Dear America,

I know our relationship is rather strained, and I know you are busy watching your people die from a disease you have no control over, but I only need a moment of your time. I have some questions only you can answer. See, I know you look at me, but what do you see? I know what I see; a person still trying to figure out her place in the world, a person trying to figure out her purpose, a person in need of some solid advice, but what do you see? Do you see a person trying her best, or a person not trying at all? Do you see a person who is naturally intelligent, “gifted” as some might say, or someone who simply knows how to adapt to her surroundings?

See, I can change the way I talk as easily as a person playing with a light switch. Around my parents, it’s “Jamaican,”a language that doesn’t represent who I am, but rather who they see in me. Around my sister it’s “African American Vernacular English,” a language that doesn’t represent who I am, but rather who everyone thinks I should be. Around my teachers, it’s “Intellectual,” a language that doesn’t represent who I am, but rather who I want to be seen as. A research article I read called it “code switching,” but what do you call it? Do you call it right? Do you call it wrong?

See, I seem to be too black for my white friends, and too white for my black friends, but what do you think? It seems as if your judgement is the only judgement that matters. Do you think I should strive to go to a Historically Black University, to interact with people who look like me, or should I strive to go to an Ivy League, to prove to you and myself that I am worthy? My friends say one thing and my teachers think another. My friends tell me to do what makes me happy, and while my teachers seldom offer this kind of advice, I like to think they want to see me reach my full potential, whatever that means.

I could go on and on, but I respect your time. I know you don’t have any to waste on answering a teenager’s questions. You never do.

Anthia