Learning ancestral languages can help immigrant children connect with their cultural roots, foster pride in their heritage, and enhance cognitive abilities.
“Woe is me!” I cried, and my mother playfully swatted my shoulder; I had repeated a mistake. I was supposed to be writing the தமிழ் (Tamil) alphabet, and the last four letters were particularly challenging. They sound alike and look similar—both to each other and to other letters. According to my mother, they have distinct sounds, but I secretly thought she was making it up. “What’s the difference between ண and ன?” I asked her. “One is ‘na’ and the other is ‘na’,” she replied, not particularly helpfully.
“Focus, Nakul, it’s easy,” she added. Both “na” sounds have a very slight difference in pronunciation, which is not something we have in English but is common in Indian languages. I grumbled about the hardships of life and dodged another swat, but I enjoyed writing with my mother, even if I pretended otherwise.
For a long time, I struggled to understand my cultural identity; I simply identified as “Indian.” I craved a deeper connection, a more specific sense of heritage. I often felt out of place among those I thought I should relate to, and I felt a mix of shame and annoyance when I couldn’t take pride in my culture. This shame prompted me to reflect on what “my culture” truly meant.
Over time, I realized that to thrive in a diverse world, I needed to remember my roots. Without this connection, I would be anchorless, like driftwood floating aimlessly. Then another realization struck me: language is the most vital part of culture. It unites people and reminds them of their identities, perhaps more profoundly than any other cultural aspect.
The Irish language serves as a compelling example. For nearly 200 years, it has been a form of resistance against British rule. The famous Irish revolutionary and author, Pádraig Pearse, once said, “Tír gan teanga, tír gan anam,” which translates to: a country without a language is a country without a soul. Their language united them, and over the years, parts of Ireland gradually gained independence. Similar stories abound: Bahasa uniting a nation with over 700 regional languages in Indonesia, Arabic fostering unity across the Middle East and North Africa, and Switzerland maintaining a strong national identity by officially embracing four languages (German, French, Italian, and Romansh). These examples illustrate the profound power of language to bring people together across continents.
Learning a second language also offers numerous cognitive benefits. According to a 2022 article from Cambridge, “Bilingual people have more of these neurons and dendrites compared to people who speak only one language. This means that their grey matter is denser.” This increased density can enhance academic performance, memory, and concentration. Moreover, research indicates that learning a second language improves communication between the brain’s lobes, making it more efficient.
Last summer, I began learning தமிழ். I find it beautiful, with its almost musical sounds. I recall a few years ago, when I was about eight or nine, my mother read an excerpt from an old epic. She struggled with it, as it was in Old Tamil—archaic and formal. I understood only a few simple, one- or two-syllable words, but it felt magical.
The beauty of தமிழ் is that it flows—sometimes like a lazy river coursing through bends, other times like rapids, fast and sharp. Although I hadn’t yet learned the entire alphabet, I memorized and learned to write the three letters that make up my first name, which filled me with immense pride. I had learned it before but had quickly forgotten its significance until later. I often write my name repeatedly to remind myself of my identity. When people said, “I’m Indian,” I struggled to grasp what that meant.
Now I know: I am Tamil, from the southern tip of India, and I take pride in it.
Learning தமிழ் not only deepened my understanding of my culture but also transformed my perception of my parents. I spent time with my mother, working through exercise books and small storybooks. I laughed at her English, and she laughed at my Tamil. This process helped me appreciate my parents and the generations that came before them. Learning தமிழ் allowed me to connect with their heritage.
However, I must admit that there have been days when I felt overly conscious, even embarrassed, about my background. This feeling often stems from how India is portrayed in modern media, particularly on social media and in films. The narratives tend to reduce India to stereotypes: impoverished people, tech experts, and spicy food. They often caricature cultural elements, such as Sikhs in turbans or women constrained by patriarchal norms.
Learning தமிழ் taught me to appreciate India for its true diversity and richness, which is far more complex than any Bollywood movie might suggest. I learned to take pride in my identity and to say “India,” not “America,” when people ask where I’m from.
I want every child to have the experience I did—no one should feel ashamed of their identity due to the sensationalist portrayals in modern media. I hope people can embrace a sense of identity and pride in their homeland.
Children of immigrants often grapple with their identities, torn between conforming to their surroundings and honoring their roots. Should I speak English all the time, wear American clothing, and ignore those who don’t? Or should I proudly wear kurtas on Diwali, with vivudhi (sacred ash, holy to Hindus) smeared on my forehead?
I have learned to strike a balance, enjoying the best of both worlds while remaining true to my roots. I now feel comfortable hanging out with non-Indian friends while dressed in a kurta, sharing my chakarapongal (Indian dessert) with them before heading to McDonald’s or Baskin-Robbins. Kids like me need to connect with something larger than themselves to feel at least confidence, if not pride, in their identity.
Language preserves the essence of culture, drawing people together from around the world, fostering empathy even without shared words, and providing a sense of identity. For children of immigrants, it helps us discover who we are and gives us a sense of purpose. Perhaps the next time I learn தமிழ் with my mother, I will be grateful to have someone to explain the difference between ண and ன.
According to India Currents.