Mom or Mamá: The Grief of Child Raising in Two Languages
HAVANA TIMES – Motherhood is an exile from your previous life. It strips you of that inner homeland we carry as part of our identity and forces you to reinvent yourself in a new version, with a totally different life. Migration does the same.
That’s why, when both processes intersect, the sense of uprooting becomes double, silent, sometimes imperceptible—until one day, you realize your children will grow up on different streets, playing in another language, building a life that blends yours with something new. While that can be scary, it’s also a different way of belonging.
My kids still go to a guardería—or daycare, as it’s called here in the United States. Even that changes when you emigrate. In Cuba, we called it círculo infantil, and although it’s essentially the same—a place where they’re cared for, where they grow and learn—the name reflects a different way of seeing the world.
Saying daycare reminds me that we’re in another country, with a different language, different rules. But deep down, I’m still looking for the same thing: that they be safe, that they be treated with love, that they learn, that they be happy.
Fortunately, at the daycare my children attend, most of the teachers are Cuban. Women who migrated years ago and who, like me, once arrived not understanding a thing. Others have come more recently. Together, they’ve created a bilingual space where our native language not only survives but is proudly shared.
There, we speak in Spanish, sing in Spanish, comfort in Spanish. But English is used too, because they know that outside, in the real world, the children will need that language to move forward. Daily activities—stories, songs and games, are done in both languages. Schedules and communication are adapted so both parents and children can understand. But even at the preschool stage, homework starts to come in English.
It’s a delicate balance, almost an art form: preserving the mother tongue without holding back immersion in the new language. A small linguistic oasis that reminds me of home. I know, however, that it won’t last forever. Soon my son will start grade school, and with it, English will become dominant: classes, meetings, notes in his backpack, birthday parties with clowns I can’t understand, and jokes that he can.
That’s when I’ll know it’s time to learn alongside him, at his pace, in his language, to keep building bridges between his world and mine.
According to data from the Pew Research Center, more than 70% of Latino children born in the US are raised in homes where Spanish is spoken, but only a small percentage maintain fluency into adulthood. It’s a common phenomenon: the children of immigrants naturally adopt the surrounding language, while parents oscillate between the pride of seeing them adapt and the pain of feeling increasingly distant.
At home we say manzana, but he already corrects me with a smile and a completely different pronunciation: “Apple, mami, it’s apple.”
I smile. I tell him that’s fine, that it’s very good. But deep down, it sometimes unsettles me.
Because raising a child in another language is not just a practical challenge, it’s a form of emotional loss. Language isn’t neutral: it’s identity, memory, a way of loving. And when it changes, everything changes. How do I explain to him that mamá doesn’t sound the same as mom? How do I share my childhood with him when his is so different?
I’m not alone. Many migrant mothers live this transition with a mix of joy and grief. We share the same contradictions: we want our children to integrate, but we fear they’ll drift away; we celebrate their perfect English, but we miss their first words in Spanish.
Still, there is hope.
More and more families are finding creative ways to keep the heritage language alive: bedtime stories in Spanish, bilingual games, songs, calls with grandparents, cultural heritage classes. Some public schools even offer dual immersion programs, where children learn in both languages.
The key is connection, remembering that language isn’t a battle of one against the other, but a bridge; that our children aren’t leaving our language behind, they’re adding another.
Speaking Spanish in the US is not a burden we must hide, but a heritage worth preserving. Sometimes, in the midst of trying so hard to adapt, we forget that this language we bring from home also has a place here.
In a country where millions share our roots, speaking both languages is a way to open paths. In states like Florida, where Spanish is heard on the streets, in markets, in hospitals, being bilingual is not just a skill, it’s a strength that is valued, even when looking for work.
That’s why, when I insist on telling them stories in Spanish or singing them the songs my grandmother sang to me, it’s not out of nostalgia; it’s because I truly believe that our language can also be part of the future.
In the end, what matters isn’t whether he calls me mamá or mom, but that when he’s afraid, he’ll always come running to find me.
First published in Spanish by El Toque and translated and posted in English by Havana Times.
Thank you, thank you, thank you! As a child I was conversant in Spanish which was spoken with pride. As I aged and moved into the workforce in high school I spoke Spanish less and mostly in the ranches and farms that I liked to work at my days off from my “real job”. But just as you noted in your story the older I got the fewer chances I had to stay at least able to understand it. Now I struggle to remember simple phrases such as “time to eat”. I am an American of unknown heritage or ancestors who learned to speak it from older sisters born in Florida and the azores but to be honest the real driving force behind the desire to speak Spanish was named Yvonne and her Mom and Grand Ma only took food requests from skinny white boys chasing after their daughter in Spanish.