Sometimes we think these issues are about the past. Here are four entries of students currently taking the course.

Dear Diary Entry #1------ Shared by Wanda Utz

This is a sad entry. I do not remember all the words to the lullabies that used to fill me with warmth and the sparkles of the sun. When the memories are clear I end up having to translate them to my children and thus we lose the song, its rhythm that is the true meaning to the riddle. Never have I been more conscious of how rhyme, rhythm and assimilation, clarifies accommodation. My children, finding no sense in my nonsense rhymes, play their own in English. I will never feel what they feel when they play those rhymes, and they will never feel what I felt, nor will they ever know of the treasure chest of rhymes I carry in my head.

" Een, twee, drie My ma vang 'n vlieg. Die vlieg, die vrek. My ma die huil. Een, twee, drie. 1 2 3"

My mom caught a fly. The fly died. My mom cried. 1 2 3.

Ini, ma bili, ma tata. Mama bamba fili. Fili he feli. Mama kala. Ini. ma bili, ma tata.

With this one rhyme I was lucky, it works in three languages, BUT only in one African culture where a fly becomes a humorous plaything.

Dear Diary Entry #2 ---- Shared by Marti Millhouse

When I think of someone speaking a different language during the formative years, I think of my own grandmother. Florence Olson's parents had emigrated from Sweden before she was born, and she did not speak any English before entering school. Back in 1895, there were no ESL programs, this was total immersion at it's worst! Swedish was a fairly common language in Minnesota in the late 1890s.

Many other languages are not as common. In some cultures, particularly the Native Americans, languages are being lost. Even among the Navajos, the largest tribe in North America, there are grandparents and grandchildren who don't even speak the same language. Due to television and other technological advances, we now live in a global community. Everyone speaks English, and everyone wants the latest fashions.

Should the Native American languages be preserved, or is it even possible? According to a study done by Michael Krauss (1992), out of 155 native languages still spoken, 135 are not being taught to the next generation. Hundreds more have already disappeared. Since most Native American languages do not have a written form, it has been language that has shaped their culture. Stories have been passed down from generation to generation through language. When the language is lost, an important part of their culture is also lost. Anthropologists also use language to study the change in human behavior. Preserving a language takes a huge amount of time, energy, and money.

The decision to preserve the language must come from within, nobody can force people to do this or even to speak it if they don't choose to do so. At the very least, though, tape recordings can and should be made of these native speakers and their stories.

References: http://www.ncbe.gwu.edu/miscpubs/crawford

http://www.nmnh.si.edu/anthro/outreach/indian_l.htm

Diary Entry #3 ---- Shared by Candy Hamrick

I can relate to this because my dad had a similar situation. My dad spoke Japanese fluently until he was about four. When he started school my grandma wouldn't use Japanese around him anymore. She felt that she was now an American therefore she should speak English. She immigrated here and as she came she left her heritage behind. The language was the last to leave because she had to learn English. The more English she learned the less Japanese she spoke and my dad followed suit. My dad can't speak it at all now. Sometimes he wished that he could so he could teach his children. I think that language is like your name; it is your identity. Preserving language is good, but I can see my grandmother's side too.

Diary Entry #4 --- shared by Marjorie Geiger

Dear Diary:

Brian came home singing "Twinkle…" in Spanish today. The school is trying to keep them culturally conscious. Too bad no one can speak my language. Sometimes I am so lonely. The Bohemian village is so far away, in time and space. It really feels like that was some other child not me. It was such a special time, and I feel like my children are missing out.

Bompa and Boma made me feel so safe. I was so insulated from the world. Bompa had built his farm just like his father’s in Bohemia, and we did the same chores that had been done for hundreds of years. With our own language at home they made me feel special. Boma would whisper jokes and riddles at bedtime. Bompa told me tales of the old country while we did the farm chores. Although I can hear his voice telling the stories, the words are indistinct. I don’t tell them to the kids. I just can’t tell them like Bompa. They lose so much in English, and they aren’t as exciting as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Of course I learned English at school, but at home it was just Bompa, Boma and me. I wish I remembered enough to share it with my kids. I am not able to share the language, or the heritage. They are a more homogenous American child, but they are missing the European flavor I have always treasured. Michael doesn’t understand what I am missing. I have tried to explain how special a childhood I had, but his was so American he doesn’t get the differences. America is so much white bread, while I yearn for black rye. Even though I hated it as a kid, and would trade it away at lunch, now I want it. I can still remember Boma’s recipe. Mine just never tastes as good. How much we have been able to give our children, but how much they have missed out on.

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