On the first day of her freshman year of high school last August, Diana was called up for an introductory speech in front of her homeroom and found herself unconsciously changing her voice on the spot.
“The voice that sprung from my throat was unfamiliar as I introduced myself to a classroom of non-Black students with a high-pitched tone – a far cry from my naturally soft raspiness,” she remembers. “It wasn’t the first time I was unsettled by being the sole Black person in a room, but that specific moment had a profound effect on me. My thoughts were calculated, quickened, and in search of the ‘right’ things to say.” The 16-year-old says the departure from her “normal self” was “seamless.”
“That was the first time I noticed I had actively code-switched,” she says.
Code-switching is an age-old practice that is very familiar to Black people – and other people of color – in the United States. Sociolinguist Einar Haugen coined the term in 1954, and used it to describe language alternation, or the mixing of two or more languages or dialects. In the late ’70s, the phenomenon gained traction in African American spaces – academic and otherwise – to describe the moment when folks felt the need to conform to fit in. Black teachers account for only six percent of the workforce nationwide, and Black students make up 15 percent of the student body. So it’s no surprise that students like Diana feel the need to code-switch between standard English in the classroom and African American Vernacular English (AAVE) in an attempt to elevate their social and academic standing.
“Generally speaking, code-switching is about finding effective ways to communicate with another person by mirroring them,” says psychologist Beverly Daniel Tatum, PhD, a race relations expert and the author of “Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?”
“When a person from a stigmatized group (which could be based on race, ethnicity, language, sexual orientation, etc.) is interacting with people in a non-stigmatized group, they may code-switch to be accepted,” Dr. Tatum says. “For many Black students, code-switching allows them to assimilate, as they usually have to be aware of their surroundings, what they’re saying, and how they’re saying it. They also have to focus on portraying an open and positive body language to be taken seriously and not be stereotyped, without looking like they’re trying too hard.”
Although some students are taught to code-switch early on in childhood, others learn how to code-switch through observing and interacting with others. In school settings, code-switching can at times feel like a requirement for Black students to perform well academically. Research shows that people who use AAVE are incorrectly viewed as less intelligent and judged harshly based on their dialect and speech patterns. But constantly code-switching can, at a minimum, be inconvenient – and, more seriously, can cause a huge toll on students’ mental health.
“Everyone has an idea of what sounding ‘white’ means, and I’ve come to find that I speak in that voice more than my real voice,” says Stacey, a 14-year-old high school sophomore. “When you’re Black and you want to excel, you’re told you don’t stand a chance unless you act according to what society wants.”
“It is so exhausting constantly switching between different characters.”
Stacey says she feels “the pressure of representing my entire race in a positive light, specifically in the classroom.” This extends to how she presents herself, including how she dresses. “It is so exhausting constantly switching between different characters, because I feel like I’m hiding my authenticity,” she says. “If I could get away with it, I’d say exactly what I want to say the way I want to say it. But nobody seems to want that.”
Many students like Stacey alter their behaviors to fit in, and they perfect those behaviors to the point where they become a part of their subconscious. “Trying to find common ground with others is not harmful by itself; it becomes harmful if you have to deny your sense of identity to do so, which is the case for Black students,” says Myles Durkee, PhD, an assistant professor of psychology at the University of Michigan who studies code-switching’s mental and physiological effects.
“When we force Black students to code-switch, it becomes a stressor and leads to them not being fully present at the moment because they are monitoring every word that comes out of their mouths,” Dr. Durkee says. “They can go on to experience burnout, which can affect their ability to perform in school.”
Research shows Black students are often penalized severely for minor infractions and thus are more likely to have mental and behavioral disorders in comparison to their white peers, yet Black students disproportionately lack access to mental health treatment. As they deal with the common stressors that come with growing, they also disproportionately face chronic exposure to race-related stressors like microaggressions and institutional racism that adversely affect their well-being and mental health. These differential actions also contribute to a school-to-prison pipeline, in which students are pushed out of public school and into the juvenile justice system.
Meanwhile, some non-Black people are now using AAVE incorrectly – which comes off as a caricature of Black culture and is known as reverse code-switching. This is a particular form of cultural appropriation that allows people from dominant cultures to explore and enjoy a form of Black culture without judgment in a way that Black Americans are not afforded. Words like bougie, ratchet, and woke are just a few examples of AAVE words that are frequently used by non-Black folks who may or may not know where they come from.
Diana has encountered this quite a bit, she says, with some of her classmates using improper code-switching as a way of conversing with her. “I frequently get spoken to in AAVE, and when I don’t reciprocate it, I still feel stereotyped as I’m told that I ‘talk very proper’ for a Black person,” she says.
Having to navigate this all in addition to the usual stressors of high school – crushes, friendship dynamics, and the pressure of school and extracurriculars – can be very tough. “Coming home at the end of the day feels like taking off a costume,” Diana says. “When I’m out in the world, I’m constantly performing for everyone else. It’s never a positive experience. Either I succeed and I get to continue playing along, or I’m outed as an impostor and shunned.”
Thankfully, though, Diana has found a group of friends that she can be herself around: “There are very few people at school that I can talk to in a normal way. But having a community on campus who speak as I do erases a layer of stress off the conversation and makes me feel at home.”
Victoria Goldiee is a freelance journalist with a penchant for headlining underrepresented communities in media. Her work has been featured in The Cut, New York Mag, The New York Times, and more, exploring culture, identity, and lifestyle.
