The Benefit of Being Bilingual That I've Overlooked for Years

When I was growing up, my family and I would pile into our station wagon each Saturday to shop at the Hispanic grocery store in Kansas City, Kansas. We would stock up on the foods my mom from Mexico missed after moving to the Midwest with my dad and two older siblings. 

Fast forward to decades later and I have just picked up my parents from the Dallas airport. On the way home, we stopped at a Fiesta Market. My father reached for the pan dulce (sweet bread) while my mother stuffed paper bags with jalapeños to make her tongue-burning salsa. I grabbed a pack of goat milk lollipops.

"Do you know where the cilantro is?" my mom asked the Latina cashier.

"Que? No entiendo," she said. I don't understand.

"Speak Spanish," I whispered, wanting my mother to fit in by speaking her native language after years of hoping she wouldn't. 

Throughout my middle school years, I wished she would speak English. Whenever my mom spoke Spanish, I cringed, her thick accent embarrassing me in front of my friends and classmates. Although I understood her questions, I always responded in English, not interested in being fluent. I'm ashamed of the way "childhood me" viewed my mom's ability to speak two languages and how I hadn't recognized the value of the skill that has become a way for me to communicate and connect with others. 

My last trip was the perfect example. I boarded a flight behind an older Latino man who was clutching his suitcase tighter than a toddler guarding his favorite stuffed animal. And like a child set on staying in place, he refused to walk down the aisle. Instead, he asked the preoccupied flight attendant something in Spanish. She turned and, in a voice too big for the small space, asked, "What are you saying?" as if he needed a hearing aid, not a translator. 

After he repeated the question in Spanish again, the flight attendant searched the plane for someone who might know the language. "I speak Spanish," I said. She seemed surprised until she heard me convince the passenger – in his own language – to release the death grip on his bag. He was concerned that they would make him check his suitcase instead of letting him store it in the overhead bin.

I wasn't shocked by the flight attendant's response. As a towheaded toddler, I had been the family unicorn when we visited relatives in Xalapa, my mom's hometown. My siblings' olive skin and darker hair match my mom's. Men and women my grandmother's age would touch the top of my blinding white hair before kissing their hands. It was a type of good luck ritual that filled others with joy but left me in tears. I usually couldn't wait to go home.

Shunning my ability to speak Spanish as a child had nothing to do with my being ashamed of my heritage — I've always been proud to be half-Hispanic and to be the first-generation American on both sides of the family. But, like all kids, I wanted to fit in with everyone around me. Most of the time, I did. 

But my mom's Hispanic culture and beliefs played a significant role in shaping my life beyond language. I was the only one in my grade school (except for my older sister) with earrings. The day after I was born, the doctor had pierced my ears with tiny gold earrings my mom had brought from Mexico. 

At my friends' birthday parties, we usually played Pin the Tail on the Donkey. At mine, we took turns smacking a piñata with a stick wrapped in colorful crepe paper. While these days, the treat-filled objects are common at American kids' birthday parties, they weren't when I was little. My mother brought star-shaped ones with her from Mexico during our summer vacations. "It's not right for kids to hit a piñata that looks like an animal or a person," she'd say.

I moved to Texas in my late twenties. Soon after, the opportunities to communicate in Spanish and translate for others increased along with my confidence in speaking my second language. After years of having suppressed my ability to speak Spanish, I finally began to understand, through more chance encounters like the one on the plane, how being bilingual gave me an advantage in everyday interactions.

These days, I spend every Friday with patients and family members at a local hospice center. I am an end-of-life doula and half of a therapy animal team with my dog, Gaia. Although most of the people I meet speak English, occasionally, we'll visit a family who only speaks Spanish. When they ask me how I know the language, I tell them I learned it from my mom who grew up in Mexico. Being able to talk with them about our shared culture helps them feel less anxious in a very emotional time.

Gaia and I also meet with patients and their families at a children's hospital in Dallas. Last week, before we walked into a child's room, the nurse stopped me and said, "The family only speaks Spanish." She was relieved when I told her that wasn't a problem and motioned me to go in.

I greeted the little girl, and when I spoke to her parents in Spanish, they smiled and relaxed their shoulders. I noticed the look of relief on their faces. Gaia may have been the reason behind their lightened mood, but my being able to communicate in their primary language made all of us feel more comfortable.  

Years after ignoring my ability to connect with others, I've fully embraced being bilingual. With age comes wisdom, maturity, and, finally, gratitude. I took my second language for granted rather than viewing it as a tool to bond with others and help reduce their stress, anxiety and confusion. I owe my mom a huge thank you — I mean, gracias.