Forgetting My First Language
Photo Credit: Pixabay
No one prepared me for the heartbreak of losing my first language.
It’s not a piercing pain of losing someone you love, rather a dull ache that lasts for days, weeks, months and even years until it becomes a part of you. My first language, Spanish, is the only one I can use to communicate with my parents, and as it fades from my memory, I also lose my ability to speak with them.
When I tell people I forgot how to speak my first language their eyes nearly pop out their heads and their jaws drop, as if it’s so absurd that I must be joking.
It’s strange even for myself to say that I have trouble communicating with my parents, because I still don't believe it.
There was a day where mid conversation with my parents, I didn't understand certain words. There were long pauses when I communicated with them because I didn’t know how to pronounce the words well. At the end of our conversation, they asked me, “Do you understand?” I didn't. Although, I chuckled and nodded my head.
Sometimes my long pauses make my parents assume that I ignore them or don’t pay very close attention to what they tell me. However, that is not the case. I have thoughts, dreams and goals that I eagerly want to tell my parents, but it seems impossible to express these things to them. Spanish no longer feels natural, and sometimes I feel like a fool when speaking my own language. On top of cultural and generational gaps to reckon with, my parents and I have no heart-to-heart conversations. My parents haven’t mastered translation apps yet, but, like me, they’ll resort to using simpler phrases until I’m able to understand their words. My heart aches knowing there’s a distance between us that may never fully be bridged.
Both of my parents are from Mexico, but lived in different cities. In 1995, my parents immigrated to the U.S. from Mexico. The jobs they found in construction and house cleaning came with long hours, leaving them no time to learn English. As a result, my parents relied heavily on the Mexican culture in Long Beach to survive.
Spanish surrounded every aspect of my life growing up; it was my everything. I was always thrilled to go to Plaza Mexico, where I heard Spanish spoken all around me in grocery stores, restaurants and hair salons. On special occasions, we would eat my favorite Mexican dish, mole verde with carne de res. At home, we would watch novelas on Univision, Telemundo or Unimas, and listen to catchy banda songs by Banda MS on repeat. Before I started to go to school, my only friends were my Mexican neighbors and my family, with whom I bonded over our shared love of Dora the Explorer and Bubu Lubu chocolates.
In the majority of cases, children of immigrant parents believe that in order to “succeed” in America, we must adopt a new language, that doing so will promise a good stable job in the future. Without knowing, it places a strain on our relationships for the rest of our lives.
When I first learned English in pre-school, I became bilingual in my second language classes. I would switch back and forth between the two languages, reading and writing in English and, in the same breath, telling my brother in English that history was boring. Throughout my elementary, middle and high school years, I was a translator for my mother, which was uplifting and made me feel proud. That is until I struggled to construct sentences altogether, often mispronouncing words or failing to recall them completely, feeling embarrassed and a loss of my pride along with it.
As years passed, my fluency diminished exponentially in my Spanish vocabulary, my grammar was less polished. It didn’t occur to me that my Spanish was getting worse beyond the tip of my tongue until it was too late.
First, the name of the colors started to be mispronounced. My mother had a green dress on and I told her, “Your green dress is pretty.” My mother laughed and told me to pronounce my r’s because I was saying “vede” instead of “verde.” Then, my directions were off. I would confuse my right with my left and vice versa. This caused my dad to make the wrong turns when I navigated his car. Another time, I was helping my mom with a Mexican recipe and when trying to say mashed potatoes in Spanish, I said, “mezcla de potatoes” instead of “pure de papa.”
Everyone bullied and humiliated me by calling me a “No sabo kid” in front of my family and friends. The struggle to retain my first language feels isolating but isn't unique; it's a sharp pain common among first generation immigrants.
Our daily conversations are livelier now. I have several topics to discuss with my parents, but no idea how to broach them, yet armed with my phone and a bit of patience, I’m up for the challenge. Though Spanish no longer feels natural for me to speak, it will always be my first language; even if it takes a few translation apps and a lifetime for us to get reacquainted.
