A young dark skinned black girl logs into her daily fix of social media. Endless tweets of pictures of brown beauties smother her laptop screen; pictures of black women embracing their radiant melanin, kinky fros, broad noses and thick lips. Their eyes glow with delight as they espouse their confidence of inner and outer beauty. The young girl smiles to herself and finds her insides warm up with happiness with the sights of uplifting comments and compliments towards these women. Comments like “YASSSSSSSS!” and “Black girl magic” and in simpler terms, “Beautiful”; comments that’ll make any girl feel good about herself.

But the young dark-skinned black girl continues to scroll down her screen and the compliments slowly drown into a deep pit of hate and disgust:

“Dark-skinned bitches will never be attractive lol.”

“She’s pretty for a dark skinned girl”

“She’d be better if her skin was  one shade lighter and had a smaller nose.”

“Yeah she’s nice looking, but I’ll never marry a dark girl. She gotta be light so my kids will be pretty”

And the young black girl as well slowly drowns into a deep pit of hate and disgust, but with herself.

A young black girl who momentarily began to break free from the cage of detestation but got the chance to soar, was abruptly struck by the bullet of indignity, killing her self confidence and security.

Unnerved, the dark-skinned black girl slams her laptop screen, while sparkling tears cascade down the curves of her cheeks, dripping onto the sheets of her bed. Tears that hold sorrow, rejecting the love for herself.

That young-dark skinned black girl could be you. That young-dark skinned girl was once me…

Once a dark skinned girl who wasn’t in love with myself. A girl who couldn’t see the beauty in my features. A girl who was constantly reminded by society that she wasn’t attractive nor wanted by the world, yet her entire physique is copied by everyone. A girl who was constantly reminded by her own men that she was no longer needed for love and instead, lusted over her light and white counterparts. A girl who was constantly reminded that her complexion will never go away and that she could do nothing but accept the foundation of her being that she didn’t appreciate.

Growing up, there was always a sense of paranoia attributed with my skin. Countless days worrying if a guy will find me pretty, only to find out that he was only interested in my light skinned friends. This was something that I got used to, as I thought that this was a routine that I would have to accept for the rest of my life, however, I did not want to accept this fate. There were constant thoughts of the perceptions people would have of me because of my complexion. Would they think I’m ghetto? Ugly? Loud? Dumb? Not capable of achieving a higher level in life?

If you look up the word black, more specifically darkness, you find words like, misery, disaster, evil and wicked, anger and etcetera; all words that can be attributed with pessimism, and that is what I felt like. I was a vessel that contained nothing but despair, angst, and negativity but also a void that longed for firm trust in myself and confidence. And I wasn’t the only one.

One day, I had came across a statement by rapper, Andre 3000

                               “Across cultures, darker people suffer the most. Why?”

I took it upon myself to evaluate this quote and apply it to myself. In this case, I fell victim to this declaration. I was the dark person who was suffering in this white washed culture, but why? When I was born, I certainly did not automatically hate myself. But I was conditioned to do so. Subtly, through the media, I was told that my appearance was not wanted. I was told this with the lack of representation of dark black woman in media, and if there was representation, it was minor and/or often did not shine the best light upon us. I was told this through Covergirl and Maybelline commercials, where peach flesh toned models graced the television screen but not one looked like me, hinting that darker woman could not be beautiful.

This world tries its best to make sure we, as dark skinned black people, hate ourselves. When we arrived in this country, from the minute we stepped off that slave ship, whites made sure with there own obligation, that we hated ourselves. We were stripped of our names, language, culture and religion, and forced to adapt to theirs. They told us we were ugly, savage beasts that deserved no life. They plotted dark-skinned and light-skinned slaves against each other so that there could be no unity. We had lost everything we knew about ourselves and with that, we also lost who we were as a people and thus lost our connection and pride. Why did they do this?

Because they know that when we, as a people are one, we unite! We gain too much power in our knowledge of self and beauty. So they did that, to make us weak to this world. And when I finally recognized this corroboration, I made it my duty to diminish any thoughts of hate, and replace them with admiration.

It wasn’t easy. I had to learn to love and at many times, I felt like giving up. But I remembered that one day, I was to bear dark-skinned children into this world, and that possibly, they would face the same problems that I, at the moment had with myself. That was not what I wanted; I want my future children to grow with love for their complexion, but how could I expect them to love themselves, if I couldn’t? So I pushed myself to love myself.

I went on social media and looked at beautiful black woman that resembled me; that adored themselves. Looked through hashtags like “#blackoutday” and”#melaninmondays”, with refreshing pictures of dark woman. I read articles of woman like me, who too, faced similar problems like me. I looked and examined myself in vain, until I appreciated myself in full.

And now I do.

Self love is a long journey; it does not happen overnight. It takes deep thinking to realize where the problem with yourself sprouted from and when you recognize that problem, the rest is just a matter of striving to end what you no longer want.

I love my prominent features of my face; how pronounced they are. I love how my naturals kinks and zig zags of hair defy gravity, winding up towards the sun, as if they are reaching for its light. I love how my melanin absorbs the sun’s rays, mimicking the glow of honey and brown sugar.

I am magic. I am light. I am a goddess, a queen.

Introduction: I wanted to write about a topic that I am very passionate about. Everyone who is somewhat close to me knows how much on a daily basis I talk about cultural appropriation and my views and belief on it. I felt like this was the perfect opportunity to do so. In this essay, I explore the cons of cultural appropriation, as well as explain the parallels of cultural appropriation vs. appreciation. I also included a scene of memory that is a bit personal, but I'm proud in doing so because it is important that people come to know battles that you've struggled with because they may have struggled with those problems too and in return find closure in what you've wrote. As a writer, I plan to grow a bit more by exploring different topics like these and not being afraid to share my opinions on controversial topics such as this.

Suffocated by the soft, downy pillows and encapsulated by the fleecy fabric of my comforter, I lay on my bed engulfed into the images etched onto the screen of my phone. It is a long afternoon awaited; I just got back home from school and my entire body AND brain aches from the daily school-tasks of, writing, studying and thinking, purely exhausting. What better way to relax than to scroll endlessly, drifting off into a hazy cloud of social media? Away I go! “Hmmm, I think I’ll go on Instagram first.”  I think to myself. The hazy cold-blue light of the cellular device projects onto my face when suddenly my eyes widen with confusion. Images of people with distorted lips appear all on my news feed. Their bruised abnormal mouths match their painful expressions. Below these images I see in big, bold, blue text:

                                              #KYLIEJENNERLIPCHALLENGE

“Ugh! Kylie Jenner!” I say aloud. I’ve already expressed my disdain for this girl because of her “Kylie Jenner Lips” but c’mon! Now people all over social media are creating entire hashtags in honor of something she didn’t even have a whole year ago! I feel a surge of anger flow through my veins; the prickly heat of rage and disappointment seeps throughout my blood. Why does social media praise this girl as if she the almighty creator of big lips? Black girls are born into this world with big full lips but instead of admiration, we receive mockery.

But why? Because culture that people of color identify themselves with are only seen as significant and appropriate when associated with white people. This can be described as “cultural appropriation”. Society values the cultural objects, identities and items of an oppressed people when it is in the possession of a white person.

As a young black girl, I rarely ever saw any depiction of my features in the media. Even now, it is still hard to see any representation of black women. Because of that, I grew up very insecure and never saw the real beauty in me and people similar to me.

I stand in front of the spotless mirror in the corner of my bedroom. I examine every crevice and curve of my face. I trace the slope of my wide nose, wishing it was slimmer, touch thickness of my cupid’s bows, hoping it would become thinner and inspect the complexion of my skin, wondering why I couldn’t be lighter. It’s ugly, all of it. My eyes pour water out my tear ducts and in them, I bask in the rainfall of self-hate.

That was years ago, when I was uncomfortable with my looks, but now I’ve accepted who I was born as and love myself. But I am not the only black female who has experienced this self conflict. We, as blacks girls were, and still are, teased for our “gargantuan” features. From our broad noses, to our thick lips, to our curvy hips and voluptuous behinds. Cloaks of shame are thrown onto our bodies and our identities. But for our white female counterparts, (and sometimes on other women of color), when sporting our “anomalies” it is “exotic”and “acceptable” on them. They adopt what we identify with and make it into their own.

Cultural appropriation: the adopting of one’s culture as a trend, while simultaneously, ignoring the cultural significance of the object that is being appropriated, and being praised for it. Cultural appropriation is an extremely disrespectful act. Not only are you taking a culture’s object to identify yourself, but the people of that culture that you are appropriating, are completely disregarded. In other words, as described by Twitter user @slytherinpunk, cultural appropriation is like “...working on a project and getting an F and then someone copies u and gets an A & credit. That’s the big problem with cultural appropriation; the appropriator is praised for the adoption of one’s culture while the creators of that culture are criticized for representing their culture. However, there are some cases where the appropriator is unaware of the cultural significance of the item, in which the appropriation of the object/culture is in use of ignorance.

Some may argue that instead of “appropriation” of one’s culture, it is “appreciation” of that culture. The person who is committing the act may not be intentionally appropriating one’s culture to adopt as its own, but to show its common interest in that culture. However, it is still not suitable to do so. For example, a white man decides to grow dreadlocks, with preconceived information about the value of growing this popular black hair-style and the symbolism it represents. He wears them, without undergoing the several obstacles that a black man with locks will deal with. He is not called a thug, he is not looked at as if he sells drugs, he will not be told that he looks like he smells like “weed and patchouli”, but he may very well might fit all of those described. But it is the black man with dreadlocks who will suffer those stereotypes because of his race. The white man will not suffer because of his privilege. So out of respect, even if the perpetrator is showing his appreciation of a culture, it is best that he doesn’t. Because the one who the culture belongs to will be treated unfairly compared to the one who is appropriating it.

Cultural appropriation is a product of white privilege  and oppression. When people of color came to this country (excluding Native Americans) they were shunned for expressing their culture. Whites were able to express their culture freely.  People of color were forced to accept white culture as a means of being accepted. For example, many blacks were forced to tame their wild afros which held such liberal significance throughout the civil rights movement and instead get relaxers, just so they could get hired for a white man’s job/company. Many other people of color were teased for their vernacular and slang and told to speak “normal” or “proper”. So when a white person appropriates those things, it’s a slap in the face because not to long ago, they made sure that we felt ashamed by the way we walk, talk, dress, look and dance. When people of color explore other people of color’s culture, that is diversity. We as people of color, know how it feels for someone to make fun of our culture, so when we see other people of color exploring and rocking our culture, we see it as appreciation because at least we understand. When a white person does it, it’s somewhat mockery. For instance, Rachel Dolezal, the white woman who passed off as a black woman; complete disrespect to black women everywhere. To walk around pretending to be black is mockery because as a white woman, she’ll never know the ups and downs, trials and tribulations it is to be black AND female.  Because at the end of the day, Rachel can straighten her hair and lose the tan and go back to getting all the white privilege she can get her hands on. But it doesn’t work the other way around. people of color can never be accepted by whites, no matter how good their income is, what degree they have nor how well they speak, because we’ll always be seen as a minority.

It is important that people learn their boundaries with one’s culture.  Channeling a culture as your own is impertinent. Hopefully, there comes a time where people can learn to embrace their own identities, rather than taking someone else's.

Jabbar, Kareem Abdul. "Cornrows and Cultural Appropriation." Time. Time, 26 Aug. 2015. Web. 25 Nov. 2015. <http://time.com/4011171/cornrows-and-cultural-appropriation-the-truth-about-racial-identity-theft/>.

Johnson, Maisha Z. "What’s Wrong with Cultural Appropriation? These 9 Answers Reveal Its Harm." Everyday Feminism. Everyday Feminism, 14 June 2015. Web. 23 Nov. 2015. <http://everydayfeminism.com/2015/06/cultural-appropriation-wrong/>.

"Watch Amandla Stenberg's Primer on Cultural Appropriation." Dazed. N.p., 16 Apr. 2015. Web. 23 Nov. 2015. <http://www.dazeddigital.com/artsandculture/article/24431/1/watch-amandla-stenbergs-primer-on-cultural-appropriation>.

Jaiyeola Omowamide. Two words, seventeen letters and 9 syllables of utter confusion.

For the longest time, I hated my name. It was something that I detested. It was like carrying a huge boulder on my back; nothing but a burden.

I didn’t always despise it. Maybe because I was too young to recognize the difficulty associated with it, but my detestation didn’t begin until I started elementary school. As a child, I was called many names; Zion by my mother, Jaiye by my father, Jaiyeola, by my grandmother, and even Butterfly because my mom described me as ¨being shy and always floating around¨ I recognized all these titles and had love for all of them...until I began school.

Throughout preschool and kindergarten, I had zero insecurities about my name. My mind was filled with the innocence of juvenescence, but when first grade commenced, I soon began to mature and with maturity, comes dignity and establishment of self identity. I became aware of how difficult it was for my teachers, classmates and even family members to pronounce my name. This made me very uncomfortable and in return, I developed a deep insecurity towards my name. An island of unconfidence began to grow around me where I was surrounded by  Taylors,  Michaels  Ashleys and Brians, and then it was  just me, Jaiye; alone, feeling like I was the only one. It’s a curse I thought.  I felt like I didn’t belong and that inaugurated a shamefulness against my name , that would take years to overcome. It was then and there that I automatically ignored all of the love I had for “Jaiyeola”  and replaced it with hate.

First days of school were always the worst, at least for me. Not because I was nervous to see all my friends but...you guessed it,  because of my name.

It was the first day of fifth grade. New school, new teachers, different faces. I hesitantly walked into the classroom. About twenty faces stared as I walked in, face down, trembling because of  the intense anxiety that dawned on me as I realized that the teacher would soon have to call out my name on roll. As I waited, I went over in my head fifty times how I would correct her once she pronounced my name wrong. Should I just interrupt her before she even attempts to? Or should I just tell her now before she starts roll call? It was like self torture. I could feel the prickly heat of sweat begin to to form. The teacher began to go down the list. I was completely unaware of when my name would be called next. As she read each name, apprehensive thoughts filled my mind. What if the class laughs? I was so distracted with the thoughts in my brain, that I hadn’t noticed that she had approached my name. I knew because she made a strained face. Her face became tense as she thought of how she would pronounce it.  

“Jeyailoa?” she said. Every syllable that passed through her thin lips felt like nails on a chalkboard. That was nowhere close to how it was supposed to be pronounced. I could hear snickers in the background. I could feel the burning sensation behind eyes begin to form. Don’t cry I told myself. I forced myself to wear the most genuine smile.

“It’s Jaiye. Jaiye for short.”

“Oh...that’s different. Very different.” she softly smiled.

From that moment on, not only did I hate my name even more, but I hated first days of school.

Days that I had substitute teachers were even worse. With my normal teachers, they would learn my name after a week or two, so the stress eventually would be lifted off my back, but when a substitute showed up, it was like my life was rewinded back to the first day of school. And the hatred would suddenly came back. I remember cringing as the sub would try to pronounce my name. I wanted to shoot up from my seat and yell “ It’s Jaiye! Jai-yay! It’s not that freaking difficult!” But instead, a quivering hand would hesitantly, shoot up.

“It’s Jai-Jaiye,” I would stutter. “Jaiye is short for Jaiyeola.”

Even though there are people out there in the world,  with more difficult names to pronounce than me, I felt as if I was the only person out there who experienced this problem. I didn’t have much as a significant  problem with my last name because I didn’t identify with my last name as a first name, but I felt the worst towards  “Jaiye” and “Jaiyeola” because those are names that people call me by. Other people that I knew had difficult last names, but easy ¨American¨ first names and I felt left out.  Did my mom and dad not get the memo?

I was at the point in my life where I wanted my name change. I went through a list of names that I could get that was deemed “normal”. Christina? Or maybe Amy like my mother? My name was an anchor holding me back from fitting in. I just wanted to feel accepted. I wanted to feel like the standard white American. And that could all happen if I could discard this confusing, foreign name.

During the afternoon, in the school library, I was at the librarian desk waiting to check out some books. A white male librarian began to scan my books on the monitor. Since it was the school library, all of our names were in the database, so automatically “Jaiyeola Omowamide” popped up on the screen once he scanned the first book. I cringed when I saw the blue lettering on the computer screen. He raised his eyebrows at me in astonishment.

“ Wow, how do you pronounce your name?” he asked.

“Jai-yay-hola, O-moe-wah-me-day.” I replied.

“West African huh?’

           “ Yes, Nigeria to be exact.” I smiled

           “ It’s beautiful. Some of the most beautiful names are foreign to this land. Enjoy your day, young lady”

           “Thank you”

I walked out the library with a grin as big as the sun, that beams from ear to ear. It was the happiest I felt towards my name in a long time.

But how could something so incomprehensible and ugly be seen as beautiful? I felt as if he and others would just say that to be polite. There was this constant battle between what I heard, and what I wanted to believe. Do these strangers really think my name is as great as it sounds? I spent hours, days, months, and even  years, thinking about this, and then it hit me. If these random people can tell me that they love my name, why can’t I?

Jaiyeola Omowamide; meaning a life of happiness and wealth and that a child has come to us. I was a child that my parents saw as a blessing so in return, I should carry great dignity with my name. My name is Yoruba, a language spoken in Nigeria. It means happiness and success, not depression and failure. It holds great amounts of history and heritage, and was given to me to be carried on to my future children and for those to come. Most African Americans, can never have their original names because their identity was robbed from them when forced to become slaves. I realized how lucky I was. Why hate it? Because it’s not “normal”? Some of the greatest people that lived didn’t become known because of being ordinary. They were unique. Distinct. Individual.  And that’s just what my name is. One of a kind.

I now love my name more than ever. It’s something that I hold with considerable respect and I am forever thankful to my parents for giving it to me. And although, I still get people who mispronounce it, I laugh it off. We shouldn’t have to feel self conscious of ourselves, because we don’t fit the norm. Don’t be ashamed of who you are. And don’t let society deem what is and isn’t normal. This country isn’t just made of one culture, but many; a huge melting pot. Show pride in our heritage and what completes your identity.

PUSH: The Language of Ebonics

Push. The novel  Precious Jones, who evidently does not live the greatest life. Raped by her father when only twelve years old and suffering the physical, emotional and sexual abuse of her mother, while growing up in the ghettos of Harlem, ¨Push¨ tells the story of Precious from her perspective. Cleary illiterate and not having the best income of education, we see the growth and determination of Precious as she strives for a better life but ultimately, it is her language of ebonics throughout the book that successfully grabs the reader and shows us the true spirit of Precious.

From the first sentence of the book, we can already see the intensity of the life she has already lived. She had a baby by her father. Her baby is diagnosed with Down Syndrome and Precious is currently in the ninth grade when she should be well on her way to twelfth grade. She is also pregnant with her second baby, again by her father. The first  couple of pages also introduces to the reader,  the use of ebonics throughout the book and used by Precious. This allows the grittiness of the novels’ true intent to shine through.  We start to see the true nature of Precious as she reflects to herself. ¨I big, I talk, I eats, I cooks, I laugh, watch TV, do what my muver say. But I can see when the picture come back I don’t exist. Don’t nobody want me. Don’t nobody need me...I wanna say I am somebody.¨ Precious recognizes that she wants to become somebody. And her use of ebonics ushers in a tone of sympathy that the reader feels with her. The reader can recognize that by the way that Precious speaks, she has not received the best quality of care and education that a child her age should have,  but disregarding the way that she speaks, we can see her desire to become successful and it shows us her inner voice.

As the novel advances, Precious is placed into an alternative school by school officials. Hoping that she will gain more knowledge, she is  put into a group deemed fit for someone in her dreadful situation. From there, she meets her fellow classmates who, just like her, are not able to read or write. She also meets her new teacher ¨ Miz Rain¨ who Precious seems to take a liking to. Ms Rain has the students and Precious read. Although reluctant to read, Ms. Rain walks Precious through the steps to read a sentence. ¨I say, ¨A Day at the Beach¨. She says very good and closes the book. I want to cry. I want to laugh I want to hug Miz Rain. She make me feel good. I never readed nuffin’ before.”  To a person with the capability to read, this accomplishment seems juvenile, but understanding Precious’ condition allows someone who has faced a reality completely different, to somewhat sympathize with Precious. Her ebonics ushers in a tone of tenacity and strength of her character which gives her purposefulness. The reader establishes the aspiration and  ambition that Precious has to learn, and this is conspicuous, as Precious fills with joy after reading her first sentence. The reader cheers for Precious as they now want her to triumph.  At this point, the reader starts to forge a sympathetic bond with Precious.

One year later, Precious is still in the alternative school. She is immensely fond of school and is appreciative of the knowledge she has gained thus far. ¨One yr I ben scool I like scool I love my teachr. lot I lern. Books I read, chile care work comprts¨ But not everything appears to turn out for the best. Precious is diagnosed with HIV, which she contracted from her father, who recently died of AIDS. Although, she realizes the complications she’ll have to endure in the future, this doesn’t diminish her hope of  achieving her G.E.D. However, she is also very scared of how she will care for herself and if she possibly has AIDS. She decides to confide to Ms. Rain through poetry.

¨I talk to s_____ wrk tody she gonn get tess for me

(I talk to social worker today she gonna get test for me)

an Abdul (se___ of God) to see

(and Abdul servant of God to see)

see the i

ey see

(eye)

see me

liv

(live)

or

die

poslv

(positive)

or

negv

(negative)

wh? wh?

(why? why?)

must

I li

(lie)

to misel

(myself)

I

must

no

(know)

the truf

(truth)...

IV HIV HIV U an Mi coold hav HIV

(IV HIV HIV You and me could have HIV)¨

The juxtaposition of the ebonics and Precious’ poem creates a voice for the streets. It acts as a roar cry for Precious as her attempt to express herself all through writing. The ebonics and misspelled words symbolizes perseverance of Precious as she tries to the best of her ability to spell the words, meanwhile indicate and reveal her true essence. This opens up a deeper side to Precious because rather than hearing her voice through first person, you hear it as she discloses this information to someone else. This allows the reader to see the vulnerable side of her and dwell deep into the mind of Precious. In return, the reader then feels pity as well as condolence towards her.

Blogs have praised ¨Push¨ for the use of AAVE (African American Vernacular English) or ebonics. ¨Sapphire’s use of first-person point of view through Precious deserves high praise. It was as if I was on a phonetic adventure with Precious, and the more that I read, the more her use of language improved. The use of AAVE was prevalent throughout this novel. For example, Precious would use words such as final consonant deletions like “chile” for child, “git” for get, “borned” for born, “sinder” for syndrome (Down syndrome), “wit” for with, “ain’t” as an auxillary, marked third person singulars like “peoples”, unstressed syllable deletion “’cause” for because, and cluster deletions like “muver” for mother.¨ Numerous readers felt as if they could understand Precious more through the ebonics that she spoke throughout the book. The fact that it was spoken in first person also gives the reader a sense of invasion of privacy of Precious, but in a good way. It invades the thoughts of her mind giving the reader a connection towards Precious.

Introducing a form of writing that is not parallel to that of standard English writing can create a beautiful way of  telling a story. In the novel Push, the ebonics  shined a light on the reality of the many lives that people live through all over the world and gave the reader a true insight of the life of teenage girl who wanted nothing more but a better life. Her way of speaking screamed ¨Illiterate!¨ and ¨Dumb ghetto black girl¨ but her mindset spoke ¨determination¨ and ¨hope¨. And in the end, the readers of the book come to love Precious.

(The patient is sitting in a chair. He has a very desolate look on his face, eyes are droopy and his mouth is partially open. He leans in the chair  because he is heavily sedated; his arms hang out by his side of his body, almost lifeless.)

(Sings)

Hickory...dickory..dock..

The mouse… ran up the clock

The clock struck one…

The mouse ran down…

Hickory….dickory..dock

*whispers*

Hickory…..

Dickory……

Dock! (Right on the dock, the patient shoots up in seat, and he discontinues his whispering)

The mouse ran up my clock!

My clock struck one

But it never ran down!

And up that clock he sure did…

(The patient stands up from his seat and walks around stage)

They say I’m crazy (chuckles) but I refuse!

WHY DID I END UP IN HERE?!

I don’t belong in here. They diagnosed me with schizophrenia. Do you believe that?

(Leans toward the audience and points to himself) Look at me. I said look at me goddamn it!

(cries) I’m sane….(stops crying and face gets serious) They threw me in this hell hole

*Bangs repeatedly on head*

Why did he run up that clock?

Why must there be a reason for why he did it?

They took over head, my entire being. I can’t control it! (pulls at hair) Why would they take over my body? Every aspect of my being is completely in control of them! (points to his head)

GET OUT OF ME! (falls to the ground on his knees and sobs) Just get out of me, please. I’m begging you. (continues to sobs and slowly gets up. He staggers from lack of energy)

(Turns front of body toward the audience) I want to go back to a place where I was normal. Back when I was in control. The time where I had a job I was fresh out of college..just graduated. (smiles) Everything was going great for me. (Pauses and thinks to himself) Until they took over me! Why? Dispel from me you beings. You are not me. There is but one and that is me.

(The patient is losing control and starts to show behavior)

So you listen to me! You run down that clock! You and all your little friends. Run down that clock so this clock can finally strike DONE! (At this point, the two men in uniform burst through the room, and drag the patient from his room. The patient is kicking his feet and profanity escapes his mouth)

YOU RUN DOWN THAT CLOCK! RUN DOWN! RUN!

(HE continues to yell the same words until he is dragged out the room. The door slams behind him and all noise is subdued)

¨ Who is it?¨

¨Ummm, someone named Charles.¨

¨Oh, that’s my client from work. Here, pass me my phone.¨

I grab her purse and blindly forage for her phone.

¨C’mon hurry up!¨

¨Wait a minute...almost got it¨

I quickly hand her the device and watch as she answers the man on the other side of the line.

¨Hello? Charles?  Why yes, this is Amy Silveri from Quality Progressions…. Pardon? Yes, I will be visiting your house for a brief meeting regarding the placement of your child...¨

This is a daily routine that I see everyday with the interaction I have with my mom. Now anyone who’s grown up in a black household knows that they’re parents always change the way they talk depending on who they’re talking too and depending on that person’s race. For years I’ve heard my mom’s voice change from her work environment to her social environment. And it wasn’t until recently where I’ve noticed that I do this as well.

There are three types of Jaiye’s.

The white Jaiye.

The black Jaiye.

And the regular Jaiye.

The white Jaiye can be described as the voice I use when I talk to everyday white people. White people I see at school, who I see at supermarkets, who I see walking down the street. My voice suddenly becomes higher and softer and my vocabulary immediately advances. I speak more slowly and my facial expression changes. I make sure to smile and to always appear happy, as if everything is going great. And as I’m doing this, I think to myself, ¨ I hope they don’t think I’m ghetto.¨ and all the other negative stereotypes attributed with blacks. As soon as a white person speaks to me my brain instantaneously reminds myself to ¨Change your voice!¨, and in doing this I automatically become a new person, a new identity, an alternate self. It all becomes a facade.

The black Jaiye is alternately, the voice I use with my blacks peers. It’s the voice where I’m most comfortable with. It allows me to express my individuality better and I feel more accepted with the fact that I’m black. I feel more connected with my roots and the life that we as blacks live. My words become a constant blur; I talk faster, louder and I use slang. ¨Hi¨ or ¨hello¨, becomes ¨Yo¨ or ¨wassup¨. ¨Isn’t¨ becomes ¨ain’t¨.  I use words like ¨jawn¨ and ¨drawlin’¨, words that are indigenous to Philly and that I hear everyday . My native tongue.

And the regular Jaiye is a combination of the two. My language neither leans towards the white dialect or the black dialect. My tongue isn’t biased. I find myself using this the most throughout my everyday life. It has the perfect amount of respect and proper mannerism yet it still holds onto my personality and characteristics that derived from me being African American. The slang and the style is still there yet there’s a proper sophistication in the way that I enunciate the words as they leave my mouth. In doing so, I’m not judged for being too black or too white; too ¨ghetto¨”or too ¨snobby¨.

Throughout my entire life I’ve always had these different personas and evidently, the reasons why I code switch is because of the influence that language and dialect has on today’s society and the way we are viewed as people, especially for a young  African American woman in America.

James Baldwin, a well known African American writer who tackled the topics of race and oppression as well as the topic of African Americans in the white man’s society, wrote an essay on the influence of language on blacks in America and how it has influenced the way we live today. He explained that the way we speak, impacts the social recognition of African Americans, as well as other people of color, stating that, ¨It goes without saying, then, that language is also a political instrument, means, and proof of power. It is the most vivid and crucial key to identify: It reveals the private identity, and connects one with, or divorces one from, the larger, public, or communal identity.¨ Our language, dialect and accent gives us power in this world.  As black Americans, it is prime that we remind ourselves to code switch,  in a society where the mass majority does not see us as intelligent or deemed fit enough into today’s society and a primary reason for this is because of the way we speak. Brought over to this country as slaves, English was never our original language nor was our dialects natural to English. We all developed various accents that people would describe as ¨ghetto¨ and for that, the world views us as ignorant belligerent fools who deserve no chances in life. In doing so, we retain back all power lost and all of the stereotypes pin-pointed towards us are then withdrawn.

As for most blacks, code switching isn't something that we want to do. It’s something that we’re forced to do to reject oppression. People tend to judge us off of our tongue and because of that, we do not get the same opportunities as others. Because of this, the vast majority of blacks live in a life reflected upon poverty, imprisonment, drugs and negativity. But who are we to change who we are to fit the social norm? It is not our fault that we speak like this. We were forced to, and in the end, we've adapted the various dialects and accents that travel across this country. Code-switching is appropriate when needed, but don’t change the way you speak entirely. Language mirrors identity.

Don Marcos

El tienes 40 ańos. Don marcos viven en la ciudad de Filadelfia. El es profesor de español para SLA. El es alto, guapo, seguro, fabuloso,y cómico. Le gusta la colores negro, pardo, y rojo. Le gusta practicar béisbol, natación, correr, y trotar. Le gusta la centro ciudad de Filadelfia.  Le gusta cocinar, ver la tele, ver peliculas. Tiene un perro, un bicicleta, y un moto.

La Casa del Don Marcos

La casa del Don Marcos es en el centro ciudad de Filadelfia. A Don Marcos le gusta la ciudad. Es enorme porque le gusta enormes casas. Esta cerca un parque porque, le gusta andar en bicicleta y porque es puede caminar a su perro. Esta cerca un transporte público porque el puede viajar. Esta cerca un supermercado porque le gusta cocinar.

Describe La Casa del Don Marcos

• La casa tiene cuatro habitaciones grandes.

• La casa tiene un parque de pequeña pero privado para el perro.

• Un corte perfecto practicar beisbol.

• La casa está negro marrón y rojo.

• Hay una piscina bonita en el techo por Don Marcos nadar.

• Hay cocina maravilloso para hacer buenas comidas.

• Un garaje pequeño para su moto y bicicleta.

• Hay sala estupendo para ver la tele y relajar.

• Tiene tres plantas porque es una casa de mediana.

• Tiene un techo porque hay una piscina en el techo.

          Casas por J.D.X

Hello fellow readers and welcome to my last and final blog. As you know from my last two blogs, my topic is on the issue of Animal Cruelty in America. If you’re a new reader, please read by first and second blog to know about previous information.

In my previous blog, I interviewed staff members at the Francisvale Home for Small Animals and asked the question, “ How can I prevent animal cruelty?” The staff said that I could teach others own on to treat animals with respect and volunteer at animal shelters. After reading that answer, a lot of possibilities rolled into my mind on how I could give back to solving this problem to serve as my Agent of Change part of my You and the World project. I’ve have heard of fundraisers to raise money, but I find it hard to believe that people can donate to a charity or fund, but not know any knowledge on the topic. I wanted to create a fun and profitable way to raise money to donate to shelters who have financial problems. I decided to not only have a bake sale to raise money, but to have some type of information on animal abuse to be given to the buyer, so they walk knowing exactly what the problem is.

My partner, Kara, and I bought donuts and cheesecake to sell to students at our school, Science Leadership Academy, but not only did we just sell it to them, we told them facts about animal cruelty like the fact that last year there were almost 20,000 cases of reported animal abuse  and that some ways animals are abused could be by hanging or burning. Several students were surprised by the ways that the reported abused animals were treated and even more surprised by how many cases there were. Many asked me about ways they could help with fighting against this problem. With the advice from Francisvale, we told students that they could help by volunteering at a local shelter and educating others by telling them the correct ways of handling an animal with respect and dignity. We afterwards donated all the money to PAWS, an animal shelter that is in danger of staying open, since it runs out of money and supplies from time to time.

The fundraiser was a success! We wanted to raise at least 50 dollars and we came close with 38 dollars. We both agreed that if we had brought in more food, then we would have exceeded our total amount earned. It felt great to raise this money,as it was my first time conducting a fundraiser, and the fact that it was for such a great cause as well. I can’t help but get excited when I think about all the animals that we’ve helped out. I learned that there are people who genuinely care about animal abuse and cruelty. It was actually surprising to see students who were  interested in learning more and it made me feel proud that I was able to accomplish my goal on educating others on the evils of animal abuse.

Us giving the PAWS staff the money. Look at the kitten!

Me selling our last donut

Although I am happy with the amount of money Kara and I made, I still do wish that we could have raised more. Next time, I believe that I should bring in more baked goods to sell, that way we earn more of a profit. Although shelters do appreciate the money, they also look for supplies, as it can run out very quickly and the animals are most dependent on it.  I wanted to have a towel drive at school, but there wasn’t a sufficient amount of time that I had on my hands, and I was afraid that the expectation of towels that I wanted wouldn’t be met. want to hold more bake sales and fundraisers. Right now, I feel that all that is left is to just educate more. This time, I educated people at my school, but next time around, I want to educate people throughout Philadelphia.

I enjoyed this project with all my heart. I picked a topic that I felt strong about, and in return, I received an amazing experience with fighting for a change. I hope at one point, animal abuse and cruelty won’t be as much of a problem it is today and I’ll continue to make a change. I’d like to thank Kara for joining me in fundraising for the help of animals who were victims of abuse. Without her, the outcome wouldn’t have been as grand as it was. I’d also like to thank Ms.Dunn, my English teacher, for always being there and for guiding me through this project. Last, I’d like to thank all my readers who followed me throughout this journey of my blogs. It was nice to receive feedback, and it made me feel 100 percent better about the change that I was making. Thank you.

Go and visit Kara’s blogs!

Hello my fellow readers and welcome to my second blog!  As you may know from my first blog, my You and the World topic is animal abuse and cruelty in America. If you did not read my first blog, please click here. In my first blog, I talked mainly about what animal abuse is and the different types of abuse. My main goal is to promote to the community the end animal abuse and cruelty  and to teach people with the knowledge that I have learned, to treat animals with respect.

           Over the past couple of days, I've been researching online for new news, dealing with animal abuse and cruelty. I came across an article on the New York Times dealing with an issue in Idaho where Governor CL Otter has signed a bill that will make it illegal to film acts animal abuse on agricultural farms. Anyone who is caught will have to pay a $5,000 fine and  serve a year in jail. Curious about the subject, I decided to dwell deeper into this story. I found a rather extensive report of this story on ABC. The reason why this bill was created was because of the actions of Mercy For Animals,  a non profit organization, who secretly filmed the physical and sexually abuse of cows at Bettencourt Dairies. The owner of Bettencourt Diaries was getting death threats and that’s why the bill was put in place (yeah, right). To read the story, click here

Here you can see a worker kicking a cow in the face. This is from the video filmed at  Bettencourt Dairies

While reading this, I became upset because Mercy For Animals was only trying to help. They were trying to promote the acts of wrongdoing through the media. Is that wrong? Now that this bill will be put into a law, cases of animal abuse and cruelty will forever go unnoticed and people will continuously support these so called “animal friendly” organizations and companies. Would you want this to happen?

This time around, I wanted to conduct my own original research, so I decided to interview some staff members at the Francisvale Home for Small Animals. They are a non- profit, no kill shelter located in Radnor, Pennsylvania. All of the staff there were extremely  patient and made it no problem to work with me even after such short notice. It was very exciting working with them and having my questions answered. Below is one of the questions I had asked:

“Question: What triggers people to commit animal abuse/cruelty?”

And their answer was: “Lack of education, frustration, mental health problems, lack of money and also the owner may have suffered abuse when they were younger.”

That question was followed by : “How can I prevent animal cruelty?” Their answer:   

You can learn about positive enforcement and when you witness your friends or relatives or anybody mistreat an animal, you can teach them the right ways to treat them. You can also have an animal abuse officer come teach a class and at 17 or 18 volunteer at a local shelter.” Click here to view the rest of the interview.

I was shocked to hear that one  reason why some people commit animal abuse is because of lack of knowledge. My main focus is to now educate others of what I learned so that way, animal abuse won’t have to be a problem. For my role of Agent of Change, I’m thinking about volunteering at a shelter to gain more knowledge so I can share that with others. Hopefully after doing so, I can host a fundraiser where Human Law officers and I teach the community on ways to prevent cruelty and abuse as well as have people donate money to go towards animal shelters that focus on animals victims of abuse and cruelty.

Stay tuned for Blog # 3!

Click here to view my annotated bibliography

¡Hola! Me llamo Jaiye. Tengo quince años. Soy estudiante de Science Leadership Academy. Está en el centre de Filadelfia. Está cerca de Arch Gourmet y el Franklin Institute. Hay quinientos estudiantes, veinte profesores y cinco pisos. Tenemos deportes como baloncesto, béisbol y fútbol. Tenemos también robóticas y  servicio a la comunidad. Participó en correr porque es divertida y importante.

En SLA, tengo ingles, historia, geometria, español, bioquímica, y drama. Mi clase favorita es historia porque es fascinante.  Saco buena notas en esta clase.No me gusta mucho bioquímica porque es terrible. Necesito un lápiz, un  pluma, y una carpeta. Necesito un cuaderno y un lápiz en historia. En historia, aprendemos mucho y tenemos pláticas. En bioquímica, leemos y aprendemos poco.

La señorita Manuel enseña español. Es bien y chévere. Ella es Filipinas pero vivo en Filadelfia. Le gusta jugar al tenis y fútbol y tabla de snowboard. No le gusta nada dormir y ver a la télé. Es clase es divertida. Es amable. El señorita Dunn enseña inglés.  Enseña muy bien.

Me fascina SLA! ME gusta el estudiantes porque unas muy chevere. Lo que más me gusta de SLA es la libertad. El estudiantes es super amables. No me gusta unos profesores porque antipáticos. SLA es super divertida, bastante fácil y muy interesante.

Here's my powtoon

My name is Jaiye Omowamide and I am a ninth grader who attends Science Leadership Academy. For my English class, my teacher Ms.Dunn asked us to think of and choose a problem in the world that we feel strongly about. Automatically, I thought of animal cruelty and abuse in America. As a child, I've always had a deep affection for animals. I feel as if it is my duty to share with the world, the horrors, as well of my thoughts and feelings on this problems.

As of December 2013, Pet-abuse.com has reported 19,334 cases of animals that were treated in a inhumane way in which 17,100 of those cases were reported in the United States, and that’s not all of them. While hundreds of cases are reported, thousands go unreported and are ignored.

Neglect and abandonment seems to be the highest form of abuse used against animals. Pet expert, Laura Maloney wrote an article for USA Today on her thoughts on animal abuse. Below she wrote:

Animal cruelty could be divided into two categories: intentional cruelty and     unintentional cruelty or neglect. Intentional cruelty means an individual has purposely inflicted physical harm or injury on an animal. But neglect is much broader: It could mean an animal has been denied the basic necessities of care, such as food, water, shelter or veterinary care; it could also mean that the pet parent is unaware he or she is doing anything wrong and simply needs to be educated on how to properly take care of the animal. And at its most basic level, it simply could be the state of being homeless — which is the highest risk factor for any animal in this country.

  Did you read that correctly? Of course intentional cruelty is unable to be solved on my behalf because of the barbaric mind of the beholder, but unintentional cruelty can be! As stated above, neglect is caused because the pet owner has no idea that what he/she is doing is wrong! This is where I come in. I want to use my knowledge to guide those into treating animals with respect and dignity.

Following neglect and abandonment is hoarding at 12.3 percent, shooting at 11.7 percent, fighting at 8.7 percent and beating at 7 percent.

Now it’s my turn to challenge this problem. Throughout the next two blogs, I am going document my status as well as provide new information for readers to let them know how I tackle this situation. My goal is to fully educate others on this problem so they can also help the world with one of the many, horrible things it has to offer. I want to make a change and change starts with you! Look out for my next blog!

Click here for the sources that I used and the annotated bibliography