Language is the words of our ancestors, murmured through our own tongues. It carries within itself, the emotions, hardships, and thoughts of our descendants. They keep us rooted to our roots, allowing the past to live vicariously through us. How many times have I heard someone say, "This is America, speak English."? As if the land I so firmly stand on, is revolted at the sound of my name, at the pronunciation of my words, at the music of my heritage. Language is not a barrier, built along a border to keep us apart. Language will not be our chains, used to keep us imprisoned. Language is the art of spoken word. It is our thoughts and emotions forming a presence in the physical world. My language is beautiful, my cradle at birth. My language is my mother, and her struggles in this land. My language is my family, as traditional as they may be. But most importantly of all, my language is me.
