We speak a different language in my grandmother’s house. When the family is alone together or with close friends, our language flows into a southern dialect essenced with my younger brother’s (and sometimes my own) hip-hop of-the-moment idioms — what was once good became fresh and is now the bomb. What was once great was then hype and now phat and so on. My younger brother and I listen to music that plays with language, that pushes against grammatical and linguistic walls. We speak this language to those who understand and then we come home and this language gets blended into the language that is spoken in my grandmother’s house. What is spoken in her house is the language of a long time ago, before we were shipped off to college, before my exposure to Chaucer and James and the Brontës. It is not the stereotypical “I be, you be” that has made its derogatory way into others’ perception of ‘black dialect.’ And it is more complex and less frustrating than the whole ebonics argument, alth...
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