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Descriptive Essay

I walk through the living room, through the archway, look at the painting over the archway I remind myself when I was younger.  The painting is of a teacup, sugar and a spoon, which are really the only things you need for making tea except the tea itself. It reminds me how I would always end my day with a nice cup of it.   Pouring water into a mug and heating it in the microwave, the time around 1:45. Thinking of how the day went while the time passed.  Getting the black tea bag ready and bowl of sugar near by.  I would put too much sugar because I liked it very sweet.  And add little bit of milk to make it slightly less hot and more enjoyable.  Carefully bring it into the living room so I don’t spill it.  Then sitting down and relaxing by watching a good TV show, movie or doing nothing at all while I sipped the nice brew.   As I recap my childhood I can’t help but want to do that now but I’m not that much in the mood. Rest and relaxation are you need on a long day of work but pop-tarts and milk will be fine for now.  Sitting down eating I think of my day.

As my arm tires, I pull the trigger.  I drill into the drywall putting an inch and a quarter screw holding it in place. I put more screws in, so my dad could let go of the big piece. I’m not used to doing this work so I have to take breaks sometimes.  I grab more screws from my belt and finish the 4 by 8 piece of sheetrock. As I wait for my dad to finish putting in his side in, I drink some water.  There are two fans in the room but it’s still very hot. We walk into the hallway and pick up a large piece of sheetrock that was rested on top of wooden blocks. We walked back into the room and I noticed our progress so far.   The ceiling dry walled, and both of the remaining walls were insulated. We lift the piece up, held it in place and both drilled in the screws. Eating my pop-tart, I realize that it is important to know these things just in case something happens.  When I am older I might need these skills and a normal lazy person would rather stay home than work for the whole entire summer.  I’ve learned a lot of things of the summer, mostly skilled labor.  Patching roofs, framing a room and stapling installation.  One that particularly was very hard was patching the roof. 

Out in the 90-degree weather and a storm we were up on the roof trying to prevent the resistant leaks.  We weren’t sure where they were, so we decided to patch over the whole thing. I remember one time when storm clouds were moving in, we had to quickly secure and patch the whole back side of the roof.  We had most of it done when I tried to see how far the storm was but I couldn’t really tell and that’s when I felt the first drop.  Working faster I noticed I was coming down harder.  My dad and I rushed to complete out patchwork.  Having a few more parts to seal shut we scooped out the tar in the bucket and lathered in on. I got more tar on myself than the actual roof.  Trying to work together we put mesh in the seams to help strengthen it.  Doing all the work fairly decent, we deicide it will hold the water. We look at it for a second, and then rush down the ladder.  I enjoyed it very much when I think about.

When I look back at this year’s summer I feel it wasn’t at all a waste.  Learning trade, spending time with my dad and doing a good job at it was great. Of all things I learned, putting up drywall, spackling, painting, patching tarring and so on, I think just doing something for my summer was worth while. I feel proud of what I learned and the things I failed at. All in all, these things will probably help me later on somehow but for now I enjoy eating my snack. 

Catherine Nardone

12.19.10

            Its already dark and its freezing cold outside. It was a cold night, which was great for ice skating… but I couldn't go since I was already on my way home

            "Who are you talking to?" My dad asks as I pick up my phone.

            "Nobody," I sign, "I'm on FB."

            "Oh, okay, well, we'll be home soon."

            "K," I signed back to him.

            My phone is in my hand and I'm on my way back home to my mom's house for the weekend. My dad and I are talking, and then I hear it.

            Buzz!

            My mom just texted me…

6:32 pm:

mom: hi whatsup qq

me: nothing, you do do?

mom: i home feel sick… jeff here, soon home…. he go ice skate w. fam… then go home. where you? you plans for wkend?

me: oh that nice. i in car soon home 10 mins. tell jeff stay there… can i w. jeff? i text now. is okay?

mom: sure… you need money? ask don. he give will.

me: okay, we there soon. gtg. okay?

mom: okay see you here.

            So, my mom is deaf. And she's never really stepped out of that world. She grew up in the deaf community, went to school in the deaf community, married into the deaf community, and had children who grew up the same. Until, that is, I came along. My father wasn't born deaf. He get German Measles when he was 3, and lost his hearing. So when I was born, I got his genes and was able to hear. I pretty much got the best of both worlds, and it may not be the same for a lot of people. People get raised in one world, and with one language, and they speak it for the rest of their lives, while probably altering it without noticing it. I speak in my moms language, and I speak in my language. I willingly step into my mother's world, without changing anything about myself, just so that she can understand me. I do that so she doesn't have to. I know she won't, and I know she isn't good at understanding English, so I learn more about sign language to have that better relationship with her.

            Just like in "Mother Tounge" by Amy Tan… She steps into her mother's world of "broken english." "It has become our language of intimacy, a different sort of English that relates to family talk, the language I grew up with." I suppose this sums it up nicely… I grew up learning two languages, and it'll stay that way.

6:47 pm:

me: Hey! Jefe… How's it going my favorite cousin in the whole wide world (not…jk)? ahaha. Are you going ice skating? Welp, if yer going, can I come? Pweasee? Let me know dude, kay? Love ya!

Jeff: Hey Catheter! Yes, we are going ice skating, and guess who else is coming!?

Me: No.

Jeff: Yes.

Me: OH MY GOD THIS IS THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE. LML LML LML LML!

Jeff: Sure it is?

Me: It really is. Okay, you need to wait for me to go get changed and be a nice little cousin for a little while to tell me if my outfit looks good.

Jeff: Ahh! Kids these days! … Okay.

Me: YES! Okay, be there soon. Love ya!

Jeff: Love ya, my little Cath!

            Most of my cousins can hear. We have lots of inside jokes, and I don't speak to them the way that I would speak to my mom. Amy Tan, once again sums it up in an easier way than I can explain. "Recently I was made keenly aware of the different Englishes I do use." This is me. I just recently became aware of all the different ways that I speak to my friends up North. I mean, it wasn't always this way. I used to be really shy, and it wasn't until about 3 years ago, when I started to talk and form really good relationships with the people I now call some of my closest friends. We have all these inside jokes, and we yell, joke, and tease, but all in good nature. I wouldn't have it any other way.

            “Tristan... Oh my god! Shuddup!”

“Ahhh, cue me… I’m stahnding right here, you don’t have to shout!”

            We were all hanging out at Jeff and Liz’s and this was just one of the first fights between Tristan and I. Tristan, Matt, Ryan, Zach, Jeff, Liz, Rachael, and I were all jammed into Jeff and Liz’s tiny living room. Of course, Ryan, Zach, and Tristan are huddled in a corner talking about the iPhone and other Apple products while Matt and Jeff were playing Halo on Xbox. The girls and I never really feel out of place, we’re all family. It’s normal for me to be screaming at the guys with Liz and Rae tossing a few things in as well. But you know what they say, when a guy messes with you it means that they like you. But I never thought that.

            “Go, go, go!”

            “Crap!”

            “NOOOO!!!!”

            “A buhh?!?!”

            "Tristan, stop saying that!" I yelled at Tristan for saying "A buhh," for like the eighth time that night!

            Matt began to sign to me, he said "Whassamatter? You like him too much, don't stress it."

            "Aghh," I screamed… "But I've got a plaaaaaan…" I said in a singsongy voice.

            "Hahaha" he laughed, "Okay… I'm sure it'll work."

            "PFFFT!" Jeff scoffed, " that's debateable!"           

            It was going to be a long night!

            Sure enough that night dragged into next week!

“Do you have enough room?”

“Yeah, aha, I’m good, are you sure you don’t need me to move, because I can..?”

“No, I’m positive you’re good.”

“Okay, well I just have to warn you, I’m a very elbow-y eater…”

“I’ll be okay, thanks though.”

That’s how almost all of Matt and my conversations go… Rachael, Matt and I had to share chairs at Jeff and Liz’s house…

The only reason I was even there, was because Jeff was at my house building a shed for my step-dad and then when he was done, I came home… he was going ice skating with our Philly friends and my our friends from Bangor… I was upset that I hadn’t know about this (Yes I did, I stalk Tristan’s profile.)… So I invited myself, and lo and behold I was able to go. So I zoomed upstairs to get changed into my wintery clothes. Then we left to go to the River Rink and met up with our friends.

“Emmert! Stop!!!!”

“Gosh, I swear when she skates the Emmert comes out in her!”

“I know!”

“Emily… Stop!!! Please!” Rachael and I both screamed…

That evening resulted in me being able to stay over Jeff and Liz’s house for the weekend. While we were there we had some Tennessee sized adventures. We traveled 4 hours to Jersey to drop a plow off to this guy named “Plow Steve…” He was creepy. After that, Rae and I go home to find that she left Ryan 4 messages on his phone that started with “Oh Ry-Ry!” Then we picked up Zach, Ryan’s little brother, then we went to Jeff and Liz’s house to eat, only to see that 3 people had to share a seat…

“Oh crud it all!” Rachael and I said.

Later that night, we watched Matt as he downed a Four Loko, while Tristan and the other young’ns were playing the colander game. That resulted in people screaming and howling over Pappy saying that he cant understand a word I was saying, and Tristan and me making fun of Rachael saying “Pickle.”

Then a party the next day finished off the weekend

Us kids these days!!!!

            We joke and tease but we all mean well. I think that the reason that we speak this way is because I’ve formed such good friendships with them, that I can easily just be sarcastic, and they wouldn’t take it offensively, but if I used that language with my mother, she would get upset, and take it the wrong way.

            All in all, I think that I can say that the best thing about me is that I’m always me even if I change the way I speak when I’m with my friends or my mom… even if my friends know sign language, we still speak in the way that formed our friendship… I mean, just because some of my friends know sign language, it doesn’t mean we wont use it; we will if we want to tell secrets, but that’s all. To me, speaking sign language isn’t a downfall, it’s an enhancement to my personality, and it ties in my mother’s life with mine.

Catherine Nardone

September 2010

English – Iron

Descriptive Essay

The beginning of the day can start so groggy, but it can turn so easily into happy and exciting day. You may wake up on the wrong side of the bed, on a cold and rainy morning, and instantly feel groggy, sad, and terrible. Somethi5ng may happen along the way to your destination point, whether it be work, school or play, that can instantly turn your day around and make it much more exciting that it was to begin with! I know that for me this has happened to me, and sometimes it was the opposite. It sure does make me think about that one time when I was happy that I woke up, but the day then turned into such a repressed one.

The light shining in told me that it was morning… I recalled last night. Christmas Eve… That meant today was Christmas! How exciting! I crept along my hallway, and peeked around the corner to see that my dad’s room was empty. YES! I thought to myself. He’s awake, how joyous! I raced down the steps to see him sitting at his desk. I turned to face him, and he saw me out of the corner of my eye.

“Good morning, Catherine Anna, and Merry Christmas,” he said.

“Merry Christmas to you too, daddy,” I responded.

I made my way to the kitchen, with my dad who was already dressed in his clothes, while I was still in my pajamas. We sat down and I ate breakfast and drank hot chocolate while my dad sat and drank his mid-morning coffee.

My dad looked at me after I finished my breakfast and asked “Do you want to open your presents now?”

“Dad, that was a stupid question! Of course I do!” I quickly responded to him.

I ran to the living room, and glanced up at the picture frame above our little 3-foot fake Christmas tree, that’s been there as long as I could remember. I glanced at the picture frame that holds the painting that I so dearly remembered. I glanced at the painting of the two little children sitting next to each other on a hill. I could so vividly see the love in their eyes when I looked at them. The boy, he’s lying down behind the girl, smiling at her with a lot of warmth, and you could see the love in his eyes too. The girl is smiling a smirk, at the boy… They are both staring longingly into each other’s eyes, like it was meant to be. I glanced up at the painting and thought about my grandmother. Gone. Christmas day and she wasn’t there. A year had passed, and I thought the pain would too, but it came back on Christmas day, a supposed time of happiness. I thought “How could such a merry day, bring back so much sorrow?”

Looking back, and thinking about that memory, makes me think about that other time when my life was the opposite… I awoke so angry, and when I look back now, I ask myself how I could have been angry on such a great day I had ahead of me.

“FOUR A.M.!?!?!? Why so early!?” I screamed.

“All the good stuff would have been gone if we woke up later, you know that,” said Rachael. “Get up now, or we’ll leave without you.”

I stepped out of bed groggily and got dressed. I pulled on my comfort jeans, socks, and tan suede fake Ugg boots. Then my brown tank that I knew for a fact looked good on me… After that my pink ribbed Aeropostale sweater, then a soft and warm brown scarf. I went through that whole bathroom routine and I was ready to go. I thought about how I’m not able to be with my dad that year. He knew that I loved and missed him, but I just couldn’t be there. Because of that stupid court rule… But, he also knew that I did want to get tons of stuff, for more than half off the regular price. Black Friday was that day, and I was seriously ready to shop until I dropped. I took my purse, and jetted down the stairs, to see that I was really the last person up. The smell of coffee lured me to the kitchen. I went towards the cabinet and took the mug that says, “Bigger is Better.” I poured a whole bunch of French Vanilla creamer in the mug. As I poured the coffee, I felt my insides waking up just from the aroma that smelt so sweet. I took it upon myself to eat a banana out of the fruit bowl on my aunt’s counter, it was the last one, so I had to treat it like it was an impossible mission. But I knew she wouldn’t mind. I’m like, her favorite niece.

“Come on Catherine, we’re leaving now!” said one of my cousins.

“On my way!” I yelled back.

I made my way to the door and as we left, I thought about all the things that could possibly be mine that day.

Its funny how things turn out, because I knew that I was going to be happy because of all the shopping I was going to do, and I ended up being angry about being woken up early. It’s almost silly in a way that the way days turn out. One day you can be happy, and then the next extremely depressed and down in the dumps. It could be the weather, or the association that could bend the mood, we’re fitted out to have. It may be rainy, but you could be around some really great people who are influencing the day you have to make it better than any other. Or, it may be the opposite. You could be having a great day, and then the weather could change unexpectedly.

All in all, the days aren’t what you expect them to be… Days are not always what they seem.

This is late, but here is the 1st game of the SLA boys basketball game against RUSH in its entirety. 

Ashley Hinton

Blog Post: Bureaucracy Reflection

            The bureaucratic task that Brianna and I selected was obtaining a homosexual marriage license in the state of Massachusetts. At first we thought the topic would be difficult to take on, only because gay marriages aren’t accepted in most states. After finding that it is allowed in more than five states in the U.S, we were able to continue our research at ease.  After finding which states were legal and which weren’t, we then choose to focus mainly on the process of obtaining a marriage license in Massachusetts only, being as though the process is slightly different in each state. We found that the first step to becoming a homosexual married couple was to request very crucial paperwork. In Massachusetts, you must have a notice of intention of marriage, given in compliance of the law, which is a document that provides the names; genders, citizenship, age, race and occupations of both parties and along with other needed information. The paper work was pretty straightforward. There was some information we felt as though was unneeded. We also felt as though there was a lot of extra work we had to do because we were a homosexual couple getting married.

            If I could change one thing about the bureaucratic process, it would be of the last few steps in our flowchart (step 6). In step six of our flowcharted process it states that your marriage license will only be valid for sixty days. This is the only part of our process I would change. I feel like homosexual couples work so hard to get to this point and they shouldn’t have to go through the process all over again if they feel they aren’t ready in sixty days. I think this system in particular is so complicated because gay marriage isn’t something that’s necessarily accepted everywhere. It’s not something that’s happening everyday and so the process will never be easy. After completing the research on this project, I found that a flowchart is a great way to represent information that is difficult to understand. The flowcharts that were designed in our class were extremely helpful in understanding different bureautic processes and helped us to understand the systems of our world and how they function. 

Me and the great Harrison "The Cat" Talese-Rhodes were tasked with understanding how to file income tax and decided shortly after we began that never should wish to have to go through this process again. as Harrison said "I would rather get divorced than file income tax." Things did, however, take a turn for the better when we permitted to put limitations on the project, having to understand the income tax process for a single person with no dependents, it became markedly better. It became a great deal simpler for us to understand the basic steps and by the end we felt somewhat comfortable with income tax for single, dependent-less people. (If we were to have to do this for a family of four we may not have been able to finish.) When it came to paperwork, it was for the most part rather straightforward when you had the W-2 and instructions in hand. The biggest problem we initially faced was determining which of the 3 forms we needed to fill out and which aspects of the W-2 were relevant. With help we overcame such obstacles.

This foray into income tax, though logical in a fashion, when completely finished would benefit from changes being made to the resources provided to those filing for the first time. It took quite a bit of scavenging to find the list determining which 1040 form needed to be filled out and the list itself was mildly confusing. If I could change one thing I would make it so more of the lists were created and clearly displayed, filled with every and any definition one might need to complete this bureaucratic function.

As I list these recommendations for alterations I would like to see in this system, I must take a moment to consider why it has become so very complex way. I think in its initial creation it was rather simple since there were a limited number of lifestyle options. Now if you can dream is you can live it. What once was frowned upon or done by few is commonplace, the amount of diversity that has become ingratiated into American life is amazing. This diversity soon needed to be accounted for by its government and they most certainly did want to recreate the system to accommodate changes that may very well disappear in a few years so they add and add form after form leading to the overly complex system now in place. Or that is my theory at least.

My series of postcards .

Blog #3

1. What is the status of your issue at the legislature? Is this a "good" year?
This year is a good year according this there is going to be a stop to all abortion funding by the government, under the issue of Obama. This addition to Obamas health care plan has not only reduced the number of abortions but has also sent a message out to the country that they should not rely on the government to not only deal with a personal problem but also to destroy a life.

2. Who is essential to the outcome?

According to Obama, there are a few major people that have demonstrated that they have a say on the issue of abortion. They are the Secretary of Homeland Security, Janet Napolitano, and the second, a major judge, Leah Ward Sears. They are two major factors in this fight. That added on to the fact that they are both women, and the fact that the problem is abortion that they will have the most voice in this situation because in one of these controversial moments women will have more voice when talking to women  because they have something to relate to in life. 

3. Who else is working on this? Can you coordinate?

There are many other organizations that are trying to reduce the amount of abortions every day, year, and decade. Some of them include: Americans United for Life, Philadelphia Women Center, and some other smaller ones. Their mission is to help the women of the country to not only keep a child but at the same time save one. There are many things that I can do in order to facilitate with these groups. Such as send and e-mail or even a phone call, to set up some kind of in-person interview so that this can further succeed.

4. Who can you influence?

Abortion is the influence on women all over the world. They ask these different kind of questions, and yet abortion has their answers that they want about either saving their child or getting rid of them. Students in schools especially teen mothers, are people who would majorly be influenced by this. And with the 2 women mentioned before there will be major influence put upon them.

5. What is the time frame?

There is no set time frame for this and there cannot be one set unless there is a major realization for persons out there. Abortions happened every day and every minute. There cannot be a set time that this all can cease. There are things that people have that are setbacks, therefore making it extremely difficult for the people to set a time frame. There will be a drop however, because of the health care plan that Obama set up. And that could reduce the time frame by not a lot even though we dont know what it may be.

-Links would not go in, here they are:

http://blog.heritage.org/2010/08/02/obamacare’s-porous-protections-against-funding-elective-abortion/

http://www.humanevents.com/article.php?id=31898

http://www.humanevents.com/article.php?id=31898

http://aul.org/aul3.html?cdtrack_creative=cbee5cc0-46a5-4590-861b-1347c3cf836c&cdtrack_source=3db6b64a-7523-476f-83ab-f6d50ea69417&gclid=CMjYhqSOyaUCFQJN4Aod4VqXYQ

http://blog.heritage.org/2010/08/02/obamacare’s-porous-protections-against-funding-elective-abortion/

In american government we did a bureaucracy project to see the process and the procedure for a topic we had choose. My partner  (Alexis Beren) and I chose the topic EMANCIPATION. Emancipation is the process in which a child under the legal age gets independence from their parents or legal guardian. The judge is the one to verdict the discussion and to become emancipated you have to have evidences that you dont get finical support from your parents, moved out and can support yourself. 

There is no paper work that you can get from online, you actually need to go the judge or lawyer to get the paper I believed. It is  difficult to get emancipated because the judge needs to make sure the individual can care for themselves. I wouldn't change anything, I think that Alexis did a very nice job on the flowchart. It simple but also informational. I think that this is a complicated process because the judge needs to make sure that his decision is best for the child and his/her family.  

Free Write/ Final Essay  

The second day of school (and my first day at SLA) about a year ago, as I wait to be registered into the school system I watch a senior, Kaloni Baylor write my name on a roster and inputs me in to the school system. When I get my roster I notice that the way that my name is spelled is Y-a-s-m-i-n. This is one of the things that pisses me off, ones ignorance to ask the necessary questions.  Though I know that I’m a hypocrite hit by this contagious disease as well “Mom she spelled my name wrong” I was quivering with uneasy feeling that this wouldn’t be the end of and already confusing year. I had the idea that this was only the beginning of a long road of more than misspellings.

As I was on my way to my first class of the day for now lets call it African American history. I thought about what it means when people mispronounce, spell, or just plain call you another name (that either sounds the same or they are completely different.) to me it shows ignorance or hard headedness to just ask about the right pronunciation, or just plain out from the start warn them of anything they may get incorrect. I mean it’s not that hard to do it may take more thought but all in all everyone’s happy. As the days, which soon turned into weeks, passed by I found out my new names. Though I didn’t openly express my anger to the teacher I got help from a lot of the new friends that I had made pretty quickly.

Depending on the way that you look at it my names went from making at least some sense to making absolutely none. The names I was given varied from Jasmine to Toni. It’s amazing how many names different names the human mind can come up with after hearing a name. I believe that inside my heart skips a beat and realization overwhelms me with excitement and the correct pronunciation of my name. Correctly spelling I think I may be close keeling over and twitching with excitement. (All of which goes on in my head of course) Maybe some people just feel as though I don’t deserve the same name that I tell them or show them and thrive to make sure I’m Jasmine instead Yasmeen.  I feel as though I get too excited when someone asks my name I tell him or her. Though they don’t get as excited as I do, they pronounce it back to me correctly. Maybe to the rest I look more like a Toni than I do Yasmeen.

Though I know that I am a critic when it comes to teachers saying my name. But I understand that they have to know a lot of names but if you know everyone in the classes name correctly and not mine i believe that it gives me the right to express my feelings about the situation. Maybe so teachers believe that not only do I not deserve my given name but they try to make sure that not only is my name difficult to pronounce they make sure they can’t spell it either. Like the first day of school Mr. Baird pronounced my name correctly but after that it was on and off.

My fifth grade teacher Ms. Tittle Seemed to be very fond of me as her student but for some reason calling me Yasmeen 24/7 didn’t cross her mind. Even today I can’t recall her actually calling me Yasmeen until I was in middle school. It started when i was in school for about a quarter of the year and she trusted me enough to do tasks like delivering messages and so forth. I was sitting at my desk working on an assignment I remember hearing Enays repetitively. I took the initiative to look up and find the face to the voice, my eyes slowly scanned the room as I was about to turn my head then I saw someone trying to get my attention out the corner of my eye.

I completely sympathize with people who get your name mixed up with some one else. I decide how to feel about the mixed up name if it falls on or between two things, sounding the same as another name or having the same first name. But if none of those are plausible then I get upset, and frustrated. I’ve tried to give this topic some thought and I came up with a couple ideas. The first Idea is the fact that people my not understand what I am saying when I tell them my name. It has often or occasionally been pointed out to me that I don’t enunciate a lot of my words correctly, that might be to blame for others mistakes. With my pronunciation others may take it and see it in a whole new way than I do. Enunciation reminds of when I was purchasing or ordering something from a store and the cashier asked me my name and he kept pronouncing it wrong no matter how many times I repeated myself. Then my mom came over and said Y-aaa-SS meen and she exasperated S and the S in Yasmeen. When the cashier said it correctly I gasped in shock. I guess that it is because my mother gave me the name Yasmeen, and that since she created for me she has to know how to pronounce it.

If it’s true that I can’t pronounce my own name. Then I’ve been living my whole life with the wrong pronunciation and everyone who repeated or saw my name decide to follow me.

Scene one and or two was accidentally deleted when trying to copy and paste information.

Being a girl can become a difficult life style. Between our stages in life, staggering attitudes and emotions… I don’t know how we would get through it.

I myself am a girl, born and raised as one; so I know first hand that I can be very frail and take many chances. I’m also the target for a lot of people, for emotional support and other things. My parents depend a lot on me to take care of things when they can’t, especially because I'm the only girl.

I recall my 5^th grade classroom, the desks were set up in rows of six, and I sat in the middle row, of a large room filled with an average sized class. And that’s where he sat, right there in front of me; now being a female in a male bias world I found that most guys don’t expect you to know how to fight. And that’s where he made his mistake. His name was Tommy and he tried to take my pencil, this might not seem like a big deal now but ever since I was younger, I had an “obsessive compulsive disorder” type of thing; I absolutely positively could not stand to have people touching my things, or things that I had previously touched. So I asked him kindly to please not touch my things…he didn’t quite listen. He continued to grab for my book bag when I told him again “DO NOT TOUCH MY THINGS” I was getting madder and he didn’t seem to comprehend the level of seriousness displayed in my threatening tone. “Shut up” he snapped back at me “don’t be a tattle tale”. “I wont,” I said through my teeth “but stop touching my things” with an angry shove, he pushed me. In rebuttal, I shoved him back.

Ever since my early days of childhood, I had always been a fighter. I had to fight to get where I was going, and I learned that a lot of people are really big bullies and if you don’t do what they tell you, they tend to get really pissed. Following his shove, he attempted to hit me; When I noticed what he was about to do I ducked and hit him where my mom told me to hit any guy who tried to put their hands on me. I threw my leg back and in one full-fledged kick, my foot met him in a not so pleasant place and he instantly hit the ground. He didn’t seem so tough now as he lay curled up on the floor sobbing. That was the earliest experience I can recall where someone made me feel puny because of my gender.

Ever since I was younger, this problem frustrated me, the problem of male bias that seemed so prominent in the world and especially in my life. Just because I’m a dress wearing, pony tailed, doll playing human doesn’t mean I’m not as tough as anyone else in this world. I believe that since girls have a different in sight look of things, people think we’re weak, and powerless.

Fathers always expect their sons to be the tough ones, while the girls are supposed to be the sensitive ones, the ones who cry when they fall not the boys. Mothers always teach their daughters to clean and cook before they grow older. Girls are taught to be mothers of animals-09 and baby dolls while boys are being taught to be Harley riders and wrestlers. Girls are taught that in a dress you’re a princess and no one could change that. Boys are taught that the more muscles you have the more people like you.

Girls walking around in short skirts, short shorts and tight clothes just to get the attention of another person. To me people aren’t important id much rather go outside feeling comfortable then to go out wondering “does this shirt look right?” or “is this the right fit?”. I clearly don’t care what people think of me, people have their own opinions and thoughts of what a girl is supposedly supposed to say, wear and look.

My older cousin thinks that every girl is suppose to be mega skinny, always dress nice, and have long hair. Every time I go around him he makes the choice to piss me off, and say stuff like why don’t you ever have your hair done and what happen to your nice clothes and you really go outside like that. This would piss me off a lot if I cared what he really thought. I don’t I think if I accept the way I am, headstrong and beautiful, then I should not listen to how someone else thoughts about me is. Yeah I know a lot of people worry that this wont happen that wont happen. I am still a girl, but I rather go by it the way I think everything should fall into place. Easily and comfortably, just like I have been. I like playing football, I like running around, I like wrestling, and doing my make-up. Everything is even out for me. Just because I like doing things like a boy doesn’t mean I’m not a girl. Just because I dress and look a certain way doesn’t mean people wont like me because I have a boyfriend, and he loves me the way I am.

My mom expects me to be that girly girl she had always wanted, but I’m not. I love being the hard worker I am. I work to succeed in life not to impress others. I want to go to culinary school, not because I’m expected to cook but because I love making people surprised and happy in what I make for them.

By being a girl I am setting a line. Yes I will do my hair, yes I like dressing nicely, and yes I do wear make-up. I will not be criticized by what I want to do and what I like to do. I may be girly but I can still roughhouse, fight, and play rough. Yes I am a girl and I will still cook, not because you want me to but because I love to cook for others and myself. Yes I am a girl so I will settle down one day, but with someone who see’s me as a person not as a play toy. Someone who understands, that I am as much as a person as they are. Someone who believes love doesn’t come from the outside of your body but from the inside of your soul, someone who understands me, cares for me, and respects me.

The task that we had to do was reorganizing the original flow chart for the Juvenile Justice System in Philadelphia. The process I took to do this project was first understanding what they were trying to say in the original chart, then organizing in a way that I would understand it. If I could change anything I would have started the project on time and would have been more organized. One reason I think that the systems are so complicated is it is meant to show a lot of information and sometimes wording it can be a little hard.

Ashley and I chose to work with the gay marriage process and doing the research for our topic was probably the most perplexing part because while there were several articles about the legislation that had been passed on the issue, there wasn't a lot of information that provided us with the steps needed to go through with the actual process. However once we found the information we needed we found that the process was the same as if you were to get married as man and wife. The paper work and steps were identical, the only difference is that in order for gay marriage to be legal, it can only be done in 5 states and it probably wont be recognized in any of the other ones. We also weren't able to get a lot of the documentation because you had to pay money simply to obtain quite a few of them. However most of them wanted to simple things i.e. social security numbers, name birthdate etc. and things of that nature. Overall our bureaucracy project wasn't too much hassle besides getting the information we needed. 

     Imagine. Imagine a little three year old girl who you’ve known since the first month of her birth. Imagine a young caramel skinned, intelligent and loud little girl. This girl normally has her hair braided with berets in it and only to your kneecap in height. Pretend her name is Allayna, and her mother, Charlene, speaks mostly in African American Vernacular English. This little girl is my cousin and so far, we’ve been taught to speak differently; for I do not speak in African American Vernacular English. I wasn’t raised to speak in any other way except proper English with the exception of slang words used often among friends or around family that use the same slang.

            Her piercing eyes dented a center in my heart made specifically for moments where Allayna is most ignorant- for I can guide her in the right direction. In other words, I can be there like Charlene was for me when I was younger. There was something about the way Allayna could grasp onto the English language that captivated my hope for her future. That is until the day I realized how much she used African American Vernacular English; and being so young, she doesn’t know how to code switch.

            “They is a mess!” Allayna said to me as she impatiently told me her story of her day in preschool.

            “It’s not ‘they is’ Allayna, it’s ‘they are’!”. I yelled furiously at Allayna, hoping that she would catch on after correcting her for the second time. Yet, she was too young to understand the importance of how she delivered her words. I didn’t intend to make my ball of sunshine cry, but without rain, there is no sun. Therefore, this relationship between Allayna and I will be difficult if she cannot understand my language- even though it is basically the same. Language is an emotional, more than verbal, conquest to define relationships. One day maybe, Allayna will learn the significance of learning the importance in code switching if she doesn’t correct the way she speaks. Adrienne Rich said, “This is the oppressor’s language/ yet I need it to talk to you.” Which makes me think- will Allayna learn how to speak the way I do, or will I have to try to work my way around it?

            The use of identifying language as a standard introduces an uncontrollable form of power, weak or strong. The way one speaks can tear off any group of people- not always race. The things of everyday life that have an influence on the way we speak also intrigue the complexities in the way we think. The unavoidable influence of music (other than instrumental or classical music) have an effect on the way people talk. Music is a big factor that could tear Allayna and me apart, for I listen to a variety of music. Most of the music I am exposed to don’t use African American Vernacular English in song writing. The music that Allayna likes does in most cases. That is one more influence on the way she speaks. According to bell hooks, “In contemporary black culture, rap music has become one of the spaces where black vernacular speech is used in a manner that invites dominant mainstream culture to listen- to hear- and to some extent be transformed (298).” This transformation in fact drew a deep line in my family. That very transformation separated my cousins from my sister and I. They don’t listen to any kind of music other than r&b or rap, for they find anything other than that to be “white music”, however I do not agree. I enjoy different genres, which is why my cultural acceptance has transformed deeper than the initial first impression. Differences in music separate my relationships between female cousins, because even though we all did dance when we were younger, they lost the deeper vision that we were once introduced to. The male cousins have accepted different genres as they dig deeper into things such as wrap, for words beats intertwine with each other and the words decorate a blank paper to a colorful canvas with an array of colors, patterns and dimensions.

Listening to rap music and interpreting the grammar and terms as correct can create difficulties such as labels of being  ‘ghetto’ instead of ‘ignorant’ for those who lack the tolerance to correct the college kids of their childish mistakes, for they can correct the younger generations. Extinguish the cycle of ignorance or learn to use the African American Vernacular English as a cultural stepping stone. The reason being is that some people do not understand the ways and reasons why African American Vernacular English remains today. Bell hooks also was also reminded of the interpretation of African American Vernacular English to those who aren’t familiar with it. She says, “When young white kids imitate this speech in ways that suggest it is the speech of those who are dumb, stupid or only interested in entertaining or being funny, and then the subversive power of this speech is undermined (298).” As the ignorance of the uses of African American Vernacular English become a form of something positive, the easier it is to mend bonds broken in cultural differences  and hopefully those cultural differences won’t tear apart another generation of people.

            My words flew around the circle of faces, leaving traces of confusion for my speech was an illusion to the conscience. I saw the hungry crowd devour my words of sorrow for the ignorance that follows,

As a young child

Tamed by the wild

Some people influenced

By the mother tongue

How to tame a wild tongue

Left some tongue tied

For what we think is right

May be wrong on the outside

Streaming shadows in the dark

Guide the lost into the hearts

Find the language that can combine

Two worlds set to part.

            Even my poetry confuses my family that use African American Vernacular English- and it leaves me with a fear that they will never understand me; for all I understand is poetry.

       Identity can be defined as who you are, and many times we can elucidate a person based on their qualities, characteristics and personalities, but more commonly, their language. Having numerous languages that you use, depending on the appropriate situation, can closely be related to a complete change of personality- almost bipolar. But if you do not have one true identity or you are constantly changing your identity depending on the circumstances, then you are not being true to yourself. This is commonly know as “code switching”, but code switching is changing specific parts or areas of your language, but when a large portion, the majority of the language you speak, is changed you can take on different characteristics and traits. That is when it becomes more than just code switching.

       The first time I encountered a small taste of “code switching,” I was no more than 7 years old. It was when I first began elementary school, and as I will repeat continuously, Philadelphia, and my neighborhood are two very different things. Its like as soon as you take one step on my block, it’s a totally different world. You see everybody collaborating with each other, cleaning the sidewalks and the curbs- everything all works together- even our language. Now I’m not saying this doesn’t happen in Philadelphia, but it doesn’t happen as often. On Camac Street, it happens all the time. Everyone on the block even spoke the same language. Everybody on Camac Street could understand everything everybody says, because there was no slang terms involved, no abbreviations of words or shorter pronunciation of phrases. Everybody spoke the same formal way. My neighborhood and Philadelphia were polar opposites, and this is exactly what showed when I went to the first grade.

       Everyday, I went to school, in hopes of learning and beginning my very long process of preparing for the rest of my life, but what happened in my school changed me into an entirely different person. I was continuously immersed with the sound of stinging curse words, to various new phrases that describe anything from, having sex to using drugs. At the time, I was thought all kids my age knew what I was just learning, but as I look back- I realize that no children should be hearing what I heard- and I’m including the kids that taught me this new language, because I know they had to learn it from somewhere also. And this is why I think code switching had been a huge part of my life through my elementary school. It was like I was talking to adults, rather than children, but when I arrived home I knew I couldn’t talk the way I talked at school because the words that I were using were not appropriate to say in front of anyone, and I knew that if I wasn’t comfortable with saying something in front of my grandparents, I knew I was doing something wrong.

       The typical language we spoke at home was formal but easy- I was comfortable with speaking it. But the restrictions and rules kept me in my 7-year old place. I knew I wasn’t allowed to say the words they were saying at school because I knew what my restrictions were at home. At home, I knew I would be put on time-out or punished if I said a word like darn, or crap or even heck. So, when I was introduced to that new language at school I knew what would happen if those words were mentioned at home.

       The language in which I learned to talk at school was nowhere close to appropriate for me to use at home, so I had to code switch, but little did I know, that this was the beginning of a process that will lead me to change the act, speak and even think differently, as if I had to change who I was altogether for any given situation. The vulgar new language that I was introduced to from 1^st to 2^nd grade follows me to this very day. I’m not proud of what I learned, but amazingly, it has enabled me to take pieces of what I learned to fit in with those who stay around me. I know that when I was began elementary school, I thought everybody else was the weird people, and I was the only one who spoke regularly, and appropriately. But now that I look at may life, leading up to now, I realize that I was the only weird one not speaking the appropriate language. This was first displayed when I moved schools from my Ellwood Elementary School to the school that I will spend the next 8 years of my life.

       Although elementary school to middle school was already a big enough transition, I was moving to a boarding school. Years ago, about 7, I moved to a new school- a very new school. I transitioned from a normal elementary public school, to a military boarding school that was located in Scotland, PA. When I arrived at the school my cottage family welcomed me warmly. I wasn’t quite familiar with any of them but we were going to be the only family I had for the neat few months- until we get our first break. After I began to get a little more acquainted with the people, I began to pick up some new vocabulary. The funny thing was that 87% of the entire school was from Philadelphia, including myself. But originally, I understood what the suburban kids, the more white kids, were saying. But I couldn’t quite understand what the other people were saying. 

       One afternoon, after I was finished my daily chores, one of my closest friend asked me a question that I never heard before, but I don’t stop hearing it, let alone using it, today. He asked "Yo, young bull, u trine ball up?" after about the first week of school I figured out what young bull was, but that was the first time I ever heard the phrase "ball up". The only ball I knew of was like a sports ball, or like your "balls". So at that point I jus asked what's that. 
He replied "u trine go ball?" 
Little did he know? I was still just as confused as before, if not more? Suddenly a young white female came and kindly explained what he was saying.
"He just wants to know if you want to go play basketball." 
I could not have been more grateful, nor could her timing have been any more perfect, for if she hadn’t come I probably would have just stood there like a lost idiot, because I had no clue about what he just said.

       Now, that I reflect on that day, I realize just how common it is for people to code-switch and how often it occurs. But, what I still don’t understand is how she was able to present a phrase such as that, and translate it into terms, and a tone, that I could understand. Because she was able to understand both what he was saying, and what I    needed to understand. This evidence of multiple code switching scenarios portray the topic of personality switching.

       After that minor altercation, I knew that my cousins had seen and heard both a side and a language of me that they had never experienced before. After we were done arguing, my cousins had replied with confusion and dumbfoundedness. This indicated that they didn’t know what I was saying but later that very night more evidence of me having an "alter ego" was displayed.

       While my cousins’ mother was in the kitchen with my nana, her sister, she asked her "was that TJ? I never seen him that angry before. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him angry at all.

       Surprised, my nana replied with wide eyes "what? TJ is a hothead."
The new and enlightened Aunt Terri replied with a smile... "Wow." She had been baffled. "I never knew that."

        And she never would have if I had not been arguing with my aunt in the first place, because that was my aunt and it wasn't relevant that I ever had to display that side of me. So, I changed my entire personality to ensure hat I was not goofy or angry or even senseless at times. But this is where the problems come in, and its not a problem in public or to society, its within yourself. If you are constantly changing yourself to fit certain peoples, places scenarios or whatever, you will never stay true to yourself. Because you will never know what is the true you, its like you've lost your identity to yourself. My friend Cecelia could not have said it better "… I was born with a disease. This is called never finding you identityitus. It’s pretty common and mostly found within those who tend to not know their true identity… This disease has only onecure… Listen to your voice."

       It didn’t seem like anything special… until he took flight. But just like that, it became somewhat as an athletic miracle. My 5-year-old cousin did a flip in mid air while riding his little roller skates. Sure, this wouldn’t have been such a big deal if he did this all the time but this was a person who could walk 3 steps with bailing. No matter how fast or instantaneous his skating fun turned into an acrobatic stunt, I remembered each and every second like it had happened in slow motion.

       Back in the summer of ’08, my seven-year-old cousin, Isaiah was lapping the back of the living room, as he always did when he felt that urge to play with his skates. I wasn’t doing anything special in particular either, but little did I know, I was in exactly the right place at right time. My little sister had just happened to leave her pink mini wagon lying upside down in the doorway of the living room, which lead into the nearby dining room. This wagon was meant to be rode in, but it was just another obstacle in is clumsy path of skating. Right as he turned around and faced me, he shouted, “TJ, look how fast I can go!” he pushed off of our front door, giving him that extra velocity, that extra speed he needed to take that inevitable bail he had in store.

       He was so bent on me watching him, he paid no attention to what was in front of him, all he cared about was if I was watching, and I was. He had that certain faith in me, that faith that lets you know you have someone that will make you feel god, about good yourself and support you through thick and thin, and that’s what I did. I didn’t always approve of the things that he did, but if it made him happy than it made me happy, even if the things were a little silly or childish. I just want him to know that I will always be in his corner. I knew that Isaiah wasn’t allowed to jump over a wagon, too many things could go wrong. For example, he could trip over then wagon and fall on his arm, breaking it in 7 different places, because still keep in mind, he skating faster than a 5 year old should be. Then, I would be asked what happened, and it wouldn’t matter if I answered them with an answer of truth or I don’t know. If I told them what had actually happened, they’d ask me why I let him do it, but if I said I don’t know, they’d ask me why I let him do it in the first place. I know that my role as his cousin isn’t to be his guardian angel, but it is my role to be there for him- this includes not letting him kill himself. So, I do understand where my grandparents would be coming from if I were blamed for what he had done to himself. Since I knew that it was partially my responsibility to keep him safe I should have taken the initiative to be responsible older cousin and let him now what he was doing wasn’t appropriate or even safe to be doing on our hardwood living room floor. But, I wanted him to know I was enjoying his performance so that he could have his fun, so, I just sat there and let him jump over the inclined wagon.

       I watched in complete horror, I didn’t know if he was going to go flying up into the side of the doorway, or just straight up crash. I waited to find out which poison he had picked. He rolled his first wheel onto the pink, plastic handle of the wheel, with 2 more wheels following, and behind those were an entire other foot. As he elevated to the edge of that ramp of a wagon, I had seen that his entire body was balanced, from his black, flame vinyl helmet, to the foot of his kneepad-covered legs. I wasn’t certain about what was going to happen next, but I was sure that he was not going to wipe out. Soon enough, Isaiah had realized he had been rising, to the point where his feet weren’t touching the ground, I don’t know how exactly but he turned himself in a complete 180-degree turn. I don’t know if he was trying to see in front of him, or if that was his plan from the very beginning, but whatever it was, it looked rehearsed. He rotated slightly to his left, then bent himself backward in an arching position, but he didn’t stay like that, he did a complete back flip, and despite any law of time that has every been acquired, I swear on everything he look like he was falling in slow motion. The tip of the of his skate skimmed the floor, only to lead the wheel of his skate rolling him into a smooth landing to the other end of the living room. He turned around, his mouth was wide opened, enough for me to see that speed bag hanging in the back of the roof of his mouth. I could tell he was amazed, because I knew I was.

       Sometimes, I look back on this day and wonder whether or not I should have reacted differently about the entire situation. I think that I could have shown a little more responsibility by not letting him fulfill this desperate exploit. I understand that I wanted my cousin to think that “I was fun’, but sometimes the fun thing might not be the right thing, but you have to use your better judgment to decide on what right or wrong- without letting the thought of “Will I still be fun?” thwart your decision message. On the other hand, he didn’t get hurt, so it let me see how important my attention was to him. I think whether or not he would have executed that trick the way he did if I had not been watching hi. When you know somebody has faith in you, you have faith in yourself, and that’s what my little cousin Isaiah showed me when he leapt over the little pink wagon. Self-confidence is that energy you need to know that whatever you want to do is possible. My good friend Henry Ford couldn’t have said it better, “Whether you think you can or you think you cant, you’re right.” Sometimes a little confidence is all you need to perform miracles.

Annisa Ahmed

Annisa Ahmed.

Emancipation was the bureaucratic task that Leeann and I selected. We researched how a minor can become emancipated in Pennsylvania through the court system. The minor must be at least 16 years of age. They must no longer live in their parent’s home, or be supported by their parents. They must provide solid evidence that they are in control of themselves, and that they are a responsible, independent individual. The paperwork isn’t exceedingly difficult, but it is tedious, and then there is the fact that you must actually go to court in order to get emancipated. One part of the process is that if you don’t have your parent’s permission to move out of their house you can be picked up as a runaway and be taken home to your parents, or be put into Child and Youth Services until your dependence or independence is determined by the courts. I feel that this should be changed because if you want to be independent from your parents for whatever reason you obviously don’t want to get their permission to leave you want to just be done with them. I feel that the systems are complicated because so many people are going to court for so many issues, some simplistic, and others complex, but there are so many issues in the system that the drawn out process gives the people in charge more time to get to your needs, and also it makes sure that all the details are sorted out before you even get in front of an authority. Before starting this project I knew the emancipation process, but after completing the project as a third party instead of a person involved in the emancipation I feel that I better understand the issues and processes involved in becoming emancipated, from both the perspective of the minor and the courts.

Please post to the SLATE blogger a reflection that encompasses these points - also post the doc and the link to your flowchart:

• Briefly summarize the bureaucratic 'task' that you selected.

The task that I selected was the process of The Juvenile Justice System in Philadelphia.

• Give an overview of your process
• Because this was a last minute thing , m partner and I made a paper rough draft and then proceeded to edit and rearrange the chart on pages.

• Reflect upon the paperwork that you needed to fill out. Was it straightforward, easy, difficult, perplexing, etc.
• Alot of it was difficult because the original artist used less than and equal to signs
• If you could change one thing about the bureaucratic process that you flow charted, what would it be and why?
• If i could change one thing , I would change the illustration with pictures.
• Why do you think the systems have become so complicated?
• Other thoughts, reflections, feedback.
• I wish I could have been more productive with my partner to accomplish a better task.

- The task that was given to me, was reworking the Flowchart of the Juvenile Justice System in Philadelphia.

- The first thing was just trying to understand the flowchart to begin with (very difficult), second was creating rough drafts of the new chart, and finally, putting everything into a flush, easier to read format

-I don't think there needs to be so many ways into the system but only so few ways out

-They've been corupted so many times that they have just gotten more and more confusing to thwart people to try to work around it

-I think this was a pretty interesting project, I wouldn't mind doing it again but maybe with a less complicated flowchart

All my jeans are not even the same size. Getting dressed for school, it’s such a drag. I go through my closets and dressers, then comes jeans and socks flying every which way. A red shirt fell to the floor at my feet.  My bright blue shirt is half way on, it doesn’t even match my jeans I have on. My hair is flying in all directions. There is a black sock on my left foot and a gray one in my hand. The clothes are all over the carpet you can’t even see the floor. This doesn’t even make any sense; no teenager should have to go through this its like pulling teeth. Ugh! This really annoys me because nothing I try on even looks right, I always look so blah, simply ordinary. Most days I feel like everybody else.

Most people go crazy when they look like everybody else or should I say don’t look like everybody else. So they try to change because of the society wants them to look. The things they do to change effects their health, well-being and the others around them that care. People either start to lose too much weight because they can’t look thin enough or they gain too much because they’re eating too obsessively. Society is obviously changing individuals. So people feel as though they’re going to be accepted is if they’re thin and if they’re, not they gorge in food cause they figure it can’t be changed. They think it’s the answer and become so obsessed with it they let it affect their health. Some people go as far as to become bulimic. Becoming insecure about themselves, gaining depression, having guilt and most of all the fear of weight gain. The number one reason is insecurity. Everybody has to look like a super stars and if you don’t you should be well on your way to doing so. Looking good, being in the “in” crowd and joining the band wagon is what society mentally tells them when they put the stars looks on a pedestal towards everyone else’s.

 We accept certain people, certain people that meet the criteria. Their religion, culture, political, scientific and some other belief’s determine how accepted they become. The main people we try to push away are the people who are bigger then the average. The problem is we help them get this way and continue on because America super sizes everything when you go to a fast food restaurant the sizes of everything are now larger than what they use to be and of course society doesn’t see anything wrong with it.  As long as they continue to make money its as right as a knife full of peanut better going in a jelly jar.   

I remember just like it was yesterday day, I went to Checkers with my mom. I hear the thunder in her stomach. “What do you want to eat?” “I want some chicken fingers and fries” I replied in a blissful voice. On our way home I was eating the fries, which seems to takes forever. I then started to ponder the appearance of he fries. They look different; it’s not the color. Maybe it’s this box they came in, that has me in deep thought. No, it’s the size of the froes themselves. Now where home and I’m off to my room but before I go I turn to my mom to get my drink and she says. “I asked for a medium and they gave me a large. Then I told her “If that’s the small I hate to see what the large looks like. Its so big are you sure that’s a medium”. “Yea” she replied “Look at your meal”.

See the fast food chains don’t care what they do to us as long as they get money. That’s the reason why obesity is the number one cause in America it effect people of all age ranges. When people of the corpulent weight go out to eat they get as much as they can intake until they can’t eat anymore. They order a mass size of burgers, fries, hot dogs, drinks, etc. Consume is what they know because it’s the only way they can comfort themselves.

 Everyday citizens ponder the thought of not being what society wants them to be and they allow it to drive them to insanity. They take it as a definition of who they should become. Another way many communities let society in is through plastic surgery. They think they have to fix the way they look because it’s not good enough for other people. Either there lips aren’t full enough, or their wrinkles in their smile. My face is just they way its suppose to be an years from now I just might have one too many wrinkles, but who doesn’t get them as they age.

Society determines what is considered the right way to look by making a list and who ever fits in fits in and who ever doesn’t much love to you. I have a family member who decided to get some surgery done to themselves and she looked better better before it was done. After I saw her I couldn’t believe my eyes she no longer looked like herself instead she now looked how society said she had to. She didn’t accept her physical appearance but having that surgery only changed the outside because her personality was all the same. See in this paper I went from one idea to another because people normally don’t do that. In society this paper would be considered as written incorrectly or an example of how not to transition a paper but I don’t care too much what they think so I wrote it my way.

“Donde Esta Tu Acento Mijaa?”

“Where’s Abuelita At?” I said searching around the kitchen like a lost puppy left in the middle of the highway to look for its owner.

“In her cuarto unpacking su maleta.” Said mi tia Mariela while washing the dishes faster then any dishwashing machine could

“Horita Vengo, Ima go help her” I said sprinting up the steps faster then titi Mari could realize I was done talking.

“Abuelita!” I screamed like a little girl on Christmas morning and ran to hug her as tight as I could.

“Mi niña bonita como as estado!” she said with a smile warmer then summer 10 days.

“Good! I missed you mucho Buelita!”

“Donde esta tu acento mija!” She said with a puzzled look, her voice sounding disappointed that maybe su niña bonita wasn’t who she was expecting

“Cual acento? Yo No Se” I said almost annoyed that after all these years that’s all she could say. All she saw in me was a Mexican without an accent.

Being that I was born in Mexico I should have an accent right? No! Growing up in the United States it’s been kind of hard living my life the way other Mexican teenagers do. I have different views on things, like to do different things, I dress differently then they do, basically when it comes down to it I would be an outcast I was to live in Mexico. Of course to me this doesn’t take away the fact that Im Mexican, but to other people they consider me a Frijolera Agringada, A White Beaner. If you ask me no I just happen to have grown up in a different country. I only lived in Mexico for 5 years and have lived in the United States for 10, now you try doing that without changing the way you speak.

“I will have my serpents tongue, my woman voice, my sexual voice, my poets voice, I will overcome the tradition of silence” How to tame a wild tongue, Gloria Anzaldua.

Not all people have the honor to say that they speak two languages, and thanks to my dad making me move to the United States I was forced to learn my now second language.  I had to pay a price though, loosing my accent. Yes to me that is a price to pay, of course it doesn’t make me any less Mexican but it takes away something, I wish I had. I wish I had that little accent that distinguishes Mexican English with Standard English. Those different ending to words and feel my tongue rolled out those R’s like a red carpet on Grammy night.  I’ve had different experiences with this where people don’t believe that Im either Mexican or that I was born in Mexico, because of the way I sound. I’m always faced with asking myself does it matter how I sound to determine my nationality or my identity. Some people might think so; other might not, Me Im on the border. At times yeah I think that what makes a Mexican is their accent, others days I think that what makes someone Mexican is themselves. Themselves, their customs, their believes, their views on things.

Mario: Are you sure you Mexican?Me:Duh, Why wouldn’t I be?Mario: It just dont sound like it.Me: O. You A-Hole!

“Chicano Spanish sprang out of the Chicanos need to identify ourselves as distinct people” How to tame a wild tongue, Gloria Anzaldua.

I think that at times Mexicans teens that grew up in the United States are put down for not dressing Mexican, acting Mexican, or sounding Mexican. People judge us without even thinking about what made us like this. Growing up in an entirely different country we face challenges. One of them is being able to stay true to out culture and keeping it alive within us. I refuse to forget who I  truly am on the inside, Part of being Chicanos, is Being able to accustom to a different country, different traditions and different people surrounding me and still being able to stay true to my Mexican side is what makes me a Chicana Sin Acento!

Sophia Henninger

Language Autobiography – Rough Draft

English – Copper

Languages don’t change everything. The language itself isn’t the most important thing, but the way it is used is. The dialects don’t matter either. The tones those dialects are spoken in is what matters. Yes, a dialect can tell people where you’re from but it’s the tone of your voice that says what you are trying to communicate. It tells more about who you are in this instant than your background. Tones mean much more for a quick conversation and are far more important in communication. People shouldn’t concentrate so much on dialects because they reflect people’s past. That does not matter for a 30 second conversation but a tone changes everything.

A tone can dictate the entire mood of a conversation. It indicates what mood a person is in, what their intentions for the conversation are, and possibly how recent events have affected them. Tone can completely change the meaning of a phrase from serious to sarcastic or from insulting to soothing. Tone influences conversations more than dialects do because if a dialect is different that just changes the person but if a tone is different it can effect and change the entire conversation.

This scene is a good example of how tone changes things because in it my tone is telling my mother, who I’m having the conversation with, that I’m irritated and distressed. I woke up late and I'm trying to leave my house so I can get the early bus. I’m irritated because as I’m practically running out the door, my mother has another idea. “Mom! I had to go like five minutes ago.” I sound urgent and my hand is on the doorknob. My mother has no intention of letting me leave in only my wool jacket, “Get a hat and gloves … a scarf too.” I don’t even turn around but I’m nearly growling, “I have to go..” I turn to look at her and I can tell she will not budge on the matter so I sigh and say, “Do you know where they are?” I’m standing in that stereotypical position women stand in when they’re annoyed: leg out, hip locked, hand on hip, head tilted. Any other mother in America would have said I was giving my mother attitude. She replies with a bored tone in her voice, “I don’t know. Go look.” My jaw drops for a second and a new wave of annoyance washes over me. Not only has she made me miss the bus, but I now must miss the second bus because she wants me to look for extra clothing. At this point though I sluggishly move to where we keep hats and such as a way to protest her suggestion. I find them and slowly ease them on my head and hands, making sure they look good. “Sophie… aren’t you going to miss the bus?” My mother was trying to speed me up. Too late. “Yes, but I need a hat and gloves, don’t I?” I’m looking at myself in the mirror as I say this, hoping to sort of stick it to her a little bit. “Just go.” She calmly replies. I spring to life then, hoping I might still catch the bus. “Thank you, Mom! I love you!” I sounded so happy and excited; the exact opposite of my feelings just a moment before. I practically skipped out the door, eager to leave my unpleasant attitude behind me.

If my tone had been calmer and more collected then it would have not only changed the way the scene was read, but it probably would have changed the actually words used. That’s why emotions and tones mean so much more than dialects; they have the power to alter conversations, meanings, and interpretation of words.

I use tones everyday to change the meanings of words and phrases. Sarcasm in particular is a technique of speaking I use. Many people use sarcasm and it actually is meant to change the meaning of words and phrases but it’s often looked upon as a snarky way to give someone attitude. It’s more than that though; it’s a way to change language just by changing your inflection. I’ve noticed that since I am sarcastic I’m looked at as disrespectful. Sarcasm is my language and it’s just how I was taught to speak.

An example of this is when I was asked, “Is your shirt green?” I just looked at the person. My shirt was blatantly green. I cannot describe how green my shirt was. It was like a pine forest, only with more green. I replied in the only way I saw fit, “No, my shirt is purple.” Maybe this wasn’t the nicest way to go about answering they’re question but my shirt was green and obviously so. The person began to get irritated; she was obviously not happy with how I had answered her question but she replied with, “You know, you don’t have to be mean about it.” She then promptly stood up and walked away. My intent had not been to offend her but that’s what did end up happening. By using a sarcastic tone and my natural way of speaking I was “being mean”.

Since I use sarcasm regularly, that’s why society sees me as just another snarky teenager. There isn’t much for me to do that would allow my reputation to be changed because this is my native tongue and I will always revert back to it. It’s different from my dialect because the only thing my dialect will tell you is that I’m from Philadelphia, PA. Because I used sarcasm everyday in many conversations it labels me as a smart-alecky child to people who only hear my own sarcasm and not the words I’m saying. When people hear me speak without fully listening to words I say and how I mean them, they assume and conclude before getting to know me that all I am is a snide teenage girl from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Not everybody speaks with sarcasm everyday but people should be able to understand it and refrain from judging others for using it.  It would be same as not judging someone because they had a southern or Brooklyn accent because it’s just a way of speaking and communicating. Sarcasm is how I communicate and I’m judged prematurely everyday for it. If I wasn’t judged and written off for the language I was trained to speak, the language I can’t control, I would feel as though I belonged much more than I currently do.

Sophia Henninger

Copper – English

September 23, 2010

Growing up in Roxborough wasn’t always the easiest thing for me. Constantly ridiculed at school, home, and in between. More than once I got off the bus to go home with tears on my face only to be greeted by more words and events that would replace the old tears on my cheeks. I remember so many instances of this.

“Eskimo! Eskimo!”  The eighth graders chanted on the disgusting, sticky, school bus. I just sat on the floor and bawled as if a beloved pet had died. They were calling me this because of the hat I donned on my head. It was tan and furry with gold thread periodically mixed in. The earflaps were my favorite part because they were fuzzy on both sides. “That hat is so ugly, but I guess it matches your face.” I heard a boy say. With tears still flowing from my eyes I looked to meet his face just as he ripped the hat off my head and got off the bus with it. He proceeded to throw it into a gutter on his street. He looked back at me in the foggy window of the dirty bus and smiled, his perfectly clear eyes met my red-rimmed, bloodshot ones and not an ounce of guilt or regret showed on his face.

Another instance was when I had to sit in the seat less section on the school bus. The floor was black, sticky, and covered in hundreds of unidentifiable substances. I don’t even know what I did to provoke them this time but I do remember hearing one boy say to a classmate, “Dude, watch this..”

I turned to see what he was talking about and he was looking at me. He wanted to talk to me. He asked basic questions like how was I and what class I was in. I thought this was the end of being teased.  I was filled with so much hope; I was excited for the future. I thought of how I might be able to get on the bus and smile and giggle like the other girls my age did with their friends. Just then, my dreams of peace were shattered; he grabbed my legs and started to lift them up. I panicked and grabbed the back of the seat in front of me. I screamed and cried and kicked. I clung to seat in front of me as though if let go I’d fall to my demise. The boy just lifted my legs higher and higher until I was horizontal. I felt like it lasted forever. Finally he yelled, “Stop screaming, you baby.” And dropped me. My knees clashed with the sticky floor. Little splashes of red now accenting my already dirty knees. The eighth graders just laughed at me as I ran to front of the bus. I’d never felt so much shame or humiliation in my life.

But after everyday of torment I still woke up the next day hopeful. Still looking forward to making friends and laughing with them. I still tried to be nice and make friends with people even when the day before they were the ones that made me cry. I was relentlessly hopeful and optimistic, always cheery and excited.

Even when the problem followed me right off the school bus and into my home.

“Sophie! We have a surprise for you. Close your eyes.” My brother, Gabe, and my sister, Betsy, cooed as they directed me down the hallway. I was so excited. I loved surprises! I was thinking of all the cool things it might be. A new toy, or game, a warm set of mittens and a hat, maybe even a puppy might be waiting for me! Whatever it was, it was bound to be great. I was tingling with anticipation while I tiptoed the creaking wooden floorboards while guided arm in arm by my two closest siblings. A mere seconds later I heard, “Hey, Lou! Is it ready?”

“Yeah, bring her closer.” Lou, the eldest, whispered to Gabe. OH! It was so close, the surprise! The possibilities ran through my head again and my excitement grew exponentially. “You ready, Soph?”, his question was answered by a hurried head nod, “Okay, open your eyes…. Now!”

“…AAAAHHHHHHHHH!” I ran, screaming bloody murder and sobbing to stairs. What had greeted me wasn’t spectacular or marvelous in any way. It wasn’t a new toy or accessory or pet. No, it was a crab shell with its face only centimeters from mine. From the staircase I could hear rolling laughter coming from all three of my siblings.

 It lasted only a few moments but that scene of memory still burns in my mind when I think of my childhood. Of course, now that story is one told at family parties and everyone laughs, including me. That along with all the other scenes of my childhood, clear or hazy, funny or horrifying, good or bad, make up who I am today. Without these experiences I wouldn’t have learned some of life’s biggest lessons, such as: not to be naive, to stand up for myself, to deal with bullies, to forgive, and to forget.

In an odd way I have to thank the people that made me cry on a daily basis in grade school, the people that didn’t acknowledge my existence until 8^th grade, and the siblings that made sure I knew I was omega. Because without them I wouldn’t be the confident, outspoken, silly, rough-around-the-edges girl that we’ve all come to know and love.