"Do You Speak English?"

Approximately a decade ago, when my sister took a middle school trip to France, she found herself in an awkward position; in the middle of an exchange between herself and the cashier of a small Paris cafe, she suddenly forgot how to say a certain phrase. Upon observing her difficulty, her server, who could not have been more than 20 years old, immediately switched from French to fluent English.

Especially in Europe, keeping in mind that none of its countries are located even remotely close to America, English has become the language that overcomes the language barrier. In Ukraine, for example, my cousin began to learn English in elementary school. Should she ever wish to visit Italy or Greece, she will have a way to communicate with most people without being forced to purchase a book of translations in order to stumble through simple phrases (though there is no harm in doing so). Of course, this ability can probably be attributed to the fact that Europe has a vast tourism industry and its visitors are predominantly American, but nonetheless, English unites many people abroad.

So why shouldn't it be the same in America, which is chock-full of immigrants who also find it best to be bilingual? If English has already traveled around the world, isn't it just better to learn it and open up to the possibility of communication with people from all sorts of different backgrounds and cultures, while maintaining a special connection with one's own origin?  After all, as Krauthammer says, "The immigrant has the right to speak whatever he wants. But he must understand that when he comes to the U.S., swears allegiance and accepts its bounty, he undertakes to join its civic culture. In English." English is practically the official language of the world; there is no reason for America to hesitate in calling it the official language of its people, for whom it has done so much.

Actions Speak Better than Words

Picture this: two cats stand inches apart, ears laid back and backs arched. As they circle around each other, each one's squinted eyes fixate on the other as both utter low, threatening meows.

The cats' body language and tone lead us to conclude that a fight is about to commence. After all, this feral rotation is a far cry from their behavior at home, where the occasional high-pitched meow is a plea for food, and anger is as rare as a selfless visit to see what you're up to. No; at home, our personal relationships with them have created--for the most part--content house pets, capable at most of an annoyed swipe at your arm.

Cats obviously don't have a language system as complex as ours, but the same rules apply to the fusion of our actions and words. When words don't mean what they mean, how do we understand what the other person is trying to tell us? Over time, certain phrases have come to mean certain things, like Pinker's whimperative, "Do you think you could pass the salt?" But in other cases, we must deduce meaning from body language, the context of the conversation, and, in some cases, a person's tone of voice. For example, we can hear sarcasm in a ridiculous suggestion that drips with enthusiasm, or observe a person asking an officer for a way to pay for his ticket from his car while pulling out $50 and understand that he is hinting at bribery (Pinker 746). 

The Paint Horse

SUBJECTIVE

When I think about the Western style of horseback riding, a certain picture always comes to mind: a cowboy, hat brim over his eyes, on the back of a galloping Paint Horse. They're leaning precariously, low to the ground, dirt kicked up every which way; you can only wonder how he manages to keep such a relaxed grip on the reins. 

Why a Paint Horse, exactly? Its coat, as if in defiance of the straight-backed discipline of the English style, and with it the old world's strict principles, is an exciting, uncooperatively random splash of color. When helping a child identify the breed, people often say that it looks like somebody took a bucket of paint and poured it over the horse. Gone are the boring Chestnuts and Bays that dominate the jumping competitions and horse races of the east coast. Blue eyes replace brown, and the overwhelming variety of nuanced hues seems to make for a work of art rather than an animal. It's as though the Paint Horse is a part of its own world, vibrant and boundless.

OBJECTIVE

When the Spanish, at the height of North American exploration, began to lose their horses to the herds of wild mustangs that ruled the land, a new breed was born: the American Paint Horse. Today, they are distinguishable by their coloration, characterized by white splotches combined with other regular horse colors, such as brown and black (Paint Horses). However, the Paint is not to be confused with the Pinto; while Pinto is only considered a color, meaning that a horse of Pinto coloration may belong to any breed, in order to be considered a Paint, a horse must prove its lineage upon registration and meet a certain color requirement (Paint Horses 2).

On average, this particular breed of horses is known to grow to be about 16 hands, or 64 inches, from hoof to withers, and live to be anywhere from 25 to 30 years old (Paint Horses). They make great companions and are suited for a number of purposes, though they are predominantly favored by those who ride Western. 

Western style

From the Perspective of a Crab

Long before my beach itself became a Dumpster, I was intrigued by the people who would, night after night, scour the overflowing trash cans that stood on the border between cement and sand, as a sort of reminder that the human world stopped there, and the marine world began here. This placement seemed to be a fairly effective preventative measure against the pollution of my habitat; apart from the few stray cans that missed the target and the occasional paper napkin that lazily flapped its way across the sand, I never really had any close encounters with the contents of the bins. However, little by little, that all began to change after the commencement of a steady influx of litter from a mysterious source: the ocean.

At one point, we had lots of annoying daytime visitors who would pick me up and carry me around if I wasn't hidden well enough. Now, it's just me, isolated in a city of plastic. The seagulls have taken everyone else.

I used to be what you could call a prime consumer. The ocean gave me food: clams, snails, barnacles...you name it. And in return, I took my place in the circle of life, like all other animals. But now, I've been reduced to a post-apocalyptic "scavenger": "I live from the refuse of others" (Eighner). The beach has become my dumpster, and I am forced to pick apart whatever appears to be edible, all the while avoiding entrapment by a particularly tough bit of plastic.

So..."What is safe to eat?" (Eighner).

Sometimes, a can will wash up on shore, completely encrusted in barnacles. If I'm lucky, there will be a sea urchin or two inside. That is always a good day. But other times, my lunch will be trapped inside a bottle or a box with a flimsy lid; if I'm not careful, I can get stuck inside. That happened once. I must also watch out for the quality of the food. Sometimes, I'll see a reasonably fresh sand dollar stuck between a rusty can and a rock, so I'll make my way over; however, by the time I reach it, it's already dried out (especially if it's a particularly hot, sunny day). The disappointment is almost as bad as the hunger. 

I'm really not sure how much longer I'll last; every day it gets more and more difficult to reach the water.