Putting The ‘I’ In Immigrant: Teaching children only in English is inherently assimilationist

I came to the United States knowing only one language. Before I could ever read and write in English, I spoke Tagalog. 

It’s a beautiful island language, a blend of the native dialects with characteristics of the Spanish due to their time as colonial rulers of the archipelago. The language is part of the culture, and it runs deep within my history. 

To me, Tagalog is evocative of Nochebuena late-night dinners, early morning runs to the bread shop for pandesal and Pilipino romantic comedies. It is the language of my childhood, and for so many years, I was unable to appreciate the depth of its meaning to me. 

When I came to the United States, language became the very first hurdle in my education and socialization. English was a great, intimidating facet of American society, and, for many like me, it was not the primary language spoken at home. 

I was in classes designed for those learning English as a Second Language (ESL) from the very beginning, and while I am grateful to have learned what I did, the experience and the narrowness of the U.S. educational curriculum suggested to me that there was something inferior about my native language and native culture.  

At an age where fitting in is paramount, to be cordoned off from regular classes and expected to learn English as a requirement to return to the masses is not only a monumental ask from young children, but also a psychological and social stressor that implies that there is something wrong with what they know.  

For a while, I was stubbornly resentful. It’s one of the great ironies of my life that I started out despising English with a passion. Because of the sharp criticism I received from teachers or peers, it was easier to keep to myself and avoid much use of the language altogether. 

I was painfully aware of how thick my accent was and how I alone encountered the difficulties of code switching in my early years. In a predominantly Caucasian community, there were rarely kids in similar situations. It felt isolating, whether that was the intention or not. There were more than a few occasions of unavoidable frustration when I couldn’t produce the English translation of a Tagalog word.

Up until third grade, reading and writing in English were distinct reminders of my otherness. It may not make sense to the outside world, but it’s a common coping mechanism for others like me to push that otherness down and suppress it.

Speaking only in Tagalog turned into speaking occasionally in Tagalog, which lent itself to speaking rarely in Tagalog. It was unconscious but reactive, and if there is any pressing harm in giving children only one avenue to learn by, it is the complete supplantation of personal heritage for educational uniformity. 

Education consultant Rusul Alrubail wrote about this phenomenon in an article in The Atlantic: “Banning [a child’s] first language often creates a negative impact … a sense of divide for students between their first language, often used at home, and English. We see students who refuse to be associated with their first language, or refuse to speak it or acknowledge that they know it, due to them feeling ashamed … This impacts their cultural identity.”

Education, as an opportunity to be inclusive of cultural wealth, is not inclusive in the modern age and conversely suggests to students that there is a scale that finds their native language inferior to American English. 

There is a part of me that will always regret letting my bilingual fluency go. It’s not as if I couldn’t earn back the fluidity and ease of speaking Tagalog, but the difficulty will be in unearthing the things I put away long ago. 

It wasn’t until I was in high school that I was given the option to study another language, and my native language wasn’t even offered in the curriculum. 

From a perspective that reviews the possibility of utilizing foreign language as a national resource, Olga Kagan, a professor of Slavic languages at the University of California, Los Angeles, argues that there is harm in essentially banning the use of more than one language in school. Her suggestion for American education encouraged the creation of classes designed to solidify reading and writing fluency in foreign language for “heritage speakers” like myself. 

In California, 44% of citizens speak a second language at home. In Los Angeles, that number climbs to 57%. 

The opportunities to enhance the knowledge and capacity of the general population are limitless when we view foreign languages as an asset, not as a tactic for division and “othering.” 

It encourages, too, the wellbeing of our nation’s children and young adults. 

From a teaching standpoint and from a position to advise our university systems, Alrubail emphasizes the importance of unlinking expectations of assimilation and English language learning. One can learn a language without foregoing their heritage; teaching children only in English wrongly impresses the notion that they are connected. 

There are other avenues for educating our youth. As our community makeup and our USC population grows increasingly more diverse, inclusivity should be the focus of our educational institutions. Instead of taking heritage away from the younger generations, we should be embracing their language capabilities and enhancing them alongside the staple of American English. It is possible to do both, just as it is possible to embrace two cultures. 

Noelle Natividad is a sophomore writing about the immigrant experience in America. Her column, “Putting The ‘I’ In Immigrant,” runs every other Friday.