Today, I believe that language has somehow divided us. There are perhaps thousands of immigrants that speaks a different language everywhere. However, I believe that the US has not fully become united with these immigrants or people who speak a different language. There seems to be a cultural and language barrier between Americans and non-English speakers. Immigrants are a part of the American population and immigrants are the ones who helped shaped the world of its differences.
American's tend to look the other way when they see a non-English speaker. They believe that you may not understand English, or you do not speak English at all. In Amy Tan's short story about her mother's English, she says that people who don't speak good English are treated with little respect, they don't provide you with good service and pretend not to hear you if you ask for something. I believe that this statement is very true. They give you a hard time because you're giving them a hard time with your English.
Immigrants or people who don't speak clear English will not be given the opportunity to find or have a decent job, be social in their lives, and speak their mind. They will be held back in their communities and maybe even their neighbors will ignore them because they don't speak English. It will create isolation between the Americans and non-English speakers and it may even lead to what happened on 9/11.
It never occurred to me how privileged my brother, sisters and I were. We grew up in a small town in Kansas City. Our family was not rich in any way. I remember my mom and dad working very hard to provide for all 8 of us. My mom would work in the early mornings and my dad would work grave yard shifts. I was too young to understand why my parents were never home or didn't have time for us. I just knew that my grandma was the one who bathed, clothed, and fed us each and every day.
My parents were both born and raised in Laos. I believe that's a few hundred miles away from Thailand. My mom's name is Shoua and my dad's name is Teng. I remember asking my mom and dad where their families came from and how they came to America. My mom told me that they grew up in a very small and poor village in Laos. She told me it was a struggle everyday and it was very hard to get medical help and food. Though they did grow their own food, they would have to walk for miles just to get to the fields.
I remember my parents telling my brother and I how there was a war between the Vietnamese army and the Hmong villagers. They would have to run for miles through the jungles just to escape the Viet army. I remember my dad telling us how he would have to carry my grandma and grandpa on his back through the river just to get to the other side. He would carry my grandma first to the other side then go back for my grandpa and carry him back to the other side. I felt sad, upset and pity for my parents because they went through so much difficulty during their childhood years.
