The idea of “proper” English has always felt like an uncomfortable weight on my shoulders. And not just in school, but in every part of my life. Growing up as a first-generation American, I was pushed to perfect my English so it would be “acceptable” and “professional.” It was supposed to be the ticket to success, a key to being taken seriously. The language I spoke at home as a child was a mix of Dominican Spanish and English. It was labeled informal, inappropriate, something I had to leave behind if I wanted to get anywhere. “Proper” English felt whitewashed. Literally—the moment my cousin told me to “stop talking like a white girl” is cemented into my memory. It was a version of communication that made me feel disconnected from my roots, from who I really am.
Reading Vershawn Ashanti Young’s defense of African American Language as “good English” hit me in a powerful way. He broke down the idea that there’s only one “right” way to speak or write. Language is so much more than rules and grammar. It’s a reflection of who we are, where we come from, and what we’ve experienced. Young’s words made me think about the constant pressure to sound “right.” The pressure to balance fitting in with being myself. Then there was that Harvard Business Review article, which basically dismissed people for making language “mistakes” like mixing up “their” and “there.” It was such a stark contrast to Young’s perspective. A reminder of how language standards are used to keep people out, to judge those who don’t fit into this narrow definition of “professional.” These so-called rules create barriers that keep people from being seen as credible or capable, just because they don’t speak the way the gatekeepers want them to.
Young’s chapter made me realize that my language, my Spanglish, my Dominican slang, is good English. It’s my story, my community, my voice. Why should I have to choose between sounding “proper” and sounding like myself? The pressure to conform to standardized English is about more than just grammar. It’s about erasing parts of who I am to fit in with what the majority deems acceptable.
The readings this week made me think a lot about how we often equate “correctness” with value. We assume that using “proper” English means someone is more intelligent or capable, but that idea is deeply flawed. Language is alive. It grows and changes with the people who speak it. Young’s argument for code-meshing, blending different languages and dialects, is something I’ve embraced in my own writing. It allows me to be fully myself on the page, instead of hiding parts of who I am to meet a standard that was never meant for me in the first place.
Thinking about “proper” versus “good” English makes it even clearer to me. Standardized language is often used to exclude rather than to include. Style and credibility are connected only because we’ve been trained to see them that way. I might feel the most credible when I use “proper” English, but I feel distant from who I really am. When I mix the languages and voices that make me who I am, that is when I feel authentic. But there’s a catch—the more we use a unique voice, the more we risk being judged as “incorrect.” How can we strike the balance between credibility and authenticity? There’s no easy solution, but one thing is clear: language should be a bridge, not a barrier. If we want to make space for all voices, especially those that have been silenced for too long, we have to rethink what we call “proper” and who gets to decide how to define it.
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