To hear my father speak Spanish or English, you wouldn’t immediately know which one was his first—or his dominant—language. He speaks both fluently and fluidly. Growing up, he moved back and forth between languages and expectations, gaining plenty of practice in code-switching and cultural shifting.

My dad spent most of his youth in Puerto Rico, but during a few critical years, he lived in the States and learned English alongside Spanish. Specifically, he moved to the U.S. in first grade and stayed through half of fifth grade. He recalls specific times where language affected him and refers to those moments as “language earthquakes”. Moments in time where, due to language, there was a shift in his perspective and sense of awareness was shaken.

Language Earthquakes That Shaped His Story

Language Earthquake 1: Moving to New Jersey for first grade. After speaking Spanish all day, every day, he had to suddenly learn English, adapt to a new culture at school, and still continue practicing Spanish at home.

Language Earthquake 2: Returning to Puerto Rico halfway through fifth grade. Although he still spoke Spanish at home, academic Spanish in the classroom felt unfamiliar and confusing. Even in what he considered his dominant language, he found himself struggling to keep up with the more formal, specific vocabulary.

Language Earthquake 3: Joining the military. Although he thought he had a solid grasp of English, interacting with English speakers from across the U.S.—with varying dialects and regionalisms—was a whole new challenge. What he thought was just “English” suddenly came in many different versions he had to learn to interpret on the fly.

(Angel Antonio Rivera, mi papá 💞)

In our House: Se habla español

Growing up, my dad would be the most insistent in our home that we would be practicing Spanish. Period.

I had a theory that his insistence on us learning Spanish, despite a good amount of pushback, was rooted in these back-and-forth language experiences.

When I was younger, my dad often had to travel for work with the Navy. During those times, my mom, sister, and I would naturally default to English. There were two main reasons:

1. A speech-language pathologist wrongly advised that bilingualism was confusing my younger sister (advice that’s since been completely debunked), and
2. My mom was in survival mode—young, often in new places, trying to raise two kids on her own while navigating unfamiliar languages, cultures and systems.

When my dad returned from deployment, he would announce: “A practicar español”. So we’d set specific times during the day when we were expected to speak Spanish. Depending on the topic, it could feel easy—or incredibly frustrating.

We were surrounded by English at school, on TV, and in everyday life, which meant that when we sat down to speak Spanish as a family, we had to actively translate thoughts, stories, or jokes. If I wanted to tell a funny story from recess, I didn’t even have the vocabulary to begin with, like “En el recreo…” And if I tried to translate a joke or make a silly comment, the humor would often get lost. It made me feel like I couldn’t express myself fully or connect with my dad the way I wanted to.

And that was challenging and sometimes sad. He had just returned from being gone for months, and all I wanted was to catch up, not be forced into a Spanish lesson.

What He Knew That I Didn’t

What I didn’t understand then, but he did, is that language and culture are deeply intertwined. You don’t have to speak Spanish fluently to identify as Latino, or more specifically, Puerto Rican. But speaking it with confidence does keep you connected, to the island, your family, and your heritage. His insistence on language was never about grammar. It was about preserving connection. It was a gift.

When we visited Puerto Rico, he would encourage us to speak up and find our voice (en español):
“Habla con tus abuelos.”
“¿Quieres un sándwich de Subway? Pídelo tú.”

And in my stubbornness, I’d resist: “I don’t know how to say pickles, so I guess I’m not eating.”

But he wouldn’t let us off the hook.

I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for him—to see my insecurity interfere with my ability to connect with family. To watch me hesitate to do things I could easily do in English, but not in our home language. To watch me slowly disconnect from our Puerto Rican identity, something so deeply important to him.

And I think that’s why it mattered so much to him. Because he had left. He had seen what happens when kids grow up away from the island and lose their Spanish. He had felt the internal tension of leaving and returning, and having his belonging questioned. He had seen firsthand how speaking Spanish kept him connected, and how speaking English gave him the power to defend that right. Like many parents, he saw what I’d eventually struggle with and tried to make the road easier.

Today, we still practice Spanish together. But one of my favorite things about learning with him is this: his confidence in being Puerto Rican never wavers—not even when he messes up a verb or forgets a word. If anything, those “language earthquakes” built his confidence. They helped him know who he was.

He’s open to learning new Puerto Rican expressions and acknowledges that living in the diaspora comes with natural disconnects. Language is always evolving. But the foundation of who he is—that doesn’t shake.

Top Language Lesson

And that’s been my biggest lesson from Papi:

Know who you are. Know where you come from. That self-knowledge will ground you—so even if you don’t have the right word today, your identity remains unshaken.

“Lo que más constituye la patria es el pueblo, con su alma, carácter, idioma, costumbres y hasta con sus vicios y defectos.”

-Luis Llorens Torres

🤟🏼Dr. Xiomara Rivera Pagán