English and Spanish in my mind are always in conflict. They are so similar they are so
important but they can’t get along, because who knows who I would be if they did . English was
my first language. I don’t know why it was what I picked up first. I suppose in my child brain
that was what clicked, Spanish came second. I was the first in my house who could speak
English fluently. It was a double edged sword. I was the bridge that connected my family, and
America. I translated, read for them, and explained documents to them. I was a kid around 10
years old reading tax forms, and documents I couldn’t understand. Bridges get worn down, and
that is what happened to me. The responsibility became a burden. I had family I barely knew
asking me to check something for them, read this document or file this form. My mom made sure
to always remind me “se pone la familia primero” even if they don’t feel like family.
As a child being given such responsibilities, and tasks I was always nervous to do
something wrong, to not be able to perform for them, or ruin a chance. It gave me anxiety when I
could not comprehend a word or understand what to do for a document. I remember being yelled
at, and pushed to figure it out “si habla inglés porque no puede hacerlo.” and I would blame
myself that they had to go pay for someone to do it. Why couldn’t I do it? Why did I not
understand, and meet the expectations they had? It led me to doubt my value and as I grew up led
to me attributing my value to my intelligence, a way of thinking that isn’t cohesive with
happiness. English, and speech became a form of anxiety, and Spanish the punishing voice of the
people in need of my English.
Praise is a potent motivator, and it kept me going. I enjoyed reading, and for a large part
of my life reading was my hobby, but day after day of translating or doing someone else’s job
editing messages, and emails when I was just 10 years old I started to lose any fascination for
language. I didn’t wanna read any more. It lost its charm, and became more of a chore. I moved
on to other hobbies like art. It’s what I am passionate about now but I wonder if I had been
allowed to find wonder in language when I was younger, and wasn’t pushed to treat my language
as a job. Maybe I would have chosen another life path. I have mixed feelings with my
upbringing. It made me more than knowledgeable but there is this slightest bit of resentment. I
am happy to have helped so much of my family. That is something my mother successfully
showed me the value of but I just wish it had been someone else. To not end this on a sad note
though i am now happy with my english ability i no longer see it as a chore, and have begun to
rediscover a love for language, writing doesn’t feel like a burden or work anymore, and now i
have books i am reading just for the joy of reading. I still help my family with everything but
now that I am older and have a voice I can help them better and if need be I can tell them I can’t
and the guilt of that doesn’t weigh on me because I know I am doing my best