Discussion: immigrant experience for those from many language backgrounds
Discussion: immigrant experience for those from many language backgrounds ORDER NOW FOR CUSTOMIZED AND ORIGINAL ESSAY PAPERS ON Discussion: immigrant experience for those from many language backgrounds Literature: The F Word by Firrozeh Dumas (I attached a word and pdf file for you) Objective: The authors voice. Is it compelling? Is it discouraging? Pay close attention to diction and tone. Discussion: immigrant experience for those from many language backgrounds The intended audience and context of the work. Be sure to included appropriate sources if research is needed to uncover to the context. Requirements: Use APA format. Include a clear and debatable thesis. Use a minimum of two quotes from the essay as evidence in your paper. 3 4 pages Do NOT plagiarize or seek out answers on clearly biased blogs, fringe websites, or wikipedia. Discussion: immigrant experience for those from many language backgrounds ub_the_f_word.pdf the_f_word.pdf the_f_word.docx This selection, an excerpt from Funny in Farsi: A Memoir of Growing Up Iranian in America (2003), is Foroozeh Dumas often hilarious account of what happens when language and cultures come in contact and often collide as they inevitably do in the children of immigrants. (By the way, Farsi is another name for the Persian language, which is the most widely spoken language in Iran.) In The F Word, Dumas describes how Americans in general deal (or fail to deal) with names from languages unfamiliar to them. Dumas explains how dealing with this situation is part of the immigrant experience for those from many language backgrounds. As you read, not how she employs humor and figurative language, using the latter even as a structural device. The F Word by Firoozeh Dumas from Everythings an Argument with readings (pp787 791) My cousins name, Farbod, means Greatness. When he moved to America, all the kids called him Farthead. My brother Farshid (He Who Enlightens) became Fartshit. The name of my friend Neggar means Beloved, although it can be more accurately translated as She Whose Name Almost Incites Riots. Her brother Arash (Giver) initially couldnt understand why every time hed say his name, people would laugh and ask him if it itched. All of us immigrants knew that moving to America would be fraught with challenges, but none of us thought that our names would be such an obstacle. How could our parents have ever imagined that someday we would end up in a country where monosyllabic names reign supreme, a land where William is shortened to Bill, where Susan becomes Sue, and Richard somehow evolves into Dick? America is a great country, but nobody without a mask and a cape has a z in his name. And have Americans ever realized the great scope of the guttural sounds theyre missing? Okay, so it has to do with linguistic roots, but I do believe this would be a richer country if all Americans could do a little tongue aerobics and learn to pronounce kh, a sound more commonly associated in this culture with phlegm, or gh, the sound usually made by actors in the final moments of a choking scene. Its like adding a few new spices to the kitchen pantry. Move over cinnamon and nutmeg, make way for cardamom and sumac. Exotic analogies aside, having a foreign name in this land of Joes and Marys is a pain in the spice cabinet. When I was twelve, I decided to simplify my life by adding an American middle name. This decision serves as proof that sometimes simplifying ones life in the short run only complicates it in the long run. My name, Firoozeh, chosen by my mother, means Turquoise in Farsi. In America, it means Unpronounceable or Im Not Going to Talk to You Because I Cannot Possibly Learn Your Name and I Just Dont Want to Have to Ask You Again and Again Because Youll Think Im Dumb or You Might Get Upset or Something. My father, incidentally, had wanted to name me Sara. I do wish he had won that argument. To strengthen my decision to add an American name, I had just finished fifth grade in Whittier, where all the kids incessantly called me Ferocious. That summer, my family moved to Newport Beach, where I looked forward to starting a new life. I wanted to be a kid with a name that didnt draw so much attention, a name that didnt come with a built-in inquisition as to when and why I had moved to America and how was it that I spoke English without an accent and was I planning on going back and what did I think of America. My last name didnt help any. I cant mention my maiden name, because: Dad, Im writing a memoir. Great! Just dont mention our name. Suffice it to say that, with eight letters, including a z, and four syllables, my last name is as difficult and foreign as my first. My first and last name together generally served the same purpose as a high brick wall. There was one exception to this rule. In Berkeley, and only in Berkeley, my name drew people like flies to baklava. These were usually people named Amaryllis or Chrysanthemum, types who vacationed in Costa Rica and to whom lentils described a type of burger. These folks were probably not the pride of Poughkeepsie, but they were refreshingly nonjudgmental. When I announced to my family that I wanted to add an American name, they reacted with their usual laughter. Never one to let mockery or good judgment stand in my way, I proceeded to ask for suggestions. My father suggested Fifi. Had I had a special affinity for French poodles or been considering a career in prostitution, I wouldve gone with that one. My mom suggested Farah, a name easier than Firoozeh yet still Iranian. Her reasoning made sense, except that Farrah Fawcett was at the height of her popularity and I didnt want to be associated with somebody whose poster hung in every post pubescent boys bedroom. We couldnt think of any American names beginning with F, so we moved on to J, the first letter of our last name. I dont know why we limited ourselves to names beginning with my initials, but it made sense at that moment, perhaps by the logic employed moments before bungee jumping. I finally chose the name Julie mainly for its simplicity. My brothers, Farid and Farshid, thought that adding an American name was totally stupid. They later became Fred and Sean. That same afternoon, our doorbell rang. It was our new next-door neighbor, a friendly girl my age named Julie. She asked me my name and after a moment of hesitation, I introduced myself as Julie. What a coincidence! she said. I didnt mention that I had been Julie for only half an hour. Thus I started sixth grade with my new, easy name and life became infinitely simpler. People actually remembered my name, which was an entirely refreshing new sensation. All was well until the Iranian Revolution, when I found myself with a new set of problems. Because I spoke English without an accent and was known as Julie, people assumed I was American. This meant that I was often privy to their real feelings about those damn I-raynians. It was like having those X-ray glasses that let you see people undressed, except that what I was seeing was far uglier than peoples underwear. It dawned on me that these people would have probably never invited me to their house had they known me as Firoozeh. I felt like a fake. When I went to college, I eventually went back to using my real name. All was well until I graduated and started looking for a job. Even though I had graduated with honors from UC-Berkeley, I couldnt get a single interview. I was guilty of being a humanities major, but I began to suspect that there was more to my problems. After three months of rejections, I added Julie to my resume. Call it coincidence, but the job offers started coming in. Perhaps its the same kind of coincidence that keeps African Americans from getting cabs in New York. Once I got married, my name became Julie Dumas. I went from having an identifiably ethnic name to having ancestors who wore clogs. My family and non-American friends continued calling me Firoozeh, while my coworkes and American friends called me Julie. My life became one big know, especially when friends who knew me as Julie met friends who knew me as Firoozeh. I felt like those characters in soap operas who have an evil twin. The two, of course, can never be in the same room, since theyre played by the same person, a struggling actress who wears a wig to play one of the twins and dreams of moving on to bigger and better roles. I couldnt blame my mess on a screenwriter; it was my own doing. I decided to untangle the knot once and for all by going back to my real name. By then, I was a stay-at-home mom, so I really didnt care whether people remembered my name or gave me job interviews. Besides, most of the people I dealt with were in diapers and were in no position to judge. I was also living in Silicon Valley, an area filled with people named Rajeev, Avishai, and Insook. Every once in a while, though, somebody comes up with a new permutation and I am once again reminded that I am an immigrant with a foreign name. I recently went to have blood drawn for a physical exam. The waiting room for blood work at our local medical clinic is in the basement of the building, and no matter how early one arrives for an appointment, forty coughing, wheezing people have gotten there first. Apart from reading Golf Digest and Popular Mechanics , there isnt much to do except guess the number of contagious diseases represented in the windowless room. Every ten minutes, a name is called and everyone looks to see which cough matches that name. As I waited patiently, the receptionist called out, Fritzy, Fritzy! Everyone looked around, but no one stood up. Usually, if Im waiting to be called by someone who doesnt know me, I will respond to just about any name starting with an F. Having been called Froozy, Frizzy, Fiorucci, and Frooz and just plan Uhhhh , I am highly accommodating. I did not, however, respond to Fritzy because there is, as far as I know, no t in my name. The receptionist tried again, Fritzy, Fritzy DumbAss. As I stood up to this most linguistically original version of my name, I could feel all eyes upon me. The room was momentarily silent as all of these sick people sat united in a moment of gratitude for their own names. Despite a few exceptions, I have found that Americans are now far more willing to learn new names, just as theyre far more willing to try new ethnic foods. Of course, some people just dont like to learn. One mom at my childrens school adamantly refused to learn my impossible name and instead settled on calling me F Word. She was recently transferred to New York where, from what Ive heard, she might meet an immigrant or two and, who knows, she just might have to make some room in her spice cabinet. Discussion: immigrant experience for those from many language backgrounds Get a 10 % discount on an order above $ 100 Use the following coupon code : NURSING10
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