The Rising-Falling Intonation

or the 2-3-1 Pattern

a. Simple Statement of Facts

b. Commands and Requests:

Exercise 1.

1. Ask when you don't understand.

2. Smoke in the next room.

3. Turn off the lights.

4. Get out.

5. Take him.

c. Information Questions:

Exercise 1.

1. What would you like for breakfast?

2. Who do you wanna see?

3. Where did you get it?

4. What is your name?

5. Where do you live?

Practice 1

Practice 2

What's Wrong with Colored People? by Harol Marshall (Other)

I first learned about segregation in the early 1950’s, widely considered a turning point in the fight against the country’s Jim Crow laws. At the time, my father satisfied his rapacious appetite for news by devouring the daily paper, which explains why the topic was on his mind and why he felt compelled to discuss it with me. I was ten years old, so the vagaries of memory prevent me from summoning up the exact issue that prompted our conversation, but I recall the mention of segregated drinking fountains, bathrooms, and buses.

I liked sitting in the front of the bus directly behind the bus driver when as a kid I rode the buses alone, because it seemed the safest place to sit. I would have hated having to move to the back where all the rowdies hung out, so I was indigent to hear about this egregious demand.

“How come colored people have to sit in the back of the bus?”

“That’s how it is down south,” my father said, turning back to his newspaper.

“But why? What’s wrong with colored people?” What was I missing here?

“Nothing,” my father said, no doubt sorry he raised the issue.

“If there’s nothing wrong with colored people then why do they have sit in the back of the bus?”

By now my father knew he’d opened a can of worms and made an effort to bring the conversation to an end. “You see,” he explained, “colored people were brought to this country from Africa as slaves. Most of them worked on large plantations in the south picking cotton or helping out around the house. People in the north believed it was wrong to own slaves, so when Abraham Lincoln became President, the north fought the south to free the slaves. That was called the Civil War, and the north won.”

Happy to have provided a historic perspective, he picked up his newspaper again and attempted to read.

“So if colored people are free, how come they have to sit in the back of the bus and drink different water?”

“The water’s the same, the fountains are different that’s all.”

“If the water’s the same,” I said, unable to follow adult logic, “why can’t everybody drink out of the same fountain?”

My father sighed. “Southerners are angry about losing the war so they take it out on colored people. That’s what it’s all about. It’s called discrimination.”

“That’s not fair,” I protested, my childish mind consumed with the concept of fair play.

“Life’s not fair,” my father shrugged, employing one of his favorite sayings to end the discussion.

“I hate the south,” I declared. “I’m never going there.”

“You don’t have to,” my father said, “it’s a free country.”