Yesterday I sat in a semi-circle with fourteen twelve and thirteen year olds, eating Doritos topped with ice cream and drowned in chocolate syrup.
It was the second meeting of my inchoate writing group, the after-school "kick-it" club I started earlier in the week. My intention in starting the group was to have a chance to talk with my kids "off-the-record"; that is, when they are not thinking about classroom expectations and the social distractions that regularly interfere with my lesson plans, making me feel more like a therapist than a teacher.
The topic of discussion that day was language. We read the first couple of pages of the book we have started as a group, entitled, Our America: Life and Death on the South Side of Chicago. The book contains hours of interviews produced by two thirteen and fourteen year old boys, talking about their perspectives growing up in the Chicago ghettos in the mid-1990's. Despite the time difference, I thought my kids would still benefit from making the comparisons between the portrayal of the ghetto in a different geographic location of a decade and a half before and their own communities. On the first couple of pages of the photocopies I made for them was a "Ghetto Glossary," included to provide insight into the language of the young boys. We started reading there, looking at the words they had listed.
I started with the first word. "Booster," I read aloud. "Someone who steals out of stores and resells the merchandise at an 80 percent discount."
D.G. and H.S. began to snicker. "Booster?" they said. "nobody out here uses that retarded word."
"Okay, well, how about Crib," I said. "'Home. Where you live.' Tripping, which means 'going crazy or losing your mind.' Or what about 'Shorty, which means 'young one'?"
The classroom erupted into laughter, all of the kids shaking their head at me, some nearly falling out of their chairs. I bit my lip in amusement, fully aware of why they were cracking up.
"Wow, Miss Bass. You really talk like a white person," D.G. said.
"There is no such thing," I said. "I am black, therefore how I talk is as black as how you talk. Language has no race. It is what it is."
"Wow, Miss Bass. You really talk like a white person," D.G. repeated, intentionally ignoring my statement.
"Yeah, and it's 'crihhb' not 'cri-BUH' and 'trippin', not 'trip-PING,' K.M. said. "And we definitely do not say 'shor-TEE.' 'It's shaow-tay.' And it does not mean 'young one,' it's what you call a foin girl on the street or in da club."
I paused, holding my breath, waiting for inevitable moment when someone would break out in, "shawtay-had-dem-apple-bottom-jeans, boots-wit-da-furrr..." Thankfully, nobody did this time, probably because the song was now old.
"I'm going to pretend you did not just mention 'the club' at twelve years old," I said to D.G. "What on earth do you know about 'the club'?"
"Thirteen, Miss Bass, Thirteen," K.M. piped with a smile, "and I know all about da club."
I shook my head in disbelief.
As we went through the rest of the "Ghetto Glossary," the kids continued to comment on how weird and 'retarded' the words were that they didn't know. But then they also came across some words that retained some of the meaning with which they were familiar, like "kickin' it," "smokin'" someone, and "reppin." Many of them exclaimed at these recognitions, noting the points of similarity.
"What does this tell you about language?" I asked.
"Language changes according to the city you live in," D.G. said. "Because a lot of these retarded words relate specifically to the ghetto in Chicago, but some of them we still know too."
"Exactly," I said. "Now, you are going to write your own glossaries. You are going to list the words that you use, particular to you, your age group, the black community, and/or L.A."
The kids eagerly began making lists of the words I made them replace with standard English vocabulary when they were in class. Expressions like, "deet-deet-deet," "kickin' rocks and deuces" and "makin' it do what it do," came up, as well as words like, "janky," "bomb-diggity," "chillaxin'," and the favorite addendum added to any positive remark directed to a person of the same sex: "no-homo"(In the minds of children terrified of "becoming gay," or worse, being falsely mistaken for being gay (which comes from "acting in a fruitful manner," D.G. explained), it was important to say "no-homo" as much as possible, as loudly as possible, for as many ears to hear as possible).
As I listened to them rattle off their colloquialisms to each other, correct each other on pronunciations and challenge each other on the 'right' definitions for some words, I told them I would write my own list with them.
The class emitted a collective groan. "DON'T, Miss Bass," K.H. said. "Do NOT do it. Your list will be filled words nobody else knows but you and found only in the dictionary."
"Yeah, Miss Bass, don't do it," D.G. agreed. "Besides, we wouldn't want to slander your suburban vocabulary with our 'ghetto glossaries.'"
"Yeah, okay," I said.
As anticipated, my words which included "toodles," "okie-dokie," "cool beans" and "shadenfreude," and "vonnegutesque," for good measure, elicited several sighs and much forehead slapping.
"What?" I said, smiling and shrugging.
"Miss Bass, Miss Bass," J.M. said, shaking her head.
I winked at her.
It was the second meeting of my inchoate writing group, the after-school "kick-it" club I started earlier in the week. My intention in starting the group was to have a chance to talk with my kids "off-the-record"; that is, when they are not thinking about classroom expectations and the social distractions that regularly interfere with my lesson plans, making me feel more like a therapist than a teacher.
The topic of discussion that day was language. We read the first couple of pages of the book we have started as a group, entitled, Our America: Life and Death on the South Side of Chicago. The book contains hours of interviews produced by two thirteen and fourteen year old boys, talking about their perspectives growing up in the Chicago ghettos in the mid-1990's. Despite the time difference, I thought my kids would still benefit from making the comparisons between the portrayal of the ghetto in a different geographic location of a decade and a half before and their own communities. On the first couple of pages of the photocopies I made for them was a "Ghetto Glossary," included to provide insight into the language of the young boys. We started reading there, looking at the words they had listed.
I started with the first word. "Booster," I read aloud. "Someone who steals out of stores and resells the merchandise at an 80 percent discount."
D.G. and H.S. began to snicker. "Booster?" they said. "nobody out here uses that retarded word."
"Okay, well, how about Crib," I said. "'Home. Where you live.' Tripping, which means 'going crazy or losing your mind.' Or what about 'Shorty, which means 'young one'?"
The classroom erupted into laughter, all of the kids shaking their head at me, some nearly falling out of their chairs. I bit my lip in amusement, fully aware of why they were cracking up.
"Wow, Miss Bass. You really talk like a white person," D.G. said.
"There is no such thing," I said. "I am black, therefore how I talk is as black as how you talk. Language has no race. It is what it is."
"Wow, Miss Bass. You really talk like a white person," D.G. repeated, intentionally ignoring my statement.
"Yeah, and it's 'crihhb' not 'cri-BUH' and 'trippin', not 'trip-PING,' K.M. said. "And we definitely do not say 'shor-TEE.' 'It's shaow-tay.' And it does not mean 'young one,' it's what you call a foin girl on the street or in da club."
I paused, holding my breath, waiting for inevitable moment when someone would break out in, "shawtay-had-dem-apple-bottom-jeans, boots-wit-da-furrr..." Thankfully, nobody did this time, probably because the song was now old.
"I'm going to pretend you did not just mention 'the club' at twelve years old," I said to D.G. "What on earth do you know about 'the club'?"
"Thirteen, Miss Bass, Thirteen," K.M. piped with a smile, "and I know all about da club."
I shook my head in disbelief.
As we went through the rest of the "Ghetto Glossary," the kids continued to comment on how weird and 'retarded' the words were that they didn't know. But then they also came across some words that retained some of the meaning with which they were familiar, like "kickin' it," "smokin'" someone, and "reppin." Many of them exclaimed at these recognitions, noting the points of similarity.
"What does this tell you about language?" I asked.
"Language changes according to the city you live in," D.G. said. "Because a lot of these retarded words relate specifically to the ghetto in Chicago, but some of them we still know too."
"Exactly," I said. "Now, you are going to write your own glossaries. You are going to list the words that you use, particular to you, your age group, the black community, and/or L.A."
The kids eagerly began making lists of the words I made them replace with standard English vocabulary when they were in class. Expressions like, "deet-deet-deet," "kickin' rocks and deuces" and "makin' it do what it do," came up, as well as words like, "janky," "bomb-diggity," "chillaxin'," and the favorite addendum added to any positive remark directed to a person of the same sex: "no-homo"(In the minds of children terrified of "becoming gay," or worse, being falsely mistaken for being gay (which comes from "acting in a fruitful manner," D.G. explained), it was important to say "no-homo" as much as possible, as loudly as possible, for as many ears to hear as possible).
As I listened to them rattle off their colloquialisms to each other, correct each other on pronunciations and challenge each other on the 'right' definitions for some words, I told them I would write my own list with them.
The class emitted a collective groan. "DON'T, Miss Bass," K.H. said. "Do NOT do it. Your list will be filled words nobody else knows but you and found only in the dictionary."
"Yeah, Miss Bass, don't do it," D.G. agreed. "Besides, we wouldn't want to slander your suburban vocabulary with our 'ghetto glossaries.'"
"Yeah, okay," I said.
As anticipated, my words which included "toodles," "okie-dokie," "cool beans" and "shadenfreude," and "vonnegutesque," for good measure, elicited several sighs and much forehead slapping.
"What?" I said, smiling and shrugging.
"Miss Bass, Miss Bass," J.M. said, shaking her head.
I winked at her.
* * *
3 comments:
Your posts will make a great book one day :) Sort of like "Letters to a Young Poet" but in your words. This potential book can bring truth to teaching in the ghetto-with regards to the fact that some kids will be left behind. It is a sad reality but That is the system. I really enjoyed reading your posts and hope you continue to post your thoughts and feelings with the same passion and realism that your previous posts had.
Drew
Sarah, I completely agree with Bubbs. You have such an amazing command of language for your writing captures the characters of the kids to the T. For a moment I was back in Frederick Douglass's classrooms :) Keep writing 'cause I'd love to read more.
Love you!
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