Catherine Nardone

12.19.10

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

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

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

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

            "K," I signed back to him.

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

            Buzz!

            My mom just texted me…

6:32 pm:

mom: hi whatsup qq

me: nothing, you do do?

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

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

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

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

mom: okay see you here.

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

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

6:47 pm:

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

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

Me: No.

Jeff: Yes.

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

Jeff: Sure it is?

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

Jeff: Ahh! Kids these days! … Okay.

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

Jeff: Love ya, my little Cath!

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

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

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

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

            “Go, go, go!”

            “Crap!”

            “NOOOO!!!!”

            “A buhh?!?!”

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

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

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

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

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

            It was going to be a long night!

            Sure enough that night dragged into next week!

“Do you have enough room?”

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

“No, I’m positive you’re good.”

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

“I’ll be okay, thanks though.”

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

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

“Emmert! Stop!!!!”

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

“I know!”

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

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

“Oh crud it all!” Rachael and I said.

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

Then a party the next day finished off the weekend

Us kids these days!!!!

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

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

Catherine Nardone

September 2010

English – Iron

Descriptive Essay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On my way!” I yelled back.

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

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

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

Free Write/ Final Essay  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Annisa Ahmed

Annisa Ahmed.

            SWOOSH!!! I threw it so far it went past the doorframe, into the hallway and made a loud “swooshing” sound. There it went, the baseball gliding and hurling through the air with so much ease that it took the sound of a very evident crash to wake me out of the daze. As usual, something important has broken. However, panic had not yet come to play, as I figured it was only something small, thus easy to hide until I could explain myself. However, as I turned to corner into the hallway facing my parents’ room, the damage was clear, and it stared at me blankly. I looked in horror as a saw the baseball roll on the ground in the room, straight through the broken glass on the door.

            The stylized glass on the double-paneled door only covered the upper panel, however, I soon realized that now, nothing covered that top panel, and that all of the pieces of the glass were scattered amongst the floor. Being one whose been in situations like these many times over many years, I knew that panic was inevitable, yet useless, and so as quickly as I could, I ran downstairs in order to acquire a broom and dustpan to clean the mess. Once I got to stairs, however, I saw my older brother was briskly coming up, curious to inspect what was going on. “No use in stopping him,” I thought. “I’ll just be wasting time.” So, we passed each other on the staircase as I continued on my mission.

Justin Pullins

Iron Stream

Language Autobiography, Benchmark #2

December 20, 2010

I’ve always wondered about accents. They tell the history of any person you speak to immediately; they are the gateway to understanding a person’s culture. Many Americans can recognize a British accent instantly, and they worship it religiously. A Dutchmen can quickly distinguish a Dutch accent with influences from other European countries. And a native Boston citizen knows exactly what neighborhood another his from after merely one word. Accents give prestige, and a level of distinguished honor to the speaker.  Accents are exciting to hear and decipher, and add a level of interest to a person.  However, when one has a bland accent, or one that cannot be determined, does this make the person themselves bland? I’ve always wondered this.

Me being born and raised here in Philadelphia, I always felt that I had no accent, or that my accent is so bland it doesn’t even register to most people. I have, what many consider, to be a standard “American accent”. It comes off just as that, too: standard.

A few years back, I went to a global student leadership forum for a week, held in Washington, D.C. In the first day, I was just as nervous as everyone else, not knowing any one there. While waiting in the hotel’s ballroom on the first day, I met Sarah, an Australian born exchange student who currently lives in the Midwest. She was nice, cute, and very interesting, but I wondered what it was about her that had me so interested, besides her great looks. We talked, and talked, constantly interrupted my other kids in the forum, introducing themselves. Once she spoke, however, they were just as hooked as I was, and it was hard for them to turn away. She spoke of her days in the land down under, of when she moved to the US, and of her life now, and every word she uttered just seemed so surreal.

“Are you from Australia?,” new people asked as the first introduced herself.

“I’ve heard a lot of things about how fun it is there!”

“Why did you move to the U.S.?”

“What do you think about our accents?”

The questions went on and on, with hesitation, from everyone, and during the conservation we had, I continued to wonder what about this Aussie-born girl that made her so interesting. 

Later, I finally realized what it was: her accent. The beautiful way her words were executed made all the difference to me, and to everyone else. Her accent made her unique and interesting, and served as a glowing light into a dull room of indistinguishable accents.

I realized that with her accent, came assumptions of her life in Australia. People wondered if she did all of the things that Australians are known for, and if she stated she didn’t, they were confused and wanted to know why. I concluded that when one speaks with a distinguishable accent, one becomes an “ambassador” for the area in which their accent hails its origin. In other words, when Sarah spoke in her Australian accent, she embodied all of Australian hobbies, cultures, and lives, which thus made her more interesting in contrast to dull accents. When people heard Sarah’s accent, as they would for any accent that is not their own, they caught interest, made assumptions, and compared and contrasted their lives to hers.

I feel that people like me, whose accents bare no exciting and unique characteristics to be easily distinguishable to the majority of people, often have problems gaining an identity instantly. When I meet new people, people openly ask where I’m from, as there are no clues or indications as to where I am from. With the “bland” accent, I feel that sometimes, it takes me some other interesting ways to keep an appealing conversation going. It is a commonly known fact that interesting accents keep people interested, and those who don’t have these accents are left to pick up the pieces on their own.

However, there are advantages to having a bland accent. Like I said before, when one has a distinguishable accent, others often make assumptions about them and their personal experiences. Not having such an accent allows one to tell their own stories, without having their accents do it for them. People with no accents are not subjected to the stereotypes that those with accents would be. The lack of a distinguishable accent, in short, allows for others to truly get to know a person and find other things to make them interesting.

In conclusion, accents, as I stated before, have always interested me, as they do for many other people. The ways the words are pronounced, phrases are used, and other things provide a large contrast to the way I speak. However, there are advantages and disadvantages on both sides of the language spectrum.