I've lost more than the ability to speak all the languages of my mixed heritage

This First Person column is written by Yasmeen Awadh, who lives in Toronto. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

"Mag kasintahan sila?" ("are they lovers?") I asked. I wanted to know whether a couple on TV was together. 

My sister exploded with laughter. "You sound like someone from the '30s! No one says kasintahan anymore." 

I gave her a sheepish grin. Kasintahan is an old-fashioned word. I'm pretty sure my Filipino grandmother used it when I lived with her in the small town of Bacoor in the Philippines. Thirty years later in Canada, it's still in my vocabulary. I'm fluent in Tagalog, but my slang was clearly outdated. My sister — who attended culinary school in the Philippines in her early 20s — was definitely more up-to-date with what was hip and happening in the Filipino slang space. It got me wondering: does being out of touch with the language mean I was out of touch with the culture?

My father is Kuwaiti and my mother is Filipino. They met in the late 1970s in Kuwait when my mother, who moved there to work as a nurse, met my father. He worked at the bank, where she sent money back to her family in the Philippines. Neither could speak each other's native languages, but they both spoke English and that became our default choice at home.

In 1990, Iraq invaded Kuwait, and my mother, siblings and I fled to the Philippines while my father stayed behind. I was eight. We returned to Kuwait 15 months later, after the war had ended. I'd forgotten how to speak Arabic  — the first language I learned — but was now fluent in Tagalog. It was the same for my siblings: comfortable in Tagalog, but not English or Arabic. I sensed my father's apprehension. He had said goodbye to his children on a crowded bus at the start of the war. When we returned in 1992, we were different creatures. 

When I moved to Canada at 16, English was already my primary language. Today, I juggle my varying levels of proficiency and switch to the different Yasmeens in my head depending on which language I speak or with which community I interact. 

I picture my cultural makeup as a pie chart. The most significant chunk is Canadian: of all the places I've lived, Canada has been for the longest. English is spoken everywhere in Toronto, where I currently live, and it is the common unifying language for all the immigrants who live in the city. 

Filipino is the next big chunk of the pie chart, mainly because I can speak Tagalog. But Filipino culture feels like a cousin I like but don't make enough of an effort to see. I encounter small glimpses of it in my daily life — like detecting Filipino ingredients, such as purple yam (ube) or condensed milk at a Toronto bakery. I smile and then peek behind the counter to see if the owner is Filipino. 

Although my siblings and I were raised Muslim, we celebrate Christmas because it keeps my mother connected to her Filipino, Catholic roots. Most of our Christmas songs are still in Tagalog, with variety shows playing non-stop on The Filipino Channel around the holidays.

Because of my poor Grade 1 level Arabic — a lingering personal casualty of the war — being Kuwaiti occupies the smallest part of the chart. My dad tried to force us into Arabic lessons and spent hours tutoring us when we were younger. But I still felt disconnected from my Kuwaiti family. Conversations became superficial and fleeting. I couldn't talk to them about my struggles as a teenager. I couldn't even worship effectively until I was 12 as Islamic prayers are all in Arabic. 

Some people are puzzled when they learn I grew up in Kuwait but don't speak Arabic. Ashamed, I tell them I speak it a little, see their eyes light up, and then they lose the glimmer after hearing my broken sentences. I see the silent dismissal in their eyes. I suppose I might have gotten a pass if I was born and raised in Canada. 

I envied the ease with which I saw a Middle Eastern woman around my age with tantalizing, luscious curls, reading the Arabic labels of hair care products in a Middle Eastern store. I was afraid to ask for advice, because I didn't want her to discover the disconnect between what I look like and what I should know how to speak. I wanted to ask her which hairdresser she goes to — one that knows our hair, instead of the clinical salons I'd see on Queen Street that encouraged me to be more homogenized than distinctive. But I felt verbally powerless. I slinked away, embarrassed.

Another time, I saw a group of women clearly from the Gulf states in downtown Toronto nervously ask a white woman for instructions on where to go. I understand you, I told them in my head, silently wishing I could make them feel comfortable in this new country. I can tell you where to go, but I can't tell you in Arabic.

I fantasize about the pie chart changing someday. Maybe I'll improve my Arabic and build stronger connections with my extended family. Maybe I'll watch more Filipino movies to learn what people call their lovers in 2022. As a mixed-race person, there is an inner voice constantly inquiring about how I could be more Kuwaiti or Filipino, which can be exhausting.

Sometimes it feels safer to pick up a new language than to delve into my own pie chart. I once remarked to my father that I wanted to learn Mandarin for fun, and he looked at me with contempt, saying I should learn Arabic before embarking on another language. He'd shamed me for not wanting to learn it, and I wondered if he thought I had abandoned my own culture. 

These days, when I use my phone's Duolingo language app, my eyes sometimes linger on the Arabic icon. I haven't yet mustered the courage to improve my proficiency. But I take a breath and push aside the feeling of shame. Instead, I practice self-acceptance. I continue to learn Spanish on the app because my boyfriend is Puerto Rican. 

It's OK to be an uneven pie chart, I tell myself, because I've created my own mosaic of which I am proud.

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