Tag Archives: week13

12/4/21

Sacrificing a Language

“My Spanish” reflects on Lozada-Oliva’s relationship with the language as she grows up, and as someone in a similar situation as the author, the opening and closing stanzas stood out to me the most, especially “…my Spanish is an itchy phantom limb. / It is reaching for words / and only finding air” (2-4). Though my parents spoke almost exclusively with me in Spanish when I was young, I switched to English soon after beginning school and began to lose my familiarity with Spanish, something I initially regarded as unimportant since we would only speak it at home. As I grew older my inability to connect with my relatives in Mexico pushed me to relearn the language, though I found that I was missing the ease with which I once communicated, and every sentence was a struggle to form in time to keep a conversation⁠—this in turn resulted in me speaking less in Spanish when I could, despite knowing that practice would only improve my fluency, because I felt that sticking with English was easier.

Though I knew that my parents had undoubtedly struggled with the same thing when learning English, it wasn’t until much later that I realized how much effort they had to put in on a daily basis. The end of the ninth and tenth stanzas, where Lozada-Oliva questions their identity as Americans, and then comments on her parents’ accents, also resonated with me for this reason. In an English-speaking country where an accent can be associated with status, I felt a bit sad to think I was so willing to let go of my heritage and my closeness with extended family in favour of what I used to perceive as the more important or relevant language⁠.

12/3/21

My First Language

Lozada–Oliva’s poem reminded me of my experience with my first language. For context, my family moved to Canada when I was 3 and my first language was Slovak. I eventually stopped speaking it at home (most likely when I was around 8-9 years old) and I am now no longer able to speak it.

If I were to try to speak it, my first language would be grasping for words that would never come. They simply don’t come to mind. Even if I knew the right words, I wouldn’t know where to begin when it comes to putting them in order or conjugating verbs. I’d be reaching out for knowledge that seemingly doesn’t exist. Even the most simple sentences seem impossible to say. I’d be able to say more in languages that I’ve actively tried to learn and/or have taken classes in.

But if I were to hear it, I would understand a decent amount. And if the grammar was very off, there’s a decent chance I might notice. The knowledge that seemingly doesn’t exist, in some ways, actually does. To me, it is not a language that I see/hear in the media, in writing, or from anyone outside of my family. To me, it is little memories and fragments rather than a way of communicating.

12/1/21

My Chinese

Lozada–Oliva’s poem “My Spanish” imparts foresight to what future generations of Chinese might experience here in Canada as well. This is particularly relevant to me due to being a first generation Chinese, Canadian citizen myself. Unlike the author, instead of being born in Canada, I moved here with my family when I was just five years old. In these 14 years in Canada, I have lost so many aspects of my previous cultural practices and traditions. Even now, the loss of the foundation of my original spoken language speaks volumes to the length at which it is lost. Due to this poem, the previously unfathomable thought of the next generation’s personal identity struggles are now in light. Therefore, I emphasize and understand Lozada-Oliva’s struggles and grievances as a 2nd+ generation of Hispanic American, although it may be at a different level. I struggle with the answers whenever someone asks me if I am fluent in Mandarin or Cantonese because I honestly do not know. Just like Lozada-Oliva, my language is a worn out photo of the past. Half of it muscle memory, and the other half gobbled up by the media that I consumed.  Yet, I still remember like a foggy memory of the past, shining like the light at the end of the tunnel, but it is merely the start.