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Name_________________________________________________ Date_____________ Class_________

Identity Unit PacketEssential Guiding Questions

How do individuals create an identity? How is a person’s identity influenced by specific factors?

Title of the Article Author Page Number1. “Generation Z Teens Stereotyped As 'Lazy And Unaware'”

Julianne Micoleta 2

2. “Hey, Toys 'R' Us, Stop Thrusting Gender Roles on My Kids!”

Rob Watson 4

3. “Fish Cheeks” Amy Tang 84. “The Namesake” Jhumpa Lahiri 95. “Dominican Immigrants Face Challenges in New York City Public Schools”

Jeffrey Zahka 12

6. “The Cat Who Thought She Was a Dogand the Dog Who Thought He Was a Cat”

Isaac Bashevis Singer 16

7. “Choices of Tomorrow” Fiona 198. “Is Money Affecting Your Social Status?”

Reniqua Allen 20

9. “The Problem with Rich Kids” Suniya S. Luthar Ph.D 22

10. “The Necklace” Guy de Maupassant 2311. “Why Couldn’t Snow White be Chinese?

Grace Lin 32

12. “The Border” Cindy Morand 3313. “Who Am I?” Isabel Song 37

How Do I Cite Articles? “You may recognize them as your constantly-connected, constantly-moving peers (other teens), but to the rest of the world, they’re Generation Z: the lazy, apathetic (not caring) age group born between 1994 and 2004” (Micoleta, para. 1).

How do I Punctuate Articles, Poems, and Short Stories? “The Problem with Rich Kids” “Who Am I?”

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1. Generation Z Teens Stereotyped (Labeled) As 'Lazy And Unaware'

| By Julianne Micoleta

Posted: 03/06/2012 10:19 am EST Updated: 03/06/2012 10:19 am EST

[1] You may recognize them as your constantly-connected, constantly-moving peers (other teens), but to the rest of the

world, they’re Generation Z: the lazy, apathetic (not caring) age group born between 1994 and 2004.[2] Though they’re characterized (described) as multi-tasking (doing multiple things at once) whizzes, they’re simultaneously (at the same time) garnering (earning) the reputation among older generations as being lazy, unaware and apathetic (not caring).

[3] Gen Z is often portrayed (described) as less engaged (not involved) in politics; they have short attention spans and don’t care about the weighty (difficult) issues that confront (challenge) their generation and the nation; and they’re more interested in technology and celebrities than staying active in their communities and schools.

[4] So what gives with Generation Lay-Z? “Unfortunately, I do think that our generation is somewhat guilty of that title,” Elk Grove junior Michelle Zerafin said. “I’m guilty of not being knowledgeable about the world and I can name 10 other people right now that aren’t either.” The characterizations come from the parents of Generation Z and prior (older) generations alike.

[5] “Compared to when I was growing up, I think that in some ways my daughter’s generation is more unaware of what’s going on the world,” Hellen Minev said, a parent of a Prospect student. “I don’t think they’re apathetic, though, I think they just have different priorities like their cellphones and Facebook.” Like Minev, many adults say much of the blame lies with Gen Z’s reliance (depending) on gadgets (technology).

[6] “You guys have all these devices like smartphones, touchscreens, iPhones, iPads, ‘iEverything,’“ Elk Grove history

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teacher Dan Davisson said. “It’d be hard for you guys to spend your energy on things like volunteering if you have all these distractions.”

[7] Furthermore, sitting around watching videos, texting or playing video games can lead to negative health effects for teens who would rather stay indoors and use their electronics than be active outdoors. They’re leading a sedentary (inactive) lifestyle that, when paired with a poor diet, can result in obesity, diabetes and other health problems.

[8] A 2009 Centers for Disease Control and Prevention report found that approximately 17 percent of children and adolescents ages two-19 are obese. Since 1980, obesity rates have nearly tripled, the report shows.

[9] “No one calls each other up anymore and says, ‘Hey, want to go for a bike ride?’” Zerafin said. “And if they do, it’s rare (uncommon). Now it’s more like, ‘Hey, want to come over and play some ‘Call of Duty’?’

[10] While some worry that Gen Z is lazy and unprepared for the real world, Elk Grove junior Kate DeMeulenaere believes that it’s just a matter of survival of the fittest.

[11] “I don’t think anyone is ever really prepared,” she said. “But I think some just adapt (adjust) better than others and make more logical choices.”

[12] Elk Grove counselor Maria Mroz adds that making the right choices and having the right attitude from an early age is the way to beat the stigma (reputation) of being apathetic.

[13] “If more teenagers realize the value of their education they can beat those murmurs (rumors) of being apathetic right here at school,” Mroz said.

[14] Huntley junior Christian Nunez tries to beat the label by keeping informed on current affairs (issues) and staying on top of his education.

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[15] “Although sometimes I tend to let my grades slip, I try to compensate (balance) by trying harder. ... I also try to keep up with things that happen in other places,” he said.

[16] On the other hand, there are those like youth group pastor Jin Kim who believe that the lazy label isn’t really accurate (true).[17] “I don’t think this generation is apathetic at all,” Kim said. “If they are, then every other generation, including my own is apathetic as well. I have kids right in front me right now that spend their time and effort volunteering and being active in their community.

[18] “When I look at them I don’t see lazy or inattentive (daydreaming) kids. I see kids that are caring and hard-working, not apathetic.”

2. Hey, Toys 'R' Us, Stop Thrusting Gender Roles on My Kids!

by Rob Watson

[1] I have to confess (admit) that I was oblivious (unaware) to how gender (male, female, other) essentialism (boys=blue & girls= pink) plays out for kids until I heard about the work of a grassroots (ordinary people) organization in the UK called Let Toys Be Toys. They have persuaded Toys 'R' Us in the UK to stop marketing (advertising) toys specifically to boys or girls. Moving forward, toys will be presented as gender-neutral (referring to both or neither genders) so that they may attract whatever child finds them interesting and compelling. What a concept!

[2] My first reaction was passive (total) agreement. It made sense to me, but was the in-store marketing really such a problem? I decided to look at it further, with a fresh set of eyes.

[3] I went online. I found the Toys 'R' Us website curiously disturbing. They definitely segregated (separated) boys' toys from girls' toys, and each had its unique, predetermined (fixed) subcategories. Boys had action-oriented categories, and girls had homemaking- and beauty-oriented categories. Even more intriguing were the subcategories that were the same for boys

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and girls, like art and electronics. Each of those subcategories contained the same items, plus a few extra items for the girls. But even the items that were the same for boys and girls were color-coded for gender. Boys had multi-colored (many colors) items, like normal, adult-oriented items. Girls had them in pink. It became obvious (clear) to me that even in areas that are essentially the same for boys and girls, the gender message is clear: separate but theoretically (supposedly) equal. Sort of like having the same job but different pay scales (salary) and career paths.

[4] When I went into our local Toys 'R' Us store, the differences were not subtle (not obvious). As I looked, the lyrics of Cher's recent hit song -- "Tell the truth: This is a woman's world" -- played in my mind. My thought was, "Cher has not been in a toy store recently."

[5] Mega conglomerates (companies) like Toys 'R' Us are making sure that it won't be a woman's world for a long, long time. This should be a woman's world. Women make up almost 51 percent of the United States population, but toy marketing clearly tells little girls where their place in the world is. It is a pink land that

exists somewhere between the easy-bake kitchen and the frivolous (unserious), glitzy (showy) fashion world, and nowhere else. It is far from a woman's (or a future woman's) world unless we define that world as one of choice and pursuit (search) of individual skills, aptitudes (abilities) and talents, regardless (unrelated to) of

gender.

[6] In the world of toy marketing, decisions have been made and guidance put in place for kids of both genders, but with a heavy emphasis (importance) on segregation (separation) of girls. A walk down the toy aisle programs eager (enthusiastic),

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impressionable (gullible), wide-eyed young consumers (customers) to think in gendered ways and gives them answers to things that they have yet to question for themselves. And this is insidious (deceptive) not only for transgender (people whose gender differs from their assigned sex) youngsters but even for those who find that their gender expression (external personal characteristics) is completely consistent with their birth-assigned sex. For the former, it creates an intense pressure to identify in ways that are contrary (different) to how these children feel innately (naturally). For the latter, it removes all choice beyond a set of predetermined (fixed) roles.

[7] There were six aisles designated for toys for girls. There was only one with a sign that said "boys," but its blue color coding extended to several aisles. The subcategories in the blue: sports, action figures, construction. The girls' aisles were pink. Pink signs, pink toys, pink packages. Pink, pink, pink. All the other aisles in the store blended with the boys' aisles and provided a full spectrum (range) of colors and variety.

[8] The girls' section was a pink bubble. The themes: fashion, cooking and cleaning. The promotional words on the packages were fun and frivolous. In contrast, the toys that were meant for boys communicated, literally and figuratively, concepts such as leadership, command, speed, agility, skill, might

and success.

[9] I got the message then and there. If you are a girl, your aspirations (goals) should be to play at elegance (sophistication), nurture (care for) a baby doll, and practice cooking and cleaning. If you are a boy, you are to aspire to a persona (identity) of power. You are to build physically, train and excel (do well).

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[10] I really could not believe what I was seeing in front of me in this store that I had visited dozens of times before. For a decade I had walked through this mecca (center) of child consumerism (buying) oblivious (not aware) and complacent (satisfied). How could I have missed it? I felt guilty for having participated in this cultural child programming. But to be honest, when I was there with my sons, I was in defense mode against a constant barrage (attack) of the "gimmes," and it took all my willpower and focus to keep them in control, to the point that I was blind to the propaganda all around me.

[11] But even though I was not necessarily conscious (aware) of the gender-specific marketing of toys, I already understood that it was having an effect. A few nights before that visit to the local Toys 'R' Us store, my sons and I were at a restaurant that gives "kid gifts" with their meals.

[12] "Darn! They gave me a girl toy," declared my youngest son Jesse as he held up a little Care Bear figure.

[13] "What do you mean?" I asked. "It's a Care Bear. You used to have Care Bears. You used to love Care Bears."

[14] "It's a girl toy, Dad," he curtly (quickly) informed me.

[15] "How do you know?" I pressed.

[16] "We checked with our friends," he explained. "None of the boys play with them or watch them. They are for girls. They have pink on them." He shot me a reprimanding (criticizing) glare. Apparently our family had not gotten the memo, and in his mind this conversation was long overdue (late).

[17] I let the conversation go for the time being, but I felt a sense of failure. My sons were never raised with the idea that any toy was off-limits to them because of their gender. Obviously, peer pressure had intervened (get involved) outside my watch. But was that all it was? Where and when did their peers "get the memo"? Now I know.

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[18] I want my sons to welcome the pink. I want them to be nurturing, cook well and appreciate beautiful elegance. God knows I would love for them to clean more. And I want their female peers to be encouraged to explore all their talents as well. Why would we box tomorrow's brilliant scientist, military hero, sports goddess or architect into a pre-fabricated (easily built) role without choices?

[19] The song that is now playing in my head is no longer the one by a defiant (disobedient) Cher but another by a softly optimistic (positive) John Lennon, with my own minor modifications (changes):

"Imagine no kid gender classificationI wonder if you canNo need for pink or blue aislesA sisterhood of manImagine all the peopleSharing all the worldYou may say I'm a dreamerBut I'm not the only oneI hope someday you'll join usAnd the world will live as one."

[20] The challenges of this world are escalating (growing), and we need the talents of every individual to overcome them. Why on Earth would we intentionally (purposely) limit the potential to accomplish a given feat (achievement) to only half the population?

3. Fish Cheeks

By Amy Tan

[1] I fell in love with the minister's son the winter I turned fourteen. He was not Chinese, but as white as Mary in the manger (innocent, from the Nativity scene). For Christmas I

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prayed for this blond-haired boy, Robert, and a slim (thin) new American nose.

[2] When I found out that my parents had invited the minister's family over for Christmas Eve dinner, I cried. What would Robert think of our shabby (messy, untidy) Chinese Christmas? What would he think of our noisy Chinese relatives who lacked (did not have) proper American manners? What terrible disappointment would he feel upon seeing not a roasted turkey and sweet potatoes but Chinese food?

[3]On Christmas Eve I saw that my mother had outdone (overly successful) herself in creating a strange menu. She was pulling black veins out of the backs of fleshy prawns (like a shrimp). The kitchen was littered (covered) with appalling (disgusting) mounds (piles) of raw food: A slimy rock cod (fish) with bulging (popping out) eyes that pleaded (begged) not to be thrown into a pan of hot oil. Tofu, which looked like stacked wedges of rubbery white sponges. A bowl soaking dried fungus back to life. A plate of squid, their backs crisscrossed with knife markings so they resembled bicycle tires.

[4]And then they arrived – the minister's family and all my relatives in a clamor (loud noises) of doorbells and rumpled (crumpled) Christmas packages. Robert grunted hello, and I pretended he was not worthy of existence.

[5] Dinner threw me deeper into despair. My relatives licked the ends of their chopsticks and reached across the table, dipping them into the dozen or so plates of food. Robert and his family waited patiently for platters to be passed to them. My relatives murmured (mumbled) with pleasure when my mother brought out the whole steamed fish. Robert grimaced (frowned). Then my father poked his chopsticks just below the fish eye and plucked

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(pulled out) out the soft meat. "Amy, your favorite," he said, offering me the tender fish cheek. I wanted to disappear.

[6]At the end of the meal my father leaned back and belched (burped) loudly, thanking my mother for her fine cooking. "It's a polite Chinese custom to show you are satisfied," explained my father to our astonished (shocked) guests. Robert was

looking down at his plate with a reddened face. The minister managed to muster up a quiet burp. I was stunned into silence for the rest of the night.

[7]After everyone had gone, my mother said to me, "You want to be the same as American girls on the outside." She handed me an early gift. It was a miniskirt in beige (peach) tweed (woolen fabric). "But inside you must always be Chinese. You must be proud you are different. Your only shame is to have shame."

[8]And even though I didn't agree with her then, I knew that she understood how much I had suffered during the evening's dinner. It wasn't until many years later – long after I had gotten over my crush on Robert – that I was able to fully appreciate her lesson and the true purpose behind our particular menu. For Christmas Eve that year, she had chosen all my favorite foods.

4. from The NamesakeBy Jhumpa Lahiri

(1) There is a reason Gogol doesn’t want to go to kindergarten. His parents have told him that at school, instead of being called Gogol, he will be called by a new name, a good name, which his parents have finally decided on, just in time for him to begin his formal education. The name, Nikhil, is artfully connected to the old. Not only is it a perfectly respectable Bengali good name, meaning “he who is entire, encompassing all,” but it also bears (allows) a satisfying resemblance (similarity) to Nikolai, the first name of the Russian Gogol’s.

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Ashoke thought of it recently, staring mindlessly (daydreaming) at the Gogol spines (books) in the library, and he rushed back to the house to ask Ashima her opinion. He pointed out that it was relatively easy to pronounce, though there was the danger that Americans, obsessed with abbreviation (shortening words), would truncate (shorten) it to Nick. She told him she liked it well enough, though later, alone, she’d wept (cried), thinking of her grandmother, who had died earlier in the year, and of the letter, forever hovering (flying) somewhere between India and America.

(2) But Gogol can’t understand why he has to answer to anything else. “Why do I have to have a new name?” he asks his parents, tears springing (coming quickly) to his eyes. It would be one thing if his parents were to call him Nikhil, too. But they tell him that the new name will be used only by the teachers and children at school. He is afraid to be Nikhil, someone he doesn’t know. Who doesn’t know him. His parents tell him that they each have two names, too, as do all their Bengali friends in America, and all their relatives in Calcutta. It’s a part of growing up, they tell him, part of being a Bengali. They write it for him on a sheet of paper, ask him to copy it over ten times. “Don’t worry,” his father says. “To me and your mother, you will never be anyone but Gogol.”

(3) At school, Ashoke and Gogol are greeted by the secretary, who asks Ashoke to fill out a registration form. He provides a copy of Gogol’s birth certificate and immunization (medical shots) records, which are put in a folder along with the registration. “This way,” the secretary says, leading them to the principal’s office. Candace Lapidus, the name on the door says. Mrs. Lapidus assures Ashoke that missing the first week of kindergarten is not a problem, that things have yet to settle down. Mrs. Lapidus is a tall, slender (thin) woman with short white-blond hair. She wears frosted blue eye shadow and a lemon-yellow suit. She shakes Ashoke’s hand and tells him that there are two other Indian children at the school, Jayadev Modi, in the third grade, and Rekha Saxena, in fifth. Perhaps the

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Gangulis know them? Ashoke tells Mrs. Lapidus that they do not. She looks at the registration form and smiles kindly at the boy, who is clutching (squeezing) his father’s hand. Gogol is dressed in powder-blue pants, red-and-white canvas sneakers, a striped turtleneck top.

(4) “Welcome to elementary school, Nikhil. I am your principal, Mrs. Lapidus.”

(5) Gogol looks down at his sneakers. The way the principal pronounces his new name is different from the way his parents say it, the second part of it longer, sounding like “heel.”

(6) She bends down so that her face is level with his, and extends (reaches) a hand to his shoulder. “Can you tell me how old you are, Nikhil?”

(7) When the question is repeated and there is still no response, Mrs. Lapidus asks, “Mr. Ganguli, does Nikhil follow English?”

(8) “Of course he follows,” Ashoke says. “My son is perfectly bilingual.”In order to prove that Gogol knows English, Ashoke does something he has never done before, and addresses his son in careful, accented English. “Go on, Gogol,” he says, patting him on the head. “Tell Mrs. Lapidus how old you are.”

(9) “What was that?” Mrs. Lapidus says.(10) “I beg your pardon, Madam?”(11) “That name you called him. Something with a ‘G.’ ”(12) “Oh that, that is what we call him at home only. But his

good name should be—is”—he nods his head firmly— “Nikhil.”(13) Mrs. Lapidus frowns. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.

‘Good name’?”(14) “Yes.”(15) Mrs. Lapidus studies the registration form. She has not

had to go through this confusion with the two other Indian children.

(16) “I’m not sure I follow you, Mr. Ganguli. Do you mean that Nikhil is a middle name? Or a nickname? Many of the children go by nicknames here. On this form there is a space—”

(17) “No, no, it’s not a middle name,” Ashoke says. He is beginning to lose patience. “He has no middle name. No nickname. The boy’s good name, his school name, is Nikhil.”

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(18) Mrs. Lapidus presses her lips together and smiles. “But clearly he doesn’t respond.”

(19) “Please, Mrs. Lapidus,” Ashoke says. “It is very common for a child to be confused at first. Please give it some time. I assure you he will grow accustomed (used to it).”

(20) He bends down, and this time in Bengali, calmly and quietly, asks Gogol to please answer when Mrs. Lapidus asks a question. “Don’t be scared, Gogol,” he says, raising his son’s chin with his finger. “You’re a big boy now. No tears.”

(21) Though Mrs. Lapidus does not understand a word, she listens carefully, hears that name again. Gogol. Lightly, in pencil, she writes it down on the registration form.

(22) Ashoke hands over the lunchbox, a windbreaker (jacket) in case it gets cold. He thanks Mrs. Lapidus. “Be good, Nikhil,” he says in English. And then, after a moment’s hesitation (waiting), Gogol’s father is gone.

(23) At the end of his first day he is sent home with a letter to his parents from Mrs. Lapidus, folded and stapled to a string around his neck, explaining that owing to their son’s preference he will be known as Gogol at school. What about the parents’ preference? Ashima and Ashoke wonder, shaking their heads. But since neither of them feels comfortable pressing (asking about) the issue, they have no choice but to give in…

5. Dominican Immigrants Face Challenges in New York City Public SchoolsBy Jeffrey Zahka

[1] Language barriers and social stigmatization: These are some of the challenges faced by newly arrived high school students from the Dominican Republic on their journey through the New York City Department of Education. Along the way, they are confronted by different cultural expectations that, in the end, force them to reconsider their roles as teenagers in their newly adopted countries.

[2] "I think the role of kids in society is very different," says Patricia Nuñez, 36, a Dominican-American teacher of Spanish in NYC. Having spent her summers in the Dominican Republic since

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childhood, Nuñez understands the differences between Dominican students and American students. "American kids consider themselves to be as important as any adult in society. This is something … [Dominican students] are not used to feeling," Nuñez says. Unlike American students, young people in the Dominican Republic are expected to defer to their elders, and rarely are able to express their own opinions. Attending school in New York City for the first time, many of these newly arrived students find the social freedoms offered to American students both refreshing and liberating. "When they experience it for the first time, it's like 'Wow! People care about what I think!" Nuñez says.

[3] Such new freedom, however, has consequences at home. Dominican parents often complain about a loss of control over their children, many of whom quickly become immersed in the culture of the teenage "Dominican Yorker": one who has let go of many of the cultural restrictions on Dominican children in which young people are expected always to be obedient and do what they’re told by their elders at all times. Now, in America, they have become more outspoken when talking with teachers or parents.

[4] Most Dominican students move here to here find themselves in schools of high Latino concentration, particularly in upper-Manhattan and throughout the Bronx. The ghetto-like atmosphere in some of these schools is one of the many obstacles that Dominican students face.

[5] "If you don't speak the language, you don't feel like you belong," says Bianca Rodriguez, 20, a student in the Bronx, who arrived from Santo Domingo two years ago. "No one wants to give you a hand and most don't want to help." A language barrier is one of the most difficult obstacles to the success of these Dominican students. This is seen within classrooms as well, where Spanish speaking Dominican students are not always treated as equals with their English-speaking students. The schools they attend are generally in low-income, high crime

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areas, and often contain poorly qualified teachers. Students often cope with this stress by separating themselves into smaller ethnic groups, and are often an easy target for gangs.

[6] At home, the stress takes a different form. "Many immigrant households in the United States don't create a good environment for learning. "Kids are arriving in the United States without a basic understanding of their own language," Mercedes says. "This makes it more difficult to transition to English." The lack of native-language, is at times because many of these students and their guardians don’t value the importance of education.

[7] For many of those who have moved to the U.S., a return visit home offers a chance to show off their new success — real or not. Gold chains, baggy jeans and Yankee caps are often the hallmark (sign of) of the returned Dominican teenager who like to show their new independence and attitude. But not all Dominicans appreciate such styles. "When you go home, everyone sees you as an American," Nuñez says, "while in New York, you are a Dominican."

5. Dominican Immigrants Face Challenges in New York City Public Schools

Jeffrey Zahka April 30, 2006

While school zoning laws (where students can attend school) are designed to promote integration (combining) among student ethnicities throughout the New York City school system, most Dominicans find themselves in schools of high Latino concentration, particularly in upper-Manhattan.

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[1] Language barriers and social stigmatization (negatively labeling someone): These are some of the challenges faced by newly arrived high school students from the Dominican Republic on their journey through the New York City Department of Education. Along the way, they are confronted (challenged) by different cultural expectations that, in the end, force them to reconsider (think about) their roles as teenagers in their newly adopted countries.[2] "I think the role of kids in society is very different," says Patricia Nuñez, 36, a Dominican-American teacher of Spanish in NYC. Having spent her summers in the Dominican Republic since childhood, Nuñez understands the differences between Dominican students and American students. "American kids consider themselves to be as important as any adult in society. This is something … [Dominican students] are not used to feeling," Nuñez says. Unlike American students, young people in the Dominican Republic are expected to defer (listen to and obey) to their elders, and rarely are able to express their own opinions. Attending school in New York City for the first time, many of these newly arrived students find the social freedoms offered to American students both refreshing and liberating (freeing). "When they experience it for the first time, it's like 'Wow! People care about what I think!" Nuñez says.[3] Such new freedom, however, has consequences at home. Dominican parents often complain about a loss of control over their children, many of whom quickly become immersed (thrown into) in the culture of the teenage "Dominican Yorker": one who has let go of many of the cultural restrictions (limitations) on Dominican children in which young people are expected always to be obedient and do what they’re told by their elders at all times. Now, in America, they have become more outspoken when talking with teachers or parents. [4] Most Dominican students move here to here find themselves in schools of high Latino concentration, particularly in upper-Manhattan and throughout the Bronx. The ghetto-like atmosphere in some of these schools is one of the many obstacles that Dominican students face.

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[5] "If you don't speak the language, you don't feel like you belong," says Bianca Rodriguez, 20, a student in the Bronx, who arrived from Santo Domingo two years ago. "No one wants to give you a hand and most don't want to help." A language barrier (obstacle) is one of the most difficult obstacles to the success of these Dominican students. This is seen within classrooms as well, where Spanish speaking Dominican students are not always treated as equals with their English-speaking students. The schools they attend are generally in low-income, high crime areas, and often contain poorly qualified (trained) teachers. Students often cope (handle) with this stress by separating themselves into smaller ethnic groups, and are often an easy target for gangs.[6] At home, the stress takes a different form. "Many immigrant households in the United States don't create a good environment for learning."Kids are arriving in the United States without a basic understanding of their own language," Mercedes says. "This makes it more difficult to transition (move) to English." The lack of native-language, is at times because many of these students and their guardians don’t value the importance of education.[7] For many of those who have moved to the U.S., a return visit home offers a chance to show off their new success — real or not. Gold chains, baggy jeans and Yankee caps are often the hallmark (sign of) of the returned Dominican teenager who like to show their new independence and attitude. But not all Dominicans appreciate such styles. "When you go home, everyone sees you as an American," Nuñez says, "while in New York, you are a Dominican."

6. The Cat Who Thought She Was a Dogand the Dog Who Thought He Was a Cat

By Isaac Bashevis Singer[1]Once there was a poor peasant, Jan Skiba. He lived with his wife and three daughters in a one-room hut far from the village. The house had a bed, a bench, and a stove, but no mirror. A mirror was a luxury (extravagance) for a poor peasant.

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[2]This peasant did have a dog and a cat in his hut. The dog was named Burek and the cat, Kot. They had both been born within the same week. Since the dog had never seen another dog and the cat had never seen another cat and they saw only each other, the dog thought he was a cat and the cat thought she was a dog. Burek and Kot lived on good terms, often ate from the same dish, and tried to mimic (copy) each other. When Burek barked, Kot tried to bark along, and when Kot meowed, Burek tried to meow too.

[3]The peddlers (traveling salespeople) never came to Jan Skiba’s poor hut. But one day, a peddler happened to stray there. When he came inside and began to lay out his wares (take out his merchandise), Jan Skiba’s wife and daughters were bedazzled (amazed) by all the pretty doodads (interesting things). But what enthralled (fascinated) the women of the house most was a mirror.

They asked the peddler its price and he said a half gulden (coin), which was a lot of money for poor peasants. After a while, Jan Skiba’s wife, Marianna, made a proposition (deal) to the peddler. She would pay him five groshen (coins) a month for the mirror. [4]The mirror created a commotion (fuss) in the hut. Until then, Marianna and the children had seldom (rarely) seen themselves. Before they had the mirror, they had only seen their reflections in the barrel of water that stood by the door. Now, they could see themselves clearly and they began to find defects (imperfections) in their faces, defects they had never noticed before. Marianna was pretty but she had a tooth missing in front and she felt that this made her ugly. One daughter discovered that her nose was too snub and too broad; a second that her chin was too narrow and too long; a third that her face was sprinkled with freckles. Jan Skiba, too, caught a glimpse (look quickly) of himself in the mirror and grew displeased (unhappy) by his thick lips and his teeth, which protruded (stuck out) like a buck’s (horse’s). [5]That day, the women of the house became so absorbed (consumed) in the mirror they didn’t cook supper, didn’t make up

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the bed, and neglected (didn’t do) all the other household tasks. The girls tried to console (comfort) each other that they were pretty enough and that they would find suitors (boyfriends), but they no longer felt as jolly (happy) as before. They had been afflicted (cursed) with the vanity (arrogance) of city girls. [6]But the human members of the household were not the only ones affected. The dog and the cat also grew disturbed by the mirror. The first time the cat saw her image in the mirror, she became terribly perplexed (confused). She had never before seen such a creature. Kot’s whiskers bristled, she began to meow at her reflection and raised a paw to it, but the other creature meowed back and raised her paw, too. Soon, the dog jumped up on the bench, and when he saw the other dog he became wild with rage and shock. He barked at the other dog and showed him his teeth, but the other barked back and bared (showed) his fangs, too. So great was the distress (pain) of Burek and Kot that for the first time in their lives they turned on each other. Burek took a bite out of Kot’s throat and Kot hissed and spat at him and clawed his muzzle. They both started to bleed and the sight of blood aroused them so that they nearly killed or crippled each other. The members of the household barely managed to separate them. In their anguish (distress), both the dog and the cat stopped eating.[7]When Jan Skiba saw the disruption the mirror had created in his household, he decided a mirror wasn’t what his family needed. When the peddler came for his monthly installment (payment), Jan Skiba gave him back the mirror and in its stead, bought kerchiefs (napkins) and slippers for the women. After the mirror disappeared, Burek and Kot returned to normal. Again Burek thought he was a cat and Kot was sure she was a dog. The village priest heard what had happened at Jan Skiba’s house and he said, “A glass mirror shows only the skin of the body. The real image of a person is in his willingness to help himself, his family, and all those he comes in contact with. This kind of mirror reveals the very soul of the person.”

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7. Choices of TomorrowBy Fiona

1 As the sun sets, another day’s departed (left)2 Distant memories light my way back home3 Mysteries aren’t for the faint hearted (lacking courage, timid),4 Can’t escape the past as it’s set in stone5 An ending leads to a new beginning, 6 But beginnings come to ends in the road7 Great times vanish (disappear), the Cheshire cat’si grinning8 These are words that I’ve bestowed (to give something as a gift or honor) 9 Decisions in life may be good or dire (terrible)10 You have to walk through the right doors in life 11 Your judgment may land you knee deep in mire (mud), 12 Or otherwise lead you to joy or strife (difficulties) 13 Who knows what my life’s journey has in store? 14 I shall wait to walk through tomorrow’s door___________________________________________________________________ The Cheshire cat is a character in Lewis Carroll's novel Alice in Wonderland. It is a cat that disappears, leaving only its smile behind. This means that although the good times have passed, the happy memories remain.

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8. Is Money Affecting Your Social Status?

Is your family income affecting your friendships? Teen Vogue reports on class envy.

By Reniqua Allen

[1] Samantha*, 21, from Tacoma, always appeared to be one of the richest girls at her high school. She had stylish clothes, took violin lessons, and had lots of pals with fat wallets. But she was hiding a secret only a few of her close friends and teachers knew about—her mom was struggling to make ends meet after a nasty divorce. "People didn't know my financial situation," she says. "My sister shopped a lot, so I borrowed her clothes. It seemed like we had excess, but in the end it was my mom taking on a lot of burdens (struggles)." Samantha says blending in with her wealthy neighbors helped to increase her social status. "I think the pressure for students to fit in is a common thing. I had to act the part to keep people from thinking there was something about me that was different and so I was able to sit with the popular girls."

[2] At a time when the Bureau of Labor Statistics estimates that more than 9 percent of Americans are unemployed, class divisions are widening, creating tough social situations for many teens. Though it's not commonly talked about, how much cash your parents have can often have a huge effect on your allowance, popularity, and, more importantly, who your BFFs are.

[3] Eighteen-year-old Tiara, from Chicago, who considers herself middle-class, agrees with Samantha. "In my high school, clothes made you more popular. If you didn't have the right clothes or the latest brands, people would tear you down."

[4] Sometimes in our society we equate success and popularity with high-priced items," says Variny Yim Paladino, coauthor of The Teen Girl's Gotta-Have-It Guide to Money(Watson-Guptill). Gossiping about who's broke and who has bank can be a favorite topic of conversation among girls, many of whom say that items like smartphones, purses, and shoes are important status symbols.But it's not just the have-nots who worry about money. Stephanie, a 20-year-old college student from San Antonio who lives in New York City, says her family is solidly upper-class—they pay for her college, trips abroad, and living expenses—but even she feels the stress. Friends who have more disposable incomes are regularly on her to go to pricey restaurants and clubs that leave her in the red. "When you have a friend who's constantly wanting to go out for dinner every day, it puts more pressure on you," she says. "Sometimes I'll look at my credit card bill, and all those Frappuccinos and taxicab rides add up—and I'm like, I can't do this again."

[5] Being in a different income bracket from your friends can be tough. Lisa*, nineteen, from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, grew up lower-class. She remembers feeling envious when her best friend got $600 from her uncle to spend just for fun. "I was like, Whoa, can you break me off? I wasn't as

fortunate as some of my friends. I've never spent more than $20 on a pair of jeans. I wore Payless until I was fourteen. And my first bike came from a garage sale."

[6] Though Samantha still worries about her cash flow now that she's at an Ivy League university, she's less concerned about whether or not people think she's rich or poor. "Now I'm surrounded by a new level of wealth: kids with trust funds and allowances every week. It was— and still is—very tough for me." But, she says, she's less wrapped up in pretending to be something she isn't. "I've shared my true financial situation with a core set of friends. They're extraordinary people that I value, not just monetarily but for the trust and investment we have in our friendship." *Name has been changed.

9. “The Problem with Rich Kids” By Suniya S. Luthar Ph.D., published on November 5, 2013 [1] It is widely accepted in America that youth in poverty are a population at risk for being troubled. Research has repeatedly demonstrated (shown) that low family income is a major determinant (cause) of lengthy stress and social, emotional, and behavioral problems. Experiencing poverty before age 5 is especially associated with negative outcomes.

[2] But increasingly, significant problems are occurring at the other end of the socioeconomic spectrum (varying levels), among youth en route to the most prestigious (high status) universities and well-paying, high-status careers in America. These are young people from communities dominated (controlled) by white-collar, well-educated parents. They attend schools distinguished (differing) by rich academic curricula, high standardized test scores, and diverse extracurricular opportunities. The parents' annual income, at $150,000 and more, is well over twice the national average. And yet they show serious levels of instability (uncertainty) as teens, displaying (showing) problems that tend to get worse as they approach college.

[3] Crime is also widely assumed to be a problem of youth in poverty, but I have found comparable (similar) levels of wrongdoing among well-off suburban students and inner-city

youth. What does differ are the types of rule-breaking—widespread cheating and random acts of delinquency (minor crimes), such as stealing from parents or peers, are more common among the rich, while inner-city teens are apt (have a tendency) to commit crimes related to self-defense, such as carrying a weapon.

[4] The children of wealth have serious internalizing (mental) problems as well. In 1999, I reported significant depression in one in five girls. Since then, studies I have conducted (done) show that, on average, serious levels of depression, anxiety, or somatic (mind) symptoms occur twice as often or more among these boys and girls, compared to national rates.

[5] Such problems are not confined (limited) to the East Coast or to schools in suburbs. We have studied private schools in large cities and affluent (privileged) communities in the Northwest. Students in the Northwest did not show the extremes of substance abuse we observed on the East Coast, but they did display high levels of depressive and anxiety symptoms, self-injurious behavior such as cutting and burning, and rule-breaking behaviors. The bottom line: Across geographical areas and public and private schools, upper-middle-class youngsters show alarmingly high rates of serious disturbance.

10. The Necklace

by Guy de Maupassant

[1] She was one of those pretty and charming girls born into a family of artisans (laborers who

do manual work) who were poor. She had no expectations, no means of getting known,

understood, loved, and wedded by a man of wealth and distinction (excellence); and she let

herself be married off to a little clerk in the Ministry of Education. Her tastes were simple

because she had never been able to afford any other, but she was as unhappy as though she

had married beneath her; for women have no caste (social class) their beauty, grace, and

charm serving them for birth or family, their natural delicacy, their instinctive elegance, their

quick wit (intelligence), are their only mark of rank, and put the slum (poor) girl on a level with

the highest lady in the land.

[2] She suffered endlessly, because she felt that she was born for every delicacy and luxury.

She suffered from the poorness of her house, from its mean walls, worn chairs, and ugly

curtains. All these things, of which other women of her class would not even have been

aware, tormented (to suffer from being tortured) and insulted her. The sight of the little Breton

girl who came to do the work in her little house made her have heart-broken regrets and

hopeless dreams in her mind. She imagined big rooms hung with antique silks, exquisite

pieces of furniture supporting priceless ornaments, and small, charming, perfumed rooms,

created just for little parties of intimate friends, men who were famous and sought after.

[3] When she sat down for dinner at the round table covered with a three-days-old cloth,

opposite her husband, who took the cover off the soup pot, exclaiming delightedly: "Aha!

Scotch broth! What could be better?" she imagined delicate meals, gleaming silverware,

tapestries(cloth) all over the walls with folk of a past age and strange birds in magical forests;

she imagined delicate food served in marvelous dishes and fancy meals as one trifled(to take

seriously) with the rosy flesh of trout(fish) or wings of asparagus chicken.

[4] She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. And these were the only things she loved; she felt

that she was made for them. She had longed so eagerly to charm, to be desired, to be wildly

attractive and sought after.

[5] One evening her husband came home with a big smile on his face, holding a large

envelope in his hand.

[6] "Here's something for you," he said.

[7] Swiftly(quickly) she tore the paper and drew out a printed card on which were these words:

[8] “The Minister of Education and Madame Ramponneau request the pleasure of the

company of Monsieur and Madame Loisel at the Ministry on the evening of Monday, January

the 18th."

[9] Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, she childishly flung the invitation across

the table, murmuring:

[10] "What do you want me to do with this?"

[11] "Why, darling, I thought you'd be pleased. You never go out, and this is a great occasion.

I had tremendous trouble to get it. Everyone wants one; it's very select, and very few go to the

clerks. You'll see all the really big people there."

[12] She looked at him out of furious eyes, and said impatiently: "And what do you suppose I

am to wear at such an affair? I haven't a dress and so I can't go to this party. Give your

invitation to some friend of yours whose wife will be turned out better than I shall."

[13] He was heart-broken.

[14] "Look here, Mathilde," he persisted. "What would be the cost of a suitable dress, which

you could use on other occasions as well, something very simple?"

[15] She thought for several seconds, reckoning(calculating) up prices and also wondering for

how large a sum she could ask without encouraging an immediate refusal and an exclamation

of horror from the careful-minded clerk (her husband).

[16] At last she replied with some hesitation:

[17] "I don't know exactly, but I think I could do it on four hundred francs (European money)."

[18] He grew slightly pale, for this was exactly the amount he had been saving for a gun,

intending to get a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre (a city in Paris, France)

with some friends who went lark(bird)-shooting there on Sundays.

[19] Nevertheless he said: "Very well. I'll give you four hundred francs. But try and get a really

nice dress with the money."

[20] The day of the party drew near, and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy and anxious.

Her dress was ready, however. One evening her husband said to her:

[21] "What's the matter with you? You've been very odd for the last three days."

[22] "I'm utterly miserable at not having any jewels, not a single stone, to wear," she replied. "I

shall look like absolutely no one. I would almost rather not go to the party. There's nothing so

humiliating as looking poor in the middle of a lot of rich women."

[23] Her husband exclaimed, "Go and see Madame Forestier and ask her to lend you some

jewels. You know her quite well enough for that."

[24] The next day she went to see her friend and told her about her trouble. Madame

Forestier went to her dressing-table, took up a large box, brought it to Madame Loisel,

opened it, and told her to choose from the selection. First she saw some bracelets, then a

pearl necklace, then a Venetian cross in gold and gems, of exquisite workmanship. She tried

the effect of the jewels in front of the mirror, hesitating, unable to make up her mind to leave

them, to give them up. Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin case, a superb diamond

necklace; her heart began to beat covetously(strong desire for objects/possessions). Her

hands trembled as she lifted it. She fastened it round her neck, upon her high dress, and

remained in ecstasy(excitement) at the sight of herself.

[25] Then, with hesitation, she asked in anguish(to suffer or to be in pain):

[26] "Could you lend me this, just this alone?"

[27] "Yes, of course."

[28] She embraced(hug) her and went away with her treasure. The day of the party arrived.

Madame Loisel was a success. She was the prettiest woman present, elegant, graceful,

smiling, and quite above herself with happiness. All the men stared at her, inquired(asked)

her name, and asked to be introduced to her. All the Under-Secretaries of State were eager to

waltz(dance) with her. The Minister noticed her. She danced madly, ecstatically, with no

thought for anything, in the triumph(success) of her beauty, in the pride of her success, in a

cloud of happiness made up of this admiration, of the desires she had aroused, of the

completeness of a victory so dear to her feminine heart.

[29] She left about four o'clock in the morning. Since midnight her husband had been dozing

in a deserted little room, in company with three other men whose wives were having a good

time. He threw over her shoulders the garments he had brought for them to go home in,

modest(not showy) everyday clothes, whose poverty clashed with the beauty of the ball-

dress. She was conscious of this and was anxious to hurry away, so that she should not be

noticed by the other women putting on their costly(expensive) furs.

[30] When she arrived at their apartment, she took off the garments in which she had

wrapped her shoulders, so as to see herself in all her glory before the mirror. But suddenly

she uttered a cry. The necklace was no longer round her neck! They searched in the folds of

her dress, in the folds of the coat, in the pockets, everywhere. They could not find it.

[31] "Are you sure that you still had it on when you came away from the ball?" he asked.

[32] "Yes, I touched it in the hall at the Ministry."

[33] "But if you had lost it in the street, we should have heard it fall."

[34] "Yes. Probably we should. Did you take the number of the cab?"

[35] “No. You didn't notice it, did you?"

[36] "No."

[37] They stared at one another, dumbfounded. At last Loisel declared he was going to

conduct a thorough search for the necklace. However, he was unsuccessful and suggested:

[38] "I'll go over all the ground we walked," he said, "and see if I can't find it."

[39] Her husband returned about seven. He had found nothing. He went to the police station,

to the newspapers, to offer a reward, to the cab companies, everywhere that a ray of hope

impelled (urged) him.

[40] "You must write to your friend," he said, "and tell her that you've broken the clasp of her

necklace and are getting it mended. That will give us time to look about us."

[41] She wrote at his dictation, but by the end of a week they had lost all hope. Her husband

suggested replacing the diamonds, so the next day they took the box which had held the

necklace and went to the jewelers whose name was inside. He consulted his books.

[42] "It was not I who sold this necklace, Madame; I must have merely supplied the clasp."

[43] Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for another necklace like the first,

consulting their memories, both ill with remorse and anguish of mind. In a shop at the Palais-

Royal they found a string of diamonds which seemed to them exactly like the one they were

looking for. It was worth forty thousand francs. They were allowed to have it for thirty-six

thousand. They begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days. And they arranged matters on

the understanding that it would be taken back for thirty-four thousand francs, if the first one

were found before the end of February.

[44] Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs left to him by his father. He intended to

borrow the rest, getting a thousand from one man, five hundred from another, five louis here,

three louis there. He gave notes of hand, entered into ruinous(disastrous) agreements, did

business with usurers and the whole tribe of money-lenders. He mortgaged(to charge one’s

own property with the agreement that it will be re-payed) the whole remaining years of his

existence, risked his signature without even knowing if he could honor it, and, appalled at the

agonizing(torturous) face of the future, at the black misery about to fall upon him, at the

prospect of every possible physical privation(not having things that are necessary to survive)

and moral torture, he went to get the new necklace and put down upon the jeweler’s counter

thirty-six thousand francs.

[45] When Madame Loisel took back the necklace to Madame Forestier, the latter said to her

in a chilly voice:

[46] "You ought to have brought it back sooner; I might have needed it."

[47] She did not, as her friend had feared, open the case. If she had noticed the substitution,

what would she have thought? What would she have said? Would she not have taken her for

a thief?

[48] Madame Loisel came to know the ghastly(unpleasant) life of poverty. From the very first

she played her part heroically. This fearful debt must be paid off. She would pay it. The

servant was dismissed. They changed their flat; they lived in an attic under the roof.

[49] She came to know the heavy work of the house, the hateful duties of the kitchen. She

washed the plates, wearing out her pink nails on the coarse pottery and the bottoms of pans.

She washed the dirty linen, the shirts and dish-cloths, and hung them out to dry on a string;

every morning she took the dustbin down into the street and carried up the water, stopping on

each landing to get her breath. And, clothed like a poor woman, she went to the fruiter, to the

grocer, to the butcher, a basket on her arm, haggling(bargaining), insulted, and fighting for

every wretched halfpenny of her money.

[50] Every month notes had to be paid off, others renewed, time gained. Her husband worked

in the evenings at putting straight a merchant's accounts, and often at night he did copying at

halfpenny a page. This life lasted ten years.

[51] At the end of ten years everything was paid off, everything, the usurer's charges and the

accumulation of interest. Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become like all the other

strong, hard, coarse(worn) women of poor households. Her hair was badly done, her skirts

were awry(not taken care of), and her hands were red. She spoke in a shrill(high-pitched)

voice, and the water slopped all over the floor when she scrubbed it. But sometimes, when

her husband was at the office, she sat down by the window and thought of that evening long

ago, of the ball at which she had been so beautiful and so much admired.

[52] One Sunday, as she had gone for a walk along the Champs-Elysees to freshen herself

after the labors(chores) of the week, she caught sight suddenly of a woman who was taking a

child out for a walk. It was Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful, and still attractive.

Madame Loisel was conscious of some emotion. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly.

And now that she had paid, she would tell her all. Why not? She went up to her.

[53] "Good morning, Jeanne."

[54] She did not recognize her, and was surprised at being familiarly addressed by a poor

woman.

[55] "But . . . Madame . . ." she stammered. "I don't know . . . you must be making a mistake."

[56] "No . . . I am Mathilde Loisel."

[57] Her friend uttered a cry. "Oh! . . . my poor Mathilde, how you have changed! . . ."

[58] "Yes, I've had some hard times since I saw you last; and many sorrows . . . are all on

your account."

[59] "On my account! . . . How was that?"

[60] "You remember the diamond necklace you lent me for the ball at the Ministry? Well, I lost

it."

[61] "How could you? Why, you brought it back."

[62] "I brought you another one just like it. And for the last ten years we have been paying for

it. You realize it wasn't easy for us; we had no money. . . . Well, it's paid for at last, and I'm

glad indeed."

[63] Madame Forestier had halted(stopped).

[64] "You say you bought a diamond necklace to replace mine?"

[65] "Yes. You hadn't noticed it? They were very much alike."

[66] And Mathilde Loisel smiled in proud and innocent happiness.

[67] Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her two hands.

[68] "Oh, my poor Mathilde! But mine(the necklace) was imitation. It was worth at the very

most five hundred francs! . . . "

11. “Why Couldn't Snow White be Chinese?” by Grace Lin

[1] When I was in third grade, the class decided to put on a production of "The Wizard of Oz". The

news spread across the playground like an electrical current, energizing every girl to ask, "Who will

play Dorothy?" The thought was thrilling and delicious, each of us imaging ourselves with ruby shoes.

I whispered to my friend Jill, "Do you think I could be Dorothy?"

[2] Jill stared at me in shock, "You couldn't be Dorothy. You're Chinese. Dorothy's not Chinese."

And then I remembered. I was different. I felt stupid for even thinking I could be the star of a play.

That Dorothy, like everyone and everything else important, was not like me.

[3] And what was I? Jill had bluntly termed me Chinese. But I didn't feel Chinese. I spoke English, I

watched "Little House on the Prairie", learned American history and read books about girls named

Betsy and boys named Billy. But, I had black hair and slanted eyes, I ate white rice at home with

chopsticks and I got red envelopes for my birthday. Did I belong anywhere?

[4] The books that I loved and read did not help me answer that question. Betsy and Billy were nice

friends but they didn't understand. Neither did Madeline, Eloise, or Mike Mulligan. Cinderella, Snow

White? I didn't even try to explain. Rikki Tikki Tembo and Five Chinese Brothers tried to be pals, but

really what did we have in common? Nothing. And so I remained different from my friends in real life,

different from my fictional friends in stories... somehow always different.

[5] I'm older now, and wiser, and I appreciate that difference. Instead of the curse I had felt it was

during my childhood, I now treasure it. I realize the beauty of two cultures blending and giving birth to

me (!), an Asian American.

[6] When I decided to create children's books as my profession, I remembered my own childhood. I

remembered the books I wished I had had when I was a child. Books that would have made me feel

like I belonged, that there was someone else like me out there, and that who I was, was actually

something great.

[7] So with this in mind, I create my books. I try to make books that make readers appreciate Asian

American culture. I try to make books that the contemporary child can relate to. I try to make books

that encourage Asian American children to embrace their identities.

[8] For example, "The Ugly Vegetables" takes place in a suburban neighborhood and deals with one

child's chagrin of having a Chinese vegetable garden while the rest of the neighbors grow flowers.

"Dim Sum for Everyone!" takes place in Boston's Chinatown and shows a modern family enjoying this

unusual cuisine. "Kite-Flying" shows the same family, driving a car, making and flying their own

Chinese dragon kite. They are depictions of a present-day Asian American child's life.

[9] Do these books make a difference? I think so. In my life, moments of insecurity and isolation could

have been magically erased simply by having a book transform into a friend that shared what I saw

and what I am. And, perhaps, if these books had been generously spread, exposing children of all

races to the Asian part of the melting pot, perhaps then my childhood friend Jill would not have said,

"Dorothy's not Chinese," but rather, "Sure, Dorothy could be Chinese." Why not? I'd click my heels

three times to wish that.

12. “The Border” by Cindy Morand1 As an immigrant and a teenager, being ambitious, cultured, out-spoken, creative, enthusiastic, caring, and a self-starter has come at a very expensive price – tears and blood. Being Mexican in an American high school is difficult, as is going back and being so-called American in Mexico. What the two countries, maybe all countries, seem to have in common is that the person who’s different is an enormous threat to society. What you want to do is fit in; it’s just easier that way. It used to be like that in my little world, but not anymore. I want to be unique. Original. It will define my personality and make me successful. It will remind me what I’ve accomplished. I’m writing in a language I came very late to.

2 My story began on a rainy Friday in April when I was born, a little Mexican girl in Bellevue Hospital, New York City. Everyone in the hospital knew I was a different kind of child: I was the biggest newborn there, and my father had dark skin and was sixty-five years old, while my mother’s skin was light and she was only twenty-nine.3 When I was two, my family decided to move from New York to Mexico, because my father was retired and feeling tired of the city. He also wanted his daughters, my older sister Micheleluce Oralia and me, to attend a private Catholic school and get the best education possible, one he wasn’t able to afford in the United States. 4 So, I grew up in an extremely wealthy society in Sahuayo, Michoacán, where I studied ethics, morals, and Catholicism. The school encouraged its students, the most privileged children in the city, to do community service: Our teachers explained that we as Catholics should always be kind and generous to those who aren’t as fortunate. When I was ten or twelve, I started realizing how much I enjoyed helping others and feeling the need to change the world. I always thought it was unfair that other kids had to work at my age. I also began to notice that individuals who didn’t have an education were paid a misery but worked twice as hard as people who were well schooled. 5 I became aware of the importance of getting an education, not only because it would help to provide a great income, but also because I did not want to be a human being who was ignorant and fooled by appearances.6 My house in Mexico was luxurious, and we had many expensive objects. I counted shopping as a hobby, took vacations every six months to the nation’s most popular and beautiful regions. I learned to play the piano and the violin, to paint, to read literature, to recite poems. My father, an artist and musician, felt the need to show us the beauty of those things. He was also a lawyer, an engineer-electrician, a seaman, and a veteran of World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. He played golf and tennis. He spoke Spanish, English, French, and Patwa. 7 In my eyes, my father was more than perfect, and I grew up being as ambitious and curious as he was. I graduated second in my class with a 3.9 GPA

and all the signs of a rising star. I won several poetry competitions, I was president of my sixth-grade class, and I was chosen to join La Escolta, a group of students who would carry the Mexican flag at public events.8 At home in my privileged neighborhood, though, I’d notice people staring at my extremely dark-skinned father. Most of our neighbors were of fairer European descent – and their ignorance made them assume that my father wasn’t educated or that he was some kind of evil man who was involved in illegal activities. Later on I realized that most Mexicans in my city were extremely racist. At times some of my neighbors weren’t allowed to play with me. The parents would OK me for their kids’ company only after they found out my father was French, which they took to mean wealth and sophistication. All of a sudden, plenty of racist Mexicans would feel the need to become my dad’s best friends.9 When I was thirteen, my world collapsed. My family and I moved to New York City. My father, then seventy-eight, had been diagnosed with a cancerous tumor and was entitled to free veteran’s care in the United States. I arrived without knowing how to speak, read, or write English. I was played in regular-to-slow classes here instead of in ESL, which would have helped me learn the language and transition faster. I went from the honors track in Mexico into classes where I couldn’t comprehend a word, with students who refused to learn or care about their future. I was thrown in with kids who had spent time in juvenile prison, were pregnant, racist – and mean to me. 10 I never thought that being Mexican or coming proudly from both Aztec and Mayan heritage would create such problems. 11 Crying hysterically and feeling depressed were a part of my every day. I was broken. I had no real friends, and my grades and test scores were lower than I ever dreamed they could be. I would try to read and I wouldn’t understand. I felt like I was completely losing touch with myself and the world. To make matters worse, my grandfather, who was so close to me, passed away in Mexico; with my dad needing to be near the hospital I couldn’t go back for the funeral. Life was nothing but difficult and the pain was unbearable. 12 The second semester of my sophomore year, two years after we’d moved, I hit rock bottom. I was destroyed, and I didn’t even have my own room. (I had to

share with my sister, and we had our differences and totally dissimilar taste in everything.) I wasn’t used to living in a small, one-bathroom apartment; back in Mexico we had four bathrooms. My family didn’t go on trips anymore, and no one seemed to care about me or my situation. I realized I was in denial – I couldn’t admit that I would not be returning to Mexico, where life was full of promise and a bright future. I kept thinking about how ungrateful I used to be there, and it was excruciating how much I missed my friends who I’d known since I was three. Meanwhile, they were having the times of their lives. I wasn’t there for their Quinceanera parties, after all the dreams we’d had about turning fifteen together. I wanted to see my grandfather. I wanted to be that honor-roll student I always was. But it seemed impossible. I was alone. I had support from no one. 13 One day, also in tenth grade, I was looking through old pictures and couldn’t even recognize myself in Mexico. I was ashamed that I’d let two years pass in American feeling nothing but depressed. I’d lost sight of my dream, which was to help other people, make change, perhaps be a world leader. I was painfully slow at coming to it, but I had to accept that my life was happening in a different place, and I had to take action. I had to leave the big baby that I was in New York back at Bellevue. I started teaching myself English and signed up for more challenging courses that semester, including AP classes in U.S. history and Spanish literature. 14 I got involved with the YMCA’s Global Teens, the Lower Eastside Girls Club, and the N.Y.P.D. Explorers. I started getting used to the New York City life; taking train and buses, using elevators, eating pizza, celebrating the 4th of July. I started appreciating the chance to meet people from all backgrounds, teens with different sexual preferences.15 My father is doing well, the cancer in remission for years now, though he was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. My world has come to include tall buildings, gangs, and violence. It’s all made me very open-minded, though. Because I understand what it is to suffer – to be on the other side of the community service equation – I’m even more strongly committed to working with people who need help, those who are sick and can’t afford health care, oppressed indigenous populations, elders, students who are struggling, underprivileged

children, immigrants. Gandhi said, “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” For me to achieve this, the next challenge is to get the best education out of the rest of high school as I possibly can, then onto university. Because I don’t want to be ignorant like some racist Mexicans or certain American teenagers.

13. Who Am I? 03/02/2014 02:22 pm ET | Updated Apr 23, 2014The Huffington PostBy: Isabel Song

Who am I? I am a 17-year-old female. I live in Colorado. I play three different instruments,

participate in three honor societies and two clubs and volunteer at a local hospital and at the

public library as part of the teen advisory council. I like to write. And I’m tired of answers like

this.

When asked about who we are, as a whole we have a tendency to define ourselves by

external or basic things. We talk about our age and gender, followed by a ceaseless list of

what we do, what our hobbies are, where we work and so on. We take the easy way out and

give the easy answer. We don’t usually cut the fluff and really talk about what lies inside; it’s

too messy and hard. When a college asks, “Who are you?” most of us will give generic

answers. Many will talk about extracurricular activities and the things they like to do.

Yet if we’re honest with ourselves, are we really that simple?

In reality, we’re complex creatures, and the depth of our emotions and thoughts can be

astonishing. External definitions of our physical location, occupation, and the people we see

every day — these can change, and they do. So why do we all-too-often hide behind simple

definitions filled with temporary descriptions that only give a glimpse of the people we truly

are?

Who are our inner-selves? What are the aspects of us that truly matter? What are the stories

behind the person you see in the mirror? What are the things we think about, the things that

worry us, the things we believe in? When we strip away all the material items, take you away

from the life we live, and end up in a new world with new people, who and what is left?

During my sophomore year of high school, I constantly bombarded myself with this question.

After my family and I moved, I no longer lived in the town I grew up in, I no longer saw my

friends every day, and my life was stripped from me (or so it seemed). At the time, it

appeared as though my life had changed dramatically. I felt isolated and alone, and I wasn’t

sure who I was anymore. Yet it was because of this experience that I uncovered myself.

Because I no longer had the external things that I’d once defined myself with, I was stripped

bare, and the only thing left was me.

Yes, I understand that it’s easy to get lost in external things and concepts. These things can

influence our lives and point us in different directions. They’re important, too. But when we

take everything away, we’re left with the most essential version of ourselves, a version in

which the job we have and the place we call home don’t matter as much.

So who am I? This, of course, is always impossible to answer in full and to describe in words

for anybody, especially as I believe everyone can learn more about himself or herself every

day. However, I can at least offer a glimpse into my inner person, some of the deeper part of

me most people don’t see.

I’m not a 17 year-old girl; in some ways, I’m mature beyond my years, but my fears make me a

preschooler about to jump off the diving board for the first time. I’m honestly desperately

afraid of what the future may hold for me, and my insecurities can hold me back and keep me

from doing what I want to do. I’m afraid of ending up alone in the world and that I will never

find true love. Moreover, I’m afraid of becoming nothing and disappearing, that when I grow

old and die it will be as if my comparatively short existence on Earth never happened. I have a

hard time sharing my deepest feelings and emotions.

I also have a thin skin and have a hard time taking criticism or harsh remarks because in my

mind I go back to second grade, when I was a new kid and bullied for a period because my

ethnicity made me look different from other kids. As a defense mechanism, when I started

middle school this fear of getting hurt turned me into a relatively meaner person compared to

who I really am. I’m not proud of it, but I won’t deny it, either, because I learned from it and

moved on. Furthermore, I’m afraid of failure and falling.

My pride has a bigger head than it should, and sometimes it keeps me from being my best

self. Yet my pride also lends to my inner-strength, which has the incredible ability to pull me

through the toughest times. This inner-strength can overcome my fears and uncertainties

when necessary, and I have an independent streak that I can lean back on. I know I can stand

alone if need be and that I have the courage to keep moving forward no matter what. I refuse

to let my fears paralyze me and keep me from doing anything. I’ll protect and defend the

people I care about, and I’m the kind of person people can depend on, the steady rock in the

ocean.

Additionally, I’m a very introspective person, and I use that to learn more about myself and

push myself to become a better person. I have infinite hope, and I deeply value the power of

believing in myself. I really do believe I can change the world and help others, and I view my

dreams as a treasure. After all, they have given my life more meaning and purpose than I

could have ever hoped for. I am a strong believer in true love, and yes, I am a big softie and

romantic at heart. I realize I can be naïve and optimistic at times, but I like me that way. Most

importantly, I accept and love myself.

The question remains: Who are you?