Language, Listening, & Literacy I consider language to be a twofold matter; the act of listening and reading at one end

and the words and actions chosen to communicate on the other. How a person develops the ability to coordinate these matters into one encompassing act of language, however, is somewhat of a mystery to me. I find that I can adapt my language and level of communication to many different situations; why and how, that is, I am unsure. I have a theory that reading people and situations is much like reading a book (with the idea of listening and taking in a situation being understood). Similar to an individuals Discourse, you adopt what you need to immerse yourself in your present situation. Having words of a particular language and having the understanding of how to relate to others within that particular Discourse of language allows a person to communicate effectively. Here, the ideas of language and of Discourse are interchangeable. Does it make sense to consider these two behaviors of language as interdependent? As I reflect on this concept, I find that considering my personal acquisition of words as relating to my social abilities makes me question my theory. Though I obviously picked it up at some point, I dont remember learning to read. I have no memory of practicing my alphabet. Unlike some language prodigies, I dont recall a passion for writing exquisite pieces of poetry at the phenomenal age of three. I have no sweet, endearing stories of wowing my neighbors and grandparents with my infinite vocabulary. (Ive been told I was an early talker, but I just attribute that to my understated genius; if I were to say I was born with the ability to read, however, Id imagine John Locke would turn over in his grave and make it his one and only goal in the afterlife to prove me wrong.) Regardless, Im fairly positive I learned to read and write at home, perhaps sometime between three and five years old. My mother is a teacher, so of course there were books and lessons and Phonics. I just dont have what some would most commonly refer to

as a story of literacy, a specific memory of my acquisition of words. Obviously I was educated at some point, but my growth and development of and through wordsthat is, literatureis a somewhat vague fraction of my memory. What I do remember is talkingconstantly talking with my family. I remember unconditional love. My family was always there, always listening, telling, and teaching. Learning to communicate, to listen and talk, to share feelings, and to be in tune with others is what I recall. Words are how my family operates. We share stories. We laugh. We scold. We criticize and praise. I learned that interacting with people involves situational, expressive words. As a general sense of civility, my sister and I were taught at a young age to be open and accepting of all, to listen to what others have to say and to respect whatever that might be. In the scheme of things, I realize now that this is literacy. Though I initially assumed literacy to be an encompassing word in reference to literaturethat being a simple allusion to books and novelsI now accept the grander idea of a story of language in general. Now, a literacy narrative to me is simply a story of self-recognition. It is languagean account of listening, of reading people and things, and of reflecting on what you see and hear, making it a part of you. The notion of language is not simply a way of life, but life itself. How you communicate with and listen to people determines who you are; in this respect, my family made me who I am. Always listening and sharing, theyve done all they can to steer me in the right direction, and having the relationship and communication I have with them has let me know where I stand, both with them and in the world at large. My memories of literacy stem from the lessons learned of my parents over a lifetime of conversation. Theyve always regarded these life lessons as though it is in my best interest to learn about the potential differences in people, as an attempt to remain humble and place myself

in the unfortunate shoes of someone else. Be nice to everyone. Dont discriminate. If you want to have a birthday, you need to invite everyone to your party. Everyone is different, all with their own issues, and gifts just the same. Ive heard it all my life. Gods children were made who they are for a reason. Everyone is unique, all deserving of the same respect. In my school, a tiny society of less than 200 farmers and fishermen, there wasnt much if anydiversity. Though Lakota flanks a decent sized Sioux Indian reservation, white middleclass individuals make up about 98% of the population. Though in no way does this warrant naivety or ignorance, growing up with vastly limited exposure to different cultures has an impact on an adolescents receptiveness. Of course we all knew the rules of morality and social conduct growing up. We were just never given the opportunity to put them to use. When all your friendsand foesare white, Christian, blue-collared teenagers you arent confronted by instances of difference. Somewhat appropriately, though unfortunate, as high school students we were never exposed to the diversity of literature either. It is here that I realize how unexposed I was to language. Neither situations of social diversity nor instances of word variability were made available. Again, I question my theory of these two components as being necessary to effective communication. Do having words of a particular language and having an understanding of how to relate to others of that language actually allow a person to communicate? Fortunately, my mother, who was an avid reader, modeled for me the importance of language in books as I grew up. Initially, when I read I just the characterssimply put. I enjoyed the escape to another world granted by a good read. It was entertainment. Now, while this pleasure remains, I read to fulfill curiosity, to internalize dialogue that I wouldnt otherwise by privy to. I read to listen, to increase my vocabulary, to gain experience. Books show me what

Im missing; they let me look at the world through others eyes, giving me new perspectives and depths of understanding. This appreciation for books is valued, for Ive always felt that if I cant experience something on my own by means of daily life, I could at least imagine it through others words. Just as everyone has their own personalities, writers each have their own tendencies and voices. While I believe that what a reader gets out of a book or narrative can vary widely with their connection to the writers voice, it is beneficial nonetheless to not just hear, but to listen to what a person has to say. You internalize words, make them your own, and bring to a situation your own perceptions and interpretation. Depending on how you were raised, what youve been through, or what you have learned, youre going to see things differently than the next person; how you see the world is exceedingly dependent on past experiences and instilled values. I find that reading and listening to a book can be similar to acquiring knowledge from an individual, namely an individual with experiences informative to your life. While books may offer only a small portion of what there is to know and see in the world, internalizing the information afforded by another individual, regardless of your agreement, may give you a whole new perspective outside of the small world you most likely occupy. It is clear to me that my world is quite knowingly not the world. When I read, however, Im afforded the opportunity to gain other peoples experiences and assume others unfamiliar roles in the world. This is where I see the two components of language as becoming interdependent. I dont encounter all that diverse of opportunities in everyday life, so when I get the chance, Im satisfied in living vicariously through someone elses words. My one issue with this, however, is when a persons account of something is slanted, and the only impression taken away from her words is immensely biased.

I can think of one event in my life where I was unfortunately privileged the sight of how misconstrued past experiencesyour own or someone elsescan incorrectly influence a persons judgment. Unfortunate to my repute, I surprised myself in a way Id never thought I would. No one but me knows of the encounter, reinforcing how inconsequential it was, and that alone makes my guilt reel about in my stomach. I consider myself a particularly understanding and empathetic person, but my reaction to this unprovoked situation humiliates me. I am proud, contented. I am on the verge of diving in and trying something new, only to experience a vastly shaming confrontation, one that I never actually imagined Id face. I wanted some alone time, and having sought out an appealing area to relax, I find myself on an isolated bench in a pacifying, tree-filled park to read my just purchased novelthis, too, is a slight embarrassment, but Ill expound on my obsession with vampires in a later testament. No noticeable physical reaction, just a quick, small thought. A judgment. Im a young, single white female sitting alone on a secluded bench. Daylight remains, dancing on the tips of the trees. But down below my eyesight is waning, the words on the pages slowly graying out. I have reason to be nervous. The look of them is intimidating, threatening. The way the one looked at me was certainly a warning. There are so many of them. Why are they down here? There are families around. Im about to grab my things and run from the potentially disastrous scene. There are

more coming. As they stride past me, I inoffensively grab my bag and pull it in tight to me. If something were to happen no one would even detect a scuffle. I am clearly threatened. These individuals are surrounding the area with a distinct purpose in mind. Why wouldnt a group of hardened, shady-looking adolescents harass an assumingly prissylooking white girl? I need to get out of here, but I dont want to seem suspicious of them. Theyll come after me for sure if I appear fearful, let alone a nuisance to them. I have nothing on me: no phone, no keys, not even a fingernail file. Why am I not prepared? My heart is racing as the sun sinks further and further behind the trees. Theyre a bit distracted; what are they looking at? Now is my only chance to run... A youth intervention group? A truck appears, backing its bed of rakes and gardening tools up to the group of young men. After I gather myself and reinterpret the situation, I find I couldnt have been more wrong. I cant believe my navet. It turns out these kids are volunteering their time, helping their community. About ten or eleven young Black, Mexican, and Indian males had gathered down in this valley out of kindness. Their duty for the day: to clean up the park.

These thoughts Id had were like a torrent of fear and anxiety; I couldnt help but feel as if I was being targeted. In pacifying myself, I attempted to reassure that my reaction was a natural response anybody would have had in my situation. Im afraid my reassurance was inaccurate. Where exactly those disparaging thoughts were coming from, however, I had not a clue. Never before had I been attacked or singled out, never even a victim of a racial slurnot meaningfully, anyhow. As mentioned, Im from a town of predominantly white people, not to mention elderly Midwestern Americans. It is evident that racism will be present. But I felt that I had educated myself well enoughhad mastered this Discourse of individual differencethat these thoughts and actions were things I could avoid, that I would handle myself with humility and understanding if faced with a moment of individuality. Ive come to find that you read people and things based on past experiences, on what you know and have acquired through different literature and social encounters. I judged these people based on the very few experiences Ive been presented withstereotypes, perhaps the impression of one individual, ruining it for the rest of the population. In no way were these kids appearances aggressive or suggestive of violence or hostility, they simply looked different than I. Looking back, I even think one of them smiled at me. But of course, in my head I misconstrued that as deceitful. The idea was shameful, and although it was an experience exclusive to me, that it is one of ordinary occurrence is saddening. This experience forced me to realize the importance of language. I neglected to consider these individuals for who they were, placing others preconceived bouts of racial language on this group. Why, in that specific moment, did I take that position on the situation? How you orient yourself to the world and assume the role of language makes you who you are; and it is only you who can decide how youll use this language. Acquisition of words is

simply the first step in being literate. The words we use and attend to make the difference in who we are; we must be cautious of how we let them represent us, for words are the only means we have in making clear what we stand for. Once we belong to our personal Discourse then, we develop our ability to associate with other people, taking into consideration their Discourse and their words. Here, language is an account of listening, of reading people and things, and of reflecting on what you see and hear, making it a part of you. You listen to people and their lives just as you do the author of a book. With that in mind, I beg you to listen, really listen; you might eventually hear something worth your attention.