The Liberation of Language

How I Do: The Liberation of Language as a Black Woman in America

Research is formalized curiosity. It is poking and prying with a purpose. – Zora Neale Hurston

Language, to me, is magical. Be it the spoken or written word, it can be used to inspire or incite, teach and transcend.  Firm in this belief, I now choose to weave my own brand of lyrical black magic, one abundant with beautiful sounds and courageous energy. My words, and the way I speak them, serve as my truth.  An unapologetic affirmation of who I am – a black woman in America, proud descendant of Africans who were forced onto this land, made to adopt a certain language, culture, and way of life, long, long ago. 

Truth, though: Things didn’t start off this way. After all, I was born the daughter of an English teacher, to a woman who grew up on a small farm in Beaver, Ohio, first in her family to obtain a college degree; to a woman who fell under the spell of the traditional “classics” (Hawthorne, Shakespeare, Dickens, Poe) and who had definite views on how her daughter was to embrace the correct execution of the English language. First lesson being: Of course, how to “speak properly.”  There weren’t to be any “‘’aints,” or “naws,” or “she be’s” freely flowing about our household. A lazily pronounced progressive suffix would simply not do. 

Indeed, my mother came up in an era where speaking “standard English” was the truest sign of educated, successful, and “accepted” black folk; the most important (and culturally annihilating) test a young black girl simply had to pass in order to propel herself into a better life.  That “other” English – you know, the language that black folk speak: the so-called testifyin’, slang, gutter, fractured jive talk which has been lambasted by American society as deviant, deficient, and sub-standard – was to be wiped clean from your linguistic plate.  Failure to do so would keep you stuck, she warned; leave you with nothing.

 How right she was.  And also, how wrong. 

 Here are some interesting facts: Linguistic research of the 1960’s and 70’s established that so-called black English[1] is regarded as a non-prestigious language variety, and that Americans – including African-Americans – judge its speakers as having less intelligence than Standard English speakers, and many European Americans have a negative attitude toward the use of African American Vernacular English[2] in intellectual discussions…African-Americans, too, may disregard their language with disdain, calling it “slang.”

More facts: In 1975, Robert Williams created the term Ebonics (“ebony,” meaning “black” and “phonics,” meaning “sound”) to define the language which Dr. Ernie Smith, a distinguished author, lecturer and professor of linguistics at California State University at Fullerton concludes as “having evolved in the Americas as a result of the adaptation of English words to an African language system.”

But as a child – what did I know? Nothing of the above, rest assured. During my “formative” language years (birth to 5 years of age), I flourished under the careful tutelage of my first and ultimate role model, my English teacher/Mum. I learned to read and recite by age four, entranced early on by songs and lyrics and books, the love of language evident in my blood.  I was well on my way to becoming a “standard, proper” girl, and then – something wonderful happened. In the early 70’s, at the age of six, I was transplanted from small town Ohio to black working-class Inglewood, California. It was there my ideals of good vs. bad (right vs. wrong) began to fray.

It all began, strangely enough, by keeping quiet. Being fresh on the block, it was the unwritten rule to play the backdrop amongst my new counterparts (as a sign of respect) while we felt each other out. Listening to my new playmates in their most natural and jubilant states, I was intrigued by what I heard. Alas! This wasn’t no kinda English I’d ever heard! It was as if they were speaking another language -  something strangely familiar, yet vastly different from my own. It was something more beautiful and rich. Alive.

“She don’t even know what she be doin’, when she make funny faces like that!”

“He gon get in trouble, fo sho!”

“Oh, she pretty!”

Immediately, I became intoxicated with the rhythm of these beautiful sounds. It was that magic; pulsating within my body like my own heartbeat. Alongside it, that highly touted “proper” way of speaking seemed stiff. Strained and lifeless. Practical, maybe; but without joy and affirmation and energy. 

Wait ‘till I run tell mama! Linguistically, she’d taught me how to walk. Now, my tongue knew how to dance.

It would be years before I’d even hear the word Ebonics, or learn of the firestorm which ensued regarding the Oakland School Board’s decision regarding it, or of the endless debates concerning language, dialects, or any other linguistic term, as it applied to the speech patterns of black people in America.  All I knew is that this other tongue I’d found and embraced felt comfortable, natural, and safe. By age ten, I was thoroughly and happily fluent. Even looking back now, I never felt that I was dumbing down or picking up “this talk” in order to fit in or be cool, like it’s so often suggested. My soul had been hungry for something, and this language - full of depth and honesty, merely served as the food.  

 Now, I can’t say Mum was entirely pleased, but she didn’t seem to fret unnecessarily about the new way of words I’d embraced. She’d already instilled the “standards” in her girl, and felt comfortable enough in my acquisition of English, to put up too much of a fuss. Surely, though, there were limits – for example, I couldn’t go into the classroom “speaking as if I had no sense.”  There were certain social situations that required “proper” speech, and I was to adhere to this rule at all times.

Why? I would ask. The answer: Because I was a smart girl. Because I’d been “taught better.” Because I wasn’t “uneducated.”

And this is how the shame begins. The message that very often becomes instilled in a young black mind, whether it’s inside the home or out:  There’s something wrong with the way you talk.  It’s bad, broken, backward, ignorant, stupid, and lazy. It’s slang, it’s jive. It’s useless. You must learn to speak “real” English; you must strive to “talk white.” It’s the only good way and the only right way. You must practice being who you are not. Because you are wrong. Repeat until fully indoctrinated. 

So as I grew up, I began to adopt the practice of what my friends and I called “switching it up” – that is, to speak one way at school, another at home. For me, it meant, one way in front of Mum, the other way with friends, yet another way in the classroom, and on and on. And off I went, skipping down the road of cultural schizophrenia, like so many of us are taught and encouraged to do.

Not surprisingly, studies have shown that regarding ones non-standard language with disdain “makes it difficult for one to form and maintain a positive identity, and this ambivalence may play itself out in many forms, prominent among which is code or style switching.”

So, there it is.  You must practice being who you are not. Because you are wrong. Repeat.

And I admit, even well into adulthood, I tried to alter my speech patterns. Being fully aware of linguistic profiling (societal assumptions based on the way a person speaks), I attempted to delete any tell-tale inflections or “accent” in my speech, over the phone, at school, and in the professional world.  I did my best to mimic a speech pattern that was culturally neutral. Stripped; unidentifiable. Despite feeling like a fraud, I don’t think it was ever successful. After surveying friends and strangers, I have concluded that the timbre and texture of my natural speaking voice readily identifies me as a black woman, even when speaking the most standard of American English. It may be a simple inflection or cadence in my speech that clues the listener to my cultural identity.  Either way, it’s not something I consciously alter these days.  Because the question I began to ask myself was: Even if I could successfully sound like someone, or something else – why would I want to?

After years of research and study, I now choose to be proud of my connection to something deeper. Dr. Ernie Smith has taught us that black Americans actually “think in and use African syntactical patterns,” even when speaking the English language.  Ebonics “follows the African deep structure in every respect when it is different from English, and there is solid empirical linguistic evidence of identical deep structure of syntactical patterns in West African languages.”  Indeed - my soul has memory. One that can be affirmed and liberated through language.

Oakland School Board’s 1996 resolution rightfully concluded that Black English is not just some random form of "broken-down English" that is intrinsically inferior to standard English, but is rather a speech variety with its own long history, its own logical rules of grammar, with discourse practices that are traceable to West African languages, and is a vibrant oral literature that is worthy of respect. The Linguistic Society of America has affirmed there are individual and group benefits to maintaining “vernacular” speech varieties, and there are scientific and human advantages to linguistic diversity. Historical linguistics have demonstrated repeatedly that the loss of an ethnic language amounts to the loss of ethnic culture.

 I do not wish to participate in the eradication of my own cultural existence.  I find that it’s no longer important how society might judge the way I speak, but rather, how I judge it myself.  I will always be a black woman, daughter of an English teacher; who depending on subject, circumstance, and/or mood, can either converse on a variety of topics which demonstrate well-developed analytical skills and logic; or drop science on some real issues like a sista know what she be talking about.  Either way, the most important personal truth is - instead of rendering my speech culturally neutral, I’d rather let the world experience a black woman who is intelligent and capable; proud to have mastered standard English and simultaneously unashamed to also speak in a way that affirms who she is, that celebrates the cultural legacy from which she comes.

That’s my liberation.

Excerpt, "How I Do: The Liberation of Language as a Black Woman in America" Passion, Pride, and Politickin': Homegrown Poetry and Essays