Each generation builds upon the foundation laid by their parents. With the passage of time, new endings amend old stories, and sometimes, history gets left behind in the pursuit of new milestones.

It is easy to remember a family history when proximity to origin remains intact. When you can still walk the same streets your grandmother once did or pass by the school your grandfather graduated from, the past is tangible. For immigrant families, when home is a place thousands of miles away, and memories are held in houses that are no longer your own, knowing where you come from becomes far more difficult.

Language ties family history together. It’s the basis of all storytelling, yet oftentimes changing language is the first sacrifice in beginning a new life in the United States. Native tongues are left behind when assimilating to English-dominated surroundings. Having to think in one language and speak in another, juggling two identities in one mind and straddling the line of two worlds, is the immigrant experience.

A Language Left Behind

Guadalupe “Lupe” Martinez works as a Compliance Officer in Southern California after she traded the charming streets of Atlixco, Mexico for the sprawling Los Angeles freeways and the view of the Popocatépetl Volcano for the San Gabriel mountains. Born in the Mexican state of Puebla and raised by a single mother after her parents separated when she was 11, Martinez cherished the safety of her home and the freedom to go anywhere.

Martinez as a young girl. (Photo courtesy of Guadalupe Martinez)

“What I love particularly about my town, even if you go now you may walk down the street and someone who is a normal bypasser will say, ‘Buenos dias,’ you don’t have to know someone to be greeted,” said Martinez.

Her mother brought Martinez and her younger brother to the U.S. when she was 16 to work in a factory as punishment for acting out in her teenage years. Despite learning English in middle school, Martinez was laughed at by coworkers for her pronunciation.

“I hated this country because when I was here, I didn’t fit in. Then I learned there was a community center aimed for adults to learn English,” said Martinez. “I started enjoying the classes and joining into conversations and being really aware of other people, other colors, other cultures and that’s when I thought, ‘Maybe this country isn’t so bad.’”

After a year away from home, their family decided to move back to Atlixco. What was deemed as a Pueblo Mágico (Magic Town) lost its allure when she returned to it with a new perspective.

“When I went back, I didn’t like what I saw, so I decided to come back on my own against my mom. She tried to talk me into not coming back,” said Martinez.

Martinez standing with her mother in their home kitchen. (Photo courtesy of Guadalupe Martinez)

Later that same year, she crossed the border back to the U.S. and returned to her old job, but this time alone and undocumented.

“It was hard making a living. I went back to work, to the place that I hated working. But I went back because that's the only industry that I knew,” Martinez said.

She went to community college and sat beside students who just graduated from high school and went home to their families when classes ended. With no family, Martinez went to work after school and applied for better paying jobs outside of the factory until she was restricted by her immigration status.

“I missed a couple of opportunities that I was offered, a couple of jobs in Downtown LA buildings, because I was undocumented,” said Martinez. “Those fears were instilled in me, that I knew that I had certain limitations because of my immigrant status. All this stays in the back of your head that you are not good. It's just that you have all this working against you.”

Martinez eventually got married, and while her husband was also Mexican, he came from a family who immigrated to the U.S. generations prior. After living in America for so long, his family held few ties to Mexico, only speaking English at home and with friends. Martinez noted their lack of effort in maintaining Spanish skills as they thought “they [were] better than someone who just arrived,” said Martinez. “I was always trying to fit in.”

Fewer Hispanic individuals in the U.S. spoke Spanish in 2020, with the percentage dropping from 80% in 2000 to 67%.

Since 2000, the percentage of Spanish speakers in the U.S. has dropped by 13%. Having experienced firsthand the challenges of navigating an English-dominated environment as a native Spanish speaker, Martinez grew wary of the same struggles being passed on to her own children.

“Fast forward to my first child, I thought that if I taught my mother language to them, it would kind of be a repeat of my story. I didn’t want anybody to look down at them because they had an accent,” said Martinez. “Those fears or prejudices that I had… I didn’t want to pass them on.”

Brick by brick Lupe built a home for herself in a place that felt isolating on the first impression. She found strength in a phrase that has echoed through Mexican households across the country: 'Sí se puede.'"

Between Silence and Speech

Leslie Soto had a different upbringing than her mom, Guadalupe Martinez. Born and raised on the U.S side of the border, she would spend summers in Mexico with her grandma. Unlike her mom, who was accustomed to being the only person in the room who didn’t speak English, Soto spent her adolescence as the only one in the room who didn’t speak Spanish. In school, Soto remembers the bilingual kids who felt above those who never learned Spanish. At a young age, she believed she was not Mexican enough because she didn’t speak Spanish.

“I don't have too much resentment towards myself or my family, more specifically my parents because I didn't go to a school that embraced multilingualism. It was like you’re learning English and that's it,” said Soto.

While she envied those who didn’t need a translator to speak to their own family, she also acknowledged the Mexican identity doesn’t simply boil down to the language itself.

“There isn't a universal definition of what a Mexican is, especially because the country itself is not homogenous… the thing with the Mexican identity is it is what you make it, it is what your experiences are and what you identify as,” said Soto.

It wasn’t until Soto noticed the pages of her family history gathering dust right before her eyes that she decided to try learning Spanish. Living far from her grandma, Soto knew that she had to make the most of every conversion when they were together.

“It was so much more than understanding a language, it was understanding my grandma.”

Soto walking alongside her grandma. (Photo Courtesy Leslie Soto)

Her grandma, who still lives in the home Martinez left behind, was the only person in her life that spoke to her in Spanish. She spent summers asking her mom to translate, or learning it was easier to not utter a word at all.

Learning to read and write in Spanish was the simple step. The far more daunting task was to hold a conversation in Spanish. Soto’s confidence speaking in Spanish falters when she focuses too much on the missing notes of her accent, or the double r’s she can’t roll. Intense self-awareness and perfectionism compounded with learning the new language continues to challenge Soto. But with every conversation, she trips over less words than before, and the need for her mom to translate left her a long time ago.

“It's also definitely changed my relationship with my mom for the better because now I am less reliant on certain translations,” said Soto. “I do oftentimes lean on her for clarifications but I think emotionally as well, it's been very heartwarming just to see there are certain jokes or certain insights that we share. It feels cool that we have another thing in common.”

Reading a story or scribbling down a sentence allows the luxury of a pause. The ability to stop, gather your thoughts and continue is a privilege unavailable when carrying a conversation. When Soto can ask follow up questions, and respond at the same cadence as her family, speaking is all the more gratifying.

While she passively learned Spanish as a kid, Soto only made the conscious decision to improve her fluency in recent years. She was never fluent as a child, so there was no muscle memory to revert to. Soto believes the disconnect with learning something for the first time — instead of remembering it once again — will always be present in her Spanish.

“I know for sure that I'll get more comfortable over time the more I speak it but I would say if you’re comparing to someone who spoke fluent Spanish since they were a small child and still do, I’m not gonna ever get to that point and I’m okay with that, because again we all have different circumstances, and I acknowledge that that is something that I can't reverse with time,” said Soto.

Soto, her mom and grandma are tied together with a matching resilience, generations apart but mirroring each other. They share an appearance, some personality traits and now that Soto is learning more Spanish, a language. The quote that reminds Soto of her mom and grandma happens to be a Spanish one:

“I would love for more people to understand that the Mexican identity is continuously evolving,” said Soto. “I think it’s really awesome to see more folks embracing things that they don’t understand, they didn't grow up speaking Spanish and taking their own initiative like either understanding why, learning Spanish, or just embracing their culture however they see fit.”

Reclaiming Roots

Born to an American father and Salvadorian mother, 22-year-old Sophia Bryson’s cultural identity was split down the middle. However, as her father’s upbringing mirrored her own, that identity leaned heavily towards the side she recognized as familiar. Bryson learned about her parents’ childhoods through separate lenses. For her father, Thomas Bryson, she recognizes his childhood’s Southern California freeway signs and street names, because she grew up on the same ones. With her father, their histories' blend together with a fluidity of language.

Bryson with her mother and father. (Photo courtesy Sophia Bryson)

“I definitely had identity crises when I was younger, because I couldn't speak [Spanish] fluently, so it made me feel less than and I think also already being half-white half-Salvadorian, I already have this insecurity [that] people won't see me as Hispanic enough,” said Bryson.

Despite her mother, Celina Alarcón, speaking to her in Spanish, Bryson always responded in English. They both understood the two languages and built their bond somewhere in between. It’s not always the long monologues or intricate poetry that lose meaning switching from one language to another. Bryson recognizes a loss of love from Spanish to English when the affectionate “mamita” or “mija” translates to just ‘daughter.’

“I feel like we're very close, so it doesn't really change based on the language, but I definitely think that she can express herself better in Spanish,” said Bryson. “Even some of the sayings that she can use in Spanish or the way she phrases things, it definitely is different between the two languages.”

As she grew older, Bryson’s grasp on the language faded further away as neither her brother, Jacob, nor father ever learned Spanish. The Bryson household was an English-speaking environment with fragments of Salvadorian culture scattered throughout. Bryson recognizes her mother’s history in the homemade pupusas she learned to make and the words of encouragement that find their way in Spanish.

While she feels no obstacles in her relationship with her mom, Bryson recognizes how the language barrier has interrupted the relationship with her grandparents.

“I think my grandparents on my mom's side, when I was growing up, there was definitely that disconnect, and I feel it still a little bit,” said Bryson. “They don't know certain things about me just because I couldn't express it in the way that I wanted to. And a lot of the things that they did know about me, it was my mom telling them, versus me telling them. So it was just that disconnect and not being able to fully communicate and they also can't fully tell me what they want to tell me in English. I can't do it in Spanish, so we try the best that we can.”

After leaving El Salvador at 15 years old to escape the civil war, her mom never returned. Her mom’s story is one she only ever heard about, with the walls of her childhood home constructed only in Bryson’s imagination. One parent's history is a concrete reality, while the other's only existed in her head, never witnessed by her own eyes. In 2023, Sophia and her mom finally made it back to El Salvador, and Alarcón saw the streets she grew up on through the eyes of her adult self.

Photo taken during the 2023 El Salvador trip. (Photo courtesy Sophia Bryson)

Alarcón's childhood home in El Salvador. (Photo Courtesy Sophia Bryson)

The trip to El Salvador was both a first impression and an overdue return. Despite this being her first time in the country her mom calls home, the visit allowed Bryson to feel a new sense of ease in her own self perception.

“I was like, ‘Can I really consider myself Hispanic or Latina?’ But I think especially going to El Salvador and visiting it there and meeting the people and feeling so at home when I was there, even with the language barrier and me sometimes struggling, I felt very welcomed and very accepted and like people wanted me to be there,” said Bryson. “I think that really helped me overcome that.

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She added, “At the end of the day, my mom is such a fundamental part of who I am, and she's made me the person I am, and she's from there. So, how can I not consider myself to be there from there?”

Conversations I Never Had

It is a strange feeling, getting lost in the words around your own dinner table. I’ve become skilled at laughing on cue at jokes I don’t understand. Bridging together the bits and pieces of every story I hear, and accepting there are some things I will never know. I’ve picked up as much Spanish as I can by listening to every conversation, but I stumble over my words when it’s my turn to speak.

As children, my parents grew up speaking Spanish at home, but somewhere along the way, the language was left behind. Ashamed that the only Spanish she knew was the slang passed down in her household, my mother, Lisa Lara, rarely spoke it outside those walls.

“My grandmother took care of us when my parents worked. Her and my grandfather only spoke Spanish, said Lara. “I have an older sister who was more fluent than I. Because I was so shy, she would do my talking for me.”

On the other hand, my father, Richard Lara, didn’t want his children to feel the same confusion he once felt—sitting in a classroom, unable to understand the teacher, even renaming himself to claim a more American identity.

“One of my teachers said ‘Riccardo, You’re Richard here in the U.S.’ so I became Richard,” said Lara. He even named his firstborn son after himself, not the name he was given at birth but the name he was given to fit in.

For different reasons, they each let go of the language, leaving behind a piece of the puzzle. I’ve spent my whole life trying to put it back together. As a kid I felt more Mexican than I do now. As time passes I realize the knowledge I am missing about my own family. Todo lo que no sabo sé.

My grandpa, Pedro Lara, died when I was 12, but we had trouble communicating long before the cancer took over his lungs. Of all my relatives, my grandpa spoke the least amount of English. Our conversations resembled a game of charades before my dad translated, or we just gave up on talking all together. I can’t tell you much about him.

The summer after he died, I started watching baseball. As we sat at Dodgers games, my dad would look at me keeping score on the card I brought from home and say I reminded him of his dad. I never even knew my grandpa liked the Dodgers until after he died, and I fell in love with the same team he did. We didn’t have to speak the same language to love the same game.

My grandma, Socorro Lara, died a few years later. I was a senior in high school. By then, I had learned a little more Spanish, and she knew a little more English. I knew her better, but I never knew her completely. Now, I hear about her life through the stories told to me in English by my relatives. I never got to hear them from my grandma’s mouth. Although, maybe I did, and I just didn’t know what she was saying.

How much family history can you claim as your own when it needs to be translated for your understanding? Falling short of the stereotypical American life pushed my parents to leave behind their first language. Now, I grasp at straws to claim a heritage I can never do justice. A mindset of inadequacy because I didn’t grow up speaking the same language as my family has built a foundation of doubt and questions of belonging.When the language gets abandoned the generations that follow are left balancing multiple identities in one reflection and bridging a gap of speech.

That language barrier may not be as momentous as imagined. While it is present, there are ways to transcend it. There are methods to find your way back after being lost in translation, and to understand experiences that you never lived. Whether it be a language, a person, a history or an entire family - understanding is not effortless.

A veces, algo que no sabo sé hoy, sé mañana.