Brief Context:

I was born in the Dominican Republic and moved to the United States at a young age and this is a personal essay that covers my struggles on adapting to a new country and the challenges many immigrants can face while learning a new language at a short age.

BETWEEN LANGUAGES

Yazmin Feliz

People say that language connects all of us together, but for me, it built a wall between who I was and the world around me for many years. We all know language is powerful, but what people don’t often talk about are the challenges and difficulties that come with leaning it. Yes, learning a new language can open doors, but during the harsh journey of perfectionating it, it can also limit opportunities.

I was born in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, where my early years were filled with Latin culture and traditions. Spanish was more than just a language, it was the foundation of my world, my mother language. Every day, I learned to spoke Spanish, I learned how to write it, and learning the Spanish alphabet. My entire childhood was wrapped in the sounds, words, and rhythms of Spanish, shaping who I was and who I would become.

On September 1, 2015, I took my very first flight. I vividly remember stepping onto the plane, my heart full of excitement but also pounding with nervousness. Deep down, I knew that from that moment on, my life would change forever. I was traveling to the United States of America and I knew it wasn’t as a tourist, but a place where a whole new life awaited me. This meant facing a new language, a new culture, and new traditions to learn. I was only seven years old, and I hadn’t even fully mastered my own mother language yet. How was I supposed to learn a completely different language when I was still learning my first?

As I sat on the plane with my family, the flight attendant welcomed us by saying, “Bienvenidos a bordo.” Then, suddenly, she repeated, “Welcome aboard.” Hearing those English words was strange and a little overwhelming. The sounds were unfamiliar, fast, and confusing. Things became even more confusing the moment the plane landed. As I walked through the airport in the United States, I was instantly overwhelmed by how different everything felt. Signs, announcements, posters, everything was in English. Even though Spanish and English share the same alphabet, the words looked unfamiliar, and the phrases meant nothing to me. I saw signs that said “Welcome To The United States”, “Baggage Claim”, “Arrivals,” “Gates” and “Restrooms”,” but to me, they were just random letters stuck together. It was like the entire world had suddenly switched languages, and I had no way to understand it.

Once we left the airport and got into the car, things didn’t get easier. On the road, I stared out the window, watching a whole new world rush past me. All the street signs were in English “Exit,” “Speed Limit,” “Yield,” “No U-Turn.” The words were everywhere, and yet they said nothing to me. I saw huge billboards with images and sentences I couldn’t understand. Even stop signs looked different. Hours ago I was in a place where I could understand everything and now I was somewhere I couldn’t read the world around me. At that moment I realized that I was completly surrounded by English on every wall, every road, every building and I had no idea how to interact with it.

Just a few days after arriving, I started school and that’s when the real shock began. The educational system in the United States was completely different from what I had known in the Dominican Republic. Back home, everything had been in Spanish. Suddenly, I was sitting in a classroom where every word, every instruction, every lesson was in English. I couldn’t understand what the teacher was saying. I couldn’t read the homework. I was that student that always needed extra help and that made me embarrassed. That feeling of embarrassment made me hesitant to ask for help when I actually needed it, which in return held me back. While the other kids followed along, I was lost, completely lost. It felt like I was drowning in a language I didn’t speak, while everyone else around me was already swimming. I had to put in double the effort just to do half of what they could do. I struggled not only with my classes but also with making friends. How could I talk to anyone when I didn’t even know the words to say hello properly? I felt left out, confused, and alone. That was only the beginning, but in that moment, I realized that learning English wouldn’t just be a school subject, it would be a challenge I had to face every single day.

Each year, I had to take a test called the NYSESLAT, meant to measure how well students like me were learning English. I took that test year after year, for four, maybe five years. I always tried my best, but no matter how hard I worked, I couldn’t pass. And each year, the test got harder. It felt like a wall I couldn’t climb, no matter how badly I wanted to. It was frustrating to know I was trying and still failing.

But I wasn’t alone. My family became my support system. My grandfather helped me in the simplest but most powerful way, by giving me books. Almost every other night, he would sit with me, hand me a picture book in English, and ask me to read out loud. After I finished, he’d ask questions about what I had read, all in English. It was his way of teaching me and building a bond with me at the same time. My mother, who had once been an English teacher in the Dominican Republic, would teach me little phrases like “Good morning” or “Thank you,” which felt magical coming out of her mouth. I wanted to become like her someone who could speak two languages and move between worlds. My father also made a difference. After long days at work, he would still sit down with me after school, helping me with homework and encouraging me to speak and write in English, even when it felt uncomfortable.

Eventually, English stopped feeling like a stranger. I began to speak English more fluently at around the age of thirteen, I started to write with more confidence, and even started to help others. When my stepmother moved to the U.S, I became her translator. I was just a kid, but I was more than proud of myself that I could help her talk to doctors, cashiers, or customer service reps. Even when I didn’t fully understand the adult conversations, I found a way to translate. I was proud of being helpful, but it was also overwhelming. I was still learning English myself, yet I was already responsible for helping others navigate it.

Even now, ten years later, I still carry traces of where I come from. I speak English well, but with an accent that often gives me away. People constantly ask, “Are you Latina?” or “Are you Dominican?” just from hearing me speak. It doesn’t bother me anymore, but it reminds me that I still exist between two worlds. I may write and read in English, but my identity speaks with two voices.

Not every part of my language journey has been supportive. I still remember the time I moved to Pennsylvania at age eleven. Before I could enroll in school, I had to take another English placement test. The woman giving the test laughed at my pronunciation. “You need to speak English if you’re going to live here,” she said. Her words hit me like a slap. I was a child, doing my best, and instead of help, I received humiliation.

That moment made me realize a painful truth: in many American schools, students like me are expected to perform at the same level as native English speakers, without receiving the same support. We’re judged by our accents, our grammar, and our ability to “fit in”but rarely do people see the extra work we put in just to understand the lesson or complete the assignment. It’s not a level playing field. It’s a system that assumes equality, but in practice, creates inequality.

At the same time, growing up between two languages has shaped me in powerful ways. It’s taught me resilience, patience, and empathy. It’s made me more aware of how language can both separate and unite people. It’s helped me connect more deeply with my family, who still rely on me for translation, and with my culture, which I carry in my accent and identity.

Language is no longer something that isolates me. It’s something that connects me to my past, my future, and the people around me. I’m not fully Dominican. I’m not fully American. I’m both and that’s exactly what makes my story worth telling.