I was raised bilingual and didn't always understand why. But now I can communicate with my abuela, who has Alzheimer's, and I'm so grateful.

17.10.2023 - 15:31 / insider.com

Growing up in California, I saw the world in two languages: English and Español.

I am a proud Afro Latina, the daughter of a Mexican mother who came to the US for higher education, and an African American father and businessman from Michigan.

I grew up in a big, loud, fun Mexican family. From the time I began learning how to talk, my mama and maternal grandparents — my abuelos — spoke to me in Spanish as much as in English. When I entered kindergarten, my Spanish accent still wrapped around the corners of my words. 

As a kid, I couldn't comprehend that people didn't communicate in what can only be described as Spanglish, but I also couldn't fully understand my family's choice to raise me bilingual. It left me feeling different to my friends, who mostly only spoke one language.

Now, however, I'm grateful. 

At a young age, I directed entire productions with my cousins — my primas — and performed them in variations of both languages for our family members.

I wrote fictional stories in both languages, dreaming up palacios de oro and guerras complejas into spiral-bound notebooks.

I visited family across Northern Mexico, from Los Cabos to Mazatlán, enjoying long talks deep into the night at our favorite taquerias.

My birthday parties always had a piñata that my mama and abuelos had spent all night making from scratch. Family members would clap and sing as each kid swang at it: "Dale, dale, dale, no pierdas el tino, porque si lo pierdes, pierdes el camino. ¡Ya le diste uno, ya le diste dos, ya le diste tres, y tu tiempo se acabó!"

My identity became intertwined with the languages I spoke. I am not only Melissa. To my family, I am Melissita or Meli Jo.

Today, I credit being bilingual for my closeness with my extended Mexican family, who largely live across California and past the border into Mexico.

It also means I'm able to communicate with my abuela, who was diagnosed with Alzheimer's years ago.

She still believes she's 65 (she just turned 80) and that I'm 16 (I'm 24), but she loves to tell me stories of her childhood and mine, and those conversations — always in Spanish — are worth more than gold. 

She will tell me about how she had to drop out of school after sixth grade to work in el campo. In response, I get to tell her I've graduated from college and, even though she was at my graduation, her eyes light up as if she's heard it for the first time.

She will then reminisce on my childhood, and how my abuelo would run to give my sister or me over to her when we wet our pants as diaper-wearing toddlers, shouting, "Ten, mujer, tu hija!" ("Here, woman, your child!")

Her most recent memories will go first, so it makes each conversation a precious experience I don't take for granted. The little moments I get to