The Penn janitorial employee wipes down your table after you and your friends finish lunch in Houston Market, clearing the mess you left behind. You, seemingly the only one in your group to acknowledge this person, look up and quickly say, “Thank you.” But your voice is different. Somehow, the valley-girl lilt you’ve had your whole life slips away, and in its place, your words take on a rhythm and tone that mimic the accent of the person you’re speaking to. Your usual crisp enunciation softens. You don’t really know why you did it. Were you being considerate — or just condescending?
That moment is a small but striking example of code switching: a strategy people use to alter how they speak, act, or present themselves depending on the social setting. It happens more often than we realize and for many reasons. But the question is: Is code switching an act of empathy, or an unconscious — or perhaps even conscious — performance of superiority? To even begin answering that, we have to understand that code switching goes far beyond words — it’s about belonging, identity, and power.
Most code switching is subtle. You adjust your vocabulary when emailing a professor versus texting a friend. You shift your tone for your grandparents versus your classmates. These are quiet performances of self-tweaks we make to fit in, be understood, or protect ourselves. For many, it’s just social navigation. But for others, especially those from marginalized communities, code switching can be about safety, acceptance, or survival. It’s not just polite — it’s essential.
But not all code switching is innocent. There’s a fine line between adapting and performing superiority. Think of someone who slows their speech dramatically or simplifies their vocabulary unnecessarily while talking to a non-native English speaker. These behaviors might seem helpful but can feel deeply patronizing. The subtext becomes “I’m above you, and I’m doing you a favor by stepping down to your level.” Even if the shift is unconscious, it still reinforces hierarchy. It doesn’t bridge; it divides.
And yet, code switching can also be kind. Someone softening their tone for an elderly relative or using simpler language to put someone at ease isn’t performing dominance; it’s trying to reduce it. The same gesture that might be condescending in one moment could be comforting in another. That’s what makes code switching so complex: It’s not just about what’s said — it’s about why.
Historically, code switching has been a lifeline for those navigating systems built against them. For immigrants, Black Americans, and others outside the dominant culture, adapting how they speak or behave has long been a way to gain access and respect. It’s not about fitting in; it’s about being allowed in at all.
Meanwhile, privileged groups often code switch without risk. A white professional mimicking slang to seem relatable may be praised for charisma, while others risk being seen as unprofessional. That’s the double standard: For some, code switching is optional. For others, it’s expected — and exhausting.
Few places make this dynamic clearer than Penn. Here, unspoken code words like “SABSing,” “sceney,” “Hunts,” and “Stommons” signal that you’re in the know at Penn. Students shift how they speak and dress to match the campus culture. Even fashion — Longchamp bags and Canada Goose jackets — becomes a form of code. It's subtle, but it’s signaling: I belong here.
In preprofessional spaces, the pressure only builds. Some Penn students find themselves dumbing down recruiting talk for friends at less career-focused schools, or polishing their speech around classmates from wealthier backgrounds. It’s not just social, it’s strategic.
For underrepresented students, that strategy often comes with a cost. Adapting tone, dress, or behavior to seem “professional” or avoid being judged isn’t about fitting in, it’s about surviving. But constantly filtering yourself leads to burnout, imposter syndrome, and emotional exhaustion.
If institutions care about inclusion, they need to ask: Why do some people feel they can’t be themselves? And what needs to shift so that authenticity isn’t a risk, but a right?
So, is code switching empathy or supremacy? The truth is, it can be both. What matters most is intention and impact. Are you switching to connect, to protect, or to perform? Who are you trying to comfort, and who are you trying to convince?
In a world full of performances, maybe the most radical thing we can do is notice the switches we make, and ask why we felt we had to flip them in the first place.
SOSE HOVANNISIAN is a College junior from Los Angeles studying communications. Her email is sosehova@sas.upenn.edu.
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