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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.

Dreams Lost At An Instant

    Its September 8 2008 and it’s the second day of school except for me its my first, it also happens to be the day after my cousin’s Norieliz funeral. As I enter through the double doors of the main entrance the voices of rowdy kids talking to the friends they had made the day before around me seem to disappear and the picture of the lights of doom coming our way and throwing us to the side of the road replays in my -mind and I feel like I don’t belong here while she is gone.

     The weekend before 8^th grade began will forever in my mind remain as the weekend my life changed. I gained knowledge but in return I lost someone important to me. Aliana one of my closest cousins from my moms’ side invited me to a cookout her friend was having to say goodbye to the summer before school started. Having nothing to do and over hearing our conversation she wanted to join us and fist pump until the sun came up like she use to say. My diary as I use to call her would sure make that night was memorable.

    I remember giving her that name during a summer swim at her house. We had been talking about our life’s and catching up for the whole two weeks we hadn’t seen each other when I said you might as well be my diary and ever since then that named stayed to her and that’s what she was in my mind and her mind as well. Out of everyone in my life she was the one that I could sit for hours and tell her anything and everything and she could sit with me for hours and not judge me, give me good advice, and let me know I wasn’t alone. She was the only person in my life whom I was sure I could always count on, the only one I could cry with, laugh until our stomachs hurt with and act like a total weirdo with and still feel comfortable. She was more then just a cousin to me. She was my diary.

    After Norieliz had already said yeah to the idea of spending our last official weekend of summer vacation at a cookout something came up. We all were willing to go but we didn’t have anyone to drive us there and drive us back home. As we sat outside on the porch looking into the tress of the suburbs of Atco, New Jersey my cousin oldest cousin Joshua came in the driveway. We all looked at each other and ran to ask him if he was willing to go with us. At first of course he said no I have better things to do but after a while he gave up to three sets of puppy eyes staring at him and sarcastic remarks being made over his favorite show family guy on a Thursday afternoon.

    That Saturday night was quite interesting. We all had tons of fun. The food had been good and the strangers we met soon became friends. We all felt right at home and felt like we had known everyone before. When we noticed it getting late we all decided it was time to leave and head home to watch a movie and chill for the rest of the night. We said our good byes our call me or hit up my inbox and were on our way to Joshua’s Red Expedition which he had bought a month ago from my dad.

    As Joshua was pulling out his keys I tried to run for the front door but of course like always Norieliz beat me to it. For some reason their always had to be an argument over who sat in the front when it came down to her or me. We knew it was childish and immature but it was something that had always been with us and it was hard pushing a routine to the side of the road and abandoning it there like a lost sad puppy. Of course after a while we annoyed Joshua and Aliana who sat in the back with an annoyed look on her face which made her look like a little girl that didn’t get her way with her parents. So Joshua said come on get in the car and whoever got their first get in the front. This time it went her way as I walked away with a smirk on my face and her making fun of me like a little girl at the playground that had beat her classmate to the swing. She sat put her seatbelt on and in no longer then five minutes we had already reached the highway home. As we reached our first intersection and red light we all laughed at each other’s jokes on other drivers. When that light turned green and we were halfway thought the intersection I turned to see a big white f150 truck coming our way at full speed. In an instant those laughs turned into eyes of disbelieve and screams.

    Before I could scream the F150 had hit the left side of the truck and the truck spun to the left side of the road. It all happened in an instant. I felt my head hit the back of the seat and hit the front seat. I heard Aliana and Norieliz scream at the same time their screams felt like my ears were being stung by a thousand bees. I heard people screaming get them out but after a while they faded and all was silent .The sound of distant sirens made me realize that this wasn’t a dream but a nightmare considering all the pain I felt. As they got closer I yelled at all 3 of them that help was here and yelled desperately but no one answered. I didn’t know what to do until I finally felt Aliana touch my hand. She wasn’t strong enough to talk but she let me know she was ok. When the paramedics got there they took Aliana and me out first and took us to the hospital. All I wanted to know was if Joshua and Norieliz were going to be ok. As the sirens pulled away the image of the accident came back my eyes felt heavy and I couldn’t take the pain of the left side of my face, which was pretty swollen, and I drifted into what seemed like eternal sleep.

    When I finally woke up I was laying in a hospital bed with both my parents and my big brother Carlos. My mom crying being held by my dad at the left side of my bed and Carlos holding onto my hand on the opposite side. He held it as if it would be the last, like he never wanted to let go of me. As I opened my eyes I remembered what happened. My mom as fast as a new mother trying to find what was wrong with her crying baby came to my side and hugged me. It should have been comforting but it was painful. She kissed my cheek but it was bruised from the impact and it hurt like the pain of getting punched by the bully at the playground. I tried to tell her I was fine but it hurt to even try to talk. She told me it was ok and stepped back just as the nurse came in to check on me.

    As soon as she touched my head it hurt the pain was unbearable and I felt like those skinned knees I got as a kid were nothing but a simple scratch compared to the pain I felt now. She checked and said I had a bump on the back of my head and that the doctor would be looking at it. When she was done and left I asked if everybody else was ok, pausing after each word to sooth the pain. All was quite until my dad spoke up and said Norieliz is watching up from above now. As soon as those words flowed through the air and hit me all I could do was ask why and cry.

    Just as that happened both Joshua and Aliana came in and stood at either sides of my bed they looked at my once smiling face and hugged me. Standing there I could hear her tell me it would be fine and that she wouldn’t ever leave my side. We all had been left with a permanent scar. At that point none of our injuries really matter as much as loosing her did. Not Joshua’s stitched up eye or Aliana’s broken arm and glass cut once flawless face. As that was happening my mom handed me the picture frame with her once smiling face. That picture frame with the beautiful sun descending into its cave until the next morning. The picture frame that showed the crashing waves against her bare toes and her perfect smile glistening like the North Star. As we all stared endlessly at the frame we realized she was watching over us because we had all made it, maybe injured but we would be fine. What happened that night had left permanent scars of lost but we now more then ever valued our families and the people surrounding us.

 Even I cannot begin to understand how and why I ended up here. Honestly, it makes absolutely no sense. I acted on pure impulse, not even thinking.  The voice of an actor on my favorite television show quick flashes through my mind, “No repercussions! No repercussions!”. In a way those words comforted me. I was here now; there was now way of getting out until the end. What happens happens. It is as simple as that.

I had gotten into large storage bin. The lid was sealed with duck tape to relieve me of any hopes of getting out. Inside the container, it was darker than the oubliette under a castle. My surrounding air was hot, heavy, and scarce. Could this be the end of me? The container was dragged to the middle of a very large outdoor trampoline. Snickers of my surrounding siblings echoed through the empty yard. “Are you ready?” he said.  Ready for what, I thought. At that very moment, someone on the outside of the container jumped. As the two feet that were once in the air landed back on the trampoline, the container and I went flying.Maybe this was not such a good idea.

I never fail to find myself in the middle of a situation that could have been completely prevented. My better judgment and common sense always seem to show their faces in the midst of my latest mishap.  It almost seems like the direct intention of my common sense and better judgment is to teach me a lesson. By waiting until I am in the middle of a situation to show up, they allow me to experience my mistake and visualize how it could have been better handled or even prevented.

“Just get in. Stop being so chicken. You are such a scaredy cat,” he said. “ Yeah Manna, stop being such a chicken. Just do it.” she echoed. Their voices bounced around in my empty mind for a moment. My brief moment of considering what they wanted me to do only came from my fear of their request. In that brief moment, never did the thought of how this would affect me, cross my mind. I simply heard them mocking me, telling me that I was too scared and a chicken. They began to beg. I gave in.

Their request was simple. All I had to do was climb into the seventy-four gallon storage container waiting for me in the backyard on the trampoline. Our backyard was about half an acre large. In the yard there were oak trees that stretched so high, their branches tickled the sky in the wind. The ground was carpeted with sporadic patches of grass, fallen acorns, and beautiful leaves in all the colors of autumn. At the rear of the yard sat our do and his house. He sat and watched our every move, curiously trying to figure out what was going on. Right in the center of the yard was the largest outdoor trampoline money could buy.

One foot at a time, I stepped into the prepared container. It was laced with small blankets and stuffed animals for cushion. Once I was in the container the lid was slapped on and sealed with and immensely thick wrap of duck tape. Any hope of second thought was now gone. “I can not breath!” I screamed. “Oh, I almost forgot.” With in five seconds a small silver point pierced the lid of the container stopping before it reached my face. Why had I let the talk me into doing this?

On any given day it is clear that I can speak for myself and make my own decisions, for some reason this day turned out to be no ordinary day. My decision-making skills were null and void to the begging and mockery of my siblings. I knew that I would be putting myself some sort of direct danger, and yet I succumb to their pleas. The simplest definition for this would be peer pressure.  Yes, it is true that I did succumb to the begging of my siblings, but this event is the effect of my poor decision-making and judgment. In fact no one is to blame but myself. I chose to do what I did and must accept the consequences, whether they are good or bad. Out our mishaps and choices come the lessons that shape who we are.

“Let’s all jump at the same time,” he suggested. “Alright let’s do it!” they responded. “ 1, 2, 3, jump!”  As all six feet that were once in the air landed back on the trampoline, the container and I were catapulted off. Our land in was not soft. We hit the ground with the force of and asteroid impact on earth. We lied there on our sides, waiting to see what was to come next.

Squ-eak. Squeak. Squ-eak. They were off he trampoline.  Vibrations from a blend of soft and heavy footsteps could be felt approaching us. Small snickers turned in to an uproar of laughter. It really is not that funny, I thought. The tape used to prevent my escape was cut. Cautiously, I opened the container, unaware of what was to meet me at my exit. That first breath of fresh air, felt like I was a newborn taking my first breath of life. Yet, my now surrounding air was being sucked up by the laughter of my siblings. I stared at them in contemplation, attempting to figure out what was so funny about what had just happened. Immediately, I burst out laughing. I realized that laughing was the best medicine for what happened. This had become a lesson learned. Besides, if I were on the other side of the container I would be laughing too.

My dad and I were sitting in his dark silver Tahoe. The radio was on but it was low, so the voice of whom ever singing was heard very faintly. We drove to North Philly to pick up his friend from work but he wasn’t coming out the door for another fifteen to twenty minutes. It was cold out so the heat was on and we started talking to so we wouldn’t think about the long wait. “Music is, well I believe it is the best thing ever invented, maybe not some much as invented but you get the drift.It’s amazing how many different genres there are.  I love music and they way it’s made you have the beats and the base of a song. It’s like I become one with the beat and base. Taking me to a place where I completely feel on top of the world. We talk about music so often because it is like our own language in a way. We express ourselves with symbolism, the symbolism being the music. People are always saying how there is a song for every emotion you feel no matte what it is. I’ll sometimes start the conversation off with a song I was thinking of then tell how it is affecting me at that moment. It’s a important topic because, “music is a way I bring my mentally back to reality.” My father and I talk about music a lot I remember it like it was yesterday when I told him that.           

            Then I stared to explain to him how talking to him and talking to my cousins about the same topic causes a big change in vocabulary and more use of slang. If I talk to them the way I talk to my parents they would either get bored with what I’m saying, not fully understand because they would no longer be paying attention, or laugh or ask why am I speaking like a white person. When the say white person they’re referring to Standard English. To them all people of the Caucasian race speak proper. If they see someone speaking proper and they’re not of the Caucasian race they would ask why is that person talking white or not talking the way their race is stereotyped to speak. Most of the time when I talk to them I find myself code switching to make it easier for them as well as myself. If I don’t use a small portion of slang I feel like I don’t fit in with them or they won’t get the significance of what I’m talking about. For me using slang make me feel very uncomfortable but I am indirectly forced to use it at times. Not saying that is it a horrible thing but most of the time I’d rather not use slang. Just in asking a simple question my cousin tends to use slang. We were in my room my cousin sat on my bed an I sat on the floor leaning my ear towards her voice because she was talking to me while I was typing on my computer  “Aja ain’t you gonna go wid us to da mall tomar or you ain’t ask ya mom?” My replay “Well I’m not go”-----(before I can finish my sentence I quickly remember the switch) “ Well I ain’t goin’ cuz I gota lota homework to do and it’s mad drawin’ so ya know I’ma be gettin’ it in.” When I said that I didn’t even feel like myself anymore. For some reason or another using slang shows my maturity level, others see this as not being true. When you go to school and learn the proper way to speak, slag then becomes something that tends to slip out from time to time but not used as much as people thing the average teenager would.

            In a passage Language, a place of struggle by bell hooks she states, “An unbroken connection exist between the broken English of the displaced, enslaved African and the diverse black vernacular speech black folks use today” (298). Some people that are African American tend to use slang but it is often called or considered to be Black English to some people. I believe there is no such thing, as Black English the outside world seems to think so. Just two nights ago I was talking to my dad at the dinner table everybody at the table was finished eating but I still needed somewhere to lead my English paper. So I asked him did he think there was a thing called Black English? He said he didn’t then he started to explain how African Americans aren’t the only people who use slang. The he said, “If you are speaking and it has to be translated because it has such a hard dialect that can not be understood by others then you are speaking slang. There are Caucasian, Spanish, African and all other people of different races who use slang. They have there own way of using it but everybody uses it.” After he said that I had to think for a minute as ask another question that I felt would get me even deeper into writing my essay. “Dad do you think that all black people should know slang? From the video I watched in class, some people in society strongly believe most or all black people use slang. Do you think if you don’t know slang then you don’t know who you are?” “Yes, to a certain extent. I think if you don’t know you own dialect and your own slang then you don’t know your background.” I then had a confused look on my face so then he began to start explaining himself “Not saying you have to use slang but some people are a product of their environment they grew up using slang and always being around it so that is all they know. You should know where you came from.”

            See some people mistake knowing where you came from to stereotyping to speak or have a dialect that they associate with the color of their sink. The first thing that society seems to hit is the vernacular of African Americans. It’s a topic that comes up time and time again because there truly isn’t a wrong or right way to speak nor is there Black English. As you can see when I talked to my dad jumped to the defense of African Americans.

            Have you ever wondered why, when ever dialect is talked about people jump to speaking slang, associate slang with African Americans then say African Americans speak Black English. They evolved that term from saying Ebonics. Ebonics is slang plain and simple. Society on the other hands believes that Ebonics is the dialect of all African American people. Even if you Google search the definition because you have to see it to believe it, it tells you Ebonics in the dictionary is defined as,the colloquial term for African American Vernacular English (AAVE) or a nonstandard form of American English characteristically spoken by African Americans in the United States. This definition matter because it’s so believed to be true that all African Americans speak Ebonics that now it can be researched on the internet for verification. Once something is on the enter net everybody is able to view it. So I figured it all out the reason why African American speak is constantly stalked about because it is the most obvious stereotype that is extremely noticeable. Weather you know a person or not the way they speak becomes very distinctive if you’re not too familiar with it. When you hear a dialect that sounds nothing like yours, you first start to ask yourself why they sound that way and do they know how they sound when they’re speaking. Or if they’re not speaking the stereotypical way of their race the big question then turns into, do they know they’re not talking like their ethnic group. When in fact it isn’t that not one bit. It’s just they way they were brought up or the only thing they know. In my house my dad does not allow a lot of slang because him and my mom both feel that using slag with adults is disrespectful, not the proper way of speaking and most important slag is not Standard English. By Standard English they mainly refer to the way we are taught to speak in school. 

            Sometimes in some way our identities are created for us. By us taking in what we learn from home and the people we are around everyday. They way we speak has different influences on our personality so in some ways, we language allow it to change who we are when we worry about what society thinks. We must forget that society makes an aspect of only Standard English being correct when in reality it is not.

Since the beginning of civilization people have used language to their advantage. When invading or taking over a new land, the invaders had the upper hand because the others could not understand their words.  The invaders saw them as inferior. Language is still used in this same way today, but instead of individualizing and using their own language to an advantage, people find it necessary to change their language to match the power of the invader.

 Those who have power in language are the people who speak the standard form of the language. These people speak in a way that is accepted and understood by all who listen. They remove all traces of accent or dialect. No trace of individuality can be heard. These people give up their identity and individuality to become successful. From their actions one can assume that, to be a powerful and successful member of society, they have to speak in the standard and universally acceptable form of language.  All other ways of speaking and their speakers are inferior. 

My young mind could not begin to comprehend why they thought I was being disrespectful. I simply said, “Can I go to the park with Lucia, please?” How could a simple question be considered as disrespect? I hadn’t asked for anything inappropriate or unusual. So I stood there unsure of what to say, awaiting their next response.

On the heated porch of a small country house in Mississippi sat the children of my now late grandfather Green. Their faces were sent on content and laughter. The daughters all three of them raged in shades of skin color, or chocolate as my grandfather called it. The three girls sat in their rocking chair, rocking at a steady pace so that a light breeze would move synchronized with their motion. On the left was Christine. She was the milk chocolate of the three. Her clothing clung tight to her body, using the sweat that was pouring from her as an adhesive. In the middle was Joyce. She was the white chocolate. She too was sweating, but she made it a frequent habit to dab herself dry. To the right of Joyce, was Deloris. She was the dark chocolate and the heat was doing quite a number on her. Her skin seemed to be melting away from the skeleton it was molded on. The two sons sat on both sides of the group of women looking like dry skeletons.

I stood behind the rickety green screen door watching them. They were fascinating. Never in my entire life had I heard such a “twang” or essence of country in a person’s voice. They took what seem to be hours to me to breath in between words and years to breath between sentences. “Did yall heah wat they says bout Normajean, round down in Winona?” Her voice echoed in my head. My brain being wired by my mother to fix all grammatical errors that are spoken, rephrased the question the way it should have been said. Did you all hear about Normajean in Winona? I was only ten and I was speaking correctly. Why couldn’t she? Or was it me that was speaking in correctly?

I was still standing with my face plastered to the screen door, when Lucia stepped to the children. “ I’ms goin to the river yonder bhinde Ole Duncan’s.” Her words burned themselves in my mind.  Mentally, sparks were flying trying to reconnect find the socket where grammar and articulation were correct. I burst out the door and asked my question. Maybe, if they heard me speak they could see the right way to speak. “Can I go with Lucia, please?” 

It was a simple question. The question only required a simple yes or no, but that is not what happened. Their words came slow, strong, and countrified. “How dares you gon speeak toos us lak dhat. Didn’t yo mama rise you bedder. We’s elder dhan you.” Her voice was over powered by one that was heavier and owned by a man,“I’s kno yo mama teached you sum spect’. Youse a youngin. Can’t be commin round heah an talking like yous bettah dhan us. Talk rhight an doos it nhow. We’s ain’t gon take no despect from no youngin!” His voice faded into the now thick air. 

I stood there frozen. My mouth was open to speak, but not a word could bring itself to existence. I didn’t know how to speak without disrespect. I didn’t know how to abandon the way I had been wired to speak to satisfy another. My mind remained in contemplation and my body stood frozen.

My speech was not disrespect; it was demeaning. The words and the way that they were said, threatened the children. My actions were not intentional, but they were taken as so. A simple question had been blown out of proportion. I could not understand why it was that they saw my speech as disrespectful, but I did know that I did not approve. At that very moment I decided that my way of speaking had power and that because I, and others that primarily surround me approve, it was the right way to speak and I would use it.

The faces of the children were of belittlement and disgust.  I looked into their eyes and regained my innocence. They still stared at me. All of us, dumbfounded. I murmured a soft apology, “Sorry”. All eyes immediately met mine. I stood there unsure of what to say, awaiting their next response.

Standard language leaves people with accents and dialects dumb. Words that once had a specific definition in one dialect are now adopted and added to the standard language and their definitions are changed. The definitions are adjusted to fit the standard. In his essay “If Black English Isn't a Language, then Tell Me What It.”  James Baldwin highlights words such as “Jazz” that once carried a sexual meaning and was primarily used by African Americans, but now means fancy or expensive. The language conformed. It’s meaning changed along with those who used the words. This is an example of how language almost forces conformity upon us. It is not done in a harsh violent matter, but by changing the meaning of a word and its speakers others have to adopt this new way to continue usage. Their ideas about their language have to change to meet the norm, to fit in.

Language has power only because humans have given power to it. We fuel language and in doing that we also promote language inequality and conformity. We strip ourselves of individuality and make a system of superiority. Because we have done this people live their lives trying to reach the status of the invaders. 

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.