Why I Speak English

Before my daughter was born, long before I was pregnant even, I had thought that I would speak only Spanish to my children.  Elena Poniatowska, in her fictional memoir, La Flor de Lis, recalls her mother, a woman belonging to the upper class society in Mexico City, saying that Mariana (Elena) would learn Spanish in the streets, that it was not an important language to study.  She went to school in English, the language spoken in their home was French, that of her father's native country, and Mariana did pick up Spanish in her everyday life in Mexico.  My first Spanish professor in college, on the other hand, a Mexican man from whom I took two years of Spanish, a long time educator of Spanish who insisted, indeed still insists (we're Facebook friends), on the proper use of Spanish, spoke only Spanish to his children at home.  His wife spoke to them in French, her native language.  Their thought was that the children would learn English in school here in the US.  I have met a couple of his children, grown college graduates now, and I can attest to the fact that you would never know that English was not their first language.

My sentiment was quite similar; Carlos and I would speak to our children in Spanish and they would learn English, and hopefully other languages, in school.

Then Celaya was born, and I cooed and babbled, and snuggled and nuzzled, from the day she was born.  And I found that I would talk to her about the world around her, introducing this wide eyed baby panda to trees and birds, to cars and fire trucks, to apples and peaches (she does not like peaches), to carpet, hardwood, and tile.  I tried at first to repeat myself in Spanish, to identify objects in Spanish, to call her amorcito and bonita, the way my husband did so affectionately.  But it fell flat.  I kept trying.  I forced myself back to Spanish with her.  But I would always, almost instantly, lapse back into the familiar English.

I felt guilty.  I understand fully the impact being bilingual has on a child's brain.  I have read, and I agree, with the studies that show the higher capacity for learning as a result of the brain's having adapted to translation and multiple language acquisition.  I was a failure in my own eyes.  I couldn't do it.  So I started researching immersion schools.  I figured if I couldn't speak to her regularly in Spanish, I would ensure that her time at school reinforced her father's native language and the import of fluently speaking two languages.  I would give Celaya every opportunity to thrive in this global world that continues on a daily basis to expand.

As I was mentally working through all of my shortcomings on this front I picked up Richard Rodriguez' autobiography, Hunger of Memory.  Rodriguez is a strong opponent of bilingual education.  He firmly believes that children should learn English only in this English speaking country.  He is the child of Mexican immigrants who spoke Spanish at home, and he describes how he suffered for years in school, feeling awkward and out of place in school with the other children who spoke English as a native language.

At one point in his narrative, he recalls realizing that Spanish was the language of affection, of emotion, of the home, and English was the language of education, reason, and logic.  Because of his "epiphany" he decided to reject Spanish and study English intensively.

As I read this passage from Rodriguez' personal account, I had my own realization:  for me, it was the reverse.  English is the language of emotion, feeling, love, passion, enthusiasm.  Spanish is a language I study formally, through literature, classwork, etc.

My guilt drained away from me.  The weight of failure I was harboring simply drifted out into the sea of misunderstandings.  It became clear to me all of a sudden that I could never be the kind of mother I had always envisioned in a language that was learned.  The loving, nurturing, nourishing, teaching, guiding, open minded, expressive mama I always wanted to be needed to draw from the depths of her soul.  And I simply could not, cannot, do that in any language but the one in which I learned all of those emotions.

I call Celaya "booger," "nut but," "baby foo," and all other sorts of crazy names that come to me spontaneously, in my mind, from the vast cultural language base I have been building for thirty five years.  She will learn how much I love her through my native language.  And that, more than anything else, more than brain capacity, more than economic opportunity, will give her the foundation for success in life regardless of which path she chooses.

I love my daughter in English.

Fortunately, she has her father to love her in Spanish.  We may still enroll her in an immersion school (although my current thoughts on the entire education system are developing into an entirely different blog post, or series of blog posts).  And I do read to her in Spanish twice a day, and still point out objects in both English and Spanish.

All in all, it is highly unlikely that she will suffer as Rodriguez did.

I'm sure her parents' failings will cause her to suffer in some other way though.

Or we simply wouldn't be parents.