There are so many parts of myself that make me essentially, well, me. From things as big as my gender and race to the little things that define me — my favorite book or how I take my coffee in the morning (by the gallon). Lately, one piece of that puzzle has been feeling more important than ever. Weirdly enough, that piece is being bilingual.
I know this is not an uncommon trait, especially at my incredibly diverse university where basically every nationality is represented in each dorm. For me, though, it’s been a bit of a journey.
I didn’t exactly grow up bilingual, at least not completely. I am American-Israeli, but only my dad speaks Hebrew. Growing up, it was hard to teach me and my sister, since my mom couldn’t join in if we were all speaking Hebrew. At least I assume that’s why I never learned until my family actually moved to Israel for a year, throwing me into public school there at age 7.
Though I learned Hebrew, since then I spent many years gradually forgetting the language I had struggled to become fluent in that year. It wasn’t until my family decided for my freshman year that we needed another sabbatical in the homeland that I really relearned Hebrew. My parents even had to reteach me the alphabet the day before school started, I had forgotten that much!
So I learned Hebrew again — well enough at least. But after 9th grade, my family flew back to New Jersey and I went back to full-time English. As much as it pained me, my fluency started to deteriorate again. Not completely this time, but enough to eat at my confidence (not to mention my grammar).
Fast-forward three years. I guess my parents had gotten me into the habit of sabbaticals, because after graduating high school I decided to take a gap year in Israel (surprising I know). After a year, surrounded by Israelis and working and volunteering in Hebrew, I was back to fluency. More than that though, Hebrew transformed me.
I have a theory that learning and speaking a new language allows us to reinvent ourselves, even if just slightly. The way I express myself verbally is such an essential part of who I am, from my tone of voice to my use of sarcasm, my personal vocabulary, or my excessive use of puns. You may not notice it about yourself, but when thrown into a new language, I can bet that you’ll miss it.
Hebrew is an aggressive language — I always used to joke that when my family spoke Hebrew, the volume naturally rose an octave or two. As a naturally shy person, I feel like Hebrew makes me loud, assertive, and shameless in a way that I wish I could be a little more in English. As ironic as it is that a second language gave me confidence, in many senses I feel that it’s true. Just the act of speaking, fluently and correctly, was often enough to impress those around me who knew just one language and give me that little boost of assurance.
Now that I am back in the U.S., I know that I can’t let myself forget again. Hebrew lets me preserve not just my connection to that country, but to my friends, experiences, and the person I was there. So I find myself craving reminders — I only talk to my father in Hebrew now, even over text. I often listen to Israeli music — it doesn’t matter whether it’s the crappiest of pop songs or old Israeli folk, the language and the associations it brings always feel nostalgic anyway. I find myself doodling Hebrew letters or scrawling Hebrew song lyrics in the margins of notebooks.
These may seem like little things, but I’ve learned the hard way that a second language takes a lot of upkeep, and my bilingualism isn’t something I’m willing to let go of.
