“But, you talk that way when you’re home, right?” If only my professor knew that those nine words would change the course of my life. As I sit in my linguistic class, I am well aware that I am the only African American, Latinx student in the classroom. My Australian professor and several students may say they never noticed. Well, today those nine words, 35 letters made it overwhelmingly clear to everyone that I was the odd one out. We sit in a small 10 by 12 classroom, listening to a white male with pale skin and gray hair lecture about code-switching. “An extraordinary amount of people code switch. Many people speak professionally at work then speak more relaxed, using slang with friends'', he says. I listen to him closely as I write the definition of code-switching in my notebook, “the practice of alternating between two or more languages or varieties of language in conversation”. He proceeds to lecture explaining, “African Americans and Latinos do not use diphthongs and digraphs. When they speak instead of saying that, they say dat.” My professor’s words turn to gibberish, as I stare at him in disbelief. I scan the classroom filled with young, white women to see if anyone felt bothered by this comment. “I cannot be the only one uncomfortable right now,” I thought to myself. In the room full of disinterested students, I see one blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman staring back at me, with a look of confusion and disappointment. I raise my hand. “Excuse me, Dr. _____. I am African American and Latinx. I do not say dat or dis. I speak properly,” I say confidently, simultaneously feeling embarrassed and scared to be the black woman who pulls the race card or the angry black woman in the classroom. And he continues with those nine words, “But you talk that way when you’re home, right?” My heart sinks. I immediately feel all the blue and brown eyes on me. The majority were perplexed, a handful oblivious. “No. I don’t actually,” I say timidly. The use of generalizations is an alarming obstacle in the education system. Schools are beginning to dive more into African American studies. Quickly, I realized I was merely a number to boost diversity statistics. This realization created a passion to teach underrepresented children while understanding how unconscious biases reflect on their education. I have strong values and high goals for the future of marginalized children in the Trenton community. I would like to be remembered for implementing more strategies to effectively tackle these systemic biases at the root. After receiving my master's at UPenn, one of my short-term goals is to work in the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion department in a restorative practice-based, urban elementary school, such as Christina Seix Academy. Once attained, my long-term goal is to return to UPenn to receive my doctorate and become a Diversity professor for an education program, educating other teachers on the effects of unintentionally generalizing groups of people in the education system. This includes generalizations towards groups such as race, gender, religion, sexuality and any group that is different from the stereotypical white American male. After facing this obstacle and many more, I finally know, unlike many of our underrepresented students, that I do not need to belong to any group of people. I am a mixed woman of two beautiful cultures. I construct my path, confidently knowing exactly who I am. I strive to lead future students to the same realization. My goal is to ensure all of my students have this realization, starting at a young age.

“But, you talk that way when you’re home, right?” If only my professor knew that those nine words would change the course of my life. As I sit in my linguistic class, I am well aware that I am the only African American, Latinx student in the classroom. My Australian professor and several students may say they never noticed. Well, today those nine words, 35 letters made it overwhelmingly clear to everyone that I was the odd one out. We sit in a small 10 by 12 classroom, listening to a white male with pale skin and gray hair lecture about code-switching. “An extraordinary amount of people code switch. Many people speak professionally at work then speak more relaxed, using slang with friends'', he says. I listen to him closely as I write the definition of code-switching in my notebook, “the practice of alternating between two or more languages or varieties of language in conversation”. He proceeds to lecture explaining, “African Americans and Latinos do not use diphthongs and digraphs. When they speak instead of saying that, they say dat.” My professor’s words turn to gibberish, as I stare at him in disbelief. I scan the classroom filled with young, white women to see if anyone felt bothered by this comment. “I cannot be the only one uncomfortable right now,” I thought to myself. In the room full of disinterested students, I see one blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman staring back at me, with a look of confusion and disappointment. I raise my hand. “Excuse me, Dr. _____. I am African American and Latinx. I do not say dat or dis. I speak properly,” I say confidently, simultaneously feeling embarrassed and scared to be the black woman who pulls the race card or the angry black woman in the classroom. And he continues with those nine words, “But you talk that way when you’re home, right?” My heart sinks. I immediately feel all the blue and brown eyes on me. The majority were perplexed, a handful oblivious. “No. I don’t actually,” I say timidly. The use of generalizations is an alarming obstacle in the education system. Schools are beginning to dive more into African American studies. And yet, I still found myself defending my race and culture at a University. Quickly, I realized I was merely a number to boost diversity statistics. This realization created a passion to teach underrepresented children while understanding how unconscious biases reflect on their education. I have strong values and high goals for the future of marginalized children in the Trenton community. I would like to be remembered for implementing more strategies to effectively tackle these systemic biases at the root. After receiving my master's at UPenn, one of my short-term goals is to work in the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion department in a restorative practice-based, urban elementary school, such as Christina Seix Academy. Once attained, my long-term goal is to return to UPenn to receive my doctorate and become a Diversity professor for an education program, educating other teachers on the effects of unintentionally generalizing groups of people in the education system. This includes generalizations towards groups such as race, gender, religions, sexuality and any group that is different from the stereotypical white American male. After facing this obstacle and many more, I finally know, unlike many of our underrepresented students, that I do not need to belong to any group of people. I am a mixed woman of two beautiful cultures. I construct my path, confidently knowing exactly who I am. I strive to lead future students to the same realization.

“But, you talk that way when you’re home, right?” If only my professor knew that those nine words would change the course of my life. As I sit in my linguistic class, I am well-aware that I am the only African American, Latinx student in the classroom. My Australian professor and several students may say they never noticed. Well, today those nine words, 35 letters made it overwhelmingly clear to everyone that I was the odd one out. We sit in a small 10 by 12 classroom, listening to a white male with pale skin and gray hair lecture about code switching. “An extraordinary amount of people code switch. Many people speak professionally at work then speak more relaxed, using slang with friends'', he says. I listen to him closely as I write the definition of code switching in my notebook, “the practice of alternating between two or more languages or varieties of language in conversation”. He proceeds to lecture explaining, “African Americans and Latinos do not use diphthongs and digraphs. When they speak instead of saying that, they say dat.” My professor’s words turn to gibberish, as I stare at him in disbelief. I scan the classroom filled with young, white women to see if anyone felt bothered by this comment. “I cannot be the only one uncomfortable right now,” I thought to myself. In the room full of disinterested students, I see one blonde haired, blue eyed woman staring back at me, with a look of confusion and disappointment. I raise my hand. “Excuse me, Dr. _____. I am African American and Latinx. I do not say dat or dis. I speak properly.” I say confidently, simultaneously feeling embarrassed and scared to be the black woman who pulls the race card or the angry black woman in the classroom. And he continues with those nine words, “But you talk that way when you’re home, right?” My heart sinks. I immediately feel all the blue and brown eyes on me. Majority perplexed, a handful oblivious. “No. I don’t actually.” I say timidly. The use of generalizations is an alarming obstacle in the education system. And yet, I still found myself defending my race and culture at a University. I attended The University of Tampa, as a first generation college student, and received my bachelor’s in Elementary Education with a reading endorsement and ESOL certification. This realization created a passion to teach underrepresented children while understanding how unconscious biases reflect on their education. I have been fulfilling this passion as a Kindergarten teacher at Christina Seix Academy for about 3 years. Christina Seix Academy’s mission is to empower young people to grow by addressing the systemic educational and other barriers that have historically held back children from marginalized communities. I have strong values and high goals for the future of marginalized children. I’ve made strategic decisions on which tracks to follow that align with my values and help me to reach my goals. After receiving my masters at UPenn, with the help from Enrique Castillo's Schloarship, one of my short term goals is to work in the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion department in a restorative practice-based, urban elementary school. Once attained, my long term goal is to return to UPenn to receive my Doctorates and become a Diversity professor for an education program, educating other teachers on the effects of unintentionally generalizing groups of people in the education system. After facing this obstacle and many more, I finally know, unlike many of our underrepresented students, that I do not need to belong to any group of people.

“But, you talk that way when you’re home, right?” If only my professor knew that those nine words would change the course of my life. As I sit in my linguistic class, I am well-aware that I am the only African American, Latinx student in the classroom. My Australian professor and several students may say they never noticed. Well, today those nine words, 35 letters made it overwhelmingly clear to everyone that I was the odd one out. We sit in a small 10 by 12 classroom, listening to a white male with pale skin and gray hair lecture about code switching. “An extraordinary amount of people code switch. Many people speak professionally at work then speak more relaxed, using slang with friends'', he says. I listen to him closely as I write the definition of code switching in my notebook, “the practice of alternating between two or more languages or varieties of language in conversation”. He proceeds to lecture explaining, “African Americans and Latinos do not use diphthongs and digraphs. When they speak instead of saying that, they say dat.” My professor’s words turn to gibberish, as I stare at him in disbelief. I scan the classroom filled with young, white women to see if anyone felt bothered by this comment. “I cannot be the only one uncomfortable right now,” I thought to myself. In the room full of disinterested students, I see one blonde haired, blue eyed woman staring back at me, with a look of confusion and disappointment. I raise my hand. “Excuse me, Dr. _____. I am African American and Latinx. I do not say dat or dis. I speak properly.” I say confidently, simultaneously feeling embarrassed and scared to be the black woman who pulls the race card or the angry black woman in the classroom. And he continues with those nine words, “But you talk that way when you’re home, right?” My heart sinks. I immediately feel all the blue and brown eyes on me. Majority perplexed, a handful oblivious. “No. I don’t actually.” I say timidly. The use of generalizations is an alarming obstacle in the education system. Schools are beginning to dive more into African American studies. And yet, I still found myself defending my race and culture at a University. Quickly, I realized I was merely a number to boost diversity statistics. This realization created a passion to teach underrepresented children while understanding how unconscious biases reflect on their education. I have strong values and high goals for the future of marginalized children in the Trenton community. I would like to be remembered for implementing more strategies to effectively tackle these systemic biases at the root. After receiving my masters at UPenn, one of my short term goals is to work in the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion department in a restorative practice-based, urban elementary school, such as Christina Seix Academy. Once attained, my long term goal is to return to UPenn to receive my Doctorates and become a Diversity professor for an education program, educating other teachers on the effects of unintentionally generalizing groups of people in the education system. This includes generalizations towards groups such as race, genders, religions, sexuality and any group that is different from the stereotypical white American male. After facing this obstacle and many more, I finally know, unlike many of our underrepresented students, that I do not need to belong to any group of people. I am a mixed woman of two beautiful cultures. I construct my own path, confidently knowing exactly who I am. I strive to lead future students to the same realization.