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A Note on Code-Switching
It’s not my job to be your Black culture vessel.
It’s the summer of 2015, and I’m struggling to get a piece over the line during a writing fellowship at a well-known website. I’m struggling due to several reasons, but the long and short of it is, I’m not very good at this role. I’m not good at asking for help, and I’m especially bad at taking instruction on how to improve. (To anyone reading this who knew me during that period, I owe you an unqualified apology for my abrasiveness.)
I’m also struggling because my assigning editor keeps reminding me of the adage “write what you know” and encouraging me to write how I speak: “This bit is okay, Carl, but you’re trying too hard. Just write in your natural voice.”
The problem is that how I speak — and the words I use when I speak — vary wildly depending on who I’m talking to and why I’ve chosen to open my mouth.
I grew up in the early ’90s in Leytonstone, East London, a short train ride from the 2012 Olympic Village. Later, I got sent to a tiny private school on the outskirts of Greater London and then attended a selective, mostly White, public school in Essex for sixth form (what you Americans know as “high school”). University was a predominantly White liberal arts university in the West County, and after graduating, I went back to my family home…
