I don’t speak my mother tongue. Somehow, it is a strange grief to watch my own language slip away. 

My mother tongue ties me to my roots, memories, and family, and it makes me who I am. 

I’ve devoted so much of my life to functioning in another language that I’ve given up something else. For years, my second language became central to building my career, my future, and my life. 

I once spoke my mother tongue with confidence and understanding. With two parents who spoke it all the time, I adapted to it at such a young age. However, as I grew older and began school, my mother noticed I couldn’t understand my older siblings. Noticing this, she enrolled me in Pre-K so I could learn English. 

As I learned English and could communicate with my older siblings, I quietly forgot the language that connected me to my parents. And my name. My name, once pronounced in my mother tongue, was reduced to an Americanized version. 

I went from speaking full sentences to stumbling and forgetting words I once could say. The more I stumbled over my words, the harder it became to regain the language I was once fully integrated into. 

Throughout elementary school, I don’t recall my parents putting much effort into teaching me my mother tongue. Although my mother tried to teach me my mother tongue, I often lashed out in frustration at how hard it was. Unlike English, the accents and pronunciation were very different and harder to learn. And naturally, my frustration and embarrassment led to neglect. 

Slowly, my mother stopped teaching me. While both my parents spoke their native language all the time, they grew accustomed to me and my siblings responding to only in English. 

I’m not blaming anyone. 

My older siblings had the opportunity to live in our home country, speak more fluently, and adapt, and my parents adapted to the new language here; unlike me, they never forgot their language. 

But slowly, my siblings adapted to the American culture. I never lived in my home country, so while they still had the skill, I never had it to begin with. In the end, we all spoke English, while my parents spoke their native language. That became the new norm in our household. 

My mother often told me to ask my best friend in elementary school to teach me. If we could talk that way at school, I could learn. But they often replied that they didn’t know the language, even though they spoke fluently with their parents. 

Sometimes I was compared to my younger siblings, who spoke both English and our mother tongue fluently. To this day, they still do. They even knew slang.

I was often jealous because it came naturally to them, but it took me longer. But as the years passed and I got older, I always thought it was too late to even learn. 

Now, as I get older, I can only look back and realize what a mistake I made. In those moments when my mother took the time to teach me, I understood how much she wanted me to learn and how much it must’ve meant to her. 

When I moved to a different school in middle school, many of my classmates spoke their mother tongue, unlike at my old school. I stuck out like a sore thumb. 

To them, I wasn’t enough of my culture because I didn’t understand or speak my language. To them, I wasn’t fully of my culture. And I could never be. 

It is, and continues to be, one of my greatest insecurities. To this day, I get anxious speaking my native language outside my parents’ company, ashamed of my inability to speak fluently with those who will judge me for how I speak. 

While it comes naturally for others, it takes me a while. 

I find myself mumbling and second-guessing myself, wondering if I’m even pronouncing or conveying the correct words. 

At family gatherings, I greet my relatives and stay quiet because I can’t communicate beyond an elementary school child’s vocabulary. 

The funny thing is I understand more than I can talk. I can read and understand more than I can talk. 

For years, I’ve tried to study and learn my native language from the first level. I’ve tried apps and books, but it gets harder and harder as I get older. 

I think the first time I truly felt horrible about not speaking my language was when I interned at the nursing home. 

I was required to speak my native language to residents and their families because it was their main language. (THEY DID TEST MY NATIVE LANGUAGE BTW!)

It was the worst time for me because I wanted to say a million things to my patients and convey my thoughts and ideas. But with my native language being stuck at an elementary-child vocabulary, I often googled words and repeated them to make sure I was right. 

Most workers spoke fluently and were much more comfortable speaking their main language. I understood that English wasn’t everyone’s first language, so I forced myself to speak my mother language. 

I could see in their faces that they understood me, but they still had to pay close attention to truly get my point. 

I often felt left out of conversations with the workers as they spoke with one another. I would stand aside, feeling bad that I couldn’t keep up. 

I envied not being able to joke and laugh with them. I envied not being able to make genuine connections with people who spoke my mother tongue. 

It was hard not being able to say everything I wanted to my residents. I wanted to tell them how much I loved them. How I wish them well. I wanted to get to know them on a deeper level. But I often bit my lip out of embarrassment. 

I always tried to speak to them with respect, although I was never fully taught the difference between being respectful and being casual in my native language. But I held up on my own. Although I struggled and stumbled, I hope they understood that I loved our small talk. Even if it cost me a lot, and probably them too, I enjoyed every bit of it. 

What was worse was translating for residents’ families who didn’t speak English and depended on me. Although I knew what the staff was saying, the translation part always got me. I have such a broad accent and vocabulary that feels stuck at maybe a 10-year-old level. They reassured me that I could be understood, but that doesn’t change the fact that I still have a lot to learn. 

I felt embarrassed and still replay those moments in my head. Whether I said it right. Whether they were sparing me grace by saying they understood me. Whether I sounded stupid. I’ll never know. I couldn’t keep my distance, but I knew it was rude. 

I was always raised to help others, and especially with having immigrant parents, I knew the struggle of adjusting to a new world. 

So even if I wanted to hide, I always said the same thing. “Hello, how are you? Good, that’s good to hear.”

It was as much of my native language as I could go before I started stumbling like a lunatic. 

If you all recall, I made a friend at the nursing home. She never spoke English and only spoke my native language. Although a wall stands between us, I still try as hard as I can to communicate. 

I practice the conversations I could have with her over a million times because she has treated me so well. I want to be her friend. 

I understand how terrifying it must be, and has been, for people like my friend, my parents, and others who have moved to an unfamiliar country, learned a new language, and adapted to a new culture. Their struggle to learn English doesn’t compare to my struggle to learn to speak my native language. 

My mother is my lifeline to the language. She is the only person whom I can be comfortable speaking to in my crooked way of talking. The only person I feel confident enough to make mistakes around and be corrected by. 

But when she is gone, who will I talk to in my native language? 

I’ve been taunted and teased by my siblings for how much I sound American. How much I struggle to even say words that come easily to others. It makes me insecure. 

With my mother, I can be as silly and free as I want without fear of embarrassment. She truly wants to help me and see me grow. 

As I get older and learn from her little by little, my confidence grows. I cherish my mother tongue even more. 

It’s what connects me to my family. To my history. To every aspect of my culture. 

I’m unsure, and I think deeply about what will happen to my future children. Whether I will be able to teach them my mother tongue. Or will it disappear with my generation? What will the future family lineage look like when we stop learning and teaching our native language?

I have so many questions. 

But for now, I want to get better; I promise. I want my mother to see me communicate better with her. Not only for her, but for my future employment. I can gain so many opportunities from having a second language and being able to communicate with patients. 

Create and make connections with people. And one day I won’t be so afraid and second-guess what I’ll say. 

My mother tongue is precious. No matter how badly I speak it. How much I stumble. Forget that I may have an accent and not be as fluent as I wish I were; it’s always going to be a part of me.