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When Your Home’s Land Isn’t Your Homeland
My family speaks one language, I was raised in another — and my heart and mind speak a third
A few months ago, I filled out a form that confirms that I will one day be buried in the Comoro Islands, my mother’s homeland, rather than France where I grew up — but I used the wrong Social Security number. On purpose. I miswrote the numbers because I don’t think I’ve ever belonged to my mother’s homeland. Honestly, I’ve never really felt like I belong anywhere.
In seventh grade, my math teacher asked if anyone spoke a language other than French or English. Some of my classmates said Turkish, and others said Arabic; sheepishly, from the back of the classroom, I said Comorian. My teacher had never heard of the language, but she was considerate enough not to prod. My classmates, not so much: Seconds after class ended, three classmates cornered me and asked, “Hey, how do you say ‘son of a bitch’ in your language?” I laughed nervously as I tried to think of words my father would say when he’d get angry. Eventually, I made stuff up. I wasn’t fluent in Comorian at all; I just wanted to find a way to fit in.
When my mom left Comoros to start a new life in France 24 years ago, she chose not to teach her kids her native language. Immigrant parents often think their kids will…
