me in any situation. The soothing sound takes my mind off feeling homesick. To get closer to my Caribbean roots, I listen to reggae. Bob Marley is a well known legend for his life, music, and philosophy. Although he is a Jamaican singer, songwriter, and musician he was important throughout all the islands in the Caribbean area. The rhythm guitarist and the bass drum, make me feel like I'm there, in my home. I remember all the fun moments I had with my mom, when we used to wine to all reggae classics. Now, I rarely see her smile like how she used too. She grins and laughs but I want to see her give me real happy smile!

            “MOM HURRY COME HERE I GOT SOMETHING FOR YOU!!” I screamed to the top of my lungs as if someone was killing me. I stood there patiently waiting for my mom, as she sluggishly came towards me.   She snarled and said, “ What is it?  I’m in the middle of something.”   Quickly, I responded saying, “What are you in the middle of?” She rolled her eyes, similarly to the mean girls in high school and said, “I’m the mom don’t worry what I am doing!”   I just laughed because she says that to me all the time. I could tell she was doing her hair because she still had the skinny orange comb in her hair. With a big cheesy smile I said, “Hurry and open this, and then you can back do your hair.”   She grabbed the box and quickly began to tear it open.  Once the box was completely opened, she smiled and began to sing “And we jamming “ and bops her head.

            I walked over to the television to replace the picture of a woman and her baby that was behind it, and put Bob Marley’s picture up instead. The woman was African. I can tell by her dark skin complexion, and her garb, which is off-white shaded with a little beige. Her garb does not look like the present time African women attire. She quickly said, “No don’t take that picture down.” I began to feel sad because it was almost like she was rejecting my gift. “Why not”, I asked.   She rudely cut me off and said, “Because you can’t, we will find Bob Marley another place.” I rolled my neck in a circle said, “What, my picture isn’t good enough for you!” She said, “ That painting meant a lot to my mom, your grandmother before she passed, so we never moved it.”  I stared at the painting and it brought up memories of grand mom and me. I notice how the artist puts a lot of detail on her face, especially the eyes. She has thin eyebrows, big round eyes, brown pupils, and long eye lashes.The piece of artwork makes me think of the hardships of single moms out there. Then my mom said “ Its cool Bob coming with me in my room, and then she began singing again, “ I shot the sheriff, But I didn't shoot no deputy, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh” I just sat on the couch and laughed thinking, does Bob Marley really want to see mom when she goes too sleep and wakes up?!

            Even though I lost someone close to me, I still find a way to keep a positive attitude. I keep myself engaged in activities that remind of my Bahaman roots. And I try to keep my loved ones close and make them happy. I know one day I will be at my home, The Bahamas.  

Ready, split, swing, recover. Thats all that was going through my mind as I hit the ball as best I could and won each point. This was the day I surpassed my limits by about 200%. It was Canadian Doubles so it was like playing a brick wall on the other side of the court. Drop shot, overhead, volley, half-volley, swinging volley, every shot in my arsenal I used and still just barely won the point. 

I walked over to get two tennis balls and told myself, “Devoid of emotion, don’t let it stick”. Being devoid of my emotions allows me to concentrate better than anything else. Got ready to serve, decided this time to use the abbreviated stance for serving in hopes of surprising them. The abbreviated serving stance was a serving stance I only used if I needed to gain a lot of points in a short period of time since its the only stance that I can hit a kick serve with. Using it too much puts too much strain on my arm so its a sort of last resort shot. I bounce the ball 4 times, have the ball and racquet touch in front of me slowly separating and getting ready to throw the ball up. I release the ball and swing....it goes in the box and out to the left dragging him off the court and opening up the court if he is able to get it back.

He got it back but it is short so I approach the net and decided to use the two-one punch strategy so my approach shot goes straight back to him. The two-one strategy is a strategy in tennis normally used in singles but my doubles partner, Hefei, and I are able to use it in singles and doubles. What it is, is you hit the ball to one side, then if he returns it you hit it again to the same side and if he gets it back again you hit it straight down the middle in doubles or in singles to the other corner. So I hit it back to Andrew who I was able to pull off the court with my serve and perform the two-one punch perfectly, hitting his return back right down the middle too fast for his partner, Andrew G. at the net. 

It was 3-6 for the first set, 2-0 right now in the second set and I realized that the only way I could win is if I used all the strategies and shots in my arsenal. Since it was their serve now I decided to use the creeping split so I could use the return & volley tactic. The serve was a moderately fast ball and I approached after returning and put that ball away immediately. Next I decided to use a system Hefei and me created for doubles but adapted it quickly to singles and told myself 5 groundstrokes than approach as in a diagonal line. I did it and got the point.

Over the course of the set, I was gaining points at an incredible rate. It was now the third set and the score was tied 3-6, 6-0 now so we had three more sets to play out since it’s best 3 out of 5 sets. I was getting emotional again so I had to tell myself again: “Devoid of emotion, there is no velcro on me”. The only way I would get the next two sets straight was if I pulled myself together and focused less on the amount of power on the ball to get in and instead did what one of my coaches told me: “If you get nervous or can’t concentrate, focus only on your feet”. After I did that, games flew by quicker than a bird. After two more gruesome sets it was the middle of the last set and the score was 3-6, 6-0, 6-2, 5-7 with the score 6-6 in the last set. We had to keep playing until one side won by two games. It was my service game and I served kick serves, slice serves, flat serves, topspin serves, everything I had left in order to win the game and finally did. This was it I told myself: “This is it, don’t screw up or it’s 3 extra hours of Cha-Cha training.” I used all the splits and shots I had left in me until it was match point. I felt like I was going to collapse from the combination of the heat and the tiredness from the last 4 hours of playing. Andrew served, I came up to the net and started volleying back and forth with the net person when he hit a lob up over my head. The only shot I had left in me was a Reverse Contact Move. I got into position and hit it...It bounced in and....HE MISSED IT!!! I told myself: “Thank you, Lord” then ran up and shook their hands. 

The ending score was 3-6, 6-0, 6-2, 5-7, 8-6 and it was one hell of an intense match. I couldn’t believe I WON when I was literally out of energy. Cha-Cha came up and told me, “Why can’t you always play like that, man?” I said, “I don’t know Cha, but I do know I can’t be a champion, without you.” and began to laugh. That was the longest match I had ever played in my life; 4 hours and 15 minutes. The lesson learned that day was the only way to win is if I push myself past my limits like I do in Cha-Cha training

Key:

Ready Steps- a foot movement where you move your feet like a pendulum while your waiting for the ball to come.

Split Step- A foot movement where you jump into your foundation once your opponent makes contact with the ball so that you can get the ball quicker.

Recover- After hitting the ball you move back to the middle of the baseline

Topspin Serve-a serve that when landing into the box curves into the body

Kick Serve-a serve that when lands into the box curves out of the court and is used to drag you opponent off the court.

Flat Serve-a serve that is hit with pure power no spin and is normally used as a first serve.

Slice Serve-a serve that lands in the box short and curves into the court.

Drop Shot-a ball hit with so much topspin that once it goes over the net it literally drops in extremely short and is one of the hardest shots in tennis to get.

Half-Volley-a volley that is hit as the ball is just coming off the ground.

Lob-a ball hit high in order to force the person at the net to back away from the net in order to get it or in order to create time to recover.

Cha-Cha Training- My coach’s nickname is Cha-Cha and his training is more intense than any other coach I know’s training so I refer to his training as Cha-Cha Training or Military Training.

September 16^th, 2010. I hear someone enter my room at 6:00 am, when I usually get up. I thought it was my dad so I really didn’t care. But then the character started to come up to me. I’m facing my wall so I can’t see them, yet I don’t want to turn around. I hear them pick up my phone, which is lying on the white drawer next to me bed. Am I being robbed? After I hear them typing and playing with the buttons on my phone, they walk to my dresser and I hear the change on the top moving. So I think to myself, “Dude…who’s taking my money?!” But still, I do not turn around. For some reason, I was afraid of what I may see. As the footsteps dawn closer to my bed, I feel the sudden lifting of the covers on my bed. Instantly, I turn around to see who’s in my room so early, and it was none other than the marvelous and wonderful Cecelia Baez, come to greet me every so graciously on my 16^th birthday.

I always told Cecelia it was one of my favorite dreams to have her wake me in the morning. But as to most dreams require, it was a little hard to do. There’s about a 20 minute distance between our Northeastern Philadelphia houses, 7 by bike (I ride fast), and 5 by car. She gets up at 4 am to prepare herself for the day, which means that she’d have to get up at 3:30-ish to be able to walk to my house. She doesn’t own a bike. And her parents are way too stubborn to give her a ride. Though on some days I occasionally wake up earlier so I can meet her at her house before school. But today was the exception. It may have been a little scary because I thought I was being robbed, but in the end, I’m super glad she did this for me. My dad even went out of the way to pick her up at her house and ride her to mine, crazy right? But in the end, that’s one more dream I was able to experience in my time.

“Dude, what’s Lulu holding?!” Said a curious Olivea at the lunch table with Jenn and I attending.

“Ugh…It’s my birthday present…” I grumbled, knowing it was just one more wackjob ideas of Cecelia. Long Nu, was holding a blue box, approximately the size of her. Wrapped, in blue Christmas wrapping paper. With her, was Bee Noi, filming Long Nu with the camcorder on my black iPod Nano. It seemed they were looking for me…but didn’t see me. I laughed and just waited.

“Dude shut up no it’s not!” Olivea said doubting my statement.

“Alright Liv suit yourself…”

“Gabriel!” Long Nu exclaimed as she finally found me. “Here! It’s a present from Cece! Open it!”

“Oh…you weren’t joking…” Olivea said, obviously feeling a little salty at that point. But regardless, I wanted to open the present. Before I lacerate the wrapping covering my prize inside, I read the notes on the front. Both reading, “I’m sorry it’s Christmas paper…it was all I had <3” and “In hur, had rush” which Jenn later explained to me said, “In a hurry, I had to rush.” So as Bee’s recording, I dig my way into the Christmas paper. And behind the wrapping, was a box, a cardboard box.

“Oh a box! It’s what I always wanted!” I said, obviously jokingly sarcastic. Removing the tape sealing the box, inside the box, was another box. And inside that box, was yet again another box. By the time I opened the 3^rd box, the whole lunchroom had formed a large circle around my lunch table. Box after box, wrapping after wrapping, tape after tape. The opening seemed like an eternity. Until finally…the last box. I unwrapped it and felt…disappointed. “Suede Shoes” was written on the front, and thought it was seriously a pair of shoes. But I was mistaken. Because inside the shoe box, was the final birthday gift… Turtle Tuck from Wonder Pets. I turned bright red, and the large group around me, even bigger from a few minutes prior, was now in stitches about the embarrassing turn of events. To think, I spent 5 minutes unwrapping 10 boxes, all smaller than the last, just for a little Beanie Baby turtle. It may have been embarrassing beyond all recognition, but one thing remains. I’ve slept with that turtle every day since, and I’m glad I had to go through a million and a half boxes to have it!

What is this? Creativity? Stupidity? Love? What is it that one single person can strive so hard to make me so undoubtedly happy? The things she can think of simply baffle my mind. I would have never expected the idea of the whole “box in box” theme. But rest assured, Cecelia did. But why is one person going so far out just to ensure that I’m happy? It’s the feelings she has for me… and that she’d do anything she could, just to make me smile even a little bit. And that’s why she’s made me the happiest person this past year. Random, crazy events are exactly what Cecelia Baez is known for. From enormous cards with my picture tapped to the front. To a box the size of Long Nu with something as unique as a Beanie Baby turtle inside? Something only Cecelia Baez would imagine in that little goofy head of hers. But in the end, that’s exactly why Cecelia Baez, is my favorite person in the whole wide world.

Friday the 13^th that date changed my day for the worse. I was on m way to work, ready to get my check and go do some shopping before going to North Carolina for the rest of the summer. I would always take the same bus route to get to work, the 47 bus and then the 56 bus. Every time the bus would get ready to go onto Broad I could swear I felt the bus go on two wheels because it was turning too fast. Well on the 13^th I knew I had a reason to be scared of that bus ride.

            As the bus was taking the turn onto 10^th street going past the trolley tracks it just sped down the hill and then everything went into slow motion. It felt like a movie the way everything went slow motion. As a car came in front of the bus the bus hit it at full speed. Everyone on the bus flew forward. A little baby in a stroller fell to the side and someone fell on top of him. Two little girls fell and hit the front of the bus. I flew and fell on top of three people. We got up quickly and tried to help all the kids get up. The mother was screaming at the top of her lungs. “ Get off my baby! Help my baby get up!” everything happened in slow motion but so fast at the same time. When the paramedics arrived he asked who wanted to go to the hospital. I didn’t know what to do so I started walking. I just walked the rest of the way to work. Those five blocks felt endless; it felt like the longest walk of my life

            As I walked the car accident kept replaying in my head. It was the only thing I could think about and how much worst it could have been. The way everyone flew forward replayed continuously in my mind.  Another thing that I couldn’t get out off my mind was the way the trolley tracks looked before the car had hit us. It felt like a big rollercoaster ride gone wrong.

            The accident made an impact on every kind of transportation I take. The next day I was on my way to North Carolina and I had to take a plane. I never been scared or nervous of flying before but this time I was a lot more worried.  From the minute I stepped onto the plane I felt as though something bad was going to happen. Nothing felt safe to me any more. My legs were shaking and I was breathing hard.  I was trying to stay calm and even try to sing to myself but that didn’t work. There was about thirty minutes left in the flight and something went wrong.  Out of nowhere the plane had a sudden drop. It dropped so fast I felt my heart go straight to my butt. And then it felt like it was lifted straight up.  It scared me senseless and made me scared to get on the next plane. Even though those past two days were a scary experience it made up for it when I was able to see my dad and have a good time.

Having those two experiences made me a little more jumpy when I’m on public transportation. When a bus turns or is speeding down a street I get a little nervous. I know that I shouldn’t worry as much but now it’s just in me to be a little worried. Also when a bus is crowded or when it isn’t evened out on both sides I get a little jumpy. It’s hard to get on a bus and trust that I’ll be okay. What also makes it hard is when the bus driver is driving fast and makes a sharp turn because that’s how the accident started. It may be a weird thing but those two experiences made want to be more cautious when I’m traveling alone. 

Jesús Jimenez
Language Autobiography

    I’ve never been able to hold on to that wild horse that was my identity, during grade school. Being Mexican-American gave me a good sense of pride and a certain type of secureness that my parents couldn’t provide in my young life. Identifying who I was back then was a feat that at the time was too much pressure for an second grader. Stereotypes were something that messed up my social life, leading me into conclusions about who I needed to be.
    My second grade class was filled with Cambodians, African-Americans, and many other people you would find in South Philly. I was the only Mexican that I know that attended my school at the time. And a lot of people looked at me as if I was something else, they thought I was a person who jumped a border to come to this country, the way the media presented it. The reality was, that I was the kid that lived down your block and and has been living there since living there since forever. Back at that point in time at school, we read stories about people in the huge textbooks, you know, the ones bigger than your face. And once in a while, we got to a story that had a hispanic child struggling in the Bronx. You don’t know how many times I’ve read that story, each in a different incarnation. Anyway, I’ve always compared my life to those stories, often referring to them as fiction. The other kids in the classroom always looked at me at the end of every story, having the idea in their heads that I was this hispanic boy who spoke to his abuelita in Spanglish. It wasn’t like that at all. Kids sometimes went up to me and asked me “How do you say “@#$&%” in Spanish. Of course I knew Spanish, but there was a certain feel when they asked me that. Disgust and dirtiness of telling them the word to satisfy their curiosity felt like all the bad things in Pandora’s box coming at me, but the pride and knowing something they wanted to know felt kind of like, I was better than them. I know it sounds horrible saying I’m better than someone but that’s the I way I felt then. My Mom even explained the equality of every person to me once, but sometimes her definitions don’t exactly match those of society’s.

“Hijo, ningun humano es mejor que otro” meaning “Son, no human is better than another.” is what my mother said.
It’s the truth in my opinion, but sadly I contradicted this lesson I was given... and it felt good. It had given me a huge ego and felt exactly like the time spiderman got his new suit with venom.
The whole translating words thing ended quickly, it was basically a fad. I kind of established that I was bilingual after the 10th translated word or so. Kids didn’t care anymore after a while. 
Time passed and eventually I got to Middle School, where kids start growing hair in all the wrong places and you make the dramatic change from a cubby to a locker. My motivation to do good in school was now structured from a “I want to get out of here!” feeling. People saw me as “smart” although I just figured “I’m not smart, you guys are just too lazy.”
    Middle School actually was the time where I started using Spanish more, I helped translate for my parents during parent teacher conferences, more Spanish speaking students came to our school, so I was kind of used as a resource tool to those who didn’t feel comfortable speaking English. I attracted many Latinos/Hispanics in my school community. But when they started asking to be my friend and go to their birthday parties, that became an issue with me. I personally, didn’t want to be friends with them. I didn’t like seeing myself fitting in with them, and I didn’t feel like fitting in, they were just too stereotypical. Stereotypes are something I can’t stand. Even with my hatred for stereotypes, I somehow became friends with them, unwillingly. But I managed to have a small number of these “friends”, even with that small number there still came trouble.
So one day this boy named Gustavo walks up to me,
“Jesús! Como estas guey?”
“Hey! Estoy bien... que pasa?
“Mira..” I’m not going into the whole conversation, but the point is that my group of friends want me to choose between them and my new friends I just met a couple days ago.
Anyway, then a kid named Pablo comes over and says to Gustavo...
“Guey, que le dices a mi compa?”
“I’m your compa?” I said suspiciously.
“Claro! Si tu...” Then Pablo gets “Kanyed” by Gustavo.
Again, I don’t want to go into too much detail about what they said. They insulted each other and  almost got into a fight. Over me. This whole “friendship” thing was getting out of control, the least I wanted was to get into a fight myself. I was literally like watching two kids fight over a toy. Maybe that’s what I was to them, a toy, a novelty. It was the same reason why all the kids made me do all the work in group projects, why I let kids copy from my quizzes, and why Gustavo and Pablo were fighting over me. If I was just going to be liked for being “smart”, and be used as a statistic for school or the school district, I didn’t want any part of this. I wanted to leave everything behind. My Mexican identity, my American identity, my smartness, my Spanish, everything! I was ashamed of who I was because it confused me about what I wanted for myself. If speaking a second language proved kids to be smart and get an education, and getting a GOOD education was rare for Mexican-Americans as a statistic, then I was already half way done being on either side of the scale. I couldn’t help it.

    It wasn’t until my 8th grade year where I didn’t care at all. My language and identity were something I didn’t care for anymore. I was simply just another student, and didn’t care about my grades, I just let them come naturally. I think I was covered in a veil, and it didn’t let me see how this whole identity thing works. It’s not bad and it’s not good either. It’s the in between thing that kind of classifies us where we need it. The language I spoke was a huge benefit, that I didn’t realize existed. No, it wasn’t translating slang to immature kids, it was communicating between people. It’s alright if I didn’t use it in my younger years, what mattered was that I knew that it is a part of me.
    As I progressed in my school life, I’ve gotten time to think. Now, as I write this language autobiography, it seems I went through a lot of reflection to get to where my mind is now. The Jesús Jimenez that existed in elementary and middle school changed a lot. Want to know what I think now? Well, now I think my identity isn’t what I feel like that I want to be, that comes after I’ve accomplished something that makes people recognize me for that. Spanish is part of my identity, I speak it at home, with Mrs. Hirschfield, and whenever I help my friends with spanish homework. It’s a skill that I’ve gained through interacting with my environment. It’s part of my history. Being a Mexican-American living in Philadelphia gives my life a little twist and excitement, and people aren’t sure about me and it gives me something to talk about when they get to know me. A big difference between then and now, is that I’m glad that I’m a spanish speaking Mexican. Because without that identity, I wouldn’t or couldn’t continue being me.

            Boom! Bang! Bang! “Ha take that,” I said to the people on my Xbox 360. Then my family ran in like a pack of wild wolves knocking things over and tripping over each other and they say  “Mat turn your game off the Phillies are on.” At the time, I was too into my game and didn’t care about the World Series and kept playing. Then my mom’s voice got serious and I turned off my game quicker than a little kid runs and gets ice cream.           

The house started shaking after every run the Phillies scored and it was like the air was sucked out of the room every time they scored. It was now the 9^th inning and the Phillies were up 3 to 2 and Brad Lidge was pitching everyone was nervous and the pitches came in.  1 out. The room started to fell tenser. 2 outs. Everyone sat at the edge of his or her seats praying we got this last strike out. 3 outs my family went crazy and knocked over the wood framed picture of my sister and the glass cracked and flew everywhere as they ran out the door. We were not the only one’s outside there were many others outside screaming and cheering. We headed down to Main Street There were a lot of Phillies fans down there, spraying multi-colored silly string, drinking and jumping around which cause their Phillies hats to fall to the ground. I had to get away from the party because I had to wake up early the next day to go to school. 

When I woke up the next day I got down on my hands and knees and begged my mom to stay home like someone would beg god for forgiveness. She said “ Mat I already told you, that you can’t because you already missed enough from being sick with a stomach virus”! I just kept begging but every time I got the no response. So eventually I gave up. I got showered got dressed with all my Phillies stuff and when I went downstairs I grabbed my Phillies hat that had a brown Phillies P surrounded by an ocean of sky blue and a brown and white diagonally checkered rim, and put on my head in a tilt. As I walked up to the bus stop every Phillies fan that saw me, said “yeah go Phillies” and every Ray’s fan that I saw looked at me and just put their head down in shame and every time that happened I would get a smile on my face as if I was the one who beat the Tampa Bay Ray’s. When I got on the cheese bus all my friends had on their red and white to represent their team except for my one friend that sat in the back and looked like he was as lonelier than someone stranded on a faraway island. I sat next to my tall friend and he handed me a twenty-dollar bill from the bet that we made a couple weeks before the World Series started. I respected that he lived up to his word so I handed it back to him and said, “Keep it” he immediately lifted his head said “thanks” and smiled. It was then that I realized that friends could be just like family sometimes.

When I got into school it was like my couple of friends and I were isolated. We could hear the water drip from the sinks on the third floor. The school was almost completely empty. There were about 10 kids out of 22 in every class and the teachers didn’t want the other kids to get behind so we were allowed to get on the computers. My friends and I all got on game websites such as www.addictinggames.com and www.maxgames.com this was all before the school district blocked everything but that’s a different story. After about two classes of nothing but games we all decided to start helping each other in subjects that we didn’t understand or homework we didn’t do. While we were doing that two of my friends got into a fight over a reason that I don’t know. Knowing that they were both my friends and friends with each other me and my other friend held them both back so that we could stop the fight. After the heat got turned down we let them go so that they could talk it out. By the next class they were both friends again and messing around with each other. I realized that friends and family all do things together and help each other out no matter what the circumstances and that encouraged me to go home and hug everyone of my family members.

When it comes to Code-switching, I switch based on the situation and how old the person is that I’m talking to. There are times when I will talk polite to people, those people are normally older people, Organizations, Strangers, and people I admire. Here is a conversation between Mehdi Adineh and I: 

“Hey Mehdi,

Sorry for not getting back to you lately. I've been busy with different projects and tennis. I just wanted to tell you for the TFI Project I'm doing the image outputs are JPEG. The other project for engineering on Pattern Recognition with cancer in medical imaging, I haven't been able to find many things on it but I've been working with my school librarian to find sources both in the library and on some internet databases he knows of. I'm going to be going back to him this week a couple times to work on it. Also, my Advanced Engineering teacher extended the due date to in a couple weeks so once I get a rough draft done I'll email it to you and any sources I find I'll email you the link or name of the book/article/magazine so you can check it out and confirm if it is a good source to use. Thanks”

As I get closer and closer to a person whether its Derrick, Mehdi, or TFI Employees, I start to become less and less formal as we are becoming good friends. For Derrick Pitts, I’ve known him since March and we talk both formal and casual to each other. Here’s a conversation between him and I:

“Is there a certain time I should come to talk with the vice president about the adobe licenses? Or are you just going to talk to him? Thanks”

One thing that I always do in my emails is say “Thanks” at the end. It’s a habit I have and use all the time. What happened was Derrick asked me to do a project for him last year as my science fair and I continued it into this year and possibly next year so it is my ILP and I work with Alex, Jesús, and Allen who I recruited to help me last year. We need adobe lightroom licenses to advance in the project so I need 2 licenses for it and Derrick suggested meeting with the vice-president of the Franklin Institute to discuss buying the adobe licenses. Derrick decided to go meet with the vice president himself though. There are many other instances I have that show my Language identity around strangers but then that would be boring, now wouldn’t it?

Another time I code switch is at tennis, especially around friends. When it comes to my friends and coaches I hang out with and hit with all the time I speak informally, but when It comes the the Board of Directors at Ashe, the president of Ashe, and the employees I don’t know I speak formally. Here is a conversation between Kein and I: 

T:“Kein, don’t tell me your actually going to play while eating pizza?”

K:“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”

T:“That’s true, you are Kein and you do have to teach a lesson.”

K:“That’s right and you have a long way to go to play while eating.”

T:“Oh well thats too bad since I’ve already eaten food while playing. I ate 2 soft pretzels while playing and a cookie another day. So ha.”

K:“Oh damn, Tyler’s bringing it on.”

This is what I remember from the conversation but the entire background behind it is I buy pizza for the coaches and me every Saturday I go to Ashe since I normally stay for the day and the coaches are like my second family to me. Kein is the silly, playful, and full-of-energy coach at Ashe, who likes to mess around with me. I remember one time during one of the tennis clinics, Kein ran out on court in a bunny suit and a humongous tennis racket (I’m serious, it was huge, it must have been at least the size of 5-6 tennis rackets put together) and he told the person I was rallying with to let him rally against me for a minute (with the humongous racket). It was one of the biggest fails I had ever seen in my life since I hit the ball once and I guess it was heavy for him so he couldn’t swing it as fast as with the racket he normally uses.

Another time I Code-switch is when I’m at school. I will speak informally to friends and some teachers, and formally to the other teachers and guests. I speak informally a lot to my advisor, Mr. Sanchez. Here’s a conversation between him and I:

Sanchez: “Hey, thanks for the update Tyler. I'm sure your teachers appreciate it, too.”

Me: “okay and are we playing ping pong after school today? I should be back from the art museum by the end of the school day.”

Right now its tied 3-3 in matches won between me and Mr. Sanchez. What I mean is Mr. Sanchez challenged me to ping pong (My nickname at SLA is King Ping) and we agreed that if I beat Mr. Sanchez 99 times before he beats me 99 times, then he will give all his classes A’s, but if he wins 99 times before I beat him 99 times, I have to do pushups till he says stop I think it was. I love ping pong and I’m called King Ping by classmates since I haven’t been beaten by any student at SLA. It really fun talking to Mr. Sanchez and playing him in ping pong since he continuously thinks he can beat me.

The last Code-switching I do is when I’m around family and people I love and admire. Depending on which cousin, uncle, aunt, and grandparent I’m talking to I change. When I am around my brother, Ellen, Grandpa Morales, Grandma Morales, Jen, and Cha Cha and others, I talk to them both formally and informally. Others I in my family I talk to either just informally or formally. The 4 people I love to talk to the most are Ellen, Grandpa Morales, Grandma Morales, and Cha Cha. Here is a conversation between Grandpa Morales and me:

Grandpa: “So Tyler, did you see the U.S. Open match between Nadal and Verdasco?”

Me: “Yeah that match was amazing and the intensity of their play was overwhelming.”

Grandpa: “You’re right, did you see the new guys play too?”

Me: “No I only saw the Nadal matches since whenever I turned to the US Open it was a Nadal match. Why are the new guys any good?”

Grandpa: Yeah, they are but not as good as Nadal. At least, not yet hahaha.”

This is one of my most favorite people on the planet for a lot of reasons. The major reason is because he is the person who inspired me and got me into tennis, which now makes up most of my life. Also because he gives me tips on tennis and who to watch, he is also the person who taught me how to hit drop shots. Its actually pretty funny because my grandpa plays regularly at a club and all his fellow tennis players called him the “Hermanator” since he always wins the point when he hits a drop shot, which is why he always wins. They used to tell people who got drop shotted by Grandpa, “You just got Hermanated”. He’s also the grandpa who is silly, fun to be around, and acts like a little kid, like me, even though he’s 86. When I’m with my grandpa, I usually speak both formally and informally because I admire him and am really close to him.

That is how I code-switch daily and why do I code-switch? I code-switch because it makes me feel comfortable around whoever I’m talking to so I don’t feel like I’m being mean or too nice. It’s also just something that I grew up with. Well, thats how I code-switch.

My day.

Laugh’s, cheers, fun as we were approaching the field dead silence came upon us. It was an amazing bus, fun, laughs, people singing, laughing, and having a good time like we weren’t about to play are first game it was the most important in my eye’s.  We saw the field it was a beautiful amazing sight. We got all are things and did are running, it felt like seconds doing all that. Then the opposing school bus came all eyes on them as they got off their bus. We saw them they looked menacing; they had the eyes locked on us like a snake eyeing it’s pray. We tried to look more menacing, but got a burst of laughter instead that’s what are team is like, were good people.  We stretched and did drills laughs fun trying to ease the mood. Game time I didn’t start, and me sitting on the bench felt like hours.

My name would be called soon, as I heard my name my heart dropped to my stomach, it was the first time I played in a soccer game, because I was never good enough to play, but hard work has it benefits.  As the game started we scored, it was a senior James he was an amazing player, he’s movements were fluid as a butterfly he was no doubt are best player, without him we wouldn’t be where we are now. Another goal in an instant I was on the field, which made me feel better. I thought what If I messed up what if we lost because of me and I would be off the team and my time to shine got darker like the door at the end of the light. Then I remembered my captain said don’t think about anything just think about getting the ball. When I got in I was running my hardest breathing my hardest, and through all of my hard work through the summer I made a great pass.  Which caught my coaches eye and a lot of my peers as well, I got cheers and I heard my name could of possible been the best moment of my year so far it was amazing. Then half time I was feeling good and we were up 4-1.

Coach put me in and it felt amazing running out there time flies by and when you get the rush from kicking the ball and hearing the team shouts your name there is nothing else like it. Like a kick, or a rush like drinking an energy drink. It was fun and I was doing a good job. Then I was taken out again good breather because I was getting really tired, friends all loved how I played and we had laughs and had a fun time it was a fame but it felt like I was at school having fun and being myself. Then we scored again, the game was practically over, and Coach told us not to score again which showed great sportsmanship and how good of a guy he is. Then when I as about to get in for the last time no butterfly’s this time no pressure are goalie made a bad mistake which got them back in the game and added extra pressure. But no mistakes, the game was over. They have to beat us, we don’t beat are self’s.

The bus didn’t come for hours we were bored, hot hungry, and thirsty but were all sillies and played more soccer. Boring bus ride. Once we got there we got are stuff and there was Maggie and Justin waiting for us.

Me, Matt, Mike, Justin and Maggie wanted to go to 5 guys and we were desperately and tired but 5 guys were worth it. It took forever once we got on in but again it was worth it amazing burger a meal worth are win. laughs, fun and good food! Matt found a 5-dollar bill so we got more fries, their fries are amazing.  It was time to leave then we all said are good-byes and we left. Matt and me walked the rest of the from Snyder. The walk was fun it was are usual walk we made fun of each other had laughs and talked about the game matt was a ball boy that day I made fun of him it was a good bye. As I said my goodbye’s I say the whole day before me and I said “ what a good day” I got home I told my mom and dad about my game they were proud of my upset they couldn’t be there but proud. Then I laid my head on my pillow and said “ what a good day”

Marina Pyfrom

C- Band

12/17/10

Benchmark Rough Draft

            “Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with deeper meaning.”- Maya Angelou.  I hate to say it but sometimes people are not giving that opportunity without being judged. I know personally from experiences. Making your voice heard in certain places can often make you the outsider. Pronunciation of words can determine your place like education, learning process, and etc.  Language will always be distinguished, for the wrong things. People need to stop portraying the idea of the “perfect or correct” language. It doesn’t exist.

            As I sat in the reclining chair, looking at the mural of dancing toothbrushes, I waited patiently. My dentist came rushing in to check up on me because he knew I been waiting.

“Ahh , Marina, how have you been” ,said Mr. Solov as he sat in his little rolling stool.

“I’m fine,” I responded, readjusting my head so the dentist can check my teeth.

“Uhm, will can I get braces”, I said sort of mumbling.

“Oh yeah, let me check right now”, said Mr. Solov.

He placed the mirror like object in my mouth. He started making noises of reassurance “uhmm mhmm hmm”

“Marina, can you move your tongue back, and talk, it doesn’t matter what you say”, said the dentist.

I tried to position my mouth, to perform the exercise, as I was instructed to do. I failed the task horribly.

“I know the problem” ,said the dentist but I had cut him off saying, “Wooah, what problem, am I gonna die.”

He said with laughter “Noo silly, it’s not a big problem, just if you want braces, I would have to perform an additional operation because of your tongue condition”.

“What’s wrong with my tongue” I said with a crackling tone.

“Nothing, major. You just have a lisp. Do you notice how sometimes, maybe all the time, you tongue hangs or you always have your mouth open. Or maybe when you say some words the letter “s” slurs. Some say you have some type of speech impediment. Maybe its runs in your family.” Explained Mr. Solov.

            Listening to the dentist, I thought about the past. I never really noticed anything wrong with the way I talk. But now I was piecing the puzzle together. Sometimes while reading I struggled with words. It wasn’t because I never saw the word before and was sounding it out, it was the way I pronounced it, It wasn’t correct to my teachers.

Soon after my mom entered the room with my doctor and he briefly went over with her what he told me.

“Marina, its nothing wrong with it.” Said. Mr. Solow

            Mr. Solow was wrong. My lisp was the reason for everything. The arguments with teachers, they would always correct me as if I had no clue what I was doing.

            United States of America was said to be a free land of change, diversity, and a new start.  Accepting of any kind in any condition. “Don’t judge a book by its cover” was the line all adults taught children. How come it doesn’t go for adults also? I simply stumble on a couple words.             Just because I slur the letter “s”, making the “z” sound, it doesn’t make me any different. But, now living during this time I am labeled and categorized as “having a speech impediment”.

            I don’t understand how people down in the Caribbean have grown accustomed to the lisps for generation and generation. They may not even know what a lisp is.  Their thick accents over power what people from America call “lisps”. They pay no attention to because it is not important. Long as they are communicating, then nothing else matters.  Us, as Americans worry too much about stuff that is irrelevant, well to me it is. Like if you use improper over Standard English, it is a problem and you get penalized.

            You get punished for speaking, looked downed upon when heard. From having a tiny lisp made me the outsider. “the confidence of “belonging” in the public was withheld from them both” ( Aria by Richard Rodriguez , pg. 12)  I know the feeling and isn’t a good one. Hopefully, it will be figured out that everything with Language will forever be judged.  Sooner or later it will be discovered that “correct” language is not obtainable.

Ashyne Bright

12/16/10

“Ashyné” my grandmother called my down stairs, in a loud aggravated voice. “Yes!” “Why didn’t you call Kevin when you got to church?” “I didn’t have my jack wit me when I got dere, why didn’t he hit me up on da cellie?” I said in a loud kind of what are you talking about voice. “Huh?” she said in a confused tone with a blank expression. “what are you talking about Ashyné. I don’t know what you kids are saying these days. You all talk like your retarded.” Rubbing her arthritis-ridden hand and giving me the ‘I just caught the stomach virus’ look. (WHY IS IT BOLDED?)

I never thought about exactly what I was saying to my grandmother. I grew up with “proper English”, but when I hang around kids my age that is not how we talk to each other. I’m so use to speaking the slang that my friends and I use when we are with each other, that it has become a first nature to talk like that. I catch myself sometimes when I am talking to adults. I code switch when I am talking to someone older but sometimes I just forget at home or at church, because I am so relaxed and sometimes around my friends that I just fall back into that dialect.

I don’t think that I would be able to survive in the world of teenager in this day in age if I didn’t know the language and/or dialect that they/we speak. It would be hard for me to understand what teenagers are saying, just like my grandmother was having a hard time with understanding what exactly I was saying I think I would be in the same situations. I don’t think that I would be able to have the good friends that I have now or be able to relate to them as much as I do. Maybe even if they, the teenagers, would be able to relate to me.

“Omg I need 2 get da hell out of diz got damn house yo” I said to my friend nisse as we sat on my front porch steps. Nisse with the concerned face says, “Gurl why ? what did your gmom do to you now ? I mean because yaw always getting into dumbass argument. Im not surprised that you do wanna leave this hell hole.” I look at her with for about 20 seconds trying to figure out how to explain how I felt toward my family and this house. “Nisse I jus can’t be in diz house o more. My gmom don’t understand the fact that im not goin to eva be straight and my aunts critics me every time they get a chance to. This is not the way…” in the mid-sentence Nisse says “Nay baby you gotta understand dat it isn’t easy for your family to except it but I mean I see wat you are sayin to me right now. But you gota give it sum time love you can’t…” “Stop!” I said. I didn’t want her to finish her sentence because I already knew what she was going to say.

“Ashyne I know diz is going to be difficult but I went through da same tingz wit my family when I told dem I was gay. Dey flipped on me. Dey couldn’t understand why I was doing diz. But I had to give them time Nay. You gotta.” I had a deep since of pain come into the side of my chest as i tried to get my next response out but I couldn’t. I put my hot palm on my light skinned face. Placing them over my brown watered eyes to hide the rainfall that was about to come out of them. “Come here, Nay. Come here.” Nisse said with a voice of compassion as she layed my head on her lap and rubbed my back. She said, “It’s going to be okay Nay Nay. Im here for you through wat eva baby gurl. I got chu even if no one else does. I got chu nay. And I will always love you for who you are regardless of wat othaz say. I love you.” With a cracked voice I said “ I love you too”.

Talking to my friends with that type of dialect (DEFINE WHAT DIAECT) is the how we connect to each other.  I think talking to any teenager of this day and age would connect better with this language/dialect (WHY?). In the story Tongue Tied, the girl would have to speak (SPOKE) English when she was at school. She would have to leave her heritage at home and speak how everyone else did. When ever she was caught speaking Spanish in the schoolyard. The teacher would give her a whipping. They didn’t allow her to be herself. The teachers at the school and the kids couldn’t connect with her because she didn’t speak their language to well.

When Non-English speaking people went to college they had to talk speech classes to get rid of there accents. It was very hard them to get a job because of there accents. This is another example o connection. They boss, employees, and anyone else of that matter would be able to really connect or get to know them because of the way they talk and people language understanding.

Most people don’t take the time to sit there and understand someone. They just take what they think is right out of what they are saying and act off of that. Or they just don’t react or take anything from what they are saying because most people would rather stay in ignorance. It is hard for someone who hasn’t grew up in a certain dialect/language to comprehended what other ethnic groups, neighborhood clicks, or any other language but there’s.

“Who was that Girl

She sat on her bed and started thinking about all the possible things she could have said or should have said. She wondered what she would be doing if she had done those things she set her mind to do. She was starting to prove people right that she was just what people thought she was, had the attitude, mouth and everything to let people know that she is just like everyone else. Then she thought, “ Now that it went that way I have to make it work for my benefit.” This is her story. 

Growing up she was always told that she spoke so proper and that she had manners, but has diapers turned into panties she was told other wise. She was constantly told that her attitude wasn’t going to get her anywhere that if she kept going with her smart-ass mouth she wouldn’t make it far. That didn’t stop her or the way she was act. She was her own person and couldn’t let anyone else try and live her life for her. 

As she got older something she notice that didn’t bother her at first was everyone calling her an “ass” or saying she was a “smart-ass.” But it seemed she was being called it more and more. Then she started to realize is she that type of person? Is she called a “smart-ass” because of the comments she makes or because of the remarks she makes? Why can’t she just act her self and not be judged by anyone? 

She remembered arguing with her brother one night and they were just going back and forth.

“That’s why your mom eats dirt,” she said.

“ Why would you say something like that you ass,” her brother responded

“Don’t call me an ass. Do it again and I’m going to punch you in the neck,” she had said back to him.

He responded back in slow motion, “ You A s s. You ain’t going to do anything you a s s.”

She got mad and punched him in the neck. They started fighting in her room like to hard-core thug guys. After they were done they were laughing about the whole thing but that stayed on her mind in the back.

As she went to school and continued with her life she had gotten this attitude as if she didn’t care about what people had to say or what people thought of her. People said negative things to her all the time but she was sure that she was not going to let any of that get to her. They told her countless times that, “She’s going to be a pregnant teen. That her smart mouth is going to get her in trouble. That no one is going to take her seriously with her attitude.” And each time the only thing she could think or say is that she will prove every person that said she wouldn’t make it and show them that she can. 

One evening she was having a conversation with her mom and the only thing her mom could comment on was the way she talked. Her mother talked about her speech non-stop and criticized everything that came out her mouth. 

 “You used to talk perfect when you were younger and know you sound like a ghetto chick,” her mother would say.

“You always talking ‘bout someone and criticizing them. You don’t have the best speech in the world either,” she would say to make her mom feel just as bad.

“You need to practice the way you speak and improve on it. Stop talking all loud and ghetto like your not educated,” her mom replied. 

“I am very educated and speak perfectly fine,” she would say. And from there she would just leave the problem alone.

Not until she was in her English class that she realized everyone talks 

differently and everyone has there own form of talking and understanding each 

other. Everyone talks a way based on their ethnic group or were there from. Whether 

they’re from the city or if they’re from the country everyone has there own certain 

speech. And when she realized that she realized that there is nothing wrong with the 

way she speaks or her attitude. That girl also realized that she can’t try and be 

something she isn’t and faking it won’t get her anywhere, and that girl was me.

Mathew Walker

12/16/10

            Ones ability to code switch is key to how one lives. Code switching is something that everybody does whether you’re from the United States or Japan, it doesn’t matter. Now I will explain the larger idea for you but not in detail, basically I am going to throughout the paper give you situations where I and other people have code switched and some why it was bad. In the end I will ask the question is Code switching good or bad and explain to you my position on it.

 I have code switched all my life one time I was on my way home with my friends after playing basketball at a court which was about 20 blocks away from my house and had trees all around. We were talking and here is a little bit of the conversation. “Yo you’re really bad at basketball” I said, “Stop fucking playing wit me you da one who sucks” Cory said, “Haha you funny but if someone is really bad here it has to be Eric” I said, “I wasn’t even in your little convo” Eric said. This is how I talk when I’m around my friends and it will be constantly brought up during this paper.

When I got home my speech changed to where I was not talking to my friends but my parents and the rest of my family. Here is how I talked to them; “Mom I’m home” I yelled, “Ok dinner is almost done” My mother said, “ok,” I said. I walked into the dinning room took of my hoodie and went in the living room My dad started talking to me “Hey son” “Hey dad” I answered, “how’d you do playing basketball today” He asked “Fine” I replied. This is not the whole conversation but most of it. So what I want these parts to explain is that code switching is an everyday thing for me and I sometimes choose when I want to do it but other times it comes without me even realizing it. When I am at school I talk to my friends the same way but when I talk to my teachers I talk to them way differently than I talk to my parents. When I’m talking to teachers I will say “Yes sir”, “No sir”, “Yes mam”, “No mam”. I would talk more respectful although I am already respectful to my parents.

Amy tan shows a perfect example of this in her story “Mother tongue”, She is an example because at home she talks non-educated but when she is out in public she uses big words and tries to pronounce a lot more. Sometimes though code switching can be a problem because when you don’t have control over it you could possibly switch at the wrong time. I remember one time I was down my grandmother’s house and my grandfather said, “Mat what do you think about the cowboys”, “I fucking hate them” I answered. After I said it I realized what I just said and I looked over at my grandfather he looked shocked. Afterwards I apologized and explained that it slipped out but right after that moment I started questioning myself and asking myself if I was loosing grip on the real me, if I was loosing my identity? In Aria a story by Richard Rodriguez, he was talking about how later on he couldn’t speak his native language at home anymore thanks to schooling and to me when he could speak his native language he was code switching because he would talk to his teachers with the English he learned but go home and talk to his family in Spanish. Now this code switching has basically made him take another identity, which I do not want to do.

 What I have been trying to get to is, that Code switching is good but after a while you start to loose track of who you really are. Now the reason loosing your identity is bad is because when you loose track of your identity you can possibly loose track of your culture like in the movie that we watched about the Ladahk people and tourist came in and started to bring modern stuff into their little town where the whole place was family. When they lost their identity they lost their family and they started to be more easily influenced by other culture. So things like crime rate, pollution levels all those bad things started to rise and make their community a very bad place. This is what I don’t want to happen because I love my family and I feel that I should always be with them. Which means people should try to stop code switching and try to stick to one way of talking.

Dialect paper

Everywhere you go the style of how people talk changes. You might not think that you have an accent but you do. Places like New York or Minnesota or Texas, places like them. Even places in the Northeast have very strong Accents. And it changes where you go. In my case I lived in New York for about 4 years of my life. Then I came to Philadelphia. I started 4^th grade here. And I had a small New Yorker accent. I didn’t really know I had one till my friends pointed it out to me one day. This is a larger issue about this. People don’t know they have an accent but they do everywhere in the United States people have accents. And you’re judged by it. In the Deep South. There are different classes of dialect like Upper South Lexicon and the Lower South Lexicon. And they’re separated by who had the most control. This is an example of dialect in different regions. Even in the south there are two types of dialects, which reflects on the world. We should try to bring everything together and not apart. Here is a part of my life when this happened to me

“You Mohamed where you from?”

“New York (Accent)

“My home dawg where you from?

“Really I’m from New York”

“Where is that?”

Teacher

“He’s from New York class”

“Oh I didn’t understand what he was saying”

“Wait what? I don’t have an accent”

Teacher: “You’re from New York you have one”

This is an example of this I didn’t know I had an accent and I was pretty shocked when I found out. I worked really hard to get rid of my accent. If you know me now then you wont even think that I was born in New York. Now in Philadelphia I don’t think I have an accent but people tell me I do. I try so hard to get rid of these “accents” But in reality every just has them. Put in reality I that there are accents everywhere. And that is a the big problem. The fix to this problem is teaching everyone  And I tried to fix this problem, but to no avail. My teachers laughed it my face. Another scence in my life is

Dawg I bet I can beat you in any sport of there.
Nah bro you can’t, not football, nothing
Nigga I can beat yo ass in anything me and my dogs out here gonna rock yo ass
Dude come on me and my boys would destroy you in anything.
Nah dawg you shitten me my boys would shit on you
Do we got a game then?
Yea dawg I gona win.

Children usually do the opposite of what their parents say. They know that it’s wrong, but they do it anyway. For example eating cookies before dinner or playing in the dirt.  Then if something goes wrong like we get dirt on our new clothes or we break something. Our first thought isn’t to tell the truth but to make a story that could cover up what happened.

The black and white ball bounced around like a pen ball.  My eyes followed the moving of the ball like I was in a trance. They kick the ball around the living room without a care in the world laughing and giggling.  I guess they were ignoring their conscious because our mom told them not play soccer in the house many times before. My brother said “Let’s have points,” my sister happily obliged. The bottom of the black wooden entertainment center that held our television was my sisters’ goal.

 In between the blue vase and the little round black table was my brothers’ goal. They started to kick the ball fiercely back and forth. I could see the intensity in their faces, this was no longer a game it was a competition.  My conscious told me this was a bad idea, but I kept it to myself.  Every time they kicked the ball, you heard a loud THAWP!  Game went to ten; each goal was celebrated by a little tease or taunt. It was tied up 9 to 9, they both started to kick the ball with great force. My sister kicked the ball, it hit the blue vase, and they didn’t even stop to see if it broke or if it cracked. At this point I couldn’t just sit on the gray lumpy couch and watch this.  Finally I spoke up and said, “I think you guys should stop.”  By being the youngest no one listened to me , I felt invisible, I guest now I had no choice but to watch.   My sister scored the final goal; she celebrated like she just won the World Cup, she rubbed it the pie of victory in my brothers’ face. 

He got mad and slammed himself into the dark brown rocking chair. The rocking chair hit the mirror with a loud BANG! The crack began to spread like a wildfire. Then the bottom half of the mirror fell to the floor. CRASH!!!! Tat was the sound the mirror made as it fell to the wooden floor.  The impact made the glass break into even more pieces, some were big others were the size of dimes. I knew that my mom would not be happy about this.  The only thing my sister said was “Ooooooo, you in trouble.”  My brother tried to deny that he did it, but the look on his face said other wise. Guilty was written across his forehead.  My brother wasn’t going down alone he said, “It’s your fault too!”  Both of them sweep up glass, they looked at me, I knew they wanted me to help but at the same time knew that they should’ve listened to me. 

 After they were done sweeping my brother and sister tried to come up with a good story to cover it up.  “Say it fell,” my sister said. “It’s crack, she would ask why didn’t the whole thing fall” said my brother.  For hours they tried to come up with a good story, we all sat down stairs and waited for my mom to come home.  Our hearts began to thump louder and louder as each hour passed.  They were growing closer to their judgment.  We heard the screen door, and then we saw the knob turned.

One day in eighth grade, we were in English class. Mr. Crain, my teacher of the time, started off the rainy Wednesday with a warm up for everyone so they can wake up. The warm up? It was a class wide game of Brainquest, and there were two options. The class could split up into two, or it can be the class against me alone. They went against me. It was the English version so the majority of it was spelling and grammatical questions. 

“Gabe, spell… dessert. As in, I just got done dinner and I’m hungry for dessert.” All I could think to myself was is he really serious?

“D-e-s-s-e-r-t” I spelled out loud to the class.

“Correct! The next word towards the class, onomonopia.”

“OH C’MON MR. CRAIN I CAN’T SPELL THAT!”

“GABE GOT THE EASY WORD!” So Mr. Crain offered a truce. 

“Alright, then how about this. If Gabe spells onomonopia right, then he wins. But if he spells it wrong, you guys win. But if he wins, you all have extra homework except him!” The class huddled in agreement, and then offered a question.

“And if he spells it wrong?”

“Then you all get a piece of candy, so all that’s left is Gabe. Gabe, spell onomonopia.”

“O-n-o-m-o-n-o-p-i-a?” Mr. Crain got a big grin on his face, 

“Sorry guys, extra homework for you!” 

“That’s not fair! Gabe’s smart cause he’s white!” said an angered student because of the extra homework. Mr. Crain got a disappointed look on his face and asked the student to step out in the hall. So in the end, it looks like my talent for spelling words comes from me being white. 

At first I really didn’t understand the situation. These were the same people I’ve been in school with since 2^nd grade, and now I’m starting to see how they really feel about me? Not that it was ever a problem, but I was one of the few white kids in my class, but also one of the smartest. But I felt my intellect just simply came from how hard I was willing to push. Vocabulary was something I was very proud of for as long as I can remember. But when that student said what they said, I didn’t know how to react. The other students laughed and just moved on… but for my perspective it was completely different. 

I was offended because people stereotyped me and no one cared. “He’s smart because he’s white.” It may have only been a simple joke but that’s incredibly hurtful. So than I began to think to myself, if I try to lower my high use of vocabulary, then possibly people wouldn’t judge me as much. So that’s what I did. I purposely started doing a little worse in class in hopes that people notice. 

“Hey Gabe, how come I scored higher than you?”

“I guess you’re just smarter than me, huh?”

“Nah you’re white, you probably just had a bad day!” And so my suffering continues. The everlasting struggle for the need for code switching is still ongoing. But I needed a different strategy. More and more I became like my fellow students in the way they spoke, acted, and worked. Their mannerisms because clear and soon after I was able to perform for myself.

 My high-end vocabulary became lack luster due to extended periods without challenging it. I started picking up more and more of this different dialect so I would simply “fit in” and not be that white kid. And eventually, things were able to settle out. Though they not have necessarily been the results I expected, it was better than being singled out every time. 

“Yeah! My boy Gabe!”

“Gabe’s my boul!”

“Gabe’s like one of those reverse Oreos, white on the outside but black on the inside!” But more importantly, because the over-abundant code switches were taking place, concern started to rise. My teachers and parents became worried that I was trying too hard to meet the expectations of everyone around me. And after listening thoroughly, I understood what they meant. There was indeed a very good line between code switching, and I was soon learning what that was. Soon, my well-rounded vocabulary started to rise from the depths, and I used more of my proper English dialect. But with certain friends, it’d be too taboo to speak in proper English, so therefore I would speak in tongues by using more of a dialect. I felt comfortable knowing I was only making other people comfortable with the way I spoke. Code switching is a very essential part in language because since language is meant to communicate between two individuals, you want to make it as comfortable as possible for the other person. Whether it be showing certain signs of respect, or saying a word or two differently. I became a master of the code switch. I would show respect to those of a higher authority like teachers and parents. I would be a little more free and loose with friends and not worry too much about language. And by doing an even amount of both equally, I was no longer viewed upon as “that white kid” because I had made my own name for myself. I became who I am, and I couldn’t have done it without learning to code switch languages in society.

“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.