Knowledge is power, or at least so they say. Personally, I’ve always found it fascinating how the saying never follows with exactly what kind of power it is. Is it strength? Or maybe the power to predict the future? Avoid the past perhaps? After all, many of us believe that to know something is to break free from the cycle. That is why history is more than a celebration of achievement, it is also a cautionary tale. But growing up there was no way I could have understood all of that, and looking back I realize it was all wrong. In order to find my power, this thing everyone talks about, I would have to pay a price. Through the process I would become readily willing to surrender what I called power. Like all journeys, and like all stories, mine began with a single thought. For me, that first thought was a simple question. Why?
Growing up, my parents taught me both English and Spanish, the latter being their native tongue. And so when I was young and still not in school, I played along quite nicely. I could ask for water from my Mom or ask Abuela for a quesadilla. Everything was going smoothly, that is, until I went to school. Surrounded by children who knew English as their primary language I grew to avoid the use of Spanish in an effort to fit in. Eventually, I stopped practicing at home. “English was my ‘first’ language and it’s used where I live now, so why bother learning a whole different system?” I may not have stopped entirely, but it was enough. My Grandparents and I did not, or could not, converse beyond a simple scope. But I was convinced it was fine. My classmates understood my English, and my cousins as well as my Aunts and Uncles all spoke crystal English. In this world, my English one, I had power. I was subject to no one, but could be above others. A disgusting thought of false superiority. I thought I was actually better than someone else. Little did I know there is a remedy for the powerfully arrogant, a simple remedy by the name of regret.
Eventually, my family and I would venture to Mexico City in order to visit my Dad’s Mom and his siblings. While a few of them could speak an impressive amount of English, from what I can recollect, my Grandmother could not, save a few short phrases. But being young and ignorant, and still arrogant, I took it that she could not understand me. I believed that she was unable to listen to what I “had to offer”. Not the other way around. She was a proud, stoic, and active woman in her late 80’s. I was a stubborn and emotional child no older than six or seven. In all respects she was more of an inspiration than I could be. Yet it was me sitting on the couch believing she was missing out by not knowing English. Despite all her questions, whether they were about my school, my dreams, or my joys, I often failed to discern her words. Yet somehow when I talked with blubbering Spanish, grasping at words to try and describe what I meant, she listened. Catching on to every word somehow. Despite not knowing the words, something made her understand. What it was, I would not know for years. Unfortunately, she would not be there to see me finally understand. My Grandmother passed away a couple of years later, and seeing as my family could not afford many trips to Mexico, I would not see her years before or after her death. What I thought was power, what I thought made me more amongst others, was nothing more than a binding chain I held on a pedestal. So why was I me at all? If I was someone else, then maybe whoever took my place would cherish my Grandmother like she should have been, and maybe they would understand her.
I was disgusted with myself. If I could just learn Spanish then maybe she could, even in death, be proud of me. So I practiced every chance I had. At school during lunch, with my parents, and with my grandparents. I practiced so much, and in doing so surrendered myself to the unknown. Yet, I could not find what it was that made my Grandmother understand me so clearly. It was something that transcended words, and I wanted so desperately to find it. So I pushed on. Surrendering everything I thought I knew to ridicule. I heard stories of life, love, pain and suffering, joy, and courage. In losing all I thought made me powerful, in losing what I thought made me fit in, I found something. I learned not just to understand the words, but to understand the speaker. I learned what my Grandmother knew all that time ago.
A language is more than just a string of words. A language is the feeling inside the speaker, it is their very heart conveying itself. A language is the expression of hopes, doubts, fears, strengths, and everything in between. Learning another language gave me perspective. While some words exist to express a feeling in one language, in another such words may be non-existent, or ill-fitting. Learning another language showed me that what matters is not the words, but the heart and the eyes. More than that, it showed me that there was a whole world of dreams I had not explored, and a whole world more I could only explore by giving myself up to the unknown and choosing to understand rather than demand to be understood. So yes, knowledge is power. It is the power to realize that you and I have an entire world to explore with limitless possibilities, if only we give up our shackles of expectation and “power”. It took losing my Grandmother for me to want to learn Spanish, but it took Spanish for me to see just how caged I really was. Where once I thought myself atop a mountain, I now found myself with wings. Wings capable of exploring even the most distant lands. I found myself free.
Self-Reflection:
-Who is the envisioned audience?
By sharing this story of my journey towards a “spiritual” freedom through language and understanding, I hope that others like me might more easily achieve what I did. For those that struggle with connecting to their culture because of a fear that they might be ousted, I hope they find in my story a sense of belief that in their journey they will be rewarded beyond their wildest dreams. And for those who have known only the language of their heritage, I hope that they are intrigued by my story and find that they too have something to learn, that all of us in fact do. I hope most of all that in reading this story, those who struggle to accept their heritage or that of others will find that it is only together by which we may see and appreciate how truly free we are. I hope that they close their eyes to what could go wrong, and open their eyes to what might be.
-How was the audience engaged with?
In order to better connect with my target audience I based my narrative on an extremely personal event, which is also an extremely common one, the passing of a loved one. But specifically, I chose to focus on the “sense of superiority” that I and likely others felt, or still feel, towards those of our loved ones who are not as well versed in the popular language. However, in doing so I hoped to show how especially terrible the regret might be when we choose to ignore our other half. Furthermore, I wanted my audience to know I felt what it was like to go from the top of a mountain to lying on the ground. A more than likely common sentiment amongst those who have been stumped in the pursuit of learning their second language. In doing so I wanted to show them how frustrating and freeing it is to not understand the words but instead understand the feeling behind them.
