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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if he spells it wrong?”

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

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

“Sorry guys, extra homework for you!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah! My boy Gabe!”

“Gabe’s my boul!”

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

“The heart only speaks coded language when the spirit forgets who it was born to be!” Greg Corbin

In my life language is an art form that I use to communicate with other people. I am like broken glass; every word I speak is about individuality. In my family the way we communicate with each other is important. When I’m with my friends, who are hearing impaired, we create conversations with our hands. When I am around poets we speak in metaphors people may never understand.

“Get Free! On the line. Go in Toni!”  Silence. The moment when the silence takes over and all you can hear is the butterflies, flapping in your stomach. I close my eyes and step to the microphone. I picture all the words in my head like a broken VCR tape that just won’t play the right scene. I breathe an unsteady heartbeat that comes out my throat. “I know a girl who once made phantom memories and turned them into figurines babies she was meant to have.” I expected some snaps for that line. That one line played in my head for weeks. It wasn’t worth it. I continued my poem. People just stared at me as if what I was saying wasn’t worthy enough to be on spoken stage. I forgot my poem my VCR of a brain stopped working all together. I backed up as if I would run off the stage and never touch a microphone again. I walked back up to it and in very exhausted tone said “there is always a clamp disguised as snake ready to bite and tear that egg out you.” Usually when a person messes up and forgets their lines the audience would snap and encourage you. Everyone just stared at me and waited. They expected something to come from me, some type of miracle. After my poem my mentor came up to me and said in a very nonchalant voice “You did good, your performance could’ve been better. You need to work on delivery.” I accepted the advice and said very robotically “Thank you.”  My friend, who is also a poet, came up to me with disappointment stitched in her smile and exclaimed “The reason why people didn’t like your poem was because you don’t sound like everyone else. You don’t write like everyone else.”

When I feel like something gets stuck in my throat such as my feelings, I go missing. As a result of me not knowing my voice in poetry and my purpose as a writer I decided not to go to slams or show up for any events. When I do not fit in because of my language or cultural background I tend to distance myself because I am uncomfortable. I feel as if, if I am not like everyone else I do not fit in. There is a certain standard I must live up to in order for myself to be comfortable in the skin I am wrapped in. When I don’t know a language it makes it harder for me to trust what people might think and do to me. Every time I think of speech and language it reminds me of a poem that stated, “language is leverage boasting on the teeth of a lightning bolt all spiteful and screen splitting.” People tend to take advantage of the ways they are different from you. There are constant reminders all around us from places such as the media, family, and everyday activities. The idea of language plays hide and go seek with acceptance.

“Everyone must sit with someone not from your running group.” An unfamiliar voice shouted out. I was extremely nervous; this was my first time at running camp. I walked over to the nearest table where a guy with hazel-brown eyes like the forest's floor stared at me. Without a word he moved over and watched me as I took my seat. I turned and looked at him and very politely said, “Hi, my name is Toni.” He turned around very quickly and began to scramble around. I could tell he was looking for something. I figured it was his identity because he couldn’t tell me his name, I thought that was rude. He turned around and had napkins and a pen; he wrote, “Hi my name is Hiram, nice to meet you.” I wrote back and said, “Why aren’t you talking to me?” He giggled and quickly wrote back “I’m deaf, I can’t hear sorry.” Immediately after that I became even more nervous than before. I asked him to teach me my alphabet in sign language. He smiled and wrote back “You can’t learn it in a day!” I was very determined because I didn’t want to miss out on a wonderful person because of language barriers. I wrote back and showed him I was excited and wrote, ” I can learn in a night.” We sat there at the dinner table and went over the letters more than thirty times each. Each time I messed up he would look at me with those eyes and paint me a picture of patience and appreciation. I finger spelled to him about 2 hours later and said “I told you I can learn in a night, thank you for teaching me.” He signed back but I have no Idea what he said, all I could recognize what the letters “Goo- Ht” I assumed he said “goodnight.”

I became about seventy- five percent fluent in six months. Although now I am fluent in sign language I still become very nervous and self-conscious around hearing impaired people because I am not deaf. I even use a translators sometimes, making conversations with your hands isn’t easy. Your facial expressions are important and valued. I think I am more comfortable with sign language because they cannot hear my insecurities in my voice, the scratchy tones of regret for starting the conversation in the first place. But hearing impaired people seem to be more grateful because a lot of people in the world do not use sign language. Yet I still have doubts and internal issues because of acceptance of not being them. Sometimes I wish I could switch my disadvantages on like water from the faucet and let it pour through my fingers to guide me. I think I need guidance in order to understand I can’t learn every language and people might not judge me because of it. And again language is equivalent to acceptance.

There are some people who actually appreciate it, when you take the time and effort to learn and embrace their culture. In many of the cases I have experienced people have treated me differently from my perspective but maybe I am just paranoid. I am still trying to find my identity in the world. Acceptance is the key to happiness and appreciation for one’s self, if I do not know a language I will not be happy and therefore I won’t be accepted.

My definition of what language is has changed dramatically. Language is a reminder of how I will never be what the people around me are, no matter how hard I try. I tend to find myself depending on a translator for confront. Maybe one day I’ll over come that internal conflict I have within myself. That Venus flytrap stuck between my throat making it hard to breathe and speak when I come around people that are not like me. I must remember "Word are more powerful than a gun. Watch what you say. Watch what ammunition lies under your tongue and inside the clip of your soul. It can either heal or kill" (Greg Corbin) My spirit is killed when I feel the lack of identity because of language, standards, and my art form. I must accept that language is like broken glass it’s all about individuality.

"We allow our ignorance to prevail upon us and make us think we can survive alone...alone in patches, alone in groups, alone in races, even alone in genders."
-Maya Angelou

“Get free, Ashe, Humans aren’t built in silence.”

Those are the thoughts that run through my mind every time I a,,m about to do a poem. Regardless if I am in my room, a slam, or the middle of the school hallway. All those thoughts set me up for how well I perform. Before any one does a poem if you are from Philadelphia you take your shoes off, contemplate your words, visualize whatever you are talking about and know your truth. I was told by my mentor the first time he saw me say a poem he asked “what’s your purpose queen?” I didn’t know the answer so I just shrugged my shoulders and said “I have no idea.” Then he just walked away. I felt ignorant and fake. Later that night he called me and said, “know a writers purpose, our purpose is to save lives.” I didn’t understand when he explained it to me, he said that “you never know if someone in the audience is beating there wife or the women who is getting beating is in the audience, your poem could be the thing that gives the women the courage to walk away, or the man beating his wife the strength to stop hitting her. We save lives.” I never thought of poetry that way, I always fell into the clichés of what it was, such as every poem has to be about love or poetry is only used for you. 

            Before a slam you have a meditation stage where you imagine whatever it is that you’re writing about, next you “black” which is when you have an outer body experience. And “get free.” I remember semi finals to be on Philadelphia’s slam team. There were three rounds which consisted of a haiku, a 90 second poem and a three minutes and forty second poem. . My first poem was a short haiku about beauty. My second poem, which was the 90 seconds one, was about how poetry means to save a life. My final poem was about a little girl sleeping with many men to find herself and shadow her beauty with makeup. My strongest and most moving part I blacked on was “But occasionally she needed to feel loved like a “dime” ...with all that makeup she was to blind to see that  if she peeped behind the blinds she would see the world is so much prettier  than a wet hole and a long pole trying sink through it.”  I didn’t make the team but I did have the opportunity to travel to LA with the them and I was the youngest who lost by a couple decimal points. The experience was very humbling and helpful. It is true that “humans aren’t built in silence”

            But actions, Our actions as poets help shape the world. They also help other point of view be shown across peacefully. The thing poets do a lot are hide behind figurative language as if we are trapped between a mask and morals.  Visualizing a change happening before your words are resurrection-taking place in your lungs. Where invisible

 possibilities become legendary.  Poets make movements come true and makes acceptance easier.

Poets are created solely to make a change through words instead of violence and protest, instead we make testimonies to ourselves and others.  People in the world usually think they understand the general idea of things such as metaphors, they can be interpreted a lot of different ways. But there is always someone’s truth behind it.  Through writing and whatever we do in life. Every step we take is art, we loose a piece of ourselves everyday and gain something better back.  When I look back I realize everything I’ve been through in my writing only made me better, as a poet, a person, and a lifesaver. “I am Samurai and Avatar a whole Public Service Announcement for little girls and boys who are contemplating breaking their necks for the silence. Sometimes it’s safer when no one can hear you think but you.”

I think we’re waiting for a super hero to come and save us from our ignorance.

It doesn’t matter if you are creative with writing or not it is your feelings. In a general idea of life we can all make a difference we just have to be able to see things as a metaphor and view them in different perspectives. Also we need to be aware about the fact we don’t know it all there is always something different we can learn. Things we might not notice are right in front of us or where it comes from. I’m just beginning to understand where I came from. We as people are so concerned only about the things we know already and who we know. We haven’t spoken up yet heard, just listen.

"I was going to die, if not sooner then later, whether or not I had ever spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you. What are the words you do not yet have? What do you need to say?" - Audre Lorde

    I feel like Amy Tan in her short story. Her mother speaks ‘broken English,’ and she speaks proper English when she’s talking to people outside of society, but when she’s talking to her family, she code switches to broken English. Sometimes, I need to do the same with my elders. Not necessarily my mom, but with the older aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Code switching affects my true identity because depending on who in the family I’m with, I will speak differently or add bits and pieces of another language with English when I speak to them.