Timothy was a young boy of 14 who lived with his mother Daisy, father Tom, and Indian butler Ranjit in a humble little mansion on Beverly Hills. Every morning Timothy commuted to school in a stretch limousine, every evening Timothy completed his homework with the help of 3 Oxford educated PhD’s, and every night Timothy watched 1 hour of parentally approved television with Ranjit in his entertainment coliseum.
On one such night, Timothy was flicking through the channels as usual when he came across a network labeled MTV.
“Aight, y’all,” said the African American man on the screen in a large booming voice, “Introducin’ a new music video by my girl, Nicki Minaj.”
As he completed his sentence, a voluptuous lady came strutting onto the screen. Timothy presumed that she was this man’s “girl.” Judging from the way she was gyrating, Timothy knew that this would not be something his parents would approve of.
“Oh dear, Timothy!” They would say, “You cannot possibly watch this uncultured toxic sludge disguised as entertainment. Now go to the lounge, eat your pudding and we’ll turn on something more appropriate for a young boy of 14.”
But the lady continued to gyrate and Timothy continued to watch. He was, after all, a young boy of 14.
The next morning, Timothy was enjoying breakfast with his parents while smooth jazz (Timothy’s father’s favorite kind of music) played in the background.
Timothy’s mother turned to him and said, “That shirt looks lovely on you, dear.”
“Thank you mother,” Timothy said, “It’s breezy, isn’t it?”
Both his parents dropped their utensils.
“What did you just say? Breezy?” asked his father, sounding a bit scared.
“Yes, father,” Timothy grinned, “It means effortlessly cool,”






“Son,” His mother gave him the kind of smile you give to a 5 year old who has just declared that he wants to be president of the world, “That is not an actual word. Please refrain from using such language. We expect more from you, especially with the education that we’ve provided you with.”
“Well,” said Timothy, “the education you’ve provided me with defines a ‘word’ as ‘a unit of language having some kind of meaning that is generally understood by a group of people.’”
“And what group of people understand that unit of language, son.”
“The gangstas.”
“So, with your 9 years of top-of-the-class, best-that-money-can- buy education, you aspire to the ranks of the ‘gangstas.’ I think you can do a little bit more than that.” said Timothy’s father with an artificial grin.
“Well, they can do so much more than me! They can watch more than one hour of television, they can fight for what they want, they can choose not to wear belts, and they can use the word breezy!”
“Each year I donate $100,000 to the American Literacy Foundation,” Timothy’s father said sadly to Timothy’s mother, “And now my own son is sullying the English language with this slang. I feel like a hypocrite. This wouldn’t have happened in my day. It was the bee’s knees back then.”
“Instead of trying to change the way people speak, why don’t you just try to understand what they have to say?” Timothy asked, “This entire system is completely trippin.”
“If you’re going to insist on using these words, please don’t mix them with pure English.” his father said coldly, “I’m already late for work, I’m going to go change out of my pajamas.”
As he ascended up the stairs, Timothy meditated on what had just passed.
“Father,” he called after him, “Please don’t use the word ‘pajamas’ if you insist on speaking ‘pure’ English. The word originally derives from the Persian word pyjama and was only incorporated into the English language during the British Raj of India. Ranjit told me that just last week.”
“That’s completely different,” his father stammered, “What other word would I use?”
“Well,” said Timothy, “Give me a synonym for breezy.”






Timothy’s father muttered something about teenage hormones and then turned to Ranjit and said, “Ranjit, please drive him to school now.”
“Certainly Mr.Tom,” said Ranjit with a gracious bow, “Come, Mr.Timothy. Let us hop into the gold-plated, totally pimped out vehicle that your father purchased last week.”
“WHAT IS HAPPENING!” screamed Timothy’s father, as any full grown man should in such situations, “WHAT HAPPENED TO CIVILITY!” He grabbed a vase of flowers from a side table and tossed it across the room, “WHAT HAPPENED TO CULTURE!”
“Culture, my good sir, is a bit like that antique vase.” Ranjit smiled, looking Timothy’s father square in the eyes, “In that it is beautiful but can easily be destroyed by loud, close-minded men. I came to this country 30 years ago for the American Dream. I came because they promised me that there is no aristocracy here, that instead there is freedom and opportunity. I remember that the first time I took an English class I said that I wanted to speak ‘American.’ They corrected me; said it was called ‘English’ and that once I learned it, I could take this country by storm. When I graduated, I felt like I had the ticket to the American Dream at the tip of my tongue. Little did I know I was walking into an American nightmare. I could communicate, everyone knew what I was saying, but they didn’t like how I was saying it. And soon enough, I realized that, by God, I had been right. It isn’t enough to speak English, you have to speak American. You need to have the right accent and know all the baseball jargon. That’s the ticket. But now, today, I’m learning that it isn’t even enough to speak American; you have to speak the right kind of American. And is it just a coincidence that the right kind of American is the kind spoken by the rich and white? Sir, Language without meaning is nothing, and meaning without language is lost. When you disempower a language, you disempower a culture; you suggest that nothing they say means anything. But when you disempower a culture, you also disadvantage yourself. You love jazz, don’t you sir? Well, jazz came from the great-grandfathers of those ‘gangstas,” and it spread because bothered to listen. The sad thing is that I understand all this and I’m down here and you can spew arrogance and you’re up there.”
“Word,” smiled Timothy.
His parents both looked down. Ranjit bowed once more and he and Timothy exited the room with the maddest swag.