Blog 3
Of all the readings in the Language Unit I enjoyed and fully connected with only one: "Why My Mother Can't Speak English" by Gary Engkent. Living in San Francisco I've had the opportunity to experience other ethnic groups, and to see how they adapt to the American (English) society they (and I) now call home.

When I take the bus through San Francisco's Chinatown and see the seniors buying their fresh vegetables I can imagine Gary Engkent's mother fitting right in. This Chinese lady arrived in Canada at age 40, with a five-year-old son, and her good husband put her to work in his restaurant kitchen--16 hours-a-day, 7 days-a-week--for 25 years! She obviously worked hard and was probably a law abiding citizen, except she was not a citizen. To gain her Canadian citizenship she was required to complete an interview in English or French. She had neither language. An aged widow, this little lady began a fight for her identity. That's what Citizenship represented and language played a very important role.

English is my first language. All the children in my local schools spoke English, however, there were several different and pronounced accents. Within a 15-mile radius of our town we counted 4 distinct accents. Children who travelled south to school - 12 miles by bus - had a lilting or sing-song accent; those who came from the east had more of a thicker accent. It is strange that in such a small area there were such pronounced accents. It would be like having the Boston accent in Daly City, New York accent in Emeryville and a deep south accent in Sausalito.

In Europe, High School students take at least one other language. I took French and found it valuable when inter-railing around Europe a few summers ago. Even though I am not fluent in French my efforts to communicate using French were appreciated and the Italians, Poles and Swiss I met were I think more ready to assist once they recognized my attempts. Travelers who insist on only speaking English and expect the "natives" to accommodate them don't always find a warm welcome.

Blog 2
I grew up in Europe. My family, friends, school mates, in fact the entire community, was white. Only at the weekend market twenty miles away did I see people of other races. The traders were Indian or Pakistani. As a child I often wondered where these "different" people lived because they came into town and set up their stalls and when the market closed they packed up again and disappeared.

When I was eighteen I moved to London. The BIG city. I took a boat and bus to get there and arrived at Victoria Station in central London on a swelteringly humid August afternoon. My aunt was there to meet me. I remember we walked out of the station and I silently questioned myself "What have I done? How come there are so many colored people here? Where are the white people? Is this a safe move?"

I quickly found my way around and lived in flats in neighborhoods like Brixton, Finsbury Park and Harlsden. Both Brixton and Finsbury Park were predominantly Black neighborhoods and Harlsden mostly Indian.

My family worried about me but I quickly learned to be wise to my surroundings whether in my local neighborhood, on the tube or walking along fashionable Regent Street. Because I had such limited exposure to people of other races prior to arriving in London I was initially cautious (maybe even afraid). What is unknown is scary. Soon though, through work and community, I began to meet wonderful people of all races.

I'd like to think, that when I meet someone new, I don't see their color or ethnic background but instead their personality and character.

Blog # 1
Mood:  bright
Who are you?
OK, but who are you?
Great, now tell me, who are you?

It had been several years since I heard this series of questions asked for the first time. Then, two weeks ago our ENG 96 teacher asked it of three volunteers. Each one walked into the room and for the most part they were pretty stumped. Once the question was repeated again for the second and third time the individuals appeared to be feeling a little awkward.

Witnessing this ?experiment? was sort of fun because it wasn?t me but someone else that was put on the spot. It was someone else who faltered, hesitated, was made uncomfortable by having the same question repeated three times. I wonder were they thinking ?What was wrong with my first answer?? or ?Aaggghhh, why did I volunteer for this??

In the intervening weeks I?ve come back several times to ponder the ?Who are you?? question. Next time a teacher asks for a volunteer and this question comes up I?ll be ready.

Q: Who are you?
A: I?m a Child of God.

Q: OK, but who are you?
A: I?m a Child of God. [voice a little louder]

Q: Great, now tell me, who are you?
A: I?m a Child of God. [voice a little louder still] (Can you hear me now?)

My faith, my religion, means everything to me. I?m maybe one of those rare Catholics who loves the Catholic Church, the teachings, the community, the sacraments. I know my faith and treasure it. I love being Catholic. I attend Mass every day. I pray frequently throughout the day. I have a relationship with God. And as with any relationship, it is sometimes good, sometimes rocky. My faith is like the rudder and I am the boat. All my life choices are directed by the tennents of the Catholic church.

I didn?t always consider myself as being a Child of God. There was a time when I was very worldly, needing the good job, nice place to live, posh friends, expensive cars. Then I had a sort of conversion and many beautiful spiritual experiences touched my heart. I believe and no amount of ridicule or jeering my faith or the Catholic church will bother me. I?ve been hearing it for quite a long time. My faith only seems to grow stronger with the trials that come my way, be they unemployment, two miscarriages, death of my brother.

You have read my blog. You have been introduced to a Child of God. Now have a lovely day.