Consumed by English – Final SLLN

As diverse as it is global, the English language has become the most widely spoken language of all. It swings through the ears of young boys in America while it twirls through the lips of a mouthy grandmother in the Philippines. It weaves through the trees of the Amazon Rainforest as a tired mother chases her jubilant child; calls after them as if it wants to join the fun. The enticing language lures teens into in-groups, makes them feel like someone and finally connects them to the world of modernization. It spreads communication, holds emotion, and advocates education. English is the language of business, technology; it was built slowly through time like a machine, oiled and shined, taking pieces from other tongues to become multifunctional. It is truly amazing and has revolutionized speech throughout all generations. I hate it.

Maybe I don’t hate the language itself – as it is the main way of communicating after all – however, I detest what it has done to current day society. This one single language has become a ball of explicit and implicit prejudice, stereotype, and overall discrimination. It has become the cause of lost lives and mental illness. It has become the reason why people hate the “racist Americans” and shun the “stupid immigrants”. English has been manipulated into a form of hate and is thrown into people’s faces as if it was a sharp dagger, ready to kill its innocent victim.

It isn’t fair that English has become the standard to us as it disallows for the proper diversity that we promote and have so proudly displayed. America is the land of the free with no one language or background tying it together, instead, being united by our differences and ability to adapt. Recently, this has not been as true as we constantly degrade foreigners and put ourselves on the top of the proverbial food chain; and only because we speak a language naturally while others speak ‘incomplete versions, having to patch up their own languages with our superior tongue’.

English is truly an incredible language as it links those from all across the world but as I walk through the halls of my school and listen as languages stemming from places, I have never heard of are slowly replaced with English, it becomes ugly. I feel guilty knowing that languages spoken hundreds of years ago by our ancestors are being rapidly forgotten because of the ignorance of today’s generations. We lose almost one language each fortnight and that only furthers my point; it’s the same thing as losing an entire culture or group of people. The amount of knowledge and experience lost is enough to fill hundreds of libraries each year; could help find cures to the most incurable of diseases or find a new recipe that puts a twist on a dated dish. We could learn so much from the forgotten ones, those who were left behind as modernization became the forefront of everyone’s mind.

I still remember the feeling I got when my grandmother yelled at the cashier in a local bodega to learn English if she was to stay in America. My eyes widened and I glared harshly at the irrepressible woman I grew up with who I couldn’t believe would utter such a bigoted statement. It shows how this toxic mindset has spread throughout communities, polluting the most impressionable. English has been ruined for me, the beauty of it dashed by the blatant hatred of its speakers, rejecting it of its natural shine.

 

Sister From Another Mister – Final WLLN

Walking into the classroom, I was hesitant to see all of the new faces. The endless thoughts of “what will they think of me?” was looming over my head. I was prepared, with my notebooks and pencils in my little Hello Kitty backpack. Ms. Feldstein welcomed all of the ittybitty children to the classroom. I was practicing the alphabet in my head and recalling Dora’s tips on making friends. I saw so many different faces, skin colors and heard so many different languages: I was in awe.

Ms. Feldstein was a very polite, delicate woman with the curliest brown hair and smile that warms your soul. She would repeat herself countless times, but my classmates would never listen. I would help her get the class settled, confused as to if this was normal, getting the kids to reluctantly settle down. Growing up in New York, the first week of class was explaining the horrendous events of 9/11. I sat next to an Asian girl named Stella and tried to talk to her. To my surprise she spoke back to me saying, “we’re in ESL you know, this is normal.” I didn’t know what ESL was, I questioned her, and it all made sense. I was with kids that spoke other languages, so why didn’t they speak English well? Whenever my mother picked me up, she’d speak with my teacher and I would always tell her about my day.

Her and my teacher would always praise me for my well-doing in school and how I am way ahead of an average kindergartener, yet alone an ESL student. My teacher went to the principal to advocate for me and try to get me into a regular class so I can learn the materials I needed. Ms. Feldstein would always give me different work, because everything was simply review to me. I knew my alphabets, I knew my numbers up to 100, I knew my months and I knew my weekdays. Stella was also in the same boat as me, we’d do the work together and often wonder about how the other classes operated. Wondering about what they could be learning at this very given moment in the room next to us. In this classroom though, we fit in. Even if we were ahead and did our own thing, we made countless friends. Sure, we may not speak a lot, but speaking isn’t the only means of communication. With our hand gestures and body language, we were able to communicate fluently. My teacher would tell my mom about this beautiful occurrence, but to me it was my normal, being in a diverse classroom.

The day came where my mother went up to the principal of the school and said a lot of things a five-year-old should not hear. My mother was pouring her heart and soul out to the principal, seeking the appropriate education for the little human that gives her a purpose in life. My mother was consumed by rage, her face red as a tomato, I could see smoke coming out of her ears. Consistently cussing my principal out, she finally broke down and asked for the principal to relate to her, mother to mother. The principal spoke with me and reluctantly gave me a test. To her surprise, my mother was speaking the truth. It was deemed I would’ve been placed into a gifted/accelerated class, but since it was 2-3 weeks into the school year, they couldn’t do that.

There I was, sitting on a rug in the corner of a foreign classroom away from everyone else as they sneered at me. When it was play time, nobody would come near me as I was the girl from the ESL class. Everyone would steer clear from me, except for one girl named Brianna. She was a beautiful colored girl, dressed in bright colors and pink scrunchies that held her braided pigtails. She told me, “I know how you feel… Let’s go play with the blocks.” We would hear the Italian and Russian girls laugh at us from the other side of the classroom. I would see Stella from time to time, but she was stuck in ESL, her mother didn’t fight for her like mine did for me. It was as if I was a Montague and she was a Capulet, our paths weren’t meant to be crossed. Despite me knowing I belong in this class; I missed my ESL class dearly, I missed Stella and my other friends: I didn’t enjoy the separation in the class I was in.

As my bond with Brianna deepened, the friendship I had with Stella became more and more suppressed: it was a mere memory. Over time, I could feel the Italian and Russian girls easing their walls and they began to approach me. Luckily, I wasn’t as horrendous of a person as they thought I was. Our class was filled with so many colors, shapes and sizes that everything simply blended together. There was no one left out, at that point it was more of a separation of genders since boys have cooties.

Until a discussion of religion came up. Majority of the students came from a home worshipping Jesus, Yahweh or Buddha. I was the only person worshipping Allah. Immediately, I was shunned by all of my classmates, except for Brianna. Pearls of tears would glisten down my skin as I thought I was a terrible person and deserved to feel a hole in my heart. Brianna thankfully was there for me. She told me a story about her experience with Muslims and how her uncle was killed. Her uncle was a firefighter, a first responder to 9/11 and unfortunately, he passed away risking his all to save others. I immediately started sobbing, begging for her forgiveness. She was so confused and told me, “Stop! It wasn’t you that did it. You can’t apologize for others’ actions.”

Brianna taught me to not let others’ perception define me. How one occurrence done by another person of the same religion, nationality or etc. should not impact me. If people decide they would rather jump off of a cliff than associate themselves with me, then it’s their loss. Brianna and I’s bond grows stronger by every passing day, as she is my sister from another mister.