I consider English neither my first nor second language. My childhood consisted of speaking Urdu at home and interacting with English outside of it. As I grew older, I pondered upon the relationship between the two languages often, but only grammatically. I’d notice how Urdu emphasized differentiation of age groups for respect while English did not, I’d notice how that bled into the culture as well.
As I challenged myself to take courses that challenged my relationship with English, I learned that literature is much like peeking into a kaleidoscope. I was forced to read past just the words that formulated sentences upon paper. I was forced to look at English differently. I was taught to look beyond the plot, beyond the main character, and beyond the grammar. English had always been my weakest subject, but I struggled more than ever because I was thrown off kilter with this new perspective.
But I grew accustomed to looking at literature through a completely different lens and I realized it deals with ambiguity and debatable topics. It forces one to take the words of authors and apply it to oneself, the past, as well as the present. English is history—knowledge—it’s what makes society. As a mulled over the works of Fitzgerald, Conrad, and Kesey and really put time into these works the struggles vanished and I soared amongst the works of phenomenal literary minds.
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Like art, literature can criticize or commend society. Connecting those dots from a false reality to a real one was astonishing and exciting. It made writing criticisms and discourses a scavenger hunt, not a chore. Analyzing a novel is a skill and a gateway for this society that is not held back by the bounds of time. An author from centuries prior can communicate with an audience of a different era, after all. Literature is a gift to me, whether it be through discourse or through poetry or through the simple pleasure of reading and it is one I hope to share here.
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There comes a point in K-Dramas where the town girl that moved to Seoul admits she taught herself the Gyeonggi dialect to assimilate in the New York of Korea. I’ve always believed the intricacies of language are beautiful yet detrimental; the minute difference in pronunciation can create an ‘Us’ and ‘Them’ within a community. Dialects are fascinating, though I never expected to be part of a generation forming its own.
As a Muslim Pakistani American, my Urdu is “American-sounding” despite how I can distinguish and replicate the phonetics of the language. It’s how I communicate with my family and what binds me to my culture, but it sets me worlds apart from previous generations.
My Urdu is an abstraction of how I’m different from my family, by how I speak and who I am. And yet...similar, too. My reality and the essence of who I was have been shattered into pieces. As many pieces as there are dialects. I have been forced to trudge through dark tunnels, in solitary, riddled with anxiety and panic attacks and my thoughts only. Yet, still, I work tirelessly. I analyze every aspect of myself in order to rebuild who I am; whether it be through my art, my writing, or my career choices.
With one's own dialect how you speak is different, so is what you believe. Those of other dialects may not accept it; that’s alright. From here on out I build my path, whether that be through how I speak, what I believe, or what career I take on.