Having taught for almost a decade, I have overcome my share of classroom challenges. However, nothing prepared me for the hardest part: teaching my own children to speak Russian, my native language, as well as English. They didn't give a damn about extra credit or Tootsie Pop's kickbacks. They just weren't that interested.
When they were babies, I spoke and sang to them diligently in Russian. But once they entered kindergarten, everything changed. A barrier went up practically overnight. He would wake them up with a jovial “How was your day, my?” bulochka?“—”bulochka“means “little cake,” and each little boy, in turn, would hand me his lunchbox, look around to see if anyone was listening, and whisper, “Speak English, Mommy!”
Was it because I wasn't forcing my children to speak a certain way, not wanting to subject them to the overwhelming style of my own Soviet upbringing? Was it because his father wasn't fluent in my language, even though he had promised to learn it when we were dating? (To be fair, I promised to learn how to make Tater Tot Casserole and that didn't happen either.)
I felt lost and alone in my guilt. I wanted to raise my children to be bilingual not because of its cognitive advantages (of which there are many) but because, as an immigrant, I am the ultimate guardian of my family's language, straddling the line between the old world and the new. Without the language and the history it contains, however complicated, I feared that my children would never understand a vital part of my identity and theirs, never forge connections with relatives near and far.
I began reading, having honest conversations with other immigrant parents, and, above all, observing.
I discovered that there is no single magic formula for raising bilingual children. Children are not sponges that absorb everything they hear. Teaching a child to speak in a way that is different from the playground, social media, and school takes work and effort. A lot of work and effort. And the results may not be perfect. Children (and adults) are capable of becoming bilingual at any age, but because bilinguals do not use their languages in the same way and to the same degree, those who achieve truly equal fluency are like unicorns: they are strange.
So what works?
First, I realized that the more exposed my children were to the language at home and outside the home, and the more they needed to use it, the stronger their skills became.
Our house has become a bastion of conversations, books, music, and often ridiculous YouTube videos in my language. Outside our four walls, the key has been interacting with native speakers, like her immigrant grandparents, babysitters, and salesgirls at a Slavic grocery store where we buy beet salad and chocolate candies.
What's also been helpful is looking for cultural events and playdates where little ones can exchange silly jokes and Pokémon cards in Russian, to make it seem less whimsical and strange.
What I can safely say hasn't worked is well-intentioned advice and rigid rules. Pretend you are deaf to English. Some people suggested, That will teach them! Send them abroad to live with relatives for the summer! Share languages with the other parent and never deviate.
The latter is called the “one parent, one language” method, or OPOL, and this approach has many adherents. But it's not realistic for my family.
For example, I can't always speak my language and alienate my partner. Sometimes I am too tired to control my speech after a long day of work. I also cannot leave my children with my parents all summer or travel to the “old country” (Russia, Ukraine and Belarus) due to the Russian invasion.
Instead, I found that it all comes down to high-quality and high-quantity, if not wall-to-wall, exposure to the language.
I have also realized how tense language is, how sensitive it is to prejudice. I have been forced to confront my own experience as a strange 13-year-old refugee in California with barely any knowledge of English. I still remember the chill of the trial, the colossal difference between me and my fluid, wealthy classmates. In school, I started pretending I wasn't an immigrant and only spoke English in public. Which is no different than what my little ones would do in daycare years later.
Finally, it has been liberating to reject the voices of critical relatives and former teachers in my head, the ones who laugh, “You call.” this bilingualism? You should talk to Olga, my hairdresser's cousin, now. his son is a real A prodigy, that boy!
Now that my kids are in elementary school, I realize that what matters is a sustained curiosity about the family language, even if it sometimes requires a bribe. Every time they read with their grandparents and talk to cousins abroad in our shared language, I marvel at the roots they take hold and how much they've already learned, instead of getting bogged down in perfection.
I'm finding that giving myself and my kids credit for celebrating small victories instead of agonizing over milestones that haven't yet been met is half the battle.
Masha Rumer is the author of “Parenting with an Accent: How Immigrants Honor Their Heritage, Overcome Setbacks, and Chart New Paths for Their Children.”
