When I first began attending Choate, I tried my best to fit into this diverse community full of people with different personalities and backgrounds. In the process of integrating myself into the community, I found myself changing things from my homework routine, to the way I pronounce my name in front of others. I began to change things I never thought I would, and things I frankly did not need to change. Gradually, however, I began to find pride in the things that make me who I am: my culture, and the language that I speak. My culture, my language, and my heritage make me who I am — and there is nothing that can change the pride I take in that. My journey of “self-discovery” through the language barriers I have faced in this community became my inspiration for writing my speech for the Krause-Stevens Public Speaking Contest.
Growing up in a bilingual family has truly helped me become who I am. I love speaking Spanish. I love the way my tongue tickles the roof of my mouth while rolling my R’s. I love how the words to flow together so romantically. I love singing along to Enrique Iglesias with my mother, dancing around, not caring what people think. I love how close it brought me to completely different group of people, who share the same culture. A language shared among a large community, creating love, creating unity, is the very thing that drives me so far from the ones I love most.
I was raised in a Spanish-speaking household. Spanish was all I heard as a child. As I got older, I began to speak English and that became my primary language. I spoke English everywhere I went, from school to small conversations with my older sister. Growing up, I never truly realized how challenging life was for my family simply because of the language they spoke. I remember my mother sitting with my sister and me, watching TV and mumbling words under her breath, trying to say them correctly. I remember how she stuttered trying to speak to us in a language that was so distant from her own. I also remember having to translate things from small words to my parents, to some of the most important sentences of their lives.
Now, I want you all to remember being 10 years old, a little clueless, not quite a child, but also not quite a teenager. Now imagine sitting in an office hung up with posters with about life, with your mother, and with a stranger, a stranger who knows your sister better than anyone. Now imagine having to listen to your sister’s therapist, this stranger, telling you to translate to your mother that your sister does not want to live anymore. Something that a 10 year-old is not aware of, and having to find out by translating it to your mother. Imagine having to look at your mother in the eyes and tell her that her child wants to end her life. Realizing that all those times your sister said she was cutting her hair in the bathroom, she was cutting her wrists. Realizing that you didn’t know how horrible she felt, not you, not anyone, simply because she couldn’t tell anyone, because no one “understood”. In this moment, I realized how much language truly affects my family, how much it divided the communication between my parents and their children. My sister should have been able to express herself, but couldn’t. She couldn’t tell me because apparently I was too young to understand emotionally, and my parents could not quite understand verbally. She had no one to tell, no way to express the way she felt.
To be honest, I have never been completely comfortable with my family’s inability to speak using correct English. I feel quite horrible saying it out loud, but frankly, I have been ashamed. I was embarrassed when my mother came to small events at school and had to speak to my teachers. I would get frustrated at times because it was always hard to express myself to my parents, it was difficult to be on the same page. But, a few weeks ago, I realized that I do not need to be ashamed of this. I do not need to feel embarrassed about the way my family is, or how different we are from others. I was writing email down for information when this happened, and a woman asked me how to pronounce my name. Naturally I said, Abigail Rivas, but then went on to saying “but Abigail Rivas” to make it easier and more “anglicized.” Instantly after correcting myself, someone told me that I do not need to change myself for others. They told me to say my name proudly, to not be ashamed of saying it the way it was meant to be said. I realized, she was right. I should embrace my differences, my culture, my language, and all that they embody. My language makes me different. It makes me unique in a way that not many people here may be able to say they are. I carry the hardships of my language on my back and I carry them with honor. At home, Spanish was not unusual. But here, I realized that Spanish truly shapes me into the person I am becoming. The culture, the history, everything the language carries with it is a part of me, and I couldn’t be prouder.
Although being brought up in such a diverse family has had its ups and downs, that does not change my unconditional love for my family. Language may set a barrier between us but it is nothing that love cannot overcome. Whether other people like it or not, I am who I am, I speak the language I speak, I come from where I come from, and no one can make me ashamed of that. My name is not “Abigail Rivas,” it is Abigail Rivas. I say it loud and proud because I am not ashamed to be who I am anymore.
My whole life I struggled with language barriers. Growing up in a Spanish-speaking household in a country whose main language is English has certainly impacted who I am. At home I was the Abigail who couldn’t speak English to her parents because they didn’t understand, and at Choate I am the Abigail who cannot speak Spanish because many of my classmates don’t understand. I have always been either English Abigail, or Spanish Abigail, never just Abigail. Until I came to Choate, I was unable to appreciate the beauty of the languages I can speak. I will always be thankful for those who helped me realize how special it is to be who I am.
