-I come from a Spanish-speaking family. Mis padres viajaron a los Estados Unidos para vivir un better life, una vida que no tenían en la República Dominicana.
-Pero cuando viajas a otro país, you take your culture with you y cuando hay cultura, there are expectations. La más difícil de todas es la lengua. -When I was a kid, my first language was English and until I reached high school, none of my previous schools had taught me anything about my native language or my culture for god’s sake. -Aprender español fue difícil para mí as my family has been dealing with their own issues en el exterior y en el interior. I learned Spanish the hard way by escuchando ciertas frases de palabras claves de cada una de las conversaciones de mis padres. -In the end, whenever I hear my parents or any of my relatives talking en nuestra lengua materna, sirve como un recordatorio constante de cómo mis habilidades lingüísticas son inferiores to everyone else’s. A veces, tengo momentos de duda. I feel like I could never live up to my family’s example or in anything that I choose to do con mi vida. -Puedo sentir en todo mi cuerpo que he perdido una parte de mi identidad. And I have tried my best to work past it, to move on. Aunque mi español no es perfecto, todavía estoy aprendiendo. -As a wise man once said, “el todo no es más que la suma de sus partes” y parecería que todavía no estoy completo. -En última instancia, no importa cuántas veces lo intente o qué métodos use para encontrarme de nuevo, I will never be whole again. Bryan Rodriguez '22 (BHSEC Queens)
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My grandmother was one of the fiercest women I knew. After immigrating to the States at the age of fifty eight, she remained with my parents in our then two-bedroom apartment in the Bronx. Her decision to leave Nigeria was rooted in the boundless love she had for her first daughter, my mother. A few months prior to her arrival in April 2005, my parents welcomed my twin brother and me into the world after waiting eight years to finally have children of their own. Having recently arrived in America themselves, they were struggling to make ends meet and were in dire need of a babysitter they could trust to look after their miracle kids. So, my grandmother’s presence and support during such an unpredictable period in their lives was the greatest blessing they could have possibly asked for. She arrived in America with the unshakable determination to help nurture her daughter’s kids, and she accomplished exactly that. All the while, my parents worked endlessly trying to navigate a world that still felt relatively foreign to them. They attended both school and work in order to secure the stability of our living conditions.
One of the best gifts my grandmother had to offer her grandkids was the knowledge of our native tongue (Igbo). She spoke to us only in Igbo and expected us to respond in Igbo too. Before I had even mastered the English alphabet, I was well familiarized with the Igbo alphabet. My parents often recall with humorous concern how visibly distressed I was after returning home from my first day of Pre-K classes. I was convinced that my new peers strongly disliked me, but the reality was that they failed to understand anything I was saying. I talked to them in Igbo and waited, with an utterly naive hope, for them to respond to me in Igbo. This of course did not happen and left four-year old me feeling terribly disappointed and outright confused. Up until that moment, Igbo seemed to me to be a universal language and understandably so. It was a language that served as the very foundation for my daily conversations with family members. In my eyes, Igbo was a metaphorical bridge which not only made my Nigerian culture feel accessible, but my loved ones feel accessible too. It provided me with the means of asserting my vast love for the woman who helped raise me alongside my mother, my grandma. Our constant exchange of good mornings (“Ụtụtụ ọma”) and good nights (Ka chi fo) replays constantly in my mind, remnants from a past life I wish lasted just a bit longer. When we unexpectedly lost my grandmother in 2020 due to health related reasons, I felt incredibly overpowered by the magnitude of her absence. I felt I had not only lost a great companion, but a physical embodiment of cultural pride too. My siblings and I slowly resorted to speaking English at home, a place once dominated by the melodic sounds of the Igbo language, after her death. These days, my parents tirelessly reinforce the importance of reviving the language of our motherland within our walls. I have gotten better with reclaiming that aspect of my identity, but still feel I could be doing so much more. Through preserving my language and cultural identity, I immortalize the admirable affection my grandmother had for us and her culture. Ifeoma Okwuka '23 (BHSEC Queens) |
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