Vietnamese is a tonal language, and the pitch or tone of a word that is spoken can drastically change its entire meaning. The word “ma” can mean ghost or mother, but a simple shift in tone can create a distinction between the two.
Vietnamese was my first language, and it was the “gift” my mother had given me. It was a primary connection to my lineage, and the only form of communication I had between my family and me at home. Somewhere along the lines, this gift can be forgotten β pronunciations become off, and tonal shifts lack the sharpness they need to distinguish words.
When I entered school, I lacked the capacity to balance speaking Vietnamese at home for my family, and English at school to communicate with friends and teachers. I chose the language that was predominantly spoken by my peers, English, as it would help me assimilate into this newfound culture I entered. Individuals who grew up having to speak one language at home and another in the outside world know all too well how this balance begins to shift as we lean one over the other.
Living between languages affects more than fluency or skills in a language β it affects our sense of belonging and of identity. Losing fluency in your first language often feels like losing a specific version of yourself. A “self” that exists through years of conversation with your family at home, or conversations that you once had with your grandparents. The version of yourself that speaks a language you needed to assimilate and succeed in the real world is different from your roots and the culture that you were raised around. It can make you feel stuck between two identities β both of which are you, yet hold different nuances.
Losing touch with your mother tongue can also strain your relationship with those who can only communicate with you in a specific language. For a period of my life, my knowledge of the Vietnamese language lost its essential vocabulary, and I had difficulty communicating with my mother and grandparents. I felt discouraged when I had to go to family gatherings, and was embarrassed at my lack of fluency in Vietnamese. The shame bubbles in your stomach when you stumble over your words, or when an elder corrects a word that you mispronounced. The quiet frustration of being unable to express yourself fully to those you care about can feel conflicting. It has personally made me feel linguistically distant, even though I was physically present with my family.
In recent years, my Vietnamese has reverted to what it once was, and I find much pride in speaking my mother tongue and keeping my language alive. Re-learning your first language is more than just the acquisition of the skill; it is a profound act of reconnecting with your roots and blossoming alongside the strong presence of the language in your life. The sharp tones and pitch in my language don’t intimidate me anymore β don’t let yours scare you away!
Have a long conversation with your grandparents, even if you can’t clearly articulate what you want to say. Practice having a conversation in your mother tongue at least once a day, or download that language-learning app. Every word you regain bridges the gap between your own multilingual identities.
I encourage you to take the time to re-learn your mother tongue, as it can help you notice how your language and identity require patience and persistence in order for it to be fully embraced.