A Childhood Interrupted by English

Elders say you aren’t Nigerian if you don’t know your tribe’s language. Like many multilingual households, mine prioritized our native language at home, with the belief that English was the school’s responsibility and Igbo was ours. For many diasporic Nigerians, language has become more than a means of communication. It serves as a cultural anchor that preserves identity, heritage, and connections to home. A Nigerian in the diaspora is an individual of Nigerian descent who resides outside of the country, most commonly in the United States, the United Kingdom, or Canada. For many of us, our diasporan identities exist because of our parents’ sacrifices–searching for greener pastures and working hard to provide for us–with the expectation that we succeed and maintain the culture. This covenant often shows up in traditions, dances, clothing, and occasions, but, above all else, in language. In many Nigerian households, language is identity. I was understanding and speaking basic words in Igbo before setting foot into a classroom, making smooth progress. Then came kindergarten, the moment when the world drew boundaries around my identity, deciding which parts of me could flourish and which would be restrained before they could fully form.

A normal day for a six-year-old meant reading circles, coloring, nap time, and basic learning in Ms. Edwards' class. Initially, I felt she was one of the best teachers because her encouraging smile and limitless support made me feel comfortable. She always made sure I knew how proud she was of me. The support I felt came to a stop when snack time arrived, and I had forgotten my water bottle in my cubby. I raised my hand to ask Ms. Edwards for help, “Can I please have mmiri?” I said, using the Igbo word for water. She was confused, “What did you say, honey?” “Can I please have mmiri?” I repeated, mimicking the drinking motion. This same word was immediately understood at home, resulting in my parents smiling with pride. But here, my words landed uneasily. Ms. Edwards laughed, but it was one of uncertainty rather than realization. My simple request was met with constant hesitation. Each pause and puzzled glance deepened my frustration as I realized she still didn’t understand me. All I wanted to do was to get my water from my cubby, and this woman was acting as if I had asked her to get it from the Pacific Ocean. After repeating myself several times, I finally got up from my chair, walked to my cubby, and got my water bottle. Seeing the bottle in my hand, she finally understood what I wanted, but she still couldn’t grasp the word I had chosen for my request. 

Dismissal soon arrived; smiles and jubilation filled the room as we got to go back home. I was already thinking about how I was going to play with my Barbies, watch Disney Channel, and eat the super-filled Oreos my mom just bought. Such sweet plans were cut short when Ms. Edwards approached my parents to have a “talk.” They spoke quietly for a while, and then her voice became clear, “...yeah, she’s combining the two languages, and it's messing with her English. I believe you should focus on English for now so it doesn't interfere with her education.” Embedded in her judgement was a quiet imposition: "English is the language of intelligence, and Igbo was becoming a distraction.” My parents looked at her, nodded, and said their goodbyes. The car ride was silent, and the house wasn’t the same. That was the last time Igbo was spoken in my house for the next 10 years. 

As I moved through elementary and middle school, I distanced myself from my Nigerian identity. In school, cultural differences felt like a liability. Unless you were white, African American, or Hispanic, it often felt safer to stay quiet about your cultural background. I would watch other students proudly express their identities at school, admiring their ease, yet that admiration was overshadowed by my fear of being targeted by my peers. Each time I walked into the building, I felt an unspoken expectation to silence my culture like something that needed to be turned off, similar to the way you would silence your phone before class. This silence was reinforced at home. My parents stopped speaking Igbo around me altogether, leaving me with food and the occasional Nigerian movies as the only connections I had to a culture that was slowly fading from my life.

This changed during my freshman year at Eastern Technical High School. While the school was predominantly white, it was far more diverse than my previous schools. For the first time, I found spaces where my African identity was celebrated instead of erased. It was then that I was introduced to clubs like the African Student Association, Step Squad, and the ASA dance team, all of which I participated in during my four years there. My classes exposed me to African literature and topics such as colorism within Nigerian communities, tribal bias, diasporic identity, and the double standard surrounding gender roles. I also received multiple opportunities to present research to my peers about /nigeria, including at our annual Cultural Coalescence–where students could be exposed to a multitude of cultures, including the cultures of their classmates. I’ve never been more proud of my culture than the way I was that day. Reading books like Things Fall Apart, Americanah, and Purple Hibiscus reshaped how I saw myself, reassured me that I’m not alone in my struggle with identity, and validated my own experiences, transforming my shame into a desire to know more. At home, I began to ask more questions about our history. With time, my parents began to communicate with us in Igbo, allowing me to fill in gaps of understanding that had been lost with time and absence. Each word reclaimed a part of me that had been colonized for years.

Because of Ms. Edwards’ advice, I remain mostly an Igbo listener, instead of a speaker. This gap is even more apparent when I visit my family back in Nigeria, because they expect me to hold a full conversation in Igbo, and they give me surprised or disappointed looks whenever I respond in English rather than our native tongue, reminding me of what I’ve lost. Though my vocabulary may falter, my connection to the language endures. My ability to understand Igbo stands as proof that not all of it was taken from me.

Today, literacy means more to me than reading and writing English fluently. My literacy journey is no longer rooted in assimilation, but rather in preservation, reclamation, and honoring every part of who I am. Moving forward, I am committed to strengthening my relationship with Igbo and embracing the depth and beauty of my heritage. This commitment means intentionally practicing the language in my daily life, engaging more deeply with traditions, and learning to express myself in ways that reflect both my culture and my voice. In every room I enter and in every conversation I have, I will make it known that I am Nigerian.