Page 9 - My Mom Speaks Broken English: My Lingustic Identity; Language and Literacy Project, UWRT 1103

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“Hey dad?” I looked across the dining table at my
father, who was still sitting in his doctor’s lab coat. He
was slowly eating a dinner of plantains and rice, attention
divided between his meal and a patient file.

“Yes, Amaka?” His voice, accented by tones of our
home language of Igbo, was soft as he said my nickname.

I hesitated before my response before speaking.
“Well… in my Social Studies class, we are talking about
the African continent, and my teacher was wondering
whether you would like to come and speak to my class
next week.” I fidgeted, excitedly awaiting my father’s
response.

My dad looked up from his papers, suddenly attentive.
I had never asked either of my parents to come in and
speak to my class before; my father was probably
extremely surprised to hear that he was invited to speak to
my eighth-grade class. “Of course,” he said after a short
pause, “What would they like to hear?”

This was the question I was the most excited to answer.
“You should tell them your stories!” I blurted, “All the
ones that you always tell me about your life back home!”
My mind suddenly filled with all of the stories that I had
heard since I was little, about my father’s childhood and a
life so unlike my own.

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