Cover Letter for LLN
Monica Delgado
Instructor Jason Lobell
English 110
September 29th 2023
LL Narrative Cover Letter
My mom claims I learned how to speak before two years of wandering around life. Her face fills with pride every time she remembers my non-stopping and senseless stream of words. It’s been more than eighteen years since that moment. Eighteen years since the first word came out of that baby’s mouth. Eighteen years of talking. Of using language for good, and for worse. To compliment loved ones. To hurt others. To scream out of anger. To express the deepest of emotions. The deepest of despair.
And yet, in none of those eighteen years, the question presented itself. It didn’t appear in my tiny, young mind. Why did I use language the way I did? Why did I use the words I used? Why did I have the dialect that I had? Questions that were never answered because they didn’t exist in the first place.
And as I grew older, other thoughts invaded my mind. Being questioned at such a young age about my future, what career would make my family proud, left small room for irrelevant questions. Or that’s how they would look at the time. I guess I never paid attention to who I was to question why I acted and expressed the manner in which I did. And it became a habit.
Moving countries also meant, up to a certain point, to give up my life. To give up my culture to adapt to a new one. To give up my Spanish, to adapt to standardized English. To give up my manners and gestures, and to imitate those around me. To sacrifice identity to fit in society. Nevertheless, none of that was achieved. Not at its fullest. My English, up to this day, is attached to my hispanic accent, to my basic vocabulary and stutter while talking.
But such an identity didn’t do anything more than being the cause of shame. Shame on having an accent. Shame on being a foreigner. Shame on being different. Shame on my ignorance, and the fear of asking those who knew. Understanding my relationship with language would help me comprehend that, my shame, being valid, was not necessary.
My story was not unique. Thousands, millions, may have experienced the same story. The shame. The slow process. The loss. I fit in. I fit in with foreigners. I fit in with immigrants. I fit in with those who express themselves with a hispanic accent. And they fit in with me. My story was never mine. It was ours. It ‘s ours. For us, who had to give up our side of the story. For us, who are still learning. For us, that more than once thought about coming back. For us, for the shared sadness. For the bittersweetness of it all.
Language Literacy Narrative
Monica Delgado
Instructor Jason Lobell
English 110
September 29th 2023
LL Narrative
Before leaving my life behind, I used to argue a lot. I used to argue with whoever disagreed with me. I had the strength to stand up and raise my voice for what I believed. I don’t remember how long ago that was. After that, starting to grow up, years passed, and with that, such desire and juvenile energy vanished. I had the energy and confidence to express my thoughts. I had the confidence to believe that my opinion was valid. I believed in my right to be mad. In my right to express my point of view. With years, my voice got quieter. With time, my arguments lost sense. With time, my energy and opinion faded away. I lost the sense of having a voice. I lost the sense of expressing my opinion.
Sometimes I pretend that I don’t know why my confidence has shifted. But I do. I have always known. I moved to a new country, where the language was the strangest of it all. I never knew if my pronunciation was right. I never knew if I was using the correct words. I never knew if people were going to understand what I truly wanted to express. I was confined to a mental cage of insecurity. I lost all desire to speak. Uncertainty took away my necessity of expressing my emotions and perspectives. Eventually, silence was comfortable. Using my own voice to express my own thoughts and opinions was long gone. I started to hate talking. I hated socializing. I hated small talk. I hated to introduce my name and say where I was from. Hate to speak up. Hate to order at restaurants. Talk to the cashier.
I didn’t argue again. Anxiety haunted me every time I tried to stand up for myself. Every time I wanted to participate in class. Anxiety was consuming me from the inside out. Eventually, even speaking up in my own language would not be an option. It stopped being an option. I avoided talking about myself. I avoided introductions. I avoided arguments. I avoided conflicts. I avoided standing up for myself, in any language. I still do.
I was not the only one having a difficult time communicating. My mom and family depended completely on my English, marked by a thick Hispanic accent. Nevertheless, my family didn’t give up as easily as I did. I had no motivation whatsoever. I had nothing valuable in a foreign country. No friends, no sense of direction, no culture, no traditions. Nothing felt like my own. Not my own friends. Not my own culture. It seemed all gone.
My family had no knowledge of the language whatsoever. They moved knowing the possibility of feeling isolated and marginalized because of a language barrier. They still had no fear of talking. They would talk to the cashier, to the librarian, the bus driver, with the few words they knew. They had no fear. They didn’t have the language to communicate in all situations, and therefore, I was constantly pushed to speak. They saw the need to keep pushing forward their limits. Contrary to what I perceived when I found my limitations.
The feeling of discomfort did not disappear when I started trying to express myself once again. A couple of years had to pass for the anxiety to diminish. It doesn’t disappear completely. I believe it never does. To come to that point, mispronounced words were necessary. All the situations that I avoided because of speaking were necessary. The fear and isolation were necessary. The lack of friends was necessary. All of this, to grow.
When looking back, from a current comfortable space, where I am able to communicate and to express emotions I couldn’t, I still believe such anxiety never leaves. I still doubt my pronunciation. I still doubt the sentences I allow myself to articulate. But I am able to corroborate that there should be no shame in being a foreigner. There should be no shame in learning. There is no shame in being different. There is no shame in not fitting in.
Minorities and marginalized groups are constantly being shamed because of their identity, because of being different. Recognizing the beauty in our differences might help us grow collectively, understanding others and creating empathy. Understanding that immigrants gave up their life and home for opportunities in a foreign country, is fundamental to stop unjustified discrimination that arises from the belief that difference is inherently wrong. Understanding that giving up these factors often is not a choice is indispensable to progress as a society where equality is possible.
I understood that many people had the privilege of not understanding the sacrifice that others made to be in the same land as them. This privilege often appeared in my life, in the laughs due to a mispronounced word or the mock of my mom’s accent from what I believed were, native speakers. Such privilege was the cause of my shame and doubt from my knowledge of English. I don’t believe everyone comprehends or recognizes possessing it. But from what I lived, I could comprehend how the majority and the system worked.
I have now four years of being apart from the place I knew as my home. I still don’t argue anymore. I still don’t stand up for myself. I don’t defend what I believe because I doubted my ability for years. All of those habits I developed still accompany me. I appreciate them. They are a reminder of the struggles that made me grow. The isolation and sadness that came with it, and how even if it seemed that lasted forever, it didn’t.
