The Language of Me

My mother has so often and so fondly told the story of my first sentence it is embedded in my brain. Even though I was there and I said it, I have no actual memory of it. However, her recall is enough for me to feel as though I do.

We were outside one warm summer afternoon. My mother chatted in the backyard with our next door neighbor, Colette while I scampered about delighted by the vast yard and green grass tickling my feet. I was twelve months old.

Colette had two teenage sons, Donny and Ronny. As any teenage son will do, they often annoyed her with their mischievous antics. On this particular day, Donny had driven Colette to the point of grief and she hollered at him. Pausing my play, I turned, looked at the adults and said as clearly as this is typed, "Damn Donny, anyway." Colette, Donny, and my mom hooted with laughter as I had perfectly mimicked one of Colette's favorite phrases. (Some might also consider this sentence a prelude to all the swearing I would do later in life, but I do not.)

I have not stopped talking since.

My memories of childhood are laced with memories of conversation. My family was always talking. Always. My mother and grandmother sitting at my grandmother's kitchen table, steaming cups of hot tea in front of them, talking. My mother and her younger sister in her lilac bedroom, talking. My mother, father, and younger sister gathered around our dinner table each night, talking. My entire family- aunts, uncles, cousins- sandwiched in a living room or family room during the holidays, talking.

I thoroughly enjoyed the conversations of my youth. I loved the banter back and forth, the hushed tones when the topic became not one for young ears (like mine, always listening), the rise and fall of the voices, the words- big, long, fancy, hard to pronounce words or simple, sweet, musical words. I loved the hand motions and facial expressions matching the words. The hands in the air when someone was exasperated, tears in the eyes when someone was sad, the arms that would open for a hug when someone would hear happy news; I simply loved it all. I took it all in and let it fill me up. Conversation meant comfort.

Besides being part of conversations with my family, my language developed through play. My sister and I played our way through childhood. Barbies, Legos, house, school, church, dollhouse & restaurant were among our favorite pastimes. When playing, we "talked" for the Barbies, the Lego people, the pretend mom and daughter in our pretend house, the pretend teacher and students and pretend patrons at our basement restaurant. Each pretend person had a voice. I remember the stern tone for the teacher and the raspy-from-cigarettes tone for the cook at the restaurant. The dialogue grew more sophisticated as we grew. We mimicked the dialogue of TV shows we watched and of people we came across in real life. Our play was endless and thus our language developed greatly.

Having been talked to and read to all my life, grade school was relatively "easy". Therefore, I talked. A lot. At many parent/teacher conferences, my mother heard, "Sherri needs to stop talking to her friends." I didn't talk on purpose, I talked because I craved the interaction it brought.

Technology was a long, long way from smart phones, social media sites, and interactive video games, so my friends and I had nothing else to do but actually talk to each other. Face to face. Aloud. Every day. Therefore, because of language and the interactions I had with it, I became a social person.

By the time I was in high school, the phone was my favorite household appliance and it was the first time I remember discussing social issues. Through long... long phone conversations, I developed ways to articulate the beliefs I had in my heart and head. I learned one must support their beliefs with facts and therefore, I slowly became more interested in the world around me. I learned you could not just spew out emotional rants, but rather must argue with a sensible tone and a wise mind.

This knowledge and language development would deem very important in college. At Concordia, I was an outsider. My beliefs, words, and ideals were constantly challenged. My language was often considered offensive. It wasn't until my senior year of college that I realized I did not really know how to listen.

My senior year of college had enough room in my schedule that I was granted permission to take graduate level psychology courses. One course was a counseling course. With the exception of my education classes, it was the college class I learned the most in . I learned how to listen to people. I learned how to not just hear the words they were saying, but the words they weren't. I learned how to read their body language. I leaned how to ask them better questions, ones which would allow them to give me better answers. All of these things paved the way to better conversations and a better understanding of my role as a teacher.

I have to admit, part of the reason I became a teacher is because I like to talk. I am paid to talk. All day. I love it. Throughout my career, I have learned a teacher must have the perfect balance of simple and sophisticated language when speaking to their students. A teacher must be able to articulate the rudimentary steps in a process with a hint of challenging vocabulary so the student is always growing, always striving for that next bit of knowledge.

Early on in my career, I realized my students' language was... well, not very stellar. Many of my students lacked the knowledge of and appreciation for conversation. They also lacked vocabulary- they had no words. This is still true today.

It deeply saddens me at the end of the year when a student tells me, "Ms. Hope. You were like the only teacher to ever just talk to me. To us." I've heard it too many times.

From the first to the last day of school, I talk to my students. Sometimes I ask them what they had for dinner last night, sometimes I ask them what they did in a certain class, sometimes I tell them an anecdote about my own children. Other times, I share a news story with them and ask what they think of it. Or we talk about incidents that have happened in our school. Or we just talk about what celebrities they think are really cute. I really don't care what we talk about, I just want them to talk. I want them to feel that their voice has value. I want them to know that their words matter.

We also do weekly vocabulary challenges. The students are given ten words to learn on Monday. They have a worksheet with practice exercises that is due on Thursday. They are tested on the words on Friday. By the end of the year, my students are exposed to over 200 new words. (Admittedly, some of these words were "new" to me, too.) As we learn the words, I post them in pocket charts. They can see their learning. Their vocabulary worksheets are filed in their English Reference Folder (a folder kept in class which contains all the class handouts). The words are always available to them. For each and every writing assignment, the students must correctly use a certain number of Challenge Vocabulary words in it. Mid year, I start telling them the words they most often use (elated, dejected, gregarious, admonish, etc.) will not count for points. They must select other words, thus forcing them to expand their word usage. They all groan and gasp in horror, but they do it. However, this is not my favorite part of their vocabulary knowledge and development. My favorite thing is when students rush into class gushing, "Ms. Hope! So, I was reading my book last night and, Ms. Hope! There was a Challenge Vocabulary word in it!" or "Ms. Hope! When I was watching TV last night, they said a Challenge Vocabulary word!" My response is usually, "Get out of here! or No way!" But, nothing makes me more proud than that.

As for my future language development, I do not want to ever stop learning to be a better speaker, writer, and listener. I hope to always embrace new words and terminology. I hope my love of language is passed to my daughter and son. Maybe one day my love of language could be shared with college students- potential teachers and the next generation of students will come to appreciate this thing we do sometimes too little- talking.

The Best Day of My Life

Ten years ago this coming July, I got married. Let me tell you about my wedding day.

It was a day I waited twelve years for. Twelve years. That is a long time to wait. And that day was worth every second of the wait. I still think that with all my heart and I have been divorced for five years.

As for the planning and the details, I was anything but a bridezilla. I did not care so much about the color scheme or of flowers for my bouquet or about the center pieces on the dinner table. My bridesmaids could wear their hair up or down and the only requirement for their shoes was that they wouldn't hurt their feet after a long night of dancing. We had one thing we wanted our wedding to be- fun for everyone.

That year July 31st fell on a Saturday and I was overjoyed because that is both of my grandmother's birthdays. I couldn't have imagined a more perfect date to begin a new chapter of my life on.

It was a hot July day, but not one so hot that no one wanted to move. It is hard to recall everything I did that day leading up to the ceremony and reception, there are only snippets of moments lodged in my head. I remember slipping into my dress in the hotel room. It was absolutely simple purchased for less than one hundred dollars at a quinceanera store, bedazzled with a few sequins at the top and bottom. I remember taking a few pictures with my sister and a few of my bridesmaids before leaving for the banquet hall. Once at the banquet hall, I remember waiting in the bridal suite with all the bridesmaids, who were decked out in white satin blouses and long dark peach skirts, toasting with champagne and the chef who would soon cook our delicious meal. I remember watching every single guest come in the doors, as the bridal suite overlooked the parking lot. I remember being amazed as each person showed up, even though their reply card had told me they would, I just could not believe they had actually come- for our day. I remember being happy. Every single inch of my body, mind, and soul was in harmony.

When it came time for the ceremony to begin, I remember having to wait an extra few minutes because so many guests had come that more chairs needed to be set up. I was overly anxious to just go out there and see everyone. Then, just as the coordinator gave my parents and I the final nod to begin, a voice spoke to me.

Go ahead, snicker if you must, but a voice spoke to me. I heard it just as I'd hear you say something to me. My parents lifted their feet to begin the walk down the aisle and I momentarily pulled back wondering if I should actually listen to the voice.

It had said, "Do not go. Do not do it."

It was firm and loud and deep.

At that moment, I did not see or hear or feel anything else except for that voice. It engulfed me. And I panicked. My heart raced and my mind spun and I wanted to yell out for time to stop so I could think.

This probably lasted no more than 30 seconds, but it felt like much longer.

There was a part of me that nearly turned around, not quite understanding why, but today, I wonder was it the part of me that would someday become... me... right now. The girl who was going to be cheated on, see her husband led out of their home in handcuffs, divorced, left with two very small children... the girl who would be alone. Was she there that day, possibly ready to avoid the hurt and grief and sorrow?

But, instead, I shook the voice away and marched down the aisle, trying to make eye contact with every single person there so I would remember them forever... remember that day forever.

When I made it to the end of the aisle, I remember holding my husband's hand and it felt as it always did, warm and right. It swallowed mine up and eased my racing heart.

Our ceremony was brief, covering all the things a wedding ceremony does. It was invigorating to stand in front of all the people we loved and become a unit, a team, a family. I loved it. I loved saying my vows and promising them forever. There was not a moment during that ceremony I doubted what I was promising. When it was over and we were husband and wife, my entire faced ached from smiling so grandly.

The rest of the evening, the reception, was indeed the best night of my life. There was never a reception as fun as ours. Again, I remember only snippets of it as it passed so quickly. I remember being told it was time for dinner and looking around for a way to tell the crowd gathered for cocktail hour to move into the dining room. My cousin, whom I had babysat and now towered over me, grabbed me and lifted me high above his head so I could call out to everyone. And everyone stopped and looked at me. And they were smiling right along with me.

Taking the advice of someone (I now forget who it was that told me this), once dinner was served, I put down my fork for a moment and forced myself to pause and take it in. I breathed deeply and peered around the room, taking in each face of my loved ones, watching them smile and laugh and talk. I took it all in and filled myself up with that moment in time because it was the only time all the people I loved would be in the same room together and what it is more grand than that? And even though my marriage ended as it did, I still can feel that moment if I close my eyes.

We had given the DJ names of couples that were attending the wedding and he called out their names during dinner. They had to show us how to kiss and we'd repeat what they had done. This became a competition! I wish you could have been there to see the antics and the guests' creativity and competitiveness!

I remember the dance floor, always my favorite place to be at a wedding. Guests crowded our dance floor all night. All night. Friends "performed" "Rapper's Delight" and my cousins did the dance to "Bye, Bye, Bye". It was like a show! I remember laying down on the dance floor at one point, so exhausted, and asking the DJ if it was all over. He laughed and told me I still had a long way to go. I remember jumping up, not missing another beat.

We posed for countless candid pictures, slung back shots of whiskey, and covered every single inch of that reception room with fun. That night, that room, our family and friends was the definition of joy.

As everything does, the wedding came to an end. My final memories are of driving my husband's car out of the parking lot, him in the passenger seat telling me that our wedding was the most fun- the best wedding ever. I remember grinning and knowing he was right. It was.

It would be weeks before I would remember the voice that almost stopped me from having the best night of my life. And when I remembered it, it had become so faint, I wondered if I'd ever heard it at all. I thought of it and that moment it spoke to me from time to time throughout my marriage and always asked myself the same question, "Why?" Why did I hear it?

I know the answer now. But, with all sincerity, I am entirely glad I did not listen to it. If I had, I would have missed the best day of my life, and who wants to miss that?