78929:-6 - PEN Center USA

A PEN In The Classroom Anthology
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Los Angeles, California
Fall 2011
A PEN In The Classroom Anthology
John Marshall High School
Los Angeles, CA
Fall 2011
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Editor’s Note
11
Adan Torres
My Name
14
Gracias Por Todo
15
Ashley Parayno
Untitled
17
Mixing Up Words
18
Brian Martinez
The Name I Love
20
Loud Noises
21
Christine De Mira
What’s My Name?
23
Red Tomato
24
Daniel Rubio
My Name Poem
26
My Language Poem
27
Dennis Martinez
Hello, My Name Is...
29
A Language Story
30
Diana Ayrapetyan
Rhyme On!
32
Room for Improvement
Drey Lie
Untitled
35
Still Fluent
36
33
Edward Kim
This Is My Name
38
The Five Senses of the Tongue Concerning the Korean
Language
39
Emmanuel Rocha
“God Is With Us”
43
Nothing More Than a Lifestyle...
Untitled
46
Predator
47
44
Eric Cisneros
Who Am I?
49
Qué
50
Erick Salgado
A Name Story
52
Remembering English, Spanish, and Portuguese
George Alamillo
My Name
57
English Assignment
58
Giana Manriquez
G.E.M.
60
An Echo of Culture
61
Jack Basmadzhyan
Jack In the Middle
64
Armenian Letters
65
James Bockelman
My Name
68
Spanish
69
Jasmine Tovar
Untitled
71
My Languages
72
53
Jennifer Flores
Two N’s, One F
75
Yellow Hello
76
Untitled
77
Jorge Sanchez
Untitled
79
My Language of Origin
80
Kristine Mauricio
Kristine With a K
82
Learning to Speak Ta-ga-log
83
My Type of Writing
85
Laura Davila
Untitled
87
Two Languages
88
Leslybeth Torres
The Weirdest Name
91
Still Learning
92
Leticia Velez
Itchell
95
The Letter R
97
Childhood Friends
98
Feline
99
Liam Coyle
Untitled
101
A Piece of Language
102
Luis Parada
Untitled
104
Always Thinking
105
If My Writing Was an Animal…
106
Manny Velazquez
Untitled
108
Language
109
Marco DeLosSantos
Marco DeLosSantos
111
Marielen Galsim
No, Her Name Is Mary Ellen
114
Wait, What Did You Say?
115
Melissa Reyes
Untitled
118
Michelle Huezo
Untitled
121
Another Language
122
Nancy Contreras
Miss Fancy Nancy
124
Narek Chobanyan
Untitled
126
All My Languages
127
Nathan Muñiz
All My Names
130
Confused Spanish
131
Writing Animal
132
Phillip Lin
Untitled
134
Language Tea
135
If My Words Were an Animal
Renan Anglo
This Is Me
138
Language In the Family
136
139
Sandra Vasquez
Untitled
142
Language
143
Sarah Pineda
Untitled
145
When I Didn’t Understand Tagalog
146
Tasnia Hossain
Bangla and Beyond
148
Twenny Flores
What Is My Name?
A Language Treasure
150
151
Jill Diamond’s Honors English Class Collaboration
Making Sense
153
Jill Diamond’s Honors English Class Collaboration
The Kids In Room 725
155
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hile creative nonfiction was the focus of our workshop,
'
students in Jill Diamond’s eleventh-grade honors English class dipped their toes into the pools of poetry and fiction
to enrich their nonfiction writing. The work of poets James
Laughlin and Langston Hughes modeled the power of compact language and sensory images, and a look at Franz Kafka’s
Metamorphosis provided an entry into writing about identity.
We learned from a variety of essayists how to infuse nonfiction with details, as David Foster Wallace did in describing
a waiter in his essay “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do
Again.”
Other authors whose works inspired the student writing
in Identity Papers were chosen with the diversity of the students in mind. Thus a manifesto by Philippine author and
national hero José Rizal sparked writing about beliefs, and
an essay by Armenian American author William Saroyan
prompted stories about our names. With guidance from Julia
Alvarez’s essays in Something to Declare and Luis Rodriguez’s
memoir Always Running, students explored the influence of
their native tongues and discovered how to use words from
other languages to give flavor to their writing in English.
Part of PEN’s mission is to foster dynamic literary cultures
around the world and defend freedom of expression domestically and internationally. Many of the students published
in this anthology learned English as their second, third, or
fourth language. But no matter what language you use to say
it, “freedom of expression” remains of paramount importance
to human rights. That the writing of such a large and diverse
group of young people intersects at so many points in Identity
Papers stands as proof of the transcendent power of language.
Identity Papers provides a glimpse into these young writers’
lives — their struggles, hopes, and experiences. I am grateful
to their teacher, Jill Diamond, and to her teaching assistant,
Jennifer Emrick, for all their help with this project and for
the vital encouragement and support they gave these young
people. A special note of thanks is due to Michelle Huezo
for the photos she took of her classmates. While exploring
writing as a process, students shared their individual preferences. Most put their initial thoughts on paper and preferred
to write in the late afternoon or evening (their ability to focus their creative energy in our early-morning workshops was
admirable). Although a few said they can write pretty much
anywhere — noisy or quiet — most preferred to write in a serene or private location, taking their inspiration from music,
nature, and events in their own lives and around the world.
Danielle Moody
PEN In The Classroom Instructor
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..am a junior. My father’s name is also Adan. I am so happy
that my grandpa wasn’t named Adan also, because I would
hate to be called the “Third.” Everyone always mispronounces
my name, but I don’t really care, as long as you don’t call me
Adam. I have only met three people with my name, besides
my dad. The most recent one was at a Peter Piper Pizzeria.
It was really confusing that day, because my mom would call
my name, and the worker — also named Adan — would come
to our table. I researched my name in the sixth grade, and it
was linked back to a Greek word for “fire.” I do like playing
with fire, so I guess it has some relevance. Some people see
my name as a not-so-common one, or unique, but I just see
it as my name.
.*
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..didn’t have a hard time learning both English and Spanish at the same time. I was taught Spanish at home and
English at school. When people around me would speak both
languages, I would kind of catch on and learn. When school
started, I learned how to balance them both. My parents
learned how to teach me both at the same time too. I didn’t
learn Spanish in school until later on, in my much older years,
when I transferred to a new Catholic school in eighth grade.
They had a Spanish-learning program, but it wasn’t very good.
The basics that they taught during that year were the easiest
things imaginable for me, but nearly impossible for the other students, who weren’t of Hispanic descent. I helped them
a lot, but I also laughed when they pronounced words the
wrong way. I know it wasn’t cool, but I really couldn’t resist.
The next year in high school I took a course that wasn’t really
challenging, so the following year I took AP Spanish. That
year I struggled a bit, but I pulled through with a score of four
on the AP exam. What I learned that year I still remember.
Now, at home, I can read and understand mail that comes in
Spanish. People don’t think that I can speak fluent Spanish
and are shocked when I do speak it. Like this one time, when
I went into a bike store, I walked in and accidentally knocked
a bike over, and one worker said something to the other in
Spanish. I can clearly remember what he said: “Man, look at
this dumb kid. God dammit.” When I left the store, I looked
at the guy who had said it and said, “Gracias por todo,” and I
smiled at him.
.*
15
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y name is Ashley. My mom named me that because she
thought that name was really nice, and she really liked
it. One thing I don’t like about my name is that it’s very common in my school, and whenever I go somewhere I always
hear people say my name, but it’s for a different Ashley. I’m
glad I wasn’t called Fatima. My mom also likes that name
because it’s the name of a saint.
(
17
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he first time I heard Tagalog was when I was five years
old, or maybe even younger. I would hear my parents talk
in Tagalog, and whenever we would go to a family party, I
would hear them speak and couldn’t understand what they
were saying. I would mix up the words kapatid and pinsan
because I always thought kapatid meant “cousin,” but it actually means “brother” or “sister,” while pinsan means “cousin.”
When any of my aunts and uncles would ask me a question
in Tagalog, I would look confused and take a few seconds to
think about it. Now that I’m older, I kind of understand, but I
still have to think about what is said and what it means.
$
18
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y name isn’t very unique. My mother gave it to me at
the last minute, from what she told me. She was lying
in the hospital bed with me in her arms. She stared at me and
said, “Brian.” It would go well with my last name, she supposed. I do not mind the name. I actually like Brian. It’s not
difficult to write, and it’s easy to pronounce. That’s one of the
reasons why I named my son Danny. My girlfriend wasn’t so
excited about the name, but she agreed. The uniqueness of my
choice in name is that on my son’s birth certificate, it literally
says “Danny,” not “Daniel”! People assume it’s Daniel. I like
Danny better. I chose a name he couldn’t hate me for in the
future. A name that sounds practically the same in English
and in Spanish. A name I could picture myself saying for the
rest of my life. A name that I had the privilege to choose. A
name that I love.
(
20
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hen I was younger, I remember one night hearing loud
firecrackers outside. My family got rowdy and scared
because my uncle was coming home on foot from the liquor
store. I didn’t know there was a problem until I heard a lady
screaming. The loud noise was not firecrackers; it was gunshots. About an hour later, my uncle showed up. Everybody
hugged him and asked him if he was all right. He said, “Sí,
madre, estoy bien.”
'
A couple of hours later, my cousin and I were sitting in
the living room watching TV. We went into the kitchen and
were just standing there. My grandma said, “Vete!” and so we
left. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, because everyone was talking on top of each other. The day after, my
mom and I found a house on Juanita Street in a nice, calm
neighborhood. We moved a week later, and that’s what they
had been talking about.
21
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<3082:8.1)"1)980y grandmother wanted to name me Wilma Antonette
in resemblance to my dad’s name, Wilmer Antonio. Oh
my, if my parents had named me that, I would be totally embarrassed to have it be said in front of a large crowd. I would
be flattered to be named after my father, but the name itself,
Wilma, just sounds so awkward. If anyone were to call me
that, it would remind me of The Flintstones. Luckily, my parents had a name already in mind. You could say I got my name
from my birthday, December 24th, Christmas Eve. I really
like my name, though some people spell it with a K instead of
Ch. My name might not be the most unique name, and it may
be common, but I have a strong liking for my name.
(
23
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y experience learning a new language was very difficult. It took a lot of patience. It would get to the point
where it got very frustrating trying to pronounce and write
the words correctly. There was one time when my aunt came
into the room where my sister and I were sleeping. The sun
was barely starting to rise, and my sister and I had just woken
up. We greeted my aunt with a “Good morning” and asked,
“Meron pagkanin?” I was still very young when this happened
and, like many young children, whatever my sister said, I repeated. When I attempted to pronounce the phrase she had
said, they started to smirk as if I had said something hysterical. It was very embarrassing, and my face turned tomato red,
so I immediately pulled the covers over my head. There were
a lot of misunderstandings while trying to communicate with
my family, because many of my family members have very
strong Filipino accents when speaking English, which made
it very difficult to understand what they were saying.
(
24
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hen I was about three months old, one of my uncles
gave me a nickname: he called me “Huevo,” which
means “egg” in Spanish. As I got older, some things came and
went, but this weird nickname stuck like gum on the bottom
of a shoe. My mom forgot my name once and started to call
me Huevo. Now that I’m older, I kinda like my nickname; it
grew on me. Whenever I hear it, I feel at home; I feel safe. So
now I’m proud to say they call me Huevo!
'
26
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efore I went to Mexico, I thought that my Spanish was
the best that it could be and was at its maximum level.
But when I went to Mexico to see my grandparents, it was
like it was the first time I’d ever heard Spanish. When they
started to talk, it was like roller coasters were roaring out of
their mouths and crashing into my ears. It was amazing. I
wanted to speak like them; I wanted to be them!
E
27
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i, my name is Dennis. Full name is Dennis Axel Martinez. Some teachers confuse it for Denise, which is
spelled D-e-n-i-s-e. My father gave me my name. He gave
me that name because, when he came from Mexico, he started to like baseball and wanted to name me after the baseball
player Dennis Martinez — and I got my middle name from a
German boxer called Axel.
F
29
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..remember not too long ago I helped translate for an officer and a lady who wanted to put her sons into a program.
I think I did well in translating for her, but I also had to use
some hand gestures. The officer told me to ask the lady to tell
her, “How are your sons behaving?” I asked her in Spanish,
“Como se estan comprotando sus hijos?” The lady said, “Ellos me
rezongan y me gritan.” Then I told the officer that they answer
back and scream at her.
.*
30
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y name is Diana, and my middle name is Anna. See,
what happened there was that my dad wanted to name
me Diana and my mom liked Anna, so Anna became my
middle name. In elementary, people would say “Die-Anna,”
which made me hate my name. I would ask my mom, “Who
the heck does that?!” What a waste of space for a better middle name. However, now that I’m older, I actually like my
middle name. I think it’s cool how my middle name rhymes
with my first name.
(
32
D55,*K50*.,=05@-,-89
..feel bad that I don’t know how to read and write in Armenian. My parents, as well as my sister and brother, were
born in Armenia and moved here in 1994. I was born here
in 1995, and you could say I’ve become very Americanized.
My dad hates it when I speak English when talking to him;
he doesn’t want me to forget my Armenian. When my dad
picked me up from school one day, I started telling him how
my day was in English, and he said, “What was that? I don’t
understand what you’re saying,” sarcastically, just to get me
to speak Armenian. He made me regret talking at all, and I
wished I had kept quiet; that way I could have avoided the
lecture on the way home of how I should speak Armenian.
It’s just hard for me at times because I think in English, and
it’s not easy for me to transform my thoughts into Armenian.
However, I do think it’s embarrassing that if I ever go to Armenia, I wouldn’t be able to read signs and get around on my
own. People have told me that I have an accent when I speak
Armenian. Personally, I think Armenian is like fruit roll-up
candy: when speaking it, it just goes on and on. Believe it or
not, I don’t know how to say many colors in Armenian, or
even “thank you.” I just say merci.
.
33
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y name is Andreas, or Andreas Vingthor Saether Lie.
My mother wanted to name me Alex, after my grandfather, but that would have been taboo, seeing as he was still
alive. Ever since I was a little child, though, virtually everyone
who knew me called me Drey. My dad even came up with a
special call for me: “Drey-boy, Drey-boy, Drey-boy, ahoy!”
(
Often, whenever I tell people my name, they ask, “Oh, like
Dr. Dre?” which is somewhat comical, but it wore out quickly.
Aside from that, however, I like my name; it’s very unique
and diverse.
My middle name, Vingthor, comes from a Norse folktale
about the Norse god Thor, who is the god of thunder and
lightning. When Thor was a child, he was put into hiding
because the other gods prophesied that Thor would become
powerful and overthrow them. When he was in hiding, he
was given the name Vingthor, which translates to “winged
Thor.”
35
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’ve been bilingual since I was able to speak. Although I only
spoke Norwegian at first, I fully understood the English
language. I didn’t actually start speaking English till I moved
to California, though; I lived in Norway till I was seven.
.
Norwegian isn’t a very useful language in America, but every now and then I’ll overhear someone speaking Norwegian,
or some other identical language, like Swedish or Danish,
and since they doubt that anyone else in the vicinity speaks
Norwegian, it makes for an interesting conversation to eavesdrop on. In my home, ever since I moved to America, English
is my spoken language. But I am still fluent in Norwegian,
even though my Norwegian writing skills aren’t much to brag
about. Every summer I visit my friends and relatives (on my
dad’s side of the family) in Norway, so for a good two months
every year I speak Norwegian on a daily basis, which helps
keep me fluent in Norwegian.
36
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ometimes I wonder why I have been called Edward.
Sometimes I wonder why I wasn’t named after a biblical character, like my brother Andrew or my cousin Daniel.
Sometimes I wonder why my name belonged to the kings of
old. Apparently, my name means “blessed guard,” yet I see no
wealth, wisdom, appearance, or strength in my life. I guess my
mom foresaw more abstract blessings for me, or maybe she
just really liked my name. My last name is Kim. Kim is bland
and like the countless grains of sand on a beach. It is the most
common last name to come from the Korean peninsula. In
Chinese, its character stands for “metal” or “gold.” It is also
the name for the dried seaweed that is found wrapped around
sushi. This is all I really know about my name. It may be little,
but I am grateful for at least one thing: if my mother had
called me Chi, my full name would be Kim, Chi!
&
38
$>-*L2@-*&-83-3*5K*9>-*$58<A-*
!581-0828<*9>-*M50-+8*?+8<A+<nglish was the first language I ever mastered. However,
it cannot take the place of the first language to enter my
ears. “Hangookuh baewooji ahnhamyun, nuhn babo doelgeoya.”
(“If you don’t learn Korean, you are going to be stupid.”) This
was my mother’s response to my excessive young uh (“English”) at the time. This response was accompanied by an undying struggle to put the voice of Korea into my monolingual
life. Due to her expectations of me, Korean is no longer an ordinary language; rather, it is a collection of synaesthetic senses
that express a unique culture.
%
Korean definitely smelled like kimchi! When a foreigner smells this dish, he or she is repelled by its strong aroma.
This was like my response to my first day of Korean school,
or even the language itself. As my fluency grew, the “smell”
stayed strangely the same. However, the aroma was no longer
repulsive; it became a delicious one. I started to grow into this
language, and it became part of my everyday life. Hopefully,
Korean will become as familiar as the smell of garlic in my
life!
Korean has many parts to it that makes it sound unique
to me and many others. For example, there is a letter that is
somewhere between the sound of k and g. Also, in the more
abstract tense, Korean sounds very stiff and crisp, sort of like
the sound of someone eating kimchi with their mouth open.
39
At first, this language was very difficult to understand, and
there were some words that had to be thoroughly explained
when translated from English. It sounded like a child trying
to tell you something amazing after losing his or her breath.
Today, it sounds like my grandmother’s gentle voice welcoming me home from school, or my mother’s stern voice telling
me to wake up for it. This language has become a resonating
melody in the song that I call my life.
Korean looks like a city on a planet made of paper. It looks
like this because the language is literally composed of circles,
squares, and lines. Occasionally, there are your mountainpeak-shaped characters. When first exposed to this language,
it looked like a Rubik’s Cube with indistinguishable colors.
This was because every word in Korean is made by mixing and
matching the right characters, and sometimes certain characters produce the same sound. Now my linguistic lenses are no
longer characterized by color-blindness, as I begin to get new
insight into the formerly ambiguous hues of Korean.
In my life, Korean is like salt. My usage of it tastes very
bitter, and I must go back to the aqueous English language
after a short while. I compare my experiences with the taste
of this white rock, because it was through Korean insults that
I felt the most bitterness. It was through Korean rebuke that
I learned to change my ways. Through the words of this language I tasted the bitterness that helped me to stop living a
bland life. Korean is more than a language; it is like the salt in
our everyday meals to me. I am just beginning to realize this.
I am just beginning to use my taste buds.
40
At first, Korean felt like a long day at school. I was constantly surrounded by it, and I didn’t want to fully embrace it.
Then it felt like really nue-kki-ae (that feeling you get when
you eat a really oily meal, or when someone says something
really corny to you), and I wanted to neglect it. Today, it feels
like a friendly anyeong (“hello”). Korean feels like power
through the prayers in my church. Korean feels like a torrent
of rain when used in my mother’s lectures. Korean feels like
home. It feels like everything is as it should be. Korean feels
like falling into your bed in the midst of homesickness.
My language is one that comes with five uniquely defined senses. As I progressed in Korean, these senses became
sharper with my understanding of this tongue. I am no longer
living in the hopes of learning these senses, but learning how
to live by them. I am learning to take a firm nationalistic grip
on this unforgettable experience.
41
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!CC-.=14)&/D3y family name comes from pre-Hispanic and Spanish
descendants and has its origins in Portugal, Galicia,
and other parts of the world. This mixture of cultures could
have resulted in a name like Carloe, Christopher, Jose, Juan,
Marco, or even something as simple as Jorge, but my name is
Emmanuel Rocha. I once asked my father, “Why the name
Emmanuel?” and he responded with a story: When my mom
was pregnant, he saw my name imprinted on an old Toyota
pickup truck and liked it. I said, “Wait! Hold that thought!
You named me after a truck?! That’s harsh! Talk about not
having imagination…” But then he explained that the name
Emmanuel was supposed to be the name for the next messiah, and it means “God is with us” in the Bible. Due to cardiorespiratory complications resulting from my premature
birth, I almost died. And that is why my name — instead of
being Carlos, like my grandfather, or Chrisfore, like my other
grandfather — is Emmanuel Rocha.
(
43
#59>28<*(50-*$>+8*+*
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hen I was in second grade, I moved to Los Angeles. I
had lived in Mexico for a couple of years, and Spanish was my first language. When I first moved here, I was
confused for a couple of months about everything going on
around me, due to not speaking English. After a week or so
of staying home and doing nothing, my mother took me to
the LAUSD office. Speaking in English, my mom had a conversation with the lady at the desk. There she was, my mother,
not much taller than me, about 4-foot-11, slim, and dyedblonde hair speaking a foreign language right in front of me.
Even though I had spent some time earlier in my life in L.A.
and only a couple of years in Mexico, I couldn’t make any
sense out of what she was saying. She pointed out the window, making a facial expression that told me she was trying to
remember something, and I tried to figure out what she was
saying. Not being able to even understand her body language,
she had me staring at her in awe. I stood there surprised that
I couldn’t understand my own mother. I wanted to find out
what she was saying.
'
After a few months, I was able to understand perfectly
what she had said that day. Thinking back on it, I realize that
what I believed was something I would never understand was
as simple as: “Hi, good morning… Fine, and you?... Great!...
I want to enroll my child in Magnolia Avenue Elementary
School, the one by 18th Street and Magnolia Ave.” Every
44
time I remember it, it humors me, because now that I fully
understand English I realize she was mispronouncing most of
the words she spoke. When she said “Magnolia,” it sounded
like she was mixing the word “mango” and “oil” together —
and there would be many other occasions like that one. In this
way, I discovered that what had seemed to be a great obstacle
was nothing more than a different lifestyle to which I had to
adapt.
45
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t’s human instinct to try something again after failure.
Like when you drink something too hot and you burn your
tongue, it hurts, but you try it again because you believe it
won’t hurt as much as the first time, but, to your surprise, it
hurts the same way...
.
46
40-6+950
f my writing were to be viewed as an animal, it would be a
cheetah. It started out as a cub, not being able to carry itself
for a short amount of time. It couldn’t hunt alone; it was fed
its meal by a leader, mother, or father, anyone above it. My
teachers would tell me, “Write in your journal, Emmanuel.” I
would refuse, finding it useless. As time passed, I found myself: a cub, growing. And along with me my writing grew to
be able to hunt your attention as its prey, on its own and with
proficiency. Suddenly, I find myself being a top predator —
the fastest and one of the strongest. So strong that, like a real
cheetah, it can carry twice its weight just to catch its prey and
devour it. Surprisingly enough, look at you; I caught you, carried you up a tree, and ate you alive with this short paragraph.
.
47
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hen I was younger, I always thought I was Mexican
American because my last name is Cisneros. As I got
older, I was a little confused because I did not look like any
of my friends who are Mexican American. Once, during a car
ride, I asked my dad about our last name. He told me that he
had been adopted at birth. He was very upfront about it. He
did not seem upset about being adopted and told me everything he knew. He said he did not feel any different when he
found out, because his parents made him feel like he was their
real child. My dad didn’t hold anything back, and he seemed
relieved that he had finally told me. I was ten years old at
the time and was shocked, but as time went by everything
went back to normal, and I didn’t think much about it. When
people ask me if I’m Mexican American, I just say, “Yup!” My
name is Eric Cisneros, and I am proud to be a Cisneros.
'
49
PAé
..lot of people assume I speak Spanish because my last
name is Cisneros. The first language I ever heard was
English. I have a Spanish background, but my parents never
spoke to me in Spanish. They would only say basic Spanish
words like mañana, so I never understood the language too
well. In high school I took a one-year Spanish class and had
a difficult time. My teacher was using very complex Spanish
words that I had never heard before. I don’t remember the
words or phrases exactly, but they were hard to learn. I ended
up getting better at it and passed Spanish 1 and 2. But please,
don’t ask me to say a sentence in Spanish, because I don’t remember that much.
I
50
('/25$)!+6!"&
I*#+,-*&950)
!08DE)(-4F-,/
y name is Erick Eduardo Salgado. My father named
me after himself. My grandpa also had the same name,
except he had changed his last name to Estrada. I’m not quite
sure why he changed it, though; I guess he wanted to one
day be confused with the famous Hispanic singer. My middle
name is shared amongst the majority of the males in my family. I only know of maybe one or two cousins who don’t have
Eduardo in their name. Although I’m the third with the same
name, it is not legally on my birth certificate. I don’t really
like my name; I would have preferred something else, like
Richard or Dom. I’d also change my last name. I’m not sure
what I would change it to. Maybe, though, some really white
American name just for the fun of it. I did some research the
other day on the etymology of my last name, and it turns out
that it is from Spain or Portugal. I find it very interesting that
it is from a foreign country, just as I find it interesting that my
father is from Honduras and my mother is from Guatemala.
I find it kind of humorous and kind of annoying when people
misspell my name, depending on what type of document it
was written on. It kind of makes me feel like an undercover
spy at times. Some people spell it “Erik” and others “Eric,”
and there are some who actually get it right with the “ck,” and
to them I give an imaginary high five.
(
52
D-,-,Q-028<*%8<:23>G*&=+823>G*
+86*4509A<A-3I
According to my grandma, I first learned how to speak
Spanish. But, I remember first speaking English, so it’s still
kind of a mystery to me. I speak both English and Spanish
in my house and my grandma’s house, but I speak only in
Spanish to my grandma, grandpa, mom and aunt. Although I
speak to my mom in Spanish at my house, I speak in English
to both of my sisters. A little bit of Portuguese is also spoken
in my house. Although I can’t speak it, I can understand it
sixty-five percent of the time, whether it is oral or written,
and I can also greet people in Portuguese. I understand it because it is very similar to Spanish. I’ve never had the luxury of
traveling to Portugal, but I have been to Mexico a few times
where, obviously, Spanish is the main language.
Although we are a Spanglish-speaking family, we first
came into contact with the Portuguese language when my
aunt decided to change to a Portuguese Christian congregation. From then on, she started learning the language and
speaking a little at home. She also purchased the Rosetta
Stone CD set to learn the Portuguese language. I gave it a try
a few times, and it seemed pretty easy to catch on. I haven’t
practiced it in a while, but I remember the word ovo, which
means “egg.” I don’t know why I remember that, maybe because I like Green Eggs & Ham, both the book by Dr. Seuss
53
and the actual food. Soon after, my aunt, who had moved
to the Portuguese Christian congregation, began dating Jose,
whom we call Joe. He is from Portugal. We let Joe move in
with us because he came all the way from Modesto and didn’t
have a place to live. Being from Portugal, Joe speaks a different type of Portuguese. In Brazil, the language is easier to understand since it’s very similar to Spanish, but the Portuguese
that people speak in Portugal is somewhat more complicated.
Soon after, Joe’s sister moved to Los Angeles, and we also
gave her a place to stay in our home. So now there were three
Portuguese-speaking people in our household, and I picked
up the language a little bit more.
II
One of my trips to Mexico had to do with my uncle being released from the penitentiary after being incarcerated for
more than thirteen years. He had been incarcerated here in
America, but I guess he said in some documents that he was
originally from Mexico, so they sent him down to Mexicali.
At least the commute to go visit him wasn’t too long; it was
kind of like going to Palm Springs. On the day of his release,
my aunt, who is now married to Joe, went down to Mexico to
go pick him up and take him to the new home that my family had set up for him down in Mexicali. My grandma went,
and she was more than delighted to see her son after so many
years of only being able to contact him via phone, in letters,
or behind a glass window in his penitentiary clothes. I had
gone to visit him a couple of times when he was incarcerated.
(I don’t remember it, but my grandma and uncle tell me that
54
I had known him up to the age of three years old.) After two
weeks, my aunt and I went down to Mexico to pick up my
grandma and so I could see my uncle in the flesh again. It
was a great feeling to be around a male figure that was bloodrelated to me.
My father’s family is from Honduras, while my mom’s is
from Guatemala. One of my mom’s brothers, who had lived
all his life in Guatemala, was killed in a drive-by while he was
in the car with my grandma and a cousin and his wife. It had
a huge impact on all of our lives. I wish I could have gotten to
know this uncle better in this life. I guess in Paradise I’ll have
an eternity to do so.
55
6(&'6($!+!0/++&
()*#+,G1/0F1)+4-C844/
y name turns out to be a very common name used every day. I asked why I got the name George. The reply
I got wasn’t the answer I was actually looking for, but after
some time, it all made sense. My family always talked about a
cousin of mine whom I had never met. They said he was very
smart and accomplished many goals, but could not succeed
any further due to having passed away. Now I understand why
I got the name George. I was named after my cousin to follow
in his footsteps. The name George in our family, in my opinion, means working hard and getting your goals and dreams
accomplished. Well, at least, that’s how I see it.
(
57
%8<:23>*I332<8,-89
t really confused me to have two languages growing up
as a kid — Spanish and English. I first started off speaking English. Reading and writing was really easy for me. But
when I first saw Spanish words, I really didn’t know what I
was looking at. Words like hola, como sabes, feliz, and words
similar to those really caught me off guard. It’s pretty weird
how I used to understand it and speak it, but when I wanted
to read or write in Spanish, I couldn’t. I guess I got used to
reading and speaking English because of school and friends.
Being around them made English my first and best language
overall.
.
58
6/!#!$0!#'/73(1
/H%H(H
G8-.-)9-.08H=1;
aised in a Christian household, my parents named me
Giana, which means “God’s grace” in Hebrew. My middle name, Elise, came from my dad, who was passionate about
classical composers and, in this case, “Für Elise” by Beethoven.
He often would play classical music when I was in my mom’s
belly hoping I would become a composer myself, and today I
echo that impulse with the piano.
D
Manriquez is the family name, and it wasn’t pleasant.
People in elementary school would often tease me, calling
me “Giana Man” or “Man Hands,” since people believed I
was strong with my hands, apparently. Then came the names
“Gina,” “Gianni,” “Giana Banana,” and “Gina the Giant” since
I was tall. At first, as a child, I didn’t really like my name, but
later on I found out that my initials make the word “G.E.M.,”
as in a gemstone. It’s my nickname, and I found out recently
that my parents created that name together because, as a baby,
my eyes would often shine as bright as an onyx gemstone.
60
I8*%1>5*5K*!A:9A0a Da,” as in “Papa,” was my first word out of the many
I speak today. I could never have imagined how far I
would come with the languages and words I say. I was confused as a child. I did not know what my true ethnicity was or
what language I would speak. Worried and anxious, I would
hear mi papá hablar en el teléfono en español, mi mamá hablar en
español, and then there were the strange foreign calls from the
alien planet. What was this alien language my mom would
speak? It clearly frustrated me. I picked up Spanish and English very well as a child, but I thirsted to know the secret code
that would open the wonders of the alien planet — I wanted
to speak it. I felt the need to be friends with this alien; it
smelled foreign, and the sound was like people choking on
their own words. During vacation, I needed to stay somewhere while my mom worked since I was only seven years
old, so she dropped me off at her cousin’s house. I was scared
the moment I got there, knowing we wouldn’t get along because I would finally be forced to face the reality of the alien
planet… the language I was longing for. My flesh-and-blood
cousin spoke Arabic. And to be honest, I was frustrated at
first; the only way we communicated was through gestures
and attempting sign language. Don’t know what I mean?
Let’s go back in time… to dealing with the struggle of an
empty stomach.
NR
I was hungry, and it was bad enough that it was my first
day at my cousin’s house, let alone that I had only just met
61
her. I was too shy to just grab food from the fridge; I had
to ask. Alice was in her room watching Arabic soap operas
and concerts known as halflas. I was intrigued by the culture
and music, not to mention the beautiful costumes and use of
makeup. This foreign alien was slowly quivering inside me,
taking me up to the sky, shaped like a black canopy with holes
punched in it waiting for the answers to resemble the clouds
coming together. Alice murmured something to me about the
halfla, but I didn’t understand, so I just shrugged my shoulders and attempted a convincing smile. My stomach growled,
and I realized I would have to eat something eventually, so I
tapped her shoulder and gestured with my hands, rubbing my
stomach and signaling food into my mouth. She said, “Esh
bedique toqlue,” which means, “What would you like to eat?” I
still didn’t know what she meant, so I took her to the kitchen
and signaled my hands toward the fridge. She replied, “Ah,
tayeb,” which means, “Oh, okay,” and went back to her room.
I assumed it was okay, so I made myself a falafel sandwich,
which my mom taught me to make when I was a little girl.
It was all coming together piece by piece: the language, the
music, the food, this alien I longed to be friends with was
echoing in my roots in a transformation of culture. I had to
do something, so I took action, and in a very short period of
time I was amazed — I spoke Arabic. My cousin often told
me that I even spoke it better than my own mom. I felt proud,
accomplished, because I can now say the long journey from
“Da Da” became a trilingual world of wonders I now share
with others.
62
8!25$.!)0!"1*,!#
S+1T*.8*9>-*(266:I-DE)7-2C-,;35-.
..got my first name, Hakop, from my dad’s side of the family. My grandpa’s name was Hakop, and I’m pretty sure it’s
been in the family for a long time. Hakop is a really common
Armenian name. I know at least twenty of them. Anyway,
that’s my first name, and that’s what I was called all throughout elementary school. I was okay with it, because that was
my name, and I thought that’s all I had. I didn’t like how it
sounded, though, when people couldn’t pronounce it right.
It wasn’t till middle school that I found out I had a middle
name. During the first day of sixth grade, one of my teachers
was calling roll and called out my full name. She said, “Hakop
Jack Basmadzhyan,” and asked if I preferred Hakop or Jack.
I said Hakop, because I thought maybe the Jack part was a
mistake. I’d never heard it before. So that day, when I went
home, I asked my parents about it; they told me that Jack was
my middle name. I liked the name Jack. It was easier to say,
and some of my favorite movie characters are named Jack,
such as Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean and Jack
Dawson from Titanic. So when seventh grade started, I went
with Jack.
.*
64
I0,-82+8*?-99-03
ll throughout the year, schools send home letters. I always
like to be the one who reads them, but sometimes they
send the letters written in Armenian and I can’t read them, so
I have to ask my dad to read it because it might be something
important. I don’t like doing that because the letter might be
something bad, and I can get in trouble. Most of the time my
dad reads it and says, “Karavore chi,” and I breathe a sigh of
relief. That’s when I know that the letter isn’t about my attendance or grades.
I
Every time I ask my dad to read the letters, though, he
gets upset that I can’t read it myself, and sometimes I get upset too. However, I remember when I used to go to Armenian
school on the weekends; I hated it. The teachers were really
strict and mean, not like what I was used to in my public
elementary school. I remember one of my first days at the
Armenian school, the teacher asked me to say aloud the first
couple of letters in the Armenian alphabet; I had no idea how
to, so she got really mad and started yelling at me. She said,
“Eench dzevie hye es du vor ches karroom ko lezoon khosauce,”
which means, “What kind of an Armenian are you if you can’t
speak your own language.” That made me both mad and embarrassed because I can speak my own language; I just didn’t
know how to read or write it. Having that experience on just
the first couple of days made me never want to go back again.
So, both my sister and I decided we were not going to go and
65
convinced our parents of it too.
Since then, I’ve never learned to read or write in Armenian, only speak it. I’m not too upset, though, because all of
my family members have pretty much assimilated to English,
so it’s not like I’m a complete stranger to my own family. I’ve
never been left out of something because I can’t read or write
my own language, but I still feel that it would be good to
know to read and write in this other language.
66
8!0()$.&25(+0!#
()*#+,I-C12)7/DE14C-.
’ve never really disliked my name James. I always thought
that the name suited me for some reason, but I can remember a time when I didn’t have the same feeling for my
last name. To me, the name Bockelman sounded strange and
ugly, and it was also pretty easy to make fun of. I was called
“Manbockels,” “Bockelwoman,” “Bockabocka,” and the list
goes on. I grew tired of it, but I eventually learned to appreciate the uniqueness of the name. People have told me that they
liked the name and that they wished they had one as unique
as mine. Bockelman is also a pretty well-known name in the
area. My father is an elementary school teacher, and a lot of
kids have been his students over the years. So whenever my
name is announced, there are always a couple of people who
ask, “Are you Mr. Bockelman’s son?”
.
I reply, “Yes,” with a minor sense of pride. As of right now,
I have nothing against my name, and, in fact, I’ve grown to
like the sound of it.
68
&=+823>
..never learned how to speak Spanish fluently, but I’ve heard
it here and there, whenever my mom and grandma would
talk to each other. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but I could always tell what mood they were in. When
their conversation was tense, their voices were raised and their
words were spoken rapidly, but when laughter filled the room
and their tone was playful, I could tell that they were joking
around with each other. I actually did learn a couple of things
by watching them, especially when they cooked. My grandma
would say, “Rapido! Rapido!” and my mom would do things
faster. That is how I learned that rapido meant “go faster.” I
wish I could’ve learned more at a young age so I could at least
figure out what the heck they were talking about.
.*
69
8!)0/#($%&9!'
78929:-6
I-2C8.1)$/J-0
y name was supposed to be Kimberly because that was
my sister’s favorite character from the “Power Rangers,”
but they didn’t take her to the hospital when I was born, so I
got stuck with another name. I don’t hate it, but I dislike it.
The weirdest thing is that my first name, Jasmine, is a Persian name, and it can either mean “jasmine flower” or “gift
from God.” But guess what my middle name is? Azucena is of
Spanish origin, and it means “madonna lily,” so both my first
and middle names are flowers. What a bummer. At times,
though, I like it. I asked my parents why they gave me those
names, and they said, “No one picked up the phone to give us
any advice.”
(
71
()*?+8<A+<-3
he first language I ever spoke was Spanish. I would hear
my siblings and other family members speaking this weird
language called English. Then, soon enough, I started speaking English, and once I started kindergarten, I spoke English
fluently. No one ever taught me how to read or write in Spanish; I learned it all on my own. I speak Spanish to my parents
and to some of my family members. In school I mostly speak
English to my peers and my siblings. I also have taken two
years of French, so I know the language pretty well. I know
how to write very well in French, but when I speak French,
it tends to be a little difficult for me to speak with the correct accent. Hola, mi nombre es Jasmine Tovar. “Hi, my name
is Jasmine Tovar.” Bonjour, je m’appelle Jasmine Tovar. Those
are examples of how well I can write in those three languages.
$
I have home videos from when I was about five, and my
English sounds very squeaky and very funny. When I watch
those videos, I just reminisce and laugh. I think I would love
to learn all the languages in the world, because then I would
feel connected to the world. When I hear other girls my age
talking in their own different language and I don’t understand, I feel as if I’m being talked about, so I start talking to
my sister in Spanish about them because they don’t understand our language, just as we don’t understand theirs.
When I was about four or five, it was not very hard for
me to learn English as my second language. I believe it is
72
easy to learn a different language when someone is young.
On those home videos, which my brother recorded right before my kindergarten graduation, my English was still a little
bit funny — not perfect yet. And in the video my voice was
so squeaky, and I would just be running back and forth on
the playground while my brother recorded me and asked me
questions in English. For example, I remember he asked me
where I live, and I said, “Clifford,” and he said, “No, that is
your school’s name. You live on Mayberry.” And then he asked
me, “What’s your room number?” I said, “One!” He started
laughing and said, “No, it’s eleven — there are two ones.” All
the things I said on those videos sounded very funny and with
an accent when I spoke English. I always spoke Spanish fluently, but when I was in elementary school, I didn’t know how
to read or write in Spanish. Then, suddenly—I don’t know
how it happened because I never studied Spanish—one day,
I just came home and showed my brother, sister and parents
that I could read and write in Spanish. I think my brain did
it all on its own.
73
8(##/:('$:+&'()
$U5*#B3G*"8-*L
I1..8K10)L4/012
y mom liked the name Jennifer, and so did my dad, so
they decided to name me Jennifer. I really like my name,
and I have always liked it. I have many nicknames: my friend
calls me Jenns or Jen, my mom calls me Jenny, and one of
my cousins calls me JLO, which I think is funny, because of
the singer Jennifer Lopez. I always laugh when they call me
JLO because it’s random. They sometimes also call me Halo
because of the video game. I tell them, “No, it’s JFLO!!!” The
thing I don’t like is when people ask me, “How do you spell
your name?” because there are many ways to spell it, such as
Jeniffer, Jennipher, Jenniffer, or even Jennyfer. I always tell
them, “Seriously, it’s not that hard to spell, people; it’s two n’s
and one f ! The normal way to spell it.” I love my name. Even
though it is very common today, it’s still unique to me.
(
75
V-::5U*F-::5
y favorite color is rosita. I miss my petit chien blanc.
I think I am a very heureuse person because I always
smile. The sun is amarillo and the sky is azul claro. My sweater
is very suavecito. In the mañana I had un café chaud et un croissant. The weather outside is calientito. My glasses are morado
and my pencil is verde. I feel despierta today, and I’m surprised
that I am not fatiguée. I enjoy hanging out with my prima,
who is younger than I am. La musique es mi felicidad. Yo no sé
que mas escribir, but what I do know is that my writing is hot
pink mixed with lime green. La vie es courte, desfrutar de ella.
(
76
78929:-6
y writing is a giraffe. It is tall and calm. It relaxes and
enjoys the world. It is loving and sweet, and it doesn’t
hurt anyone. It eats the leaves on the trees. The giraffe overlooks its territory since it can see the open landscape. My
writing runs wild because it is free like the wind. A giraffe,
just like my writing, will continue living happily, watching the
beautiful sunsets.
(
77
8&'6($)!#2*(1
78929:-6
I/0F1)(-.D31;
hen my mother named me Jorge, I thought to myself
that my name was unique and nobody else would have
it. I soon found out that other people had the same name, but
spelled differently, and said it in two ways. I like my name
because it’s the easiest name in the world, even though people
say my name both ways, and sometimes I get confused. One
time, in the first grade, my teacher had two Jorges with the
same name. I didn’t know which of us she was calling when
it was time to answer a question, and I got embarrassed when
it was not me that she was calling on. Later, she called me by
Jorge, using the Spanish pronunciation, and then she didn’t
confuse me anymore with the other person who had the same
name as me. I wish my name would have been Brandon, but I
love my own name, and I also wish my last name was Lopez.
It would be funny to be Jorge Lopez, and cool too. My name
is very unique, and no one will forget the name Jorge Sanchez. Sometimes I still wish it were Brandon.
'
79
()*?+8<A+<-*5K*"02<28
nglish was the very first language I ever wrote and spoke.
At first, I thought English was a Chinese language. I first
heard it from black superstars who were rapping. Now, English is the easiest language to speak. It feels like British people
drinking tea. It smells like Slim Shady from a mile away. It
tastes like rice crispy treats fresh from an oven. When I first
thought it was as foreign as Chinese, the words I heard came
from Two Guns, then Two Monks, and it kept going and going, building into a big sentence but in a very fast pace. It felt
weird hearing the same words over and over again. I didn’t
know where the English language came from; all I knew
was that it related to British people. It’s a good thing that I
learned English when I did, because if I hadn’t learned English early on, then I wouldn’t be where I am today. I wouldn’t
be talking to my brothers if they knew English and I didn’t.
I wouldn’t be talking to any of my friends if I didn’t know
English. English brought me confidence, but someday I want
to have a larger vocabulary of English words so I can speak
more fluently and in a more positive way and manner. I dedicate myself to this language, and I hope to learn more from it.
%
80
5'/)%/#($0!3'/2/&
M023928-*'29>*+*M
B082:8.1)9-=08D8/
y mother gave me the name Kristine-Joy, which is my
real name, but everyone calls me Kristine. In the past,
people called me Kristen, or Kristian, or Kristina, or just Joy,
especially my past teachers when they called out my name on
the first day of school. My mom told me my name, Kristine,
comes from Christmas and Jesus. My birthday is on December 17, and it’s eight days before Christmas, which is Jesus’
birthday. And Kristine and Christmas are similar to each other. But Kristine is not spelled with a Ch, even though some
people spell it that way. And when they do, I say, “It’s with
a K not Ch.” Every time I go to a store and they sell key
chains with people’s names on them, I can never find mine. I
only find Kristen or Christine with a Ch. My mom told me
that spelling Kristine with a K is common in the Philippines,
where she is from and so is the rest of my family. The Joy part
in Kristine-Joy means happiness, and that’s what my mom
wants me to have: happiness. My older sister and I kind of
have similar names. We both have Joy in our names, but her
name is Helen-Joy. My sister told me she knew my mom was
going to name me Kristine-Joy, but I don’t know how. Maybe
she suggested it to her. Some of my family members call me
Tin Tin, which is my nickname. I really like that nickname
because it sounds very funny, and I’ve been called that my
whole life. I really love my name and my nickname, and I am
going to keep those names forever.
(
82
?-+0828<*95*&=-+T*$+W<+W:5<
hen I was growing up, learning Tagalog was kind of
hard for me; it is a tongue-twister. I recently heard a
description in my English class, which said that hearing people speaking Tagalog is like hearing clucking chickens, and I
can agree with that. I thought that phrase was very funny. The
word itself, Tagalog, is hard to pronounce. In order for me to
pronounce it, I used the word “tagal,” which in Tagalog means
“taking your time,” and then the last three letters in Tagalog
are easy to pronounce. My mom told me people who know
how to speak the language but can’t pronounce the words correctly are Bisaya, and that’s what I am. The words or phrases
I’ve heard the most are Ano ang ginagawa mo dito? Which
means, “What are you doing here?” Another phrase would
be gutom ako, which means “I’m hungry.” And one word I’ve
heard a lot is pangit, which means “ugly.”
'
At times, when I say something in Tagalog, family members would make fun of me or would correct me, and one
of them would be my late paternal grandfather. When he
was still alive, I would have phone conversations with him
whenever my dad called him. My grandpa would correct my
grammar. When I answered “yes” in Tagalog, which is oo, he
corrected me to say opo; it is a formal way to say yes and is
important to use for grown-ups.
Most Tagalog words are very long, and when I hear them,
sometimes I understand them and sometimes I don’t. When
83
I started to read it, pronouncing each letter one by one or really slowly helped me a lot. (Me pronouncing this phrase very
slowly: Ako ng pakikipag-usap, which means “I’m talking.”) I
want to be able to speak Tagalog very well in order to communicate with my dad and the rest of my family and have a
good conversation with them. That would make it easier for
us to understand each other, and I could tell them everything,
instead of having to hide what I have to say and only telling
it to my mom and my older sister because I can’t explain it in
Tagalog.
84
()*$)=-*5K*'02928<
!y writing is like a squirrel of any kind.
Squirrels run long distances, just as writing goes on and on.
My writings can go as long as I want them to.
Squirrels run into many different places,
Like my writings go into many different topics.
85
+!3'!$"!9/+!
78929:-6
@-=0-)"-J84..was five, I believe. The hot Mexican sun beat down on the
three of us. I stood on a little ridge above Réi and Valentin
as they furiously dug at my feet.
.*
“Why aren’t you digging?” Réi asked. He was about a year
older than me, and Valentin a year younger. “It was my idea.
I’ll dig later.” He seemed content with this answer and went
back to digging.
I looked all around me, at the packed brown dirt and the
blazing hot sun that baked everything it touched. I looked at
the two boys, sweat pouring from their brows. I felt powerful,
standing there like I was a little above the two boys, while they
furiously dug at my feet. It was at this moment that Réi lifted
his head and asked randomly, “How do you spell Laura?”
I spelled it out: “L-u-r-a.”
Réi thought for a moment: “Isn’t there an a after the L?”
“No,” I replied stubbornly, “there isn’t.” I hated being
wrong, and Réi was ruining my feeling of glory. I stood there
looking down at the two boys — small, scrawny, and hands on
my hips — like I was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. And,
in that moment, I felt I was — whether there was an a after
the L or not.
87
$U5*?+8<A+<-3
I
s a child, the first language I heard and spoke was Spanish. English came later, when I was sent to day care.
Speaking Spanish was like speaking yellow letters; yellow
letters that happily danced out of my mouth to the sound of
yellow trumpets.
English was taught to me in day care. I remember the taller people looking down at me with stern faces, their mouths
moving, making noises I didn’t particularly understand. I
cried the first few days. I didn’t understand the language, the
people were strangers, and I wanted my mom. “Sit down,”
they ordered. I almost never listened to my mom when she
said, “Sientáte.” Why would I listen to people who were nothing of mine and who spoke what I couldn’t understand?
English to me was the ugly yellow light bulbs shining
dully on white school hallways that smelled like bitter coffee
and unhappiness. I would walk down the hallways and listen
to people having conversations around me, but I was always
unattached from them. I would see them all through a veil of
my own dreams. They were all in another place while I was
cocooned in myself.
Spanish was always a happier language. La familia would
croon to the child me in Spanish, and I would respond back
in a language somewhere in between, a language that every small child knows but soon forgets as her mind is filled
88
with other things. Hispanic babies are generally spoiled and
watched over by toda la familia.
Spanish was always safety and familiarity. It wasn’t until
later, when I was much older, that the two began to blend in
my mind, so that at times I wouldn’t know if what I was listening to was English or Spanish. My mind melded the two
languages together so that I was aware I understood what I
was hearing, but wasn’t quite sure which language I heard.
Though Spanish can be happy and golden, it can also be
harsh at times. Being reprimanded in Spanish is like getting
slapped. The words are sharp and direct, like small daggers,
and all you can do is stare wide-eyed.
89
+()+,.(%*$%&''()
$>-*'-206-39*#+,@1245>1:3)$/0012
y name is Leslybeth; it is the weirdest name in the
world. My first memory of writing is of writing my
name, when I started school, and how it was so difficult for
me to write it because it’s so long. Whenever I look up the
meaning of my name, I find no answer. I have to look up
Lesley and Beth separately. Surprisingly, I have looked up the
name on Google, and there are about three other people with
my name. My brother said he was the one to name me. He
said he knew a girl named Leslybeth in elementary. I wouldn’t
be surprised if that girl was one of the girls who came up on
the search engine. There is something very interesting about
my name that people seem to do; since my name is two names
in one, they decide to change the “Beth” part of it. I’ve gotten
nicknames like “Leslybutt,” “Leslybeef,” and “Leslybot.” One
time, my physics teacher managed to nickname me “Lazybeth!” None of the nicknames offend me, though; actually, I
find it very interesting to see what people will come up with
next.
(
91
&92::*?-+0828<
he first language I heard and spoke is Spanish. I first read
English and wrote it too. The first time I heard English
was from my brother. He was in elementary school, and he
had a lot of friends who also spoke the language. My parents,
on the other hand, spoke Spanish since the day I was born.
I never read Spanish, but I did speak it faster than my two
siblings did.
$
Up until I was about ten years old, my brother, sister, and
I would always talk in English to keep my parents from understanding what we were saying. Usually, it was when we
did something bad — by accident or on purpose—that caused
our parents to be upset. Our mom used to buy very expensive drinking glasses, and we would break them accidentally
when we were younger. One of us would say, “The glass fell
from the table and it broke!” Our mom would respond with,
“Qué?” Later on, our parents caught on to what we were talking about, which made it harder to keep things like that from
them.
A couple of years ago I went to Mexico, and I was scared
of speaking Spanish. My boyfriend always made fun of me
because the words I spoke in Spanish sounded wrong, or I
would mix up the meanings. I used to say, “Vamos a ver a una
banda jugar,” to my mom on the phone. My boyfriend would
just laugh and say, “It’s not jugar, it’s tocar.” Apparently, in
Spanish, playing a game and playing an instrument are two
92
different words, and I was confused because tocar meant
“touch” not “play,” but tocar means to “play” an instrument.
I decided that even if I had the chance to learn French
(a new language), I wanted to take a Spanish class at school
instead. It turned out that there were a lot of words that I was
pronouncing incorrectly. When I speak Spanish, my tongue
feels all loose, and it feels like I have no control over it, so the
words come out wrong and a little fast. I also decided to learn
Spanish because my mom started texting me, and she has a
hard time reading English. I’d have to text her things like,
“Mama, puedes traer más leche?” when there was no more milk
left for my dad’s cereal in the morning.
My little sister is not good at speaking, reading, or writing Spanish. She doesn’t know the difference between masculino and femenino, which is a big deal in Spanish. Now we’re
both taking Spanish classes, so we’re getting better every day.
I wonder if my brother knows how to write in Spanish?
93
+(%/2/!$9(+(1
.91>-::
@1:8D8-)M141;
y mom and I have the same first name, so within my
family I’m referred to by my middle name, Grisell. I like
my middle name. It’s unique and rare, and if you take the first
four letters you get gris, a color and Spanish for “gray.” I enjoy
being a color, especially a neutral one. I am neither too dark
nor too bright, yet I relate to everything.
(
I remember growing up with the many nicknames people gave me: “Gisell” (from my little brother and his childish voice), “Gisellina,” “Griselda,” “Gisselle,” “Grissy,” and, of
course, “Gris.” One of my first memories as a child involved
my name. I’d fallen asleep on the couch, and from far away
I heard somebody call me. I couldn’t quite understand what
the voice was saying, but I knew it was meant for me. When
I opened my eyes, I saw my parents standing in front of me
and realized that the voice was that of my father and the incomprehensible audio was my name. I must have been around
two or three because my brother Ricardo was not around (he
always tagged along with me), and my parents paid a lot of
attention to me, the eldest. Years later I would hear the same
man say the same thing as in that memory and would hear
a vast emptiness; compared to my early memory, I thought I
was speaking to a stranger.
My name has given me the biggest reward anyone can ask
for: I have never been more proud to hear my name than the
95
moment my little brother Anthony spoke it for the first time.
After my parents’ dramatic separation, I had to take care
of my brothers while my mom worked. I was only nine, but
my new responsibilities required me to become a smaller version of my mom. I no longer had a childhood, but a real child
who needed to be fed and changed and depended on me. My
other brother wasn’t fully aware of the situation, so I let him
do as he wished and enjoy his limited time being a small boy.
As time progressed, and the problems became worse, I literally took my mother’s place as she went into a depression.
Had it not been for the family business, we would have gone
bankrupt. With no support from my father, a depressed mom,
and a clueless brother, I was at my wits’ end. But new hope
came one day as I finished putting a diaper on my little brother. As I looked around the deserted house for more chores, I
heard it: a child’s voice that brought forth an echo and filled
my home with giggles. I turned around and saw my brother Anthony jumping around happily in his bed. He saw my
shocked expression and repeated himself again. “Itchell,” he
said and burst out laughing. “Itchell! Itchell!” he demanded
and pointed at me. “Grisell,” I repeated, smiling.
96
$>-*?-99-0*D
..am a native speaker of Spanish. I can’t remember my first
words, but I can vividly remember the hard time I had and
how hard the letter r was for me. I was able to make the r
sound, but I couldn’t pronounce words with the letter in it.
Throughout kindergarten I was made fun of by other kids.
My face would turn red with anger when I said pedo (Spanish
for “fart”) instead of Pedro and someone laughed. My teacher
tried to help me, but my incompetence would get the best of
me, and I’d simply avoid certain words. Eventually, I stopped
talking at all and became socially awkward, so I turned my attention to books. It wasn’t long before I’d finished reading all
the books in my house and begged for more. I avoided words
with r in the them, but I couldn’t avoid my middle name:
Grisell. I didn’t have any problems with it until the first grade.
In my class there was a girl by the name of Griselda, whom I
didn’t really like. She never did anything to me, but I disliked
her because people would confuse me with her and call me by
her name. I detest that name to this day, but back then, I despised it more than anything else in the world. One day, after
somebody called me Griselda again, I exploded with anger
and yelled, “My name is Grisell, not Griselda!” I gasped when
I realized that I had correctly pronounced my own name. That
day, after school, I ran to my mom and repeated my name
over and over again so she could have a nice memory, just in
case, by some chance, I woke up the next morning and my
problem was back.
.*
97
!>2:6>556*L02-863
..had just arrived to this country. I didn’t know or trust anyone other than my family. That changed the day I met Anibal. His charisma was unique; never have I met someone who
can show such personality and confidence without saying a
word. The instant he flashed a huge grin, it somehow reassured me. I didn’t know this boy, but I felt secure around him.
Then he spoke to me in a foreign language that I’d learned
to recognize as English. I managed to reply with a broken,
“Me, no English.” He laughed, and my face turned tomato
red with embarrassment and asked, “Espanol?” That was the
beginning of our friendship. Eventually, I had the courage to
tell my friend — who then told him — that I liked him. We
both spoke Spanish, yet we communicated through letters; he
couldn’t write in Spanish, nor did I in English. That did not
stop us from getting to know each other. We were both fifth
graders at the time, old enough to like the opposite sex, yet still
young and naive about love. We would exchange letters with
each other— his in English and mine in Spanish — then find
someone who would be kind enough to translate them and
then write back. I don’t remember much about the letters’ contents or their whereabouts. A lot has happened in the last eight
years or so, but I do remember a specific night when I wrote
a letter. I had just finished it. Looking out my window and
thinking of the day I would give him my first letter in English,
I suddenly saw something in the sky. That night I witnessed my
first meteor shower. That was my last letter of the school year;
soon after I moved and transferred to a different school. .*
98
L-:28..guess my writing could be like a cat (I love cats!). It can
be agile and climb to the top of a tree and get stuck and
ask for help, or simply stay there awhile and figure out a way
to climb down. In a way, so can I. I can go through various
obstacles without anyone’s help, but because I have a terrible
memory, I tend to blank out a lot and ask for help. Cats have
great night vision, which is very handy. I can see things others can’t, therefore my writing can convey what I see. There’s
a myth that cats have nine lives; the truth is they always land
on their paws. I relate to felines in many ways, but in a sense
I, too, land on my feet; in a bad situation I always try my best
not to fall.
.*
99
+/!0$2&,+(
78929:-6
@8-C)</541
y name wasn’t my choice. It was the second in a long
line of things forced upon me. The name is very common where my mom came from, but it is seldom found here. I
often refer to myself in the third person on those days I don’t
feel like myself, or what I’m supposed to be. I was named after
the boy who lived up the street from my mother. He was nice,
so maybe I’ll end up nice too. I hope I am nothing like him
and he’s nothing like me.
(
101
I*42-1-*5K*?+8<A+<he first piece of foreign language that I ever knew was the
word sláinte (pronounced “slon-cha”). It’s an Irish word
that I assumed meant something like “cheers.” I’ve heard
other words occasionally from the folk songs, or any Irish
band would use Irish words to add emphasis or show pride,
that would play in the car or on the jukebox at my mother’s
favorite pub. I never knew what they were saying, and when I
asked, I would forget a few seconds later.
$
When I was young, I never liked the music, writing it off
as bad. But as I got older and listened to the music—after
years without listening—I started to pay attention to it more
intently. When I listen to the music, it makes me feel like I’m
in that old culture. I can imagine the schools, the whiskey, the
towns, and just the people you would see. Songs like “Molly
Malone” always made me sad, but I could just picture this
woman with her wheelbarrow going through the streets on a
wet day. The song “Dirty Old Town” was always being played
around me, so I guess it just stuck. Each of these songs has a
feeling or a memory attached to it.
I have thought about learning the language, but it seems
easier to just learn the history and leave it at that.
102
+3/)$-!'!"!
78929:-6
@=82)6-0-,y name is Luis. Four letters, one syllable, or two syllables. It all depends on how you want to pronounce it:
“Loo-Ees” (Spanish accent) or “Loo-Is” (Americanized). It’s
my father’s name, and his father’s name. My family and their
culture are very fixed on keeping the male name alive and
yadda yadda yadda. I never really cared about it, because it
makes sense to label something in order to distinguish what it
is. The Hispanic culture, however, isn’t fond of being creative
in naming, so I’ve never considered my name all that special.
“Whatcha gonna name it?” “Uhh, after myself I guess.” I more
or less feel like a dog when my name is called, because my
natural response is to look. I don’t really care about it; it just
has to happen. At times I wish I could put more meaning into
saying my name, but the fact that I really don’t care leads me
to where I am. My name is Luis. See? I say it just as bland as
I write it.
(
104
I:U+)3*$>28T28<
ienso todo el día. It drives me mad at times, pero que más
puedo hacer? I think mainly in English, but I can process
thinking in Spanish as well. A veces, pienso como es tan raro que
puedo escribir y leer en dos languages. But I guess since it’s just
English and Spanish, it’s nothing special in this day and age.
I’m a target for being the generic bilingual son of immigrants,
but at least it says more than what a typical “American” is.
Stereotypes — such as “beaner,” being called a Mexican, and
all references to hopping a border — don’t faze me, because,
quite frankly, I don’t care what a simpleton likes to assume of
others. Those conservative thoughts are outdated and idiotic.
Siempre estoy pensando. Perdido en piensamiento. As time went
by, I learned how to read and write in Spanish. I guess it just
doesn’t strike me in any way as amazing. Pienso más y más
y más. La mente, tan poderoso, esta perdiendo sentimiento cada
día. I wonder if I’ll ever lose the ability of my second language. Siempre estoy pensando. Thinking will be the death of
me. Siempre estoy pensando.
"
105
.K*()*'02928<*'+3*+8*
I82,+:X
ell, hmm, an animal... an animal... Wait, aren’t I an animal? My writing is really all over the place, like splattered paint, but if I were to give it the form of an animal, it’d
be like a crow. Nobody likes crows. They are dark, swoop in on
things when given the chance, and have no clear objective in
life. Crows fly whether alone or in packs, and my writing can
stem from either loneliness or some stories with my friends.
Most importantly, crows just have no direction as to where
they want to be in life. My writing just happens to be like a
paint-spitting crow. But still, aren’t I an animal?
'
106
0!##,$9(+!173(1
78929:-6
9-..5)M14-;H=1;
y father’s name is Jose Manuel Velazquez. One thing he
always dreamed of was to have a son named after him,
although he never liked the “Junior” part, so he had to figure
out a way to exclude it from the name. When I was born, he
came up with Manuel Jose Velazquez; it is exactly the same
name, except it is flipped. As I was growing up, I never really
had a problem with people mispronouncing my name. One
problem I have now is when people ask me, “How do you say
your name; is it ‘Man-well’ or ‘Man-u-ell?’” To be honest, I
don’t even know the answer to that question, but since it’s my
name, I get to make the rules, so I tell them, “It’s Manuel.”
However, it never seems to roll off the tongue because the
name is supposed to be said in Spanish, so I end up saying,
“But everybody calls me Manny.”
(
Now, I don’t have too many nicknames, but one nickname
that stuck with me was the name Manny. I don’t recall the
first person to nickname me that, but I know I’ve been called
Manny since I was in about the third grade. I guess it’s easier
and more effective, because now even my teachers call me
that. So call me Manny; nice to meet you.
108
?+8<A+<..can’t quite remember the first words I heard, but I know
for a fact that the first time I heard anything, it was in Spanish. I say this because both of my parents speak the Spanish
language. The first thing I probably heard was no hagas eso,
which means “don’t do that.” I’m sure I heard this plenty of
times as a kid, because I was a little rebel.
.*
But the language I was accustomed to was English. Even
though I didn’t really have anyone to teach me the language
at home, I was excited to learn something that I would use
for the rest of my life. After going to school for so many years
and learning only English, my Spanish has declined. Since
I am aware that being bilingual is a skill, I attempt to speak
more Spanish while at the same time improving my English
level.
109
0!'2&$"(+&))!#%&)
(+015*R-?53&+8953
9-0D/)"1@/2(-.:/2
arco “Polo.” To this day, hearing someone call me this
sends shivers of rage down my spine. These tremors
trace back to the turn of the century to a time of fragile immaturity: the days of kindergarten. With my bowl-cut hair,
chunky physique, and slanted, Asian-like eyes, I could never
understand why or how I resembled that Italian dude, Marco Polo. I’m sure he liked spaghetti and Olive Garden just
as much as I do, but it’s a nickname, and you don’t choose
your nickname — your friends and family do. The nickname
I prefer is Angel. Not only is it my middle name, but it portrays me as some sort of celestial being. Only one person ever
calls me Angel, and that is my sister. Because it is so rare for
anyone to call me Angel, it means that much more to me
when I hear the name Angel come out of my older sister’s
mouth, followed by, “Who ate my sandwich?” Growing up
with the name Marco DeLosSantos made it an arduous task
to write my heading on all of my papers, but it is the origin
of my name that makes me feel proud to be Marco, and even
more proud to be Mexican American. As the story goes, my
great-grandfather on my father’s side was a vet, a soldier, and
a warrior in the Mexican Revolution. Marcos DeLosSantos
was a man who fought for freedom, for his family, and for
his beloved country. My mother grew up without a father. It
wasn’t because he deserted them, but because he died of an
illness when she was young, and she was in need of a father.
His name was Marco. Upon my birth, my parents were left
(
111
with the million-dollar question: What do we name him? My
father, who has always been very proud but stubborn, insisted
on naming me after him, Miguel, or else Marcos. My mom
preferred Marcos, but something was off; pronouncing the
name Marcos Angel DeLosSantos just did not roll off the
tongue. So I was named after a lost father, Marco, and was
given a name with significantly religious overtones, Angel
DeLosSantos. DeLosSantos translates to “of the saints,” a
phrase that places me in a position of pride, honor, and duty,
if not for God then to myself. Thank you for reading this
through, and if you see me in person, please don’t say “Marco,
Polo.” It’s so elementary.
112
0!'/(+(#$6!+)/0
#5G*F-0*#+,-*.3*(+0)*%::-8
9-08141.)G-428C
y name is Marielen. This is the name my grandmother
gave to me, and I was named after her mother, Maria
Elena. I was always used to the way my name was pronounced,
“Mah-ree-len.” I thought my name would be easy to say, up
until my very first day of first grade. I remember this moment
not quite like it was yesterday, but it is still pretty clear. I’m
pretty sure I was one of the last to be called. “Mary Ellen,” Ms.
Cox said smoothly, sure of having said my name correctly. I was
confused as to whom she was calling, but when I realized it was
me, I didn’t try to correct her. I had always let my mom tell the
teacher how to pronounce my name, but she wasn’t there. I just
went along with Mary Ellen. I regret not telling anyone how
my name should be pronounced, because up until now, almost
everyone who knows me calls me Mary Ellen. When I’m given
the chance, I try to correct those who say my name wrong, but
they mostly give up on their first try, since Mary Ellen is easier
for them. There really isn’t anything I can do to stop it, so I just
let it be. I’m also being called Marilyn by a few of my teachers
today. It’s more complicated for me to know if I’m being called,
because there are other girls who go by that name. And still,
I don’t correct them. What is wrong with me? It seems as if I
don’t care about my name, so I just let other people step all over
it and call me anything they want. Well, from now on, I want
to try my best to get everyone to say my name the right way, no
matter how hard it is or how long it takes. So, hello, my name
isn’t Mary Ellen, Mary, Marilyn, Marielyn, or any other name;
it’s Marielen, pronounced “Mah-ree-len.”
(
114
'+29G*'>+9*R26*V5A*&+)C
he first language I heard and understood was Tagalog. I
used to know and speak the language, but as I grew older,
my understanding of it began to fade. A few of the words I
still know because I hear them often are: maganda, meaning
“beautiful”; salamat, meaning “thank you”; magingat, meaning “be careful”; and other words. I feel very clueless not
knowing what people—especially family and friends—are
saying in their conversations. One time, I heard my father
say my name when he was talking to his sister. My father
was saying, “Oh, Marielen. Hindi mabuti ang mga grado nya.”
I was thinking, “Oh, he’s talking about my grades, but what
is he saying about them?” My aunt asked, “Saang klase siya
pinaka mahina?” My father replied, “Trigonometry.” I had a
disappointed look on my face, knowing what he was talking
about. My aunt came up to me and asked, “You’re failing
trig?” I was so angry at my dad for telling her. It sucks for
me that I can’t understand Tagalog, because I’ll never know
exactly what people are talking about, and I might end up
taking offense. Sometimes, I have to ask for a translation of
what they are saying. I feel ashamed that I know Spanish
more than I know my native language. I’ve heard many other
languages from classmates this past year, such as Korean and
Armenian. In my Spanish 2 class, an Armenian classmate
was teaching a Hispanic how to speak Armenian because it
was fascinating. It made me realize that if you take your time
and practice a certain language, you will get used to it and
know how to make conversation. This has given me the idea
$
115
that I should try to learn Tagalog, because I’m surrounded by
people who speak it at home and school. Overall, I consider
Tagalog to be itim, meaning “black,” because it will take me
many years to fully understand the language.
116
0(+/))!$'(,()
78929:-6
914822-)&1512
y name is Melissa Reyes. No middle name. It is ordinary, simple, twelve letters long, and I am sure if you
google it, it is very common. When I was younger, I honestly
believed my name had no amazement or personality to it. It
wasn’t exotic. I still remember meeting kids in elementary with
these awesome names that sounded like royalty that you find
engraved on some gold fancy nameplate sitting on a wooden
desk in the doctor’s office. When the teacher would call out
my name, it didn’t sound as important or bold as the other
students’ names. I remember thinking to myself, “Wow, now
I am completely positive my name sucks.” I went home that
day and threw a tremendous tantrum at my mom, demanding
to know why she couldn’t put some creativity into my name.
One thing that did make me a bit proud was when people
asked me how I spelled it: if my name contained double l’s or
just one s. It made me happy to know that the ordinary name
Melissa differs in some way from the usual spellings.
(
When I was growing, up my mom had this wild, party
girl, Colombian friend who was the first to call me the nickname I later adopted: “Melo.” I am not quite sure why she
came up with Melo, but I am guessing (and still hoping) it
was short for Melissa. Soon after, my relatives began to joke
and call me that in a way that imitated her. They did it to bug
me, but it didn’t; truth was I loved it. It was something that
was short and easy to make into a rhyme too. So I began to
118
introduce myself as Melissa Melo, but I made sure I would let
them know I don’t like to be called Melissa. However, just recently my good friend’s mother asked me about my real name.
He told her, “Melissa.” Next time I saw her, she told me how
beautiful the name Melissa is and that it’s one of her favorites,
and one of the most beautiful flowers is called Melissa. I grew
up thinking my name meant “bees.” Honestly, that made me
dislike it more than I already did, because I am terrified of
bees. So hearing this different layer to Melissa shocked me,
and for the first time, it made me grateful for my birth name,
Melissa Reyes.
119
0/2*(++($*3(1&
78929:-6
98D31441)N=1;/
y name is Michelle, and the first time I ever wrote it
down or said it was probably the worst time ever. Many
people confuse it with the name Michael, and that’s exactly
what I did.
(
The meaning of my name is “what is God?” I didn’t really
get the significance of it, but later, as I started growing up, I
learned that the meaning I give to it is worth much more than
what others think of it. My grandfather named me Michelle;
therefore I say and wear it with honor and pride.
For those of you who don’t know the difference between
Michelle and Michael, I’ll tell you: it’s M-i-c-h-e-l-l-e, not
M-i-c-h-a-e-l.
121
I859>-0*?+8<A+<lthough Spanish was my first language, I spoke English
too. The first time I heard someone else speak another
language, I remember I was confused. I kept staring at them
with a confused face and tried to understand it, but the more
I focused on what was being said, the more confused I got.
I
122
#!#2,$2&#%'('!)
(233*L+81)*#+81)
*-.D5)</.:010-2
..never really liked my name when I was little. I thought it
sucked! Because it was so plain and not a lot of people had
the same name, and when they asked me what my name was,
I had a hard time pronouncing it; I’d say it, and they wouldn’t
understand. And sometimes they would call me a lot of nicknames, such as “Nancy Drew,” “Fancy Nancy,” and “Nancy
Pantsy.” I didn’t like it because that wasn’t my name. My name
was only Nancy, but everybody still called me by my nicknames, even my teachers. As I grew older, I learned to like my
name because a lot of people didn’t have it, and because the
nicknames were kind of funny. So now, every time somebody
calls me by that nickname, I just laugh about it.
.*
124
#!'(5$2*&.!#,!#
78929:-6
*-01E)<3/>-.5-.
y parents gave me the name Narek—a very rare one—
when I was born. My name comes from a brilliant writer in the Middle Ages, Grigor Narekattsi, but today Narek is
a village in Armenia, where Grigor Narekatci was born.
(
My name should have been the name of the father of my
paternal grandfather, Sergi, as tradition would dictate. My
grandfather once said to my dad, “Don’t give my name to your
son.” I guess he did not want my father to give his name to
me. Well, even if my name was Sergi, I couldn’t do anything
about it; we all learn to like our given names.
Although many years have passed, my name is still very
rare. Just like one of a kind, that no one else has, and I like
that very much. My given name sounds Armenian, and my
parents’ names happen to be Nara, Laura, and Davit — all
from the same root. What I like the best about my name is
that Narek is not a common name, and I would want my sons
to pass my name on to their sons someday.
126
I::*()*?+8<A+<-3
..lived in Armenia in Yerevan, the capital, where I was born.
I first heard Armenian, but also at the same time Greek
and Russian from my parents. I heard Ruseren (the Armenian
word for “Russian”) from my parents and, when I watched
television, from the music clips of famous Rus stars.
.
Then, at the age of three, I moved to Crete in Greece with
my untanik (Armenian for “family”), but did not live there for
very long. Moving back to Armenia, where I was born, I did
not know my native language; I only spoke Elenica (“Greek”).
As a child I used Greek to talk to my mom, and everyone that
heard me speak knew it was me, but did not understand.
Russian to me sounds like a very strange, difficult, and
crazy yezik (“language” in Russian), like a crowd loudly yelling at random.
Armenian to me sounds like a sweet melody to my ears,
like a mother’s voice that is as colorful as a rainbow in the
sky. One of the lines from an Armenian poem, I remember,
is Hayastan aselis: I feel and think of home, the only mother
country in my heart.
My parents remind me that as a child I sang a Greek song
with the lyrics, “Ti pota kalo pota.” Everyone would clap and
say, “Bravo!” But when I started speaking the Russian lezu
(“language” in Armenian), I began saying paka (“goodbye” in
Russian) to my friends who had also started learning Rusky
127
(the Russian word for “Russian.”)
Now, the first thing people ask me to teach them in Armenian is barev vonts es (“Hello, how are you?”)
Nyet1 I will yerpek2 say a psema3 even if I petka4.
1
2
3
4
“No” in Russian
“Never” in Armenian
“Lie” in Greek
“Need to” in Armenian
128
#!%*!#$03;/1
I::*()*#+,-3
*-:3-.)9=O8;
y name is Nathan, and my mom named me that. She’s
the one that wanted that name for me. Most everybody
calls me “Nate” or “Nate-Dogg.” I really like Nate-Dogg, because that’s the name of a famous deceased rapper. Well, his
stage name was Nate-Dogg, RIP. And that’s the reason why I
like Nate-Dogg best as my nickname. I really like my name,
and I don’t know why, but I do. If I were able to change my
middle name, I would change it to Amaru, because I’m part
Peruvian, and Amaru means “shining serpent” in the old Incan language. I would also change my last name, which is
Muñiz. I don’t know what I would change it to, but I would
like to change it because I don’t like it. I would want a last
name that has a nice flow to it, or rolls off the tongue and goes
with my first name, Nathan, and the middle name that I want,
Amaru. And that’s my name.
(
130
!58KA3-6*&=+823>
he first language I ever heard and spoke was English.
Some people in my family spoke or understood Spanish,
but I never learned it, and I don’t really like Spanish. Still, it
could help to know it in life. When I first heard Spanish, I
didn’t know what to do or say because it was so fast, and also
I was sort of confused. Sure, I know a couple of sentences
here and there, but I don’t know full paragraphs. I can understand phrases like Como estas? (“How are you?”) and other
little simple things like that.
$
Other than a little bit of Spanish, I only know English;
not all of the words, because there are so many out there, but I
know a lot of them. The kind of English words I know are the
ones you learn at school, as well as slang phrases in English
like “chill out,” which means “to relax,” and “kick it,” which
means “to go relax somewhere.” I don’t know any slang words
in Spanish. The Spanish I know is mostly simple sentences
and words and phrases about food. But mostly I’m an English
speaker. Maybe someday I will learn more Spanish, and I kind
of want to, because it might help me later to be able to talk
to more people.
131
'02928<*I82,+:
he animal that I think my writing would be is either a
pit bull dog or a black panther; a pit bull because it looks
mean but is very nice and can be very gentle. However, if you
get me mad, I will fight back and bite back like a pit bull. The
way my writing is like a black panther is that it’s sneaky and
waits for you to let your guard down. Then, out of nowhere, I
will pounce on you and won’t let you go until I’m done with
you, which means till you’re done reading or you have read the
exciting part.
$
Both of these animals can be very mean and wild yet gentle at the same time. But you can only make one of them a
household pet, and it’s the pit bull. The black panther is a wild
animal that lives in the jungle and cannot ever be tamed, but I
love both of these animals, and they are my favorites.
132
-*/++/-$+/#
133
78929:-6
638448?)@8.
(
y name is Phillip Tse Lin. My Chinese name is Lum
(Lin) Si Xing
For my English name, Phillip, I’ve asked why I was named
that. I asked my dad why I was named Phillip, which is such a
common name, and he told me that my name came from the
Bible. And when I asked my mom, she said my name is Phillip because its sounds like “Phil loves,” which makes sense,
if my mom wants me to grow up to be a loving boy — like I
am now — who loves his friends very much. For my Chinese
name, I have asked my dad, “What does it mean?” Well, he
told me my name, if translated raw, means “forest thinking
prosperous,” but he told me that for him, it meant he hoped
that I would grow to be a strong, wise, prosperous person.
134
?+8<A+<-*$-+
earning a language is bitter, like overdone tea — trying to
understand, trying to remember. The frustration of not
understanding burns; being Chinese and not being able to
write it is embarrassing. When I was little, I first understood
how to speak Mandarin, but then forgot it, and then I learned
how to speak Cantonese. Personally, I like Cantonese better ’cause it feels smoother and more soulful than Mandarin.
With my family I speak Chinese, and with everyone else I
speak English. From time to time I like to speak a little Chinese with my friends, like when I see a cat, I say, “Oh look, a
mao.” Then my friends say that’s a cat, and I say, “Yeah, that’s
what I said, but in Chinese.”
?
135
.K*()*'5063*'-0-*+8*I82,+:
#f my words came alive they would become a dove flying
peacefully in the sky,
catching everyone’s eyes, though this dove likes to hide and
keeps its beauty inside,
for this dove is very shy, but when it shows itself,
it likes to fly so high, show its beauty in the sky.
136
'(#!#$!#6+&
137
$>23*.3*(&1.-.)+.F4/
y name is Renan Canilao Orosa Malimban Manalo
Rielo Villanueava Quis-Quis Anglo, legally named at
birth as Renan Rielo Anglo. My name isn’t really that long;
those are all my surnames going back a few generations. My
goal is to trace my family lineage as far back as possible. It
interests me to know and learn about my ancestors and my
connection, if any, to other people with the same surname.
My dad is Renato, my sister is Renallie, and I’m Renan. I really don’t know how “Renan” is pronounced. Some people just
can’t get my name right from the pronunciation, so they give
me other names, such as Raymond, Ren, Brandon, Brennan,
and Jack. It is fun to have different names, but I like my real
name the most. I’ve met a few other Renans, but I am one of
a kind, in my school, at least. The funny thing about my last
name is when someone reads it, they expect an Anglo, like
literally an Anglo, Caucasian-blonde; I’m Asian-black.
(
138
?+8<A+<-*.8*9>-*L+,2:)
..could speak, read, and understand both Tagalog and English ever since I can remember. I know both languages
equally, but I am more comfortable with English. I can also
understand a sufficient amount of Spanish; enough to understand very slow, elementary conversations. I just learned
yesterday that most people cannot distinguish different Asian
dialects. At first, I thought everyone could determine the different accents, but apparently, most people cannot. I can distinguish different Asian languages, accents, and writing. I only
speak Tagalog with my family and Philippine-born friends,
though I am more comfortable speaking a mix of Tagalog and
English that is more commonly known as Taglish. I know a
sufficient amount of Spanish to know what subject someone
is discussing; I use context clues (e.g., para and porque) and
nouns (e.g., famiglia, rojo, and la sacapuntas).
.*
My parents, for some reason that I do not know, can speak
fluent Spanish, and so do my sister, some cousins, and other
relatives. This became relevant on one occasion at my aunt’s
house. It was my nephew’s first birthday, and his dad is Mexican, so his immediate family were there. We were in the living
room when his sister started babbling to her cousin for about
five minutes in Spanish, as if my sister and my cousin could
not understand them. But they understood every word. They
were literally just ten feet away, across the living room. My
sister and my cousin had similar facial expressions, as if all
139
hell was about to break loose. I just sat there innocently eating my mocha fudge cake. Apparently, they had been talking
a lot of crap about us. My sister and cousin didn’t want to tell
me the details, but it sounded bad. They were completely outraged and ready to fight back in Spanish. It made me laugh a
little to hear my sister and cousin planning a plot in Tagalog
right in front of the other two women.
140
)!#"'!$9!)73(1
141
78929:-6
(-.,0-)M-2H=1;
efore I was born, my mom and dad didn’t know what
my name was. When my mom started having abdomen
pains, my dad took her to the hospital. Mom had me when
she was around thirty years old, and at that age, your muscles
change, and it’s really hard to have a baby. My mom was in labor for around twenty-four hours. Everybody should respect
his or her mother, ’cause having a baby isn’t easy. That’s why I
always respect my mom. She’s a best friend that I know will
always be there for me, through thick and thin. She’s been
with me: crying, happiness, excitement, disappointment, and
depression. I’m really thankful for a mom that can understand
me, ’cause she remembers when she was young, her life was
really hard.
E
Anyway, going back to my name, there was a beautiful
nurse that was there for my mom, when she was hungry,
thirsty, or in pain. When my mom was giving birth, she was
there with her through everything.
I also looked up on google what my name means. My
name, Sandra, means to have a clever, creative ability in art,
music, singing, or drama, and an appreciation for refined surroundings. This surprised me, because I’m in the John Marshall High School Symphony Orchestra. Finding info about
my name was really interesting.
142
?+8<A+<I
I probably first started talking Spanish. I would always say
“qweenkey.” I would say that ’cause I would want my milk and
my Nesquik (strawberry.) I remember myself on the couch
saying, “I want qweenkey.” If my mom or dad were around,
they knew what I wanted, and they would give it to me: warm
milk with Nesquik. Just thinking about warm milk with Nesquik makes me so sleepy. I would feel really sleepy. I might
even fall asleep.
II
Now, I’m learning my second year of French. About two
weeks ago, we were watching the film Jean de Florette. Manon
was a young girl who spoke only French. She made friends
with a little old lady who spoke in French and Italian. All of
a sudden, Manon is speaking Italian with the old lady. That’s
where I wondered to myself, How the hell is she speaking Italian? Everybody else was confused too; we were all confused.
Manon was speaking a language we didn’t know at all.
143
)!'!*$-/#("!
144
78929:-6
(-0-3)68.1,arah is such a boring name to me. It’s so common. I hate
it when people misspell it. They’ve spelled it like S-a-r-a.
One time, someone spelled it S-a-r-h-a. I don’t understand,
because I’m pretty sure it’s one of the easiest names to spell.
But I’m glad it’s not something like Adeja (“Uh-day-juh”;
I’m not even sure how to spell it.) That’s what my parents
were going to name me. They told me it’s the name to a song
they loved about twenty years ago. I haven’t bothered to look
up the song yet, but I’m sure it’s some really old-sounding
R&B song. The thing that I like about my name, though, is
that none of my family members have it. My middle name is
Grace, which is my grandma’s first name, and even though we
share that name, I’m pretty happy with it. It’s kind of pretty,
and I love my grandma. That’s all there is to say about my
name. There isn’t some interesting story about how my parents came upon the name Sarah Grace Pineda.
&
145
'>-8*.*R268B9*786-039+86*
$+<+:5<
he first language I heard that I didn’t understand was Tagalog. I still don’t understand it that well, but I do much
more than I did before. My dad’s side of the family still thinks
I don’t understand it at all, so when they want to keep a secret,
they speak in Tagalog. But it doesn’t work anymore, because
now I usually know what they’re talking about — at least I
know they aren’t saying mean things about me. I wish I could
speak it fluently, though. I also want to be able to speak Spanish, French, Indian, and Japanese.
$
146
%!)#/!$*&))!/#
147
E+8<:+*+86*E-)586
$-2.8-)N/22-8.
y first language was Bangla, and since it was spoken
(
at home, it was the dominant language in our family.
Before attending preschool, English was my second language.
Now it is the language I use most often and can speak most
fluently. I also learned to read Arabic when I was younger, and
I’ve read the entire Quran twice, but never understood the
meaning, which is why I’m now reading the English translation to better understand its depth and meaning. I am currently taking French, and I’ve recently been learning Russian
because I’m fascinated with the Cyrillic alphabet. I’ve only
learned a mere handful of common phrases so far, along with
familiarizing myself with various letters from the Cyrillic alphabet. I find Russian to be a very rich and beautiful language and envy those who possess it as their native tongue, as
they’re able to speak it effortlessly with a natural flow, whereas
I cannot. I think Arabic is lovely as well, it being the sacred
language of my religion. I find the fact that it’s written in calligraphy to be even more special.
148
%4(##,$:+&'()
149
'>+9*.3*()*#+,-C
$A1..5)L4/012
..have a very unique name. No language can define my
name. Twenny is my name. It sounds royal, like “queenie.”
People always say or spell my name wrong. People say that my
name is cute and that it suits me. They tell me that whenever
they hear my name, they always think of something very tiny,
or think of Tweety Bird from Loony Tunes. I think my name
is very interesting; it’s indescribable. But the problem is, what
does my name mean? To tell you the truth, I don’t know, either. It was my mom who named me. She once told me that
she was gonna name me Ingrid, but thank the Lord she didn’t
name me Ingrid.
.*
150
I*?+8<A+<-*$0-+3A0..first learned to speak my native language, which is Visayan, and at the same time English. I later learned “Filipino,” or Tagalog, when I first went to school. At first I was
confused why everyone in my class spoke a different language
from Visayan and English. Later I learned from everyone
that Tagalog is the main Filipino language used to communicate in our country besides English. I thought because I knew
how to speak Tagalog that I knew everything about it; I was
wrong. In school we had to learn about the proper usage of
Filipino, just like learning English. I remember when I first
went to school here in the U.S. I met some Filipino students.
Some knew how to speak and understand Tagalog, but what
surprised me the most was some didn’t know how to speak
or understand Tagalog, even though they were Filipino. They
have forgotten their own language. They were assimilated to
the American way of living. But as for me, my teacher once
told me, “Wag mong kalimutan ang iyong sariling wika at ito
ay iyong ingatan. Huwag mong kalimuntang lumingon sa iyong
pinangalingan dahil ito rin ang tutulong sayo sa kinabukasan,”
which means, “Never forget your own language and treasure
it. Don’t forget to turn around where you came from, for it
will help you in the future.” I keep reminding myself never to
let others change me, for I am my own language and will treasure it till the end. I’ve heard many different languages with
the help of television, media, and the ever-popular Internet. I
never knew that coming to the U.S. would widen my knowl-
.*
151
edge of language. For example, when I was in middle school,
I thought that this one language most of the students spoke
sounded very similar to my language. Then I realized the only
language that would be similar to Filipino would be Spanish.
I learned in history that Spain once conquered the Philippines, which explains why some Filipinos have Spanish last
names or they are part Spaniard. I understand some words
in Spanish, especially numbers. I myself am part Spanish.
My grandmother once told me that her father was Spanish.
Too bad I didn’t get to meet my great-grandfather; I could’ve
used some of his knowledge to teach myself some Spanish.
In school we have to learn a foreign language; there’s Spanish
and French. I took French. I wanted to try something new. I
think French is a very beautiful language; it sounds pretty. But
I don’t think that I will be able to use it in the future. Well, it
might help me; we never know.
152
(+T28<*&-83I844)"8-C/.,'2)N/./02)!.F4823)<4-22)
</44->/0-:8/.
$ove looks like a rainbow with no end in sight.
Love sounds like baby birds chirping in their nests.
Love feels like jumping into a bed of pillows.
Love tastes like the homemade breakfast your mom cooks on
a Sunday morning.
Love is as confusing as taking an exam in another language.
What is love? Is it painful, like slowly bleeding, or is it being
unable to breathe?
Love smells like Sunday morning in a bed full of burnt pancakes.
Love tastes like mud-stained boots cooking over a fire of
burning poetry.
Love tastes like a cigarette smoked on a porch.
Love sounds like a train rolling by.
Lies look like a broken mirror.
Fear tastes as bitter as eating a sour candy after brushing your
teeth.
If war were alive, it would look like a black octopus gripping
onto the hearts of nations.
War feels like a cold wind that causes flags to dance at the fall
of their brothers.
Peace is a childhood game of Duck, Duck, Goose.
Peace looks like a satellite picture of earth.
Religion feels like calmly flowing water cleansing the heart
and mind.
Family is like a watermelon: you have to cut into it to get to
the sweetness inside.
Baseball smells like grass and leather.
Baseball tastes like a cold hot dog and a flat soda.
Baseball is the aroma of wet grass on a Saturday morning.
153
Music feels like the happiness of a child receiving a free lollipop after a scary trip to the doctor.
Music is a four-year-old’s bubble wrap.
Music is a dog’s first time at the beach.
Rap music tastes like grape juice.
Music rides fast on a gleaming motorcycle.
Music is a drop of fiery whiskey on a bitter cold night.
Music yells, “Hey, pay attention to me!”
Pain feels like a soccer ball hitting the side of the goal post.
Pain smells like carbon monoxide coming out of a car’s exhaust system.
Pain is like a pencil writing a goodbye letter to your most
loved one.
Karma sounds like bells in your head.
Dreams feel like a butterfly.
Dreams look as tall as the Twin Towers.
Life looks like raindrops falling from a gray and black sky.
Life is complex stitching on a quilt.
Life takes you in like the scent of fresh baked bread.
Life feels like a rough sidewalk filled with open cracks on
which it’s hard to ride your scooter.
A muse feels like jelly that is slipping off your fingers.
Intuition is as powerful and mysterious as the color black.
Drawing tastes like unused charcoal.
The future blows like the wind hitting me, surrounding me,
just passing through.
Beauty grows flowers where there laid a barren wasteland.
Happiness tastes like an everlasting gobstopper.
Dancing feels like floating high up in the sky with no fear.
Cotton candy tastes like rainbows.
154
$>-*M263*.8*D55,*YZ[
I844)"8-C/.,'2)N/./02)!.F4823)<4-22)
</44->/0-:8/.
# used to believe my dad left the country ’cause he didn’t like
driving on the “wrong” side of the road.
I used to practice the violin every day; nowadays, I listen to
famous violinists.
I used to think that in the ’50s real life was black and white,
like old TV shows.
I used to be carefree and oblivious, having epic imaginary
battles in the backyard with a tennis racket resembling a
battle-ax in one hand and a wooden sword in the other.
I used to hate pickles, and now I really like them.
I used to think that if you drank Gatorade you would sweat
the color of the Gatorade.
I used to think someone was watching me do everything.
I used to be a tomboy.
I used to pretend the red carpet in my house was lava and the
cushion of the couch was a rock!
I used to think mermaids were real.
I used to think my uncle was Superman, because he told me
the tree out front was his secret hideout and no kryptonite
could ever go in there.
Sometimes I like to be really yellow to people just to lighten
their mood.
The purple sky at night makes it feel like the whole world is
quiet.
I like blue. I don’t see it as a sad color; I see it as a chilled-out
color.
The trees on my street are as big as skyscrapers.
Sometimes I find myself surprised that my mind can be as
bright as a rocket scientist’s.
My house is like a kingdom castle from the medieval times.
155
Life is like gambling, and the devil is playing with our cards.
My emotions are like dust flowing through the wind.
I have a scar on my arm that’s red like my face when I’m
angry.
His eyes shone brightly, like amulets exposed in the sun.
New shoes will take you to new places.
I wear my baseball glove like a piece of clothing.
I like the pattern on a jaguar.
My long, lengthy, loony-looking hair is dark.
Never, not even at night; nothing knows nobody.
Can coconuts crack if you bang them against your head?
Ants are little kids eating a lot.
A baseball is like the moon.
I am a ghost.
The stars are little light bulbs in the sky.
I am a butterfly.
The sky is an ocean.
My pen is a sword!
His face smells like red strawberries.
I forget how sad and lonely a Christmas morning can be, as
though not a soul in the world were out on the street, all
wrapped up in snow.
156
PEN Center USA is generously supported by the Herb Alpert
Foundation, California Community Foundation, City of Los
Angeles — Department of Cultural Affairs, The James Irvine
Foundation, Kayne Foundation, Los Angeles County Arts
Commission, National Endowment for the Arts, Rosenthal
Family Foundation, Dwight Stuart Youth Fund, UCLA Extension
Writers Program, and Jamie Rosenthal Wolf & David Wolf.
1&/$FOUFS64"t10#PYt#FWFSMZ)JMMT$"tXXXQFOVTBPSH
*EFOUJUZ1BQFSTt1&/*O5IF$MBTTSPPNt+PIO.BSTIBMMHigh School, Fall 2011
Since 1995, PEN In The Classroom (PITC) has proudly published
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