Some of the most tender childhood memories of my maternal grandmother are of us sitting on the front lawn eating watermelon. “‘Uelita”, as we used to call her, would slice up a chilled watermelon, place it in her green Tupperware bowl and hand us all a slice as we sat around on the lawn on hot summer evenings. Abuela, Abuelo, my parents, uncles, and aunts would sit in their colorful lawn chairs talking about random subjects.
Most often, they spoke of memories of life back in México or the relatives they left back in Texas. I recall the cool, juicy sensation of watermelon in my mouth as I sat on the grass fighting off summer mosquitoes surrounded by a circle of aunts and uncles, as the cousins and I sat eating watermelon–listening to family history. The warm feeling of togetherness will forever linger in my memories of childhood summers at Abuela’s house eating watermelon.
Abuela was a woman who exuded quiet fortitude through many examples of sacrifice and perseverance and managed to forge a foundation for our family that includes a merging of two cultures. The traditions she brought with her from her early life in México and the new traditions she established for us as she built her new life in California set a tone for generations to come. We are a family of five generations who in many instances represent bilingualism and examples of traditions new and old. We owe these customs to ‘Uelita who taught us the importance of unity and valuing our roots.
The tenderness associated with eating watermelon briefly turned to a bitter taste as an adult. In my late twenties, I became a mother for the first time. Abuela had passed away a few years earlier and I longed for her presence during such a life-changing moment. She always knew the answer to the most difficult challenges life brought and knew how to make things right.
One particular afternoon while I was on maternity leave during my final month of pregnancy with my first child, my mother and I walked into our hometown grocery store. As we walked in through the automatic doors, Mami and I were engaged in conversation in our native Spanish when I heard one of the female employees sorting through produce loudly state across the produce aisle “Look at this one! She looks like she swallowed a whole watermelon!” as she chuckled. The other female employee looked in my direction and said nothing as she continued stacking avocadoes.
I recall the warm sensation of rage and embarrassment flowing to my face. “How dare she?” I thought as I pointed out the comment she made to my mother. Would this woman have commented so loudly if she heard us speaking English? It was clear to us her comment was driven by the idea that we did not speak English and would not understand. The grocery store employee may not have realized implicit bias drove her comment.
Years later, I still encounter the question of my place of birth when people hear me speak Spanish and when I tell them I am a native Californian they follow with “you speak Spanish so well I thought you were born in México!” As if somehow I am obligated to forget the part of me that originates from Mexican immigrants and allows me to communicate with my parents. I hear this comment from English only and Spanish only speakers alike—proof that implicit bias is present in us all.
I reflect back on an experience I had as a young parent navigating the school scene as my son began preschool. Since we did not qualify for the state funded preschool programs at our local school district, we searched for privately funded options in our community. We settled on a parochial program that offered flexibility in their schedule that allowed our son to experience school by attending two days a week. We wanted to offer our son the social interaction and structured day a preschool setting could afford. This proved to be such a belittling experience to our family I still shudder at the implicit bias present in my son’s preschool teacher.
The first signs of a problem became apparent at the fall reporting period when we were informed at the parent-teacher conference that my son would be held back because his “Spanish speaking was interfering with his ability to learn.” It was both unnerving and incredible that a teacher who was in charge of our three year old son had already decided that he did not have the ability to learn because he also spoke Spanish.
Needless to say, we quickly moved him out of that school and enrolled him in a different program that not only embraced his bilingualism, but also had a head teacher that was bilingual herself. She utilized Spanish to support our son’s acquisition of the English language. This was an example of a truly inclusive program and I could not be more relieved to have my son in such a welcoming setting.
As a college educated woman and a mother, I am fortunate to advocate for my children through an informed lens. Had I been in a different situation in terms of social standing, my son’s educational journey may have ended differently. He is now a second-generation college student and is fluently bilingual. I want the opportunity of bilingualism to be available to every child as an asset and not a deficit. As educators, we have a duty to support and listen to parents who may not know exactly what their children’s educational needs are, but who express concern over missing components in their learning.
As a young woman in my mid-twenties, I did not feel empowered by the need to speak up in oppressive situations. Mostly because at that time I knew my emotions would get the best of me and leave me coming across as an “angry brown woman”; a common stereotype of Latina women driven by their passion to improve the condition of the communities they live in. Now, as a woman in my mid-forties and decades of education framing my life experiences, I will not allow negative stereotypes to hinder my efforts to address inequities.
I recognize the existence of perspectives that view bilingualism in some as an asset and a deficit in others. I realize the need to speak up and not empower ignorance through silence. The simple act of responding to a question or comment with an acknowledgement or an informed point sends an element of shock and dismay that highlights an act of ignorance or insensitivity with enlightenment. We now see highlighted through social media instances in which people going about everyday tasks are disrupted by individuals who believe they have the right to dictate the language others speak.
Language is a personal mode of communication, a tool that people use to connect to others. Language is also a form of identity that defines the authentic self. Each individual has a right to draw from their toolbox to use the language and dialect they see fit to connect with the people with whom they interact and in the space they occupy. As a tool, language tailors to specific audiences–those who are most fluent can draw from their languages and dialects to communicate with others in the most appropriate fashion to convey messages and express their personal identity.
