William Rodney Herring's Courses

It's hard for me to think of Ebonics as a language, simply because it sounds a lot to me like the language I speak at home and in the classroom. It is comprised of the same words I use, I can understand it, and, if I wanted to, I could probably speak Ebonics without a formal instructor.
It may be well and true that Ebonics has its roots in the African slave trade, evolving by force from tribal tongues into a way to talk back to 'Ol Massa without him realizing it. But this can be said about many of the dialects of English...even those spoken by the illiterate rednecks of backwoods Mississippi, who I'm sure inherited their speech patterns from a variety of sources. But are we advocating a federal fund for Mississippi-ites?

No. Because they speak INCORRECT English.

“I gone don that yesterday.” Translation: I did my homework yesterday with three hours to spare, allowing me to go to bed at a decent hour in preparation for an early start on the next day.

So this is a language? Because it sounds a lot like bad grammar and word choice to me. If someone had told me this in response to the question “Did you do your homework?” I would probably stare at them blankly and assume, obviously, that no schoolwork had been done. Nor had it ever been done in the past.

Before I get drawn and quartered in the name of “tolerance,” allow me to express my opinion a bit further. What I mean to say is that regardless of whether or not we allow Ebonics - or Black English, or Slave Jive, or whichever name scholars have chosen - to be considered a legitimate language, the point remains that we live in a country - nay, a world - where communication is vital for survival and success. In order to truly “make it,” a person needs to be able to articulate and communicate effectively with the people around them.

Baby photos aside, what seems to capture the attention of the typical American is news about the shortcomings of said celebrities. And not just in print. CNN, a supposed reputable news television network, received approximately 3.2 million viewers during the Larry King interview with a post-jail Paris Hilton. This amount of viewers surpasses the two presidential debates, also aired by CNN, by numbers in the hundreds of thousands. But then again, who honestly wants to hear about the economy or the war or the people who control our lives when we can hear about how nation’s hotel heiresses are acting like spoiled brats?

Despite the numbers, the true impact of my observation appeared in the days that followed after the airing of the interview. Banter about these news items seemed the most important thing on everyone's mind. The public couldn't wait to talk to their friends and colleagues about whether or not Hilton was sincere in her apologies or would revert to drinking like a fish and making amateur pornography.

I have to wonder if people are just searching for something to complain about. This can certainly be said about the world of politics, which, interestingly enough, mirrors that of gossip news. The two-party divide that polarized the country into red and blue during the 2004 presidential election seemed to give birth to an entire population of opinionated politiques, and they all took the opportunity to vocalizing their thoughts, however uninformed they were. Nationwide, people itched to tell others about where they stood on dead babies and gay sex. And for a while, that's all they did.

Ten years ago, I was riding in a cab through downtown Manhattan with my father and older brother. Half an hour into the ride I rolled down the window and hung my head out, excited to be breathing air that didn’t smell like bad ranch dressing and dually excited to see that we had stopped next to a black limousine. Noticing that the woman sitting inside the limo had likewise rolled down her window and not wanting to miss an opportunity for a laugh, I leaned even farther out of the cab and inquired (in my best British accent) as to whether or not she had any Grey Poupon. Laughter ensued from both parties, followed by some comment on the woman’s part about “what a cute kid” I was.

Before suffering the company of my family in Dallas, I spent 6 hours walking around with the company of my roommate. Somewhat begrudgingly, I concede that during this, what would have been a quite arduous trek from downtown to the UT Tower, chemicals may have been involved. But don’t act surprised. I’m a Baptist-raised college student from the suburbs with barely twenty years of life experience and a lot of free time on my hands. Substance abuse just happens to be a hazard of being in that demographic. After a chat on the lawn in front of the Tower, I and my accomplice moved to the roof of the McCombs School of Business. We obviously weren’t the first people to go sleuthing about unbeknownst to the security guard, either. When we arrived, chairs were already set up, arranged in a semi-circle like some kind of Dead Poet’s Society stronghold. And though Robin Williams didn’t meet us there, we did enjoy the kind of witty banter that two Liberal Arts students exchange when they’re under the influence and getting a bird’s-eye view of sorority girls and post-workout juicers.

I’m now suddenly very conscious of the endings of my sentences. Am I putting the most important, emphatic information in the correct location? Jesus. Gopen sure knows how to inspire doubt in his readers.

Aside from this minor inconvenience, I enjoyed taking a break from my weekend of heavy eating and back-to-back episodes of Oz to actually get some homework done. With all the readings I have to do for other classes, it’s refreshing to come across a required book that doesn’t make me want to cut off any appendages. It’s a good thing, too. I’m down to only 3 toes on each foot, and my Foxtrot just isn’t as foxy as it used to be.