Linguistic Privilege

I spent all day yesterday composing my personal history statement for UC Berkeley & UC Santa Cruz (mostly for Berkeley since Santa Cruz did not provide any instructions whatsoever). In the process, I discovered some things about myself and my motivations in studying linguistics and wanting to document and preserve endangered languages. (I think I discovered things, at least, although a case could be made that I invented explanations rather than discovering them.) Here are some thoughts that didn't make it into my final draft, about linguistic privilege and the impact that living in Japan as a linguistic minority had on me:

In California, I would have been a member of a privileged class, comfortable without ever recognizing the advantages accorded to me. Growing up in California would have meant hearing my native language all around me; understanding the words used by teachers as well as my classmates did, if not better; exploring entire libraries of books meant for me, because they were in my language. These privileges belong to the linguistic insider, and because I did not experience in Japan, I recognized them when I gained them years later in California, and I recognized that my Spanish-speaking immigrant neighbors were deprived of these privileges.

I perused Ethnologue last night while working on my essay, and reacquainted myself with a statistic I'd like to share here:

6% of the world's languages are spoken by 94% of the world's population; the remaining 94% of languages are spoken by the other 6% of the world's people.

For so many of those four hundred twenty million people (7 billion people x 6%), there is nowhere they inhabit a position of linguistic privilege.

Applications

I am still working on applications to graduate school (Pick me, Berkeley!), but all I want to do is bake Christmas cookies, preferably with lots of chocolate in them.

It's been three days since I brushed my hair, and I haven't gone outside yet today. All morning, I stayed in my pajamas: black yoga pants and a purple plaid flannel hoodie purchased from a used clothing store when I was in fifth grade, topped with a fleece jacket that is roomy for O. and huge on me. An hour ago I finally realized I was hungry and thirsty and needed to use the bathroom, so I got up, changed into jeans and my own fleece, and discovered that Pipkin had unrolled half the toilet paper in the bathroom *again.* Made myself a delicious burrito and a strong cup of tea, returned to my laptop and my seat by the window.

The rabbits are sleeping, one by my feet and the other in the kitchen. I am counting on caffeine to keep me from emulating them.

Berkeley's website informs me that my application must be submitted in 12 hours and 35 minutes. Time to apply myself.

Diversity Statement in 680 characters

Stanford's graduate application requires a diversity statement of up to 700 characters long.  Crafting one was a challenge. Here's what I came up with (20 characters to spare):

As I entered the playground, my peers paused in the sandbox, shouting, "Gaijin!" Stranger, outsider: this was my identity in Japan from ages 4-10. At home I learned to read English; at school I fell behind, the sole non-native. When my family returned to California, ignorance of games and sensitivity about personal space branded me a foreigner still.
Today, my race and culture blend and shift: Korean/Caucasian, Californian/Japanese. With parents of two races & a husband from Turkey, diversity is home. Being white in Japan, Asian in Menlo Park, & female in computer science earned me empathy and communication skills vital in a diverse community. These I offer my classmates.