You might wonder why I find myself enrolled in a Spanish class every Wednesday evening, alongside a friend to keep my motivation up, even though Spanish was my first language from the moment I was born. This course, while not exactly a beginner’s class, is titled “Spanish Cinema and Conversation.” Yet, I can almost hear the fluent Spanish speakers shaking their heads in dismay. This isn’t just sheer negligence on my part; rather, it’s a reflection of the complex influences that shape bilingualism, especially for those of us raised in multicultural households.
Cultural Context
During the 1970s and 1980s, speaking anything other than English was frowned upon. I’m not referring to mere social disapproval, but rather a more serious cultural stance where speaking Spanish could lead to real repercussions. My father often recounted how his immigrant father faced severe punishment for speaking Spanish in school. The climate around language use has shifted considerably since then; the Hispanic population in the U.S. has surged from about 9 million in the 1970s to nearly 60 million today, with projections suggesting it could double by 2060.
As a child, our family was a small minority in the landscape of America, following the waves of Italian and Asian immigrants who also underwent the assimilation process. Nowadays, while many U.S.-born Hispanics are predominantly English speakers, there is a broader acceptance of Spanish as part of American identity, driven by the necessity of competing in a global economy. For that, we can be thankful.
Geographic Influence
My journey toward losing my bilingual skills began when we left the predominantly Hispanic neighborhood of upper Manhattan. In that vibrant community, Spanish was an everyday part of life, woven into the fabric of our family’s existence. However, relocating to New Hampshire, where we welcomed four younger sisters, changed everything. I joke that we helped integrate the state, but the reality was quite different. The most common question my brother and I faced was not “Do you speak Spanish?” but rather, “Do you speak Puerto Rican?”
Despite changes in the state, there remain places in the U.S. where speaking Spanish can still lead to uncomfortable encounters, as my mother discovered during our initial days there. I found myself attending a French-Canadian Catholic school that exclusively taught French, leading to a confusing mix of languages in my mind. Just last week in class, I mistakenly referred to “gateau” instead of “pastel,” blending my memories of French with my Spanish roots.
In my early twenties, I reconnected with my language while living and working in Santiago, Chile, and Mexico City. Upon returning to the U.S., I was thrilled to speak Spanish with my mother again. However, after her passing a decade ago, I realized that my distancing from the language was less about external factors and more about emotional loss.
For many, mothers embody not just familial ties but entire cultures and histories. After her death, I unintentionally set my first language aside as it brought back memories of shared moments: dancing to salsa in the kitchen, folding laundry while listening to Julio Iglesias, and sharing meals with my grandmother.
Today, I have clear motivations for rekindling my Spanish skills. I believe that this journey also serves as a path toward healing. As for my daughter, she is now taking Spanish in school and is surprisingly receptive to my choice of music, often joining me in dance rather than protesting.
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In conclusion, my journey back to Spanish has been one of rediscovery shaped by personal loss, cultural identity, and the desire to bond with my daughter.
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