Language School


We kids speak in the cadence of youth,
Tap our pens with the carefree malaise and melodic beat, “ka ki ku ke ko.”
From the cheap, single pane door of virtual-tin, come patterns that mark each of our homes, our mothers, or mother-tongues.

Each of them is after something. Each of us have moved away.

And as I fly down the six flights to relax on our break, I hear the Chinese come through my heels, feel the Uzbek-language with Akobir’s loud start and Tomas’ French rounded r’s, more like w’s. Each of us has our own linguistic impediment to learning this new thing–this potential. Each of us with our accents and humor. Some moments it is all a bit silly. And yet, I’m in awe. It’s like the very first day of Space Camp.



I inhale my Starbucks Mexican wrap and think on the tricky fun that is Chang Li’s Spanish accent. We are all tricky and complex, indeed. We people who leave countries and neighborhoods and our own dialectical soundtracks to lay new tracks, join new packs here. I study with high hopes.

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