Speaking 1.5 Languages

Many students at Stuyvesant live with immigrant parents, speaking both English and their family’s language in their homes. I grew up speaking English and Dutch, but I never learned Mandarin from my mother’s side of the family. However, growing up in America with English-speaking peers, my Dutch falters more with every year. Now, when people ask me what languages I speak, I do not know what to say. I am self-conscious about having to substitute English words when speaking Dutch now and then, insecure about my questionable Dutch spelling, and unsure of whether my Dutch speaking even counts when my Dutch accent is tinged with hints of my American childhood. Though I can converse comfortably in Dutch whenever I need to, the doubt about whether I will still be truly Dutch if I lose the language is still there. 

Speaking the same language as someone holds great weight in our society, deeper than just enabling communication. Shared languages connect people within a community and hence contribute to their identity. My conversational Dutch has been an important part of my life since I was a child, from listening to my father tell Dutch bedtime stories to talking to my grandparents in the Netherlands over FaceTime. My brother and I always joked about Dutch being our geheime taal, or secret language, one that we could use in public spaces so no one could understand our conversations. Each language has unique words that cannot be described in any other language, and being able to use these specific linguistic intricacies is like being part of a tradition. It was something my brother and I treasured, a link to our family in the Netherlands and our history there, connecting us to a community outside our New York home. 

The first time I questioned my ability to speak Dutch began with a simple conversation. Somebody asked me whether I spoke a second language, and I replied that I did. “But are you completely fluent?” the person asked. It was just a single question, but I found myself pausing to think about my answer. My father had spoken Dutch to me since I was a child, but since my mother didn’t speak it, we used English in family conversations. Since I didn’t have any Dutch schooling either, my reading and writing skills were subpar. And though I could solidly converse in Dutch, words sometimes eluded me, so my Dutch paragraphs would become peppered with bits of English. Overall, I spoke Dutch. But I didn’t feel fluent, or at least not fluent enough. I was somewhere in between, as if instead of speaking the language entirely, I spoke only half.

From then on, the subject of my half-bilingualism shifted from something I had previously prided myself on to something that felt shameful, something to be kept hidden. Language and identity were so closely intertwined in my mind that unrooting one had rocked the other. In addition to worrying about my Dutch, I also considered my Mandarin, which had never developed past the most rudimentary of phrases. Being biracial, I had always felt like I straddled the middle of two cultures, sharing the worlds of both. However, now I wondered whether I actually belonged in either. The link between language and identity can connect, but conversely, it can also alienate those who do not speak the language of their heritage, as I experienced. Sometimes, belonging to a culture seems to come with impenetrable criteria: questions about fluency, semi-fluency, reading, writing, accents—all qualifications as if there is such a thing as being authentic enough to belong. 

Almost as if they sensed the disconnection I felt, my parents decided to take us on a trip to the Netherlands one summer. I worried about stumbling over my words while speaking with my cousins and using improper phrases with my grandparents, but as soon as we arrived at my grandparents’ house, with its red brick walls draped in ivy and its stained glass windows, I felt safe and welcome. My brother and I retried all our favorite Dutch treats and biked through the neighborhood on our cousins’ bikes, yelling with exhilaration in a language that was neither Dutch nor English. When I spoke with my grandparents in their first language, I realized that, though our shared language did enrich our relationship, it was not the only tie I had to my Dutch culture. The food, the bikes, my family—all of that counted, too.

I took this lesson with me on our trip back home. My wài pó—the term my brother and I use for our grandmother in Mandarin—had taken care of our apartment while we were gone, and she greeted us at the door when we arrived. “Nǐ hǎo,” I said, exhausting the extent of my Mandarin knowledge. My wài pó said something in return, and I turned to my mother for a translation. “She’s making dumplings,” my mother told me. “She says after you get settled in, you can help her cook dinner.” I could smell the dumplings, a recipe of my grandmother’s that never disappoints, and I asked my mother how to say “yes” in Chinese. “Shì,” I responded, and my wài pó beamed at me. The extra effort didn’t make me feel ashamed of myself or lacking in Chinese culture. Instead, it made me smile, put away my suitcase, and join my wài pó in the kitchen, folding dumplings under her instruction so that I could remember the recipe in the years to come.

Though many may not realize it, there is a lot of societal pressure for people to earn their culture and to prove their heritage—especially through language. However, culture is much broader than language. Being able to communicate with the people you know and love in their language is special, but it should not be a source of isolation for those who don’t share it. Furthermore, though it does forge strong bonds between people, language is not the defining factor of one’s identity. Fluency in a second language, speaking a second language, or not speaking a second language should not limit one’s connection with one’s heritage and culture. Instead, it should be seen as a way to enrich it. In the end, cultural identity is something that you get to define yourself, not a box made by others’ definitions. For me, that means celebrating Chinese New Year and Dutch winter holidays, eating cultural food, and staying in frequent contact with my grandparents. I speak English and Dutch at home, and I’m putting in more effort to learn Chinese—just short sentences, little by little. Instead of putting pressure on myself, I find gratification in exercising my Mandarin with my wài pó whenever she comes over. Even if I’m never fluent in Mandarin, or even close, at least I can share these moments with her.