After graduating from high school in Dnepropetrovsk , Ukraine with straight A's, a little girl went to college in order to fulfill her dream of becoming a medical doctor. In Ukraine, doctors do not make a lot of money, drive fancy cars or live in huge houses. Unlike American doctors, Ukrainian doctors are underpaid and overworked. Despite the horrendous working conditions and lack of money, Ukrainian doctors receive enormous respect for what they do. My mother was that little girl who tried to acquire this noble profession in an attempt to help people. My mother did not care about long hours, or poor salaries. She would work without any compensation for month at a time. Yet these conditions did not stop her from performing her job to the best of her ability. She always thought that with the knowledge given to her, she had a to the people, who needed her help.

Despite my mother's hard work and dedication, one thing always stood in the way of her dreams; she was Jewish. Being a Jew in Ukraine was a hardship in itself. The Jewish community in Ukraine were hated and prosecuted for no cause or reason. My parents were faced with the dilemma of having to live their lives in

Sula did everything from the heart and tried to help everyone and everything. She did not just hurt people out of evil, yet she was thought of as bad and evil by the community. Sula spoke and told stories, yet was never understood. Her dead language did not give her the ability to express herself in ways that were profound for human beings. Toni Morrison gave her the ability to have language, yet she spoke the dead language. Sula very much reminds me of my mother because of the similarity in their battles with dead language. Even though the languages themselves are completely different, both of them had the characteristics of a dead language.

When the we arrived in America, we were treated as low as a person could be treated. We were looked upon as barbarians, despite our level of education and values. Once my parents quickly realized that there was no possibility of persuing a career, my parents just became content having a job which paid the bills and put food on the table. My mom, what was a doctor stated cutting salads for Giant, and my dad who was an engineer became a pizza delivery person. They never were able to regain their occupation due to the fact that they were not understood. My parents spoke the dead language. Although some Americans were sympathetic to our causes many, never even tried listening to the dead language all they thought that these immigrants were bringing down the country; taking jobs, abusing alcohol, and even plotting to destroy the government. Whether or not these claims were true, many Americans never cared. All they wanted was for immigration to be altered and stopped and even banned from certain regions.

Once we arrived in JFK airport on November 7, 1995 we thought that the door of opportunity was open for us. We firmly believed that the language that was dead for us in Ukraine would be able to live again in United States. Yet we were wrong. My mother believed she would be able to continue to practice medicine, as she has done for almost ten years of her life. However, America held a different future for all of us. What seemed to be an easy solution to our problems became one of the hardest challenges my entire family had to face.

Dead language seems to be a universal problem. At one point and time dead language occurs everywhere and to everyone. It also seems as though it can occur sporadically. Dead language has visited all our household, Sula's and Maxine Hong Kingston's, were no exception. Language is the power and dead language is inability; Inability to be understood and appreciated by others. The inability to be understood does not only diminish, but also breaks them down into little pieces. We, as society, choose who should have the dead language and who should not by discriminating against people. Yet we never realize how horribly we hurt people. Once we refuse to understand people, those people are left with nothing , but the dead language.

I remember my mom crying at night because she had once again cut her finger at work. However the pain she felt was not the kind of pain that was cause by a knife. No, instead it was the pain in her heart that longed for understanding. It was her realizing that she will never be understood. It was her way of finding out that no matter where she will live she will always be an alie

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Approximate Word count = 2225
Approximate Pages = 9 (250 words per page double spaced)