It starts with a glance. Sometimes a second too long. Sometimes a whisper that I’m not supposed to hear. Speaking Armenian in public has never felt safe; it’s a moment that turns heads. I’ll be laughing with my friend in a cafe or catching up with my mom over the phone, and suddenly, I can tell something has changed—a shift, quiet but clear. I lower my voice and pause between words—not because I’m embarrassed by the language, but because I know what’s coming. I’ve learned to expect it. 

And every time I wonder: Why does something so central to who I am feel so wrong in certain places?

Growing up bilingual, I spent most of my early life translating. This translation was not just literal words, but also versions of myself. I spoke Armenian at home and school, where our community cherished it. It was the language of poetry and prayers, of celebration and survival. In my Armenian community, our language isn’t just a means of communication; it is the keeper of our culture. We sang in Armenian, read history in Armenian, and connected to it. Throughout my life, it has been a source of pride, especially for a people whose language has endured near-erasure. At school, my classmates and I didn’t think twice about moving between English and Armenian; we simply embraced a bilingual perspective without even realizing it.

But outside that bubble, things changed. Suddenly, speaking Armenian felt like I was breaking some unspoken American rule. In stores, airports, and classrooms, I saw people become noticeably uncomfortable when I spoke. I overheard muttered comments of “We speak English here.” Slowly, I started code-switching. I’d cut myself off mid-sentence and switch to English in public spaces. I translated things I didn’t need to, just to avoid people staring. I tried to fit into a space that excluded people like me, who carry a bilingual perspective everywhere they go.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what was happening. I thought bilingualism was a skill that would be useful for jobs or traveling. It wasn’t until much later, however, that I realized bilingualism wasn’t just shaping how I spoke. It was reshaping how I saw, how I listened, and how I felt.

In English, I learned clarity. Assertiveness. The value of saying what you mean. English teaches you to get to the point and to emphasize logic, structure, and directness. It’s a language designed to streamline.

In Armenian, I learned emotion. I realized that how we say something can matter just as much as what we say. Armenian isn’t rushed: it lingers, folds in on itself, and repeats to evoke a feeling. In one language, I learned to argue. In the other, I learned to understand.

Switching between the two didn’t just add words to my vocabulary; it also broadened my understanding of the subject. I began to see that language isn’t simply about grammar and syntax but also about perspective. When I hear a story in English, I sometimes pause to imagine how it would sound in Armenian.

Over time, I began to notice the difference between what someone says and what they truly feel, an awareness rooted in a bilingual perspective. Research refers to this as cognitive flexibility, which is the ability to shift between frameworks and understand that the same experience can have different meanings depending on the context. Further research also suggests that bilinguals score higher in problem-solving, attention-shifting, and adaptability. But those studies often stop at surface-level outcomes.

They miss the emotional depth of bilingualism. Bilingualism offered something essential: a constant reminder that every story has more than one version: that no word, no idea, no memory is ever as simple as it seems.

A Cultural Double Standard

And yet, in America, bilingualism still carries tension.

We praise it when it serves us, such as when we need interpreters at international events or want to market products globally. “Bilingual preferred” often appears in job postings, typically as a plus. But too frequently, that praise is conditional.

When immigrant parents speak to their children in their native tongue, people often accuse them of holding their kids back. If a cashier answers the phone in Spanish, someone complains. Teachers and classmates often treat a student’s accent as a flaw to fix rather than a trait to embrace.

Society romanticizes multilingualism when it comes from privileged backgrounds, such as European travelers, business executives, and Ivy League students. But when refugees, working-class families, and immigrants speak multiple languages, many treat it as a burden and a barrier to assimilation.

Even in school, educators often push English learned to assimilate quickly, sidelining their home languages in the process. “English only” rules still dominate in classrooms across the country, and few students ever hear that speaking more than one language is a strength, that their bilingual perspective is an asset rather than an inconvenience.

The same ability that earns praise on a resume can provoke discomfort in a classroom or public space.

This contradiction points to a deeper issue: society teaches us to view bilingualism as something exotic or marketable, rather than as a natural human ability. We accept it when it aligns with a narrative of upward mobility, but we treat it as a threat when it reflects working-class or immigrant realities. In doing so, we undervalue the bilingual perspective.

Rethinking The Narrative Of Speaking Two Languages

The United States often claims to be a nation of immigrants, but it rarely honors the languages those immigrants bring. We encourage people to come here, work here, raise families here, but only on the condition that they become more like “us.” Public policy, education systems, and cultural norms reinforce this mindset by promoting English as the key to success. At the same time, many people still view other languages as distractions, deficiencies, or even threats.

But what if we changed that narrative?

What if bilingualism weren’t seen as something to manage or correct but something to cultivate and protect? What if schools viewed home languages not as barriers to overcome but as gifts to nurture, threads that connect students to their families, communities, and cultural identities? Or what if professional environments embraced language diversity as a strength, instead of expecting everyone to conform to a single way of speaking or expressing themselves? What if public media featured multilingual voices regularly, not just during heritage month segments but as a part of the everyday American soundscape?

What if we treated bilingualism not as a test of loyalty but as a testament to possibility? Not as an obstacle to assimilation but as evidence of resilience? Language is not just a means of communication; it’s a container for memory, emotion, and history. Every accent carries a journey. Every second language learned, taught, or inherited is a testament to adaptability, layered identity, and expanded perspective.

Imagine if we saw accents not as errors but as a sign of lives that stretch across countries, across generations, across ways of knowing and living. An accent is not a mark of brokenness. It’s a trace of multiple worlds being held together in one voice.

Being bilingual doesn’t simply shape how people speak; it also influences their communication style. It transforms how they think, feel, and connect. It teaches them how to shift between perspectives, communicate with sensitivity, and recognize that there is rarely one “right” way to say something. Bilingualism fosters what our society so urgently lacks: the capacity to see more than one side, to hold multiple truths at once, to listen beyond the surface. It trains the mind not just to react but to reflect, not to assume but to inquire.

If we truly want a society that is more thoughtful, just, and human, we need to start by honoring the multilingual lives already among us. We must stop viewing English fluency as the only marker of intelligence and instead elevate the voices that switch between languages, because it’s how they survive, express love, build community, and understand the world.

Bilingualism is not a barrier; it is a bridge. It is not a delay in learning but a deepening of it. Speaking multiple languages does not confuse children; it connects them. It does not divide communities; it allows them to understand one another more fully. And if we are brave enough to walk that bridge, to listen carefully to the stories it carries, we might arrive at a culture more rooted in empathy, complexity, and care.

Let’s stop asking bilingual people to choose between languages and start asking what we can learn from the fact that they live in more than one. Because what they offer us is not just translation but a bilingual perspective on how to live with depth, humility, and connection.