The merge of my English  

I thought I knew English. I thought I spoke fluent English until I came to America, to New York City. I learned that language can either help you express who you are or suppress pieces of who you are to fit in the perfect frame of the eyes around you. The most intriguing part of learning about a new culture is being able to become familiar with a new language or different accents speaking English. Becoming aware of a new culture carries a certain excitement in my eyes, to see how it impacts their identity, their traditions, and how that may influence the way they express themselves. At the time, however, I failed to find the same eagerness to speak in my cultural language rather I tried my best to not merge it with standard English. 

It was my first day of middle school entering the second quarter. As I entered math class, I stood at the front of the classroom facing the humorous, and outspoken African American teacher who had her hair beautifully braided, with a hair scarf holding it in place at the top of her head. The students screamed at the top of their lungs fighting over each other’s voices, attempting to be heard. I immediately recalled flashbacks of me and my peers back in my hometown. The way we would laugh as loud as we wanted and talked as if we had just been waiting for the class mistress or sir to say, “I’ll step outside, for a little, do not make me have to be back before I should”. Of course, we disregarded that warning. After class ended, we would simply go outside for our one-hour break into the playfield or to the provided canteen to grab a bite of chicken and chips which was my absolute favorite, or a freshly baked cupcake. The warmth of the sun made us sweat and smelled like “roasted hogs”. My mom would usually say that to me after a distant sniff of my no longer well-ironed white shirt which was now halfway out of my green pleated skirt. She never failed to comment on my “sun roast odor” as she would say “Hm, stinky, you like you na bathe for days”. Although those days did not last for long, the memories are still as fresh as they never fail to bring warmth to my heart.  

 I stood observing without uttering a word as one of the students approached Mrs. Duncar. Some spoke without caring about their tone; they all spoke with so much confidence and superiority. They argued if they felt unwronged, and their voice was heard. They had a chance to be right and to prove their point. If roles were switched, my teacher would have gotten the first and last saying and my parents would have been at the school receiving a lecture from the principal about their child’s “disrespectful choice of tone,” and they would side with the principal as well. I was next noticed, and the spotlight was on me. Mrs. Ducar lifted her hand as she said “Guys!” It went silent at once. I stood in the middle with my side facing the blackboard and my face towards Mrs.Duncar; my eyes stray away from the glaring eyes of my new peers. It was quite a diverse classroom. There were African American, Hispanic, and Bengali students but none were Guyanese, except for one other who was not present that day. Their mouths began to shut entirely, and there was no need to attempt to seek their attention any longer, it was present though I failed to be present because of the nervousness from the attention I received. In silence, I stood placing my hands one above the other, the quietest and most nervous I have ever been in my life. My mother would not have recognized that girl. She would have finally saved her breath from saying “Yuh mouth na pain to talk so much?” I opened my mouth to utter my name, but I said it in a low tone, and my brain began to switch to English compared to the broken English I speak with my parents. The words lingered around the tip of my tongue but could not find a way to break the silence when I did, she responded “Dilra” until I repeated it twice more. I was afraid I was going to mix English with my broken English. I would not sound English-like, and they would find out I am not from America. I felt as if my hands were holding my pulse squeezing it to remain calm though it only got louder within my chest. I paused for a second trying to hold the tears trying to escape my eyes. It was my voice and my expectations. I did not know if my English was going to sound like theirs, I was afraid my English was not good enough. How do I speak without merging my broken English with the English my peers would understand? At that moment I stuck myself deeper into the cave I carved for my voice and my identity. I observed and conserved but did not utter a word. Later I found out, the students rotate from classroom to classroom, how would I do that in a building filled with four different floors and classrooms after classroom? I only had three minutes to get to class through a hallway as crowded as a concert arena. Teens walked as fast as they could but to me, it was more like running a marathon without caring about the person ahead of them. They crawled their way even faster when it was lunchtime. I walked my way with the crowd trying to find the lunchroom while hoping it was the right crowd heading to the lunchroom rather than an unknown classroom. Clueless as I was, I did not know I needed a separate pin number to receive food; I sat alone at a table finishing my homework for tomorrow. Thursdays became my favorite; they served mozzarella sticks. The only thing I liked on the menu other than the cold peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  

As I got home, my mom asked me “How was school?”, “Is it hard?” 

“No, me like it so far, the teachers are nice too.” 

That was not the truth. I did not enjoy being there, I missed my hometown, I wanted to go back to be with my friends and have people I knew around me.  After 7^th grade ended, I was thrilled to have a fresh start since I knew what to expect. During that summer, I moved to live by a family’s house where I developed a very strong relationship with my cousin, whom I was able to be myself around. We did a bunch of fun outdoor activities, and it allowed me to shift my perspective of the environment I was in. I began to like it. Then came 8^th grade where I got placed with the same classmates from before but there were also a few new students. I became friends with the new students until my best friend arrived later in the year. She played a very important role in my life and contributed a lot to who I am today. She reminded me that I did not need to change to fit it. She accepted who I was, and I began to accept myself and allow myself to adapt without changing who I was. 

When it came to moving on to high school, my best friend and I, unfortunately, got separated, that was extremely sad. However, it was surely a new experience for both of us to have a fresh start. I was filled with excitement to get out of my comfort zone and create new experiences. When it came to my language, I no longer stumbled over my broken English merging into my standard English. I was not afraid to allow change to occur with that means of speaking English at home with my parents. My perspective shifted from fear of change to acceptance but then I felt so distant from the culture that made me special and unique until I encountered a reading called “The Rules of the Game”, by Amy Tan which was a given assignment by my English teacher. A quote that brought such a sharp light into the cave I carved part of my identity within began to slowly fall apart. “My shame is to have shame”, a quote that I will never forget. I realized, with my accent and broken English that I was so embarrassed about embracing, that was the only way I truly connected with my parents and allowed them to express themselves the way they wanted to. It no longer bothered me if anyone didn’t understand the way we communicated with each other whether it be society, the standard way we are programmed to speak, or the way we fail to allow others from different backgrounds to express themselves in a way they’re comfortable without making them feel unheard. Acceptance liberated my experience with making friends and developed who I am now which allowed me to expand my definition of who I am and not even be defined by a specific culture, whether it be American or Guyanese, I love all with the same excitement of learning while yet still upholding what I grew up with.