Response to "Technology and Literacy: A Story About the Perils of Not Paying Attention"

Selfe's article focuses on composition teachers and their relationship with technology. She urges them to think critically about how technology effects their students and the role computer literacy plays in society. She states clearly that giving everybody computers isn't going to make everyone equal. She strongly opposes top down approaches to better literacy and she affirms that literacy programs such as the Clinton-Gore project are as political as they are educational. I agree with her ideas and here are a few sentences that illustrate her thesis.

1. In the case of computers-- we have convinced ourselves that we and the students with whom we work are made of much finer stuff than the machine in our midst, and we are determined to maintain this state of affairs.

Selfe talks about how composition teachers, humanists who concern themselves with the human condition and things of that nature don't utilize the technology they have, more so they don't really think about the importance of computers or critically analyze the impact it's had on them and literacy in general.

2. If we pay attention to the facts surrounding the project's instantiation, however, we can remind ourselves of the much harder lesson: in our educational system, and in the culture that this system reflects, computers continue to be distributed deferentially along the related axes of race and socioeconomic status and this distribution contributes to the ongoing patterns of racism and to the continuation of poverty.

Selfe tries to make an example of the Clinton-Gore project which focused on getting America's Kids ready for the 21st century. The goal was to give children all around the United States more access to computers. But as Selfe explains in the sentence, the equipment wasn't distributed fairly. Schools serving poor children and kids of color have less advanced technology then schools serving affluent and white students. Selfe's main point in this article is that people, especially composition teachers need to pay attention to technology I think this is a good example of where keen observation is needed.

3. ... The national project to expand technological literacy can also serve to re-teach us a second lesson-- that literacy is always a political act as well as an educational effort.

Selfe explains why the initiative was thought of in the first place. It all has to do with the political context of the time. Clinton-Gore was preparing to enter the white house and the economy of the U.S. was stagnant. There was a widening in the gap between the rich and the poor, and the United States was threatened by the growing economies in the east. The plan was to make the United States a technological nation. To make that vision possible, children needed to be familiar with computers so when they grew up they could enter jobs that required computer literacy.

4. We need to recognize that if written language and literacy practices are our professional business, so is technology.
Selfe explains to composition teachers that technology is part of their job, because it is a new type of literacy that their students need to be informed about.

5.We need to resist the tendential forces that continue to link technological literacy with patterns of racism and poverty.
Just because there is an increasing amount of technology doesn't mean the world has become more equal. In fact access to technology is being distributed among socioeconomic lines, affecting primarily children of color. We have to fix the system or else technology will just perpetuate the existing issues.

From Pencils to Pixels

 


       Dennis Baron talks about how the computer has changed literacy in his piece Pencils to Pixels: The Stages of Literacy Technology. He mentions how politicians and educators have pushed for children to have access to computers and the web, believing exposure to such technology will improve their literacy. Baron also gets into his own dependence on new writing technology. There's a little anecdote in the piece that describes him struggling to write out a memo in a boring meeting. He describes feeling restricted by the act of handwriting. He realized he couldn't copy and paste, and he actually had to write out every letter-- not press a button. Writing by hand, something that he'd been doing since he was four was no longer good enough.
       In this piece Baron states that writing itself is a technology, in fact the first technology. He compares a bunch of noteworthy people like Plato, Bill henderson and Henry David Thoreau who all in their time were against new technology. The pencil is a technology, something I never thought about. Baron confuses me when he argues that no one knows why writing was invented, I always assumed it was created to record speech. There's a theme of evolution in technology. Writing wasn't what it is now when it first began.The pencil was not invented for writing, the computer was first invented to calculate data and complete complex functions. After some time all these technologies became more accessible to the public and transformed the lives of people everywhere.
       Baron explains how it's common for people to resists new technology before it becomes commonplace and necessary.  He repeats throughout the piece that it is impossible to predict how the computer will further change our thinking, and what effect that will have in our literacy.

Questions for class: How do you believe technology will evolve?
                                What was writing invented for?
                                 What new technology do you want to see?

My Literacy Narrative

Lashanda Anakwah

Professor Silva

Writing Theory

09/24/14

      "Lashanda!" It was my mom calling in a tone that didn't too pleased.

      "Yes mommy?" I called out while walking to her bedroom.

      "What did I tell you about writing on the walls?" I was five and in kindergarten. I looked at her stupidly.

      " No more writing on the wall." It wasn't so much a statement as it was a warning. She gave me a look that said I could go. I walked away surprised. She didn't sound too angry, which was weird for my mom. There were things she didn't tolerate, I was pretty sure writing on the walls would be on that list. I walked back to the living room and pondered my mom’s apathy towards our ruined walls. It occurred to me that she knew. I couldn't stop if I wanted to. I just learned to spell my name and I had to write it everywhere.  I entered kindergarten afraid, my parents left me at the gate with a stranger holding my hand. I held back tears as I waved back at them. The building looked like Cinderella's carriage after the bibbidi bobbidi boo. It was another world, nothing like the schoolhouses I had seen in Ghana. Birthed in the Bronx I was whisked away to Ghana at the young age of two, and now I had returned to begin kindergarten. I solidified my knowledge of the ABC's in kindergarten. I learned to spell my name; I learned how to interact in a classroom. Those were the big take aways. I remember struggling with books in first grade, but by second grade I realized how much I loved story time. We would sit cross-legged on the rug and the teacher would read to us. I would be so engrossed, listening with my whole being, mentally in the world of the characters that when story time ended I felt as if I had woken up from a dream. My mom gave me a beautiful little journal around that time where I would scribble little things. My teacher would go through the pages and tell me how good each line was. Her attention felt amazing. She was blonde and tall, but then all grownups were tall to me. She always spoke in a soft tone. I did whatever I could to get her praise. I'm pretty sure I would have jump out of the classroom window if she asked me to.

     Deborah Brandt, a scholar wrote a piece titled Sponsors of Literacy. Her work addresses how people become literate. She claims that a person’s literacy has to do with their economic situation and any entity that restricts or facilitates their literacy such as the government, teachers, or parents; she calls these sponsors.  Ms. Milano, my fourth grade teacher was one of my sponsors. It was the last day of fourth grade, the only reason why we came was to get our report cards and see what class we were placed in for next year.  Some friends would be torn apart others coupled together. I skimmed my final grades quickly and turned to the back of the card. I gasped when I saw what class I was placed in. I ran to Ms. Milano.

“You put me in 01?” The other kids in the classroom heard my loud outburst and gathered around us. “She’s going to 01?” Someone yelled, the rest murmured among themselves.

“Yeah,” Mrs. Milano said calmly. “I think you can do it.” The 01's were the kids on the advanced track; most of them had been together since first grade. She believed in me. I let her down brutally (I want to find her one day and apologize). I was only half there in class and I barely did any homework. I felt no motivation to do any work outside of class. I really liked Mrs. Milano. I wanted to impress her, which is why I tried in her class. The atmosphere of 501 was completely different. None of the kids wanted anything to do with me, I was all alone in that classroom. I spent that year waiting for school to be over. That year, a girl died in our class. Her name was Nathera. She had contracted a very rare disease that caused her skin to swell up and bloat. It was on News 12 the Bronx, reporters wanted to interview us. By the end of the year she was mostly forgotten. Her mom wrote and distributed a poem at the little memorial we held for her. It was beautiful and I would read it every couple of months when it was time to clean the house and I would discover it again. I had it for a long time. It was ripped and browning before I lost it.  In fifth grade I thought poets wrote poetry. Ordinary people, moms— didn’t just up and write poems. But Natherea’s mom had and it made me think that I could write a poem if I wanted to. I didn’t though, until it was a required assignment for school. My elementary school was severely underfunded. We had no music program and art stopped once you hit fourth grade. There were no special books or technology for the 01’s. The school administration just had the good sense to separate the kids that were more advanced so they could be challenged and taught at a quicker pace.

When I was very young, I'm not sure when, the time is all warped and distorted, I had a tutor. I was having problems with basic math. I didn't get it, and even though I was really young I thought my tutor was very cute so I did try. One day he was asking me something about a problem, I shrugged to say I didn't know the same time my dad passed by. Stephen the tutor misunderstood the shrug and told my father that I didn't care.

"No, that's not true!" I exclaimed. At that time I was really bad at articulating myself, I didn't know how to explain I had been misunderstood. My dad yelled at me and I was forever upset at Stephen. I sat there seething that day, hot tears in the corners of my eyes threatened to fall. From then on I didn't allow myself to be taught by Stephen. I would only pretend to listen to him, thinking I was hurting him when I was in fact hurting myself. Stephen was a teenager who lived in my building, a fellow Ghanaian. My dad knew his dad and asked if Stephen could tutor me for some extra cash. The large Ghanaian population led to a tight community in my building, something I benefitted from.

       I had another tutor from fifth to sixth grade. She was the cousin of an uncle of mine who went to the same church and lived in the same building as us. She would tutor me with another Ghanaian boy who lived in my building, Keith. It helped but not much. I would only pretend to be having breakthroughs when I was still very lost. I'd almost forgotten about her but this summer, the summer before my junior year of college, I learned that she passed away after a complication with her surgery. At one point in my life I was used to seeing her everyday after school. My parents were always working and when they were around the house they would criticize my siblings and I for watching so much T.V. My father would make us go and study. We would look at each other and roll our eyes. We couldn’t wait for him to go back to work so we could go back to watching T.V uninterrupted. My dad is always talking about the importance of school and education; I grew up knowing I was going to college. He would go on and on about how he wanted a better life for me. He didn’t want me to work two jobs like him, barely getting any sleep. For the most part we were left on our own and we barely studied. I read for pleasure when I felt like it. I told my sisters to read but didn’t push them on it. Reading was a personal escape for me. My sisters knew not to interrupt me when I was reading. Before Brandt, I never thought of my parents as sponsors of my education.  I had forgotten about the tutors and all the school supplies they bought. Looking back I realize my parents really cared about my education. Even though we’ve always been pressed for cash my dad valued me enough to spend money on a tutor.

Throughout middle school and high school. I was called a bookworm. I was the "smart one" in the class. But I wasn't really, I was failing math all through school. I read a lot, people assumed I was smart. People would see me reading in the corner during recess or under my desk during class. I had no social life. Since the fifth grade I was home continuously watching my siblings. I wanted to join all these clubs, especially the guitar club where I could get lessons for free but I had to go home and watch the kids. I had to cook and make sure they did their homework. I wanted to join soccer but it was the same situation. I was denied all these other experiences because of my responsibilities. My parents saw it as my duty and we couldn’t afford a babysitter. Why would my parents pay for a babysitter when I could do the job? Everyone close to me knows how much I love my kids (that’s what I call my siblings), my little brother was born when I was in the tenth grade and he is the best thing to happen since forever. But I can’t help feeling at times that they held me back, that I sacrificed something for them.

In high school I began I to consider considering writing just for the sake of it. I was inspired by how the books I read moved me. I wanted to make the same magic as the authors I cherished. In tenth grade my humanities teacher, Ms. McMurdo, a major sponsor in my literacy history, recommended an organization called Girls Write Now. The program paired professional female writers with high school girls with a passion for writing. It changed my life. I ended up winning the scholastic gold medal for my writing portfolio, which included a journalism piece I had written when I was part of the Bronx Youth Heard program. A teen journalism newspaper I joined after some pressure from my journalism teacher. It also included some pieces about my family—things I had written with Girls Write Now. The award came with a ten thousand dollar scholarship, which allowed me to go to Ithaca College. During the whole GWN experience I questioned myself, if what I was doing was actually considered writing. If my work was any good, if I was just fooling myself. Was I faking it, like I did half of school? But I won the national gold medal and it was a big deal. The people who hosted the event really pulled out the red carpet for us. I felt like a writer then.

  There were a lot of programs available to me. Girls Write Now nominated me for the Posse a program, a program that gives minorities a chance to receive a full ride to college. I wasn’t accepted but being nominated was an opportunity. Brandt would point out that being from the Bronx where I had access to all of the city’s resources and my parent’s value in my education played a huge part in my literacy journey. My high school although underfunded had a school paper and I was part of the class who was forced to make it.  Even though I groaned all through that class I secretly enjoyed it. My school having a paper is a resource I benefited from.

I'm the first to go to college in my family; my parents didn’t get the chance to further their education in Ghana, where there is no public education system. All schools are private and have to be payed for at each level.  My parents always remind me I'm setting the example for the rest of my siblings. It's all up to me and sometimes I feel like I'm faking it, like I've always done.

But I’m starting to put things into perspective. I’ve come to realize the things I don’t care too much about and have to fake are not that important in the long run. It’s the writing that’s important. I have known that since I began writing my name.   

Literacy History Draft.

   



      "Lashanda!" It was my mom calling in a tone that didn't too pleased.
      "Yes mommy?" I called out while walking to her bedroom.
      "What did I tell you about writing on the walls?" I was five and in kindergarten. I looked at her stupidly.
      " No more writing on the wall." It wasn't so much a statement as it was a warning. She gave me a look that said I could go. I walked away surprised. She didn't sound too angry, which was weird for my mom. There were things she didn't tolerate, I was pretty sure writing on the walls would be on that list. I walked back to the living room and pondered my moms apathy towards our ruined walls. It occurred to me that she knew. I couldn't stop if I wanted to. I just learned to spell my name and I had to write it everywhere.  I entered kindergarden afraid, my parents left me at the gate with a stranger holding my hand. I held back tears as I waved back at them. The building looked like Cinderella's carriage after the bibbidi bobbidi boo. It was another world, nothing like the schoolhouses I had seen. Birthed in the Bronx I was whisked away to Ghana at the young age of two, and now I had returned to begin school. I solidified my knowledge of the ABC's in kindergarten. I learned to spell my name, I learned how to interact in a classroom. Those were the big take aways. I remember struggling with books in first grade, but by second grade I realized how much I loved story time. We would sit cross-legged on the rug and the teacher would read to us. I would be so engrossed, listening with my whole being, mentally in the world of the characters that when story time ended I felt as if I had woken up from a dream. My mom gave me a beautiful little journal around that time where I would scribble little things. My teacher would go  through the pages and tell me how good each line was. Her attention felt amazing. She was blonde and tall, but all grownups were tall to me. She always spoke in a soft tune. I did whatever I could to get her praise. I'm pretty sure I would have jump out of the classroom window if she asked me to.
       Third grade was a haze. I'm not sure if I read one book on my own that year. Ms. Milano, my fourth grade teacher was amazing. We read together as a class, books that were so good I was inspired to read on my own again. Ms. Milano believed in me she put in in 501. The smart class. I let her down brutally (I want to find her one day and apologize). I barely did any homework. The 01's were the kids on the advanced track, most of them had been together since first grade. None of them wanted anything to do with me, I was teased and alone in that classroom. I spent that year waiting for school to be over. A girl died in our class that year, Nathera. She had contracted a very rare disease that caused her skin to swell up and bloat. It was on News 12 the Bronx, reporters wanted to interview us. Our classroom was cleaned from top to bottom. Apparently the disease can be caused by sharing food. By the end of the year she was mostly forgotten. Her mom wrote and distributed a poem at the little memorial we held for her. It was beautiful and I would read it every couple of months when it was time to clean the house and I would come across it. I had it for a long time, It was ripped and browning before I lost it.  When I was very young, I'm not sure when, the time is all warped and distorted, I had a tutor. I was having problems with basic math and reading. I didn't get it, and even though I was really young I thought my tutor was very cute so I did try. One day he was asking me something about a problem, I shrugged to say I didn't know the same time my dad passed by and Stephen the tutor told my father that I didn't care.
"No, that's not true!" I exclaimed. At that time I was really bad at articulating myself, I didn't know how to explain I had been misunderstood. My dad yelled a me and I was forever upset at Stephen. I sat there seething that day, hot tears in the corners of my eyes threatened to fall. From then on I didn't allow myself to be taught by Stephen. I would only pretend to listen to him, thinking I was hurting him when I was in fact hurting myself.
       I had another tutor from fifth to sixth grade, she would tutor me with another Ghanaian boy who lived in my building, Keith. It helped but not much. I would only pretend to be having breakthroughs when I was still very lost. I'd almost forgotten about her but this summer, the summer before my Junior year of college, I learned that she passed away after a complication with her surgery. At one point in my life I was used to seeing her everyday after school. Looking back my parents really cared about my learning. I remember being surprised when my dad told me he payed her. I thought she just tutored us just because my dad asked her to.
       Middle school was extra crappy, I could travel somewhere else whenever I read a book. I could get lost in the problems of other people. Pretty soon  my love of reading started to come out through my writing. One of my teachers told me I wrote like I read a lot. I had been considering writing just for the sake of it. I was inspired by how the books I read moved me. I wanted to make the same magic as the authors I cherished. In tenth grade my humanities teacher, Ms.McMurdo recommended an organization called Girls Write Now. The program paired professional female writers with high school girls with a passion for writing. It changed my life. I ended up winning the scholastic gold medal for my writing portfolio, It came with a ten thousand dollar scholarship, which allowed me to go to Ithaca College. During the whole GWN experience I questioned myself, if what I was doing was actually considered writing. If my work was any good. But I won the national gold medal and it was a big deal, the people who hosted the event really pulled out the red carpet for us. I felt like a writer then.
   There was a library a minute away from my middle school that I used to go to. In high school we had a library close by as well, that I didn't frequent like I should have. Growing up there was a stigma about liking school. I was called a bookworm. I was the "smart one" in the class. But I wasn't really, I was failing math all through school.  I read a lot, people assumed I was smart. People would see me reading in the corner during recess or under my desk during class. I had no social life. I was always home watching my siblings since the fifth grade. I would sleep on the living room couch so I could hear the phone ring during those days. Staying up way too late watching inappropriate movies. My mom would call from work to wake me up so I could wake the rest of them and we could start our day. Those were the days my mom used to work nights, a shift that she didn't like but it payed a little extra and we needed it. My dad worked and continues to work two jobs so he couldn't be the alarm clock. We weren't poor but every dollar counted and it still does. In high school I wanted to join all these clubs, the guitar club especially where I could learn how to play the guitar but I had to go home and cook for my sisters and make sure they did their homework. I wanted to join soccer but it was the same situation. I'm the first to go to college in my family, my parents always remind me I'm setting the example for the rest of my siblings. It's all up to me and sometimes I feel like I'm faking it, like I've always done.

My Literacy History

What is Literacy Theory?

 
Literacy theory I believe is the explanation of how people become literate, the journey they take and the people who help them on their way-- people Brandt calls sponsors. Before going to school there are things people are exposed to that start their literacy journey. I believe that as a youngster I wasn't  exposed very much to books, until I started school. I learned my ABC's in kindergarden and how to spell my name. I actually had lots of trouble with books until I suddenly became very good. With the help of great teachers.  Brandt says literacy sponsors are people who help an individual in their literacy journey, teachers, parents, the government can all be sponsors. There is a reward attached to being a sponsor. For example the government as an interest in a literate populous. 

Literacy Map

• Dora Lopez, an interviewee from the Brandt piece was born in a texas border town where her grandparents worked as farm laborers. Her parents moved her to a Midwest town when she was still a baby.The town's mexican population was barely one percent.
• Her parents had decent jobs, her mom worked in a bookstore while her dad was a shipping and receiving clerk at the local university. They had to drive seventy miles to get groceries and spanish magazines and newspapers. Politically they were the minority and underrepresented in their midwestern town. 
• Dora taught herself how to read and write in spanish, and thanks to her moms bookstore discount she sometimes could afford buying novels from latino authors.
• Lopez's sponsors seem to be her parents. It was very important to Dora to be able to communicate in spanish and she did what most kids will not, she taught herself. Her mom luckily worked at a bookstore of all places so she had access to the tools she needed to accomplish that goal. Her father bought her a used word processing machine he saw advertised at the university. His job was another resource that furthered her literacy. 
• Later on, Dora got a job at a cleaning company where her bilingual skills paid off. She would translate between the staff and the supervisor. Overall, even though Dora was a minority in her small her town the resources around her gave her the opportunity to accomplish the goals she wanted.

Sponsors of Literacy

   


       This piece, Sponsors of Literacy by Deborah Brandt explores the history of literacy in the United States. It doesn't look at literacy as one might think, it's more a look on literacy regarding its sponsors. Brandt believes that literacy is used as a tool by powerful people to get something in return. For example people became more literate once it benefitted the state to have citizens who could read. Sponsors, according to Brandt are the elite. Literacy isn't pursued for a love of learning but to achieve an aim. People began to push for education for their kids once they learned it equaled social mobility. Dwayne Lowery a factory worker who became head of a union had his literacy sponsored to serve a purpose. Once the game of union work changed and became more legalisitc his acquired literacy was no longer sufficient and he was replaced by someone with a masters degree. The rules of how much education is required for a certain position is made by the elite.
       Another idea Brandt explores is background. Ones background has a lot to do with the level of literacy one a quires doing a lifetime. Brandt interviewed two people from the same town. One man and one woman. The man was born to a father who was a college professor and a mom who was a real estate agent. He was exposed to computers and scholarly material younger then most people. The woman was born to Mexican immigrant parents who had modest jobs. Her sponsors were her parents who gave her what they could. Same town, two different stories. After reading this piece by Brandt I'm convinced that everyone's literacy history is unique. 

Reading on a Bias

   

     
       Writing on a Bias by Linda Brodkey is written academically in such a creative way. Brodkey jumps through time and space, she is an adult reflecting on her youth. She paints vivid scenes and refers to her younger self as her. We, the audience follow Brodkey from her first year of school to her college years and then the present.  Brodkey loved to reads a child, she also loved rules. Something I didn't think could mix. Generally the creative types aren't so fond of rules.  I got the impression that as a child Brodkey was in her own world most of time, which is true of most children. She would pretend she owned her library books until she had to return them. This piece reminds me a lot of myself, especially when Brodkey states she almost became a reader and not a writer. I don't know when I discovered the magic of books but it changed my life. I read all through middle school and was so astonished by the magic the authors seemed to make with words I thought I might try my hand at it.
       She describes a time in her life when she would follow a strict list of books to read and meticulously document them. I didn't understand if she was reading for joy then or just reading those vast number of books  to prove that she could. I went through a phase like that as well.

       Her frame is shaped by her experiences. In fifth grade she wrote a report on her favorite country; Africa. Her teacher did not know that Africa was not a country but a continent or that there were people who lived there and not just wild animals. She admits her privilege. She was a white middle class girl on the college track. She learned how to speak in fluent bourgeois. She was a spectator to racism, forbidden to speak to a female Negro classmate who was a fellow catholic.
       Brodkey gets into the action of writing towards the end of this piece. "… One writes on a bias or not at all." That's one thing all readers know, or at least should. I agree there is no way to remove your experience from what you write, if a writer manages to do that their work no longer has any meaning. 

Rodriguez

     

       Richard Rodriguez's work Aria: Memoir of a bilingual Childhood is very well written. Reading it I was challenged to really think about the claims he was making. The piece is about Rodriguez's childhood. Spanish was his first language, a language he associated with family, safety, and love. Even though Rodriguez was born in the united States he didn't feel he belonged. He was in the land of Los gringos. An especially beautiful part of the essay is when Rodriguez describes his fascination with sound. He heard sound before he heard words. The confidence of the gringos when they spoke english compared to struggle in his parents' voice when they attempted to speak the language. Home was his safe haven; especially during the first few months of school where he was the only non-white child in his class. To make things worse he could barely speak english. The nuns who pronounced his name Rich-heard showed no mercy an would actively engage with him during the class. Something he thanks them for in this essay. He makes his first assertion after recalling his jarring school experience. Rodriguez claims the argument for bilingual education, teaching kids in their first language, is not a good one. He believes it will hold them back. Rodriguez seems to be making his argument based on his own very personal experience. His position is very colored by his lens. To him the most important thing for a child who is not a native english speaker to understand is they are apart of our society. Something Rodriguez learned when he began to speak english fluently. He assumes that every bilingual child faces the same eternal struggle he did as a child, he errs when he assumes that all bilingual students do not consider themselves part of the united states. Something I believe needs to be true to make his argument work. I agree that not speaking the language of the land can cause one to feel isolated but Rodriguez suggests that there has to be some kind of trade. A child's private life for a creation of their public life. 

       He then goes on to talk about the end of his association between spanish and his private life. Once his siblings and himself became fluent english speakers the family was no longer as close. His father was in a way isolated from his increasingly assimilated family. He retreated in silence. This piece showcases the importance of language in culture. To Rodriguez proponents of bilingual language want two things that contradict. They want people to be able use their private home language in public. According to him, you can't have a public life in private. One page 345 he seems to be claiming that the legislation that allows ballots to be printed in different languages is flawed. He comments that those people have not yet assimilated yet they are participating in a very public action, voting. These types of implied analysis makes me cringe. He talks about "ghetto black children." Another cringe worthy moment. Rodriguez admitted he was jealous of the ghetto black teenagers loudness and confidence in their use of their own dialect. Which leads me to believe Rodriguez wants everyone to assimilate because he did.
       Near the end of this piece Rodriguez makes what I believe is an incomplete argument. The gist of it  is, it doesn't matter what the language you speak in. It's the emotion, the sound of the words that make it private or public. He talks about his grandmother. She told him stories of her childhood and it was the sounds that mattered. This confuses me because he spent so much time recalling his guilt after he could no longer speech spanish, when it would come out "horribly anglicized." And then he devotes two small paragraphs to this what I believe is an epiphany. If he came to this realization what happens to his private/public argument?
       Overall this piece was very thought provoking and although I agreed with his bottom-line: kids should be taught the language of the land they are in so they do not fall behind but for very different reasons that Rodriguez. He stressed assimilation which is a word that to me, has a negative connotation.