The Language & Literacy Narrative.

      I used to avoid video calls with my lola. Even now I have to resist the urge to flee for the hills or, less dramatically, to pretend to be asleep when my parents call me downstairs to talk with her.

      The usual process goes something like this:

      1. From where my dad sits in the living room, he’ll start a call with my lola, his mother, around 7:00 PM.

      2. While it rings, he calls for my siblings and I to come downstairs (we will often avoid the first floor of the house because he does this).

      3. He’ll greet lola, tell her hi, ask about her day, how she’s feeling—common pleasantries.

      4. When he’s finished and—if we have not made ourselves shown by then—he’ll call us some more until we relent and tread downstairs.

      5. Then, I spend the whole time talking (using a mix of my poor Tagalog and simple English culminating to make an abysmal version of Taglish) to her for 5 minutes and just sitting in silence after, willing myself to find something—anything!—to talk about with her.

      6. We end the call when she’s finally had enough of our lulled conversation and tells me, “Sige na, Red, patayin mo na yung call. Pagod na ako.”

      7. And when the call shuts off, I sit and beat myself over my head because how did I not find one thing to talk about during those 20 minutes? Why do I find it so hard to tell her about something that happened in my life? Why do the words get caught in my mouth before they can even come out.  

      This is not how it went that sad and fateful day, though… Around step 2, the usual process was already interrupted.

      2. While the call rings, waiting for lola to answer, my dad calls for me, but I’m in no mood to talk to anyone.

      3. The pressure that comes with trying to find something to talk about with my grandma that doesn’t involve some pop reference she won’t understand or talking about something that will surely incite her to lecture me on about was suffocating; to find a topic of conversation where I don’t have to stumble over my broken Tagalog, filling gaps and crevices with English words I know she understands. I was exhausted from trying, and I didn’t want to talk to her or my aunts, who had just joined the call, while thinking that a conversation with her was a chore.

      4. I never want to view my lola as a filial duty, like she is someone I have to keep in touch with because we are family.

      5. I think my aunts mean well. They’re calling me now, asking me to speak with them.  “Red, come here, let’s talk. Sige na.”

      6. I pretend I don’t hear them. I think it’s shameful I can’t speak Tagalog sometimes—I grew up speaking it, but one day I couldn’t anymore, and I haven’t tried to fix that (Is that something I have to fix? Is it something I need to fix?). I sit up, hug my knees and tuck my head in. I want to fold in on myself—folding and folding until I’m gone. Until I’m free from being judged for not having the ability to converse in Tagalog, until I no longer hate myself for not being able to communicate with my family, until I’m free from silence-filled videocalls with grandma.

      7. I think crying’s good for you. As your tears fall down, some of the heavier emotions get washed away with it as well. Crying’s a bit like cleansing your soul, makes it feel lighter when you don’t have to carry all the hopelessness you have for yourself anymore.

      I don’t want to dread videocalls with my grandma. I don’t want to avoid her, waiting for the day I somehow speak fluent Tagalog and can finally tell her about my day, only for her to have died in the time I took waiting to have perfect mastery over a language. I don’t want to have regrets of not speaking to her enough all because I was all up in my head and devaluing myself because I didn’t know how to say a few words in Tagalog.  

      My feelings are nothing new; rather, I’ve shared these same sentiments with other children who have immigrant parents. There exist many kids in the USA like me, who cannot fluently speak their parents’ native language and thus cannot properly communicate with extended family members. For many of us, this language barrier with our families is the equivalent to an indestructible obstacle in developing a more meaningful relationship with them. It doesn’t help that some family members will take it upon themselves to “joke around” and tell us that we don’t belong to that respective cultural identity or our parents’ country of origin. Not only do those types of statements stay with us, but they also produce an insecurity with our identity. If we cannot claim the identity associated with our parents’ culture simply because we do not speak the language, then who are we?

      Say if we were to hide our lack of fluency by deliberately choosing not to speak our family’s native language, will they accept us then? If they can’t see our shortcomings, then we have no shortcomings at all, right? Children of immigrant parents who cannot speak their parents’ native language fluently are often shamed for their lack of fluency, but shaming is never a catalyst for improvement—instead, it drives someone to hide the aspects of themselves that were shamed in the first place. In many cases, it is seen as shameful that we have to learn our parents’ native language like we’re a foreigner in their country, but it is even more shameful if our own family views us just as much of the foreigner we feel.

      That feeling of seeming foreign to our own family due to our lack of fluency is what causes such a disconnect in family relationships between those who are fluent in the native language and those who aren’t. We are so scared of showing our lack of fluency (our source of shame) because we fear the possibility of being rejected by the people who are supposed to accept us unconditionally, so we deem it better to not show that “shameful” side of us at all, even if it is at the extreme price of choosing not to talk to them at all.

      Videocalls with my lola happen 2-3 times a week and it is really the only time I get with her because she lives in the Philippines, while my family and I reside in USA. The time I take hesitating to tell her something because I can’t say it all too well in Tagalog is stolen time.

      My grandma is getting older, and her health is declining, and all this time I have been sabotaging our time together. All because of what? I’m embarrassed? She’s literally my grandma! She doesn’t care what language I speak, as long as I make the effort to speak to her.

      There is definitely a barrier when it comes to learning languages, or in my case, relearning languages, and it is okay to be embarrassed; it is okay to not be perfect on your first try. The more important thing is to keep practicing and not be too scared to speak it aloud because we are only here for a limited time. It’s best to speak a language you’re learning and mess up, rather than spend your time waiting for yourself to finally be perfect at it to speak it.