The Colors of English
Lessons of Pain and Linguistic Loss in English-only Classrooms
This week’s essay is written by Vianney A. Gavilanes.
“I could feel my life changing through subtraction—an accumulation of losses that left me in an existential void, not unlike the process of learning English, which ultimately required unlearning some Spanish” -Román De la Campa
Lately, I have been thinking about the connections between Spanish and English and the ongoing struggle for bilingualism and authentic voice. I have been working on a special creative writing project, Liberando Nuestras Voces, that is dear to my heart and has unearthed many memories and emotions. Liberando Nuestras Voces is a series of creative writing workshops for middle school Latinx girls. The workshops invite girls to use writing and art as tools for self-reflection, expression, and exploration of social justice through an intentional curation of mentor texts written by BIPOC writers and pláticas with local women of color artists. Recognizing the connections between identity, language, and culture, the series fosters fierce writing through a culturally and linguistically sustaining curriculum affirming the girls’ creative dreams, cultural wealth, and linguistic repertoire.
As I design this project for adolescent Latinx girls, I reflect on my six-year-old self, a young child who had just arrived in sunny California from Mexico in late August of 1992.
I think about the excitement filling her heart when she was told she would soon learn English. Learning English was a positive thing for this little brown girl because she loved learning, and the thought of communicating with others in another language intrigued her. Plus, she knew from movies and relatives that English was the language de los Estados Unidos, including Disneylandia, a magical place her relatives who lived in Los Angeles would tell her about. Little did she know that it meant learning English at the expense of losing her Spanish. She couldn’t understand why her Spanish was not valued and celebrated in school. Instead, it became a hindrance, a problem to her becoming proficient in English. That little girl entered American schooling ready to become an emergent bilingual, but English as a Second Language (ESL) teaching was not prepared for her; she was ahead of her time. So she, just like many other English language learners, was implicitly taught that Spanish was the language of home and English the language of school.
The weeks between my arrival to the U.S. in mid-August and starting school in early September are an indistinct blur, like a swirl of colors when paint blends on a child’s art project. I remember vividly stepping off the airplane at San Francisco International Airport and walking on the tarmac with my mother, younger brother, and baby sister to meet our father, who was anxiously waiting for us. My next image is of us jumping in the camper of my uncle’s gray Toyota pickup, who had accompanied my father to the airport to pick us up. I was mesmerized as we drove on a bridge over the glistening waters of the Bay Area on this warm sunny day, which, years later, I learned was the San Mateo bridge. I don’t remember us getting down and bringing our few pieces of luggage into our new home, but I recall vividly walking around the house in awe of the differences between our new house and Mama Cuca’s house back in Mexico. I found it odd that the windows had a white plastic cover that, when rolled down, blocked the sunlight, along with blinds and a curtain. In Mama Cuca’s house, all the windows opened outward, and there were only sheer curtains to let in the breeze and the sunlight.
Soon after arriving in the U.S., my parents enrolled my siblings and me in school. In Mexico, I was one year ahead for my age and was excelling academically; I loved to learn, although the nuns running the catholic school I attended could be intimidating and mean at times. Logically, my parents enrolled me in the second grade since that was the grade I should be in. However, being a Spanish-monolingual student who recently arrived from Mexico in a school that lacked bilingual education, bilingual teachers, and bilingual staff and was predominantly white was like being thrown on the deep end of a pool without ever having dipped one toe in the water before. I was drowning. I felt that I was the only student in the class who was lost and who didn’t know what to do. No one in Ms. Smith’s class spoke Spanish, so I never talked to anyone during class. When we had breaks, the students could play with blocks, coloring pages, or read books. I tried to play with them, but they would quickly move away and go to another side of the room. They would never say anything to me directly; they would pick up their things and move away from me as if I were a smelly old lunch that should be avoided. A couple of weeks into the school year, my parents were advised by the principal to place me in first grade instead. That way, I could learn English better and still be within my age group since I was a year ahead.
Being a Spanish-monolingual student who recently arrived from Mexico in a school that lacked bilingual education, bilingual teachers, and bilingual staff and was predominantly white was like being thrown on the deep end of a pool without ever having dipped one toe in the water before.
I remember one time, shortly after I was moved to Ms. Jones’ first-grade classroom, I walked over to the rug area where some students were playing with brightly colored wood pattern blocks. As I sat down next to them, they all stopped and looked at me with expectation. I could sense in their demeanor they were expecting me to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. Instead, I reached over to grab one of the tan rhombus blocks that caught my attention for being the smallest shape and the one with a sad color. I tried to place it on top of what appeared to be a castle the students were building, and as I was about to lay it, one of the students said, “No!” along with other words I did not understand, and pushed my hand away. I felt scared and embarrassed because the other kids looked at me, laughing or with curious faces. I wonder now what those children thought of me. Who did they think I was? Did they know that I came from another country and that I, too, had friends who played and laughed with me in that country? However, we didn’t play with brightly colored wood pattern blocks; instead, we played a la trais y a la vibora de la mar on a cracked concrete patio.
I wonder now what those children thought of me. Who did they think I was? Did they know that I came from another country and that I, too, had friends who played and laughed with me in that country?
Propina
We’ll share the conclusion to Vianney’s essay next week. Liberando Nuestras Voces, is launching soon, with various opportunities to support or sign up:
For related discussions of language learning in U.S. schools, check out our previous conversation with Dr. Ramon Martinez:
"The cost of learning English depends on who you are."
We’ll see you next week!