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

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

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

My series of postcards .

Blog #3

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

2. Who is essential to the outcome?

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

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

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

4. Who can you influence?

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

5. What is the time frame?

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

-Links would not go in, here they are:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Free Write/ Final Essay  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As a young child

Tamed by the wild

Some people influenced

By the mother tongue

How to tame a wild tongue

Left some tongue tied

For what we think is right

May be wrong on the outside

Streaming shadows in the dark

Guide the lost into the hearts

Find the language that can combine

Two worlds set to part.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Annisa Ahmed

Annisa Ahmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Donde Esta Tu Acento Mijaa?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good! I missed you mucho Buelita!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sophia Henninger

Language Autobiography – Rough Draft

English – Copper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sophia Henninger

Copper – English

September 23, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dreams Lost At An Instant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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