Among my most vivid childhood memories are the nights I would ask my mother to tell me stories about each of my cousins as she tucked me into bed – Erika, David, Cielo, Jessica, Laurita, Alejandro, and Paulina. I had only met them once, when I was three years old. Infantile amnesia had erased any memory of them, leaving me with nothing but the images I conjured in my mind of the bright, talented, and successful teenagers my mother told me stories of.

Strangely enough, the only memory I had was a view of Mexico City from a small airplane window. As clear as day, I could picture the millions of bright orange and white lights sparkling below at night. They stretched endlessly across a valley nestled between the towering Sierra Madre Oriental and Occidental mountain ranges. Yet, if Mexico City seemed to wrap around the entire earth, why did I feel so far away from my home, my family, and my culture?

In my teenage years, I visited Mexico only once. It was the last time I saw my family in Mexico City – Christmas of 2019. For the first time, I climbed to the roof of my abuelita’s house, the family home that had raised my mother and her five siblings. Clusters of multicolored concrete rooftops like mine stretched out for miles.

“¿Quieres un tamal, mija?” It was my abuelita, who was making her way up the rickety spiral staircase. Her deep brown hair was always neatly pinned into a bun. She handed me a sweet tamal, still steaming. I carefully unwrapped the corn husk. It was tinted pink and speckled with raisins. Abuelita had bought a pot’s worth from down the street.

“Gracias, mami.”

Before taking a bite, I paused. I wanted to ask if she could stay on the rooftop with me. But I had forgotten the verb for “to stay.” It was on the tip of my tongue. My abuelita was already halfway down the stairs. It was too late to think of another way to say it.

The only verb that came to mind was “to wait.” Esperar.

There was no guarantee she would understand what I meant anyway.

It’s a familiar feeling – having the words on the tip of my tongue, questions, thoughts, and ideas flashing through my mind – yet unable to pinpoint them, let alone force them out. I can think of the word now. The verb I was searching for was quedar, to stay. But in the moment, I was at a loss.

It’s a strange feeling, having so much to say yet struggling to say anything at all – being selectively mute. All I can do is stand there, nod, and listen.

I often dream of speaking Spanish fluently; without stutters, without ums, and without the cadence of a native English speaker. In my dreams, I have effortless conversations in Spanish with my mother, my family, and strangers. And for a few fleeting moments after I wake, I feel rejuvenated, as if I’ve unlocked a hidden part of my mind. A long-buried reservoir of linguistic knowledge.

In those first few seconds of consciousness, Spanish feels within my grasp. After all, I just heard myself speak like a native.

But as full awareness returns, my illusion shatters.

My close friend Shandy is a Cameroonian-Canadian who regrets not knowing the language of her father’s village. She once told me: “Only bilingual children understand the struggle and pride of carrying a conversation in their heritage language.” She was right. Perhaps the sheer struggle of clinging to your heritage language is what makes those moments – real or imagined – when you speak like a true native so special.

There are millions of songs out there about love, heartache, and loss. But I have only ever stumbled upon one that captures the familiar pang of anguish that comes with losing the language of your heritage: “mother tongue,” by Liana Flores.

“I guess I’ve known the truth since I was pretty young.

That I never knew my mother’s mother tongue.

I’ll fake all of my words ’til they point out to me…” (Flores 0:48).

From a young age, I knew I would never know my mother tongue the way I wished to. I, too, would struggle to express myself with words that failed to capture what I truly meant.

The truth was simple. I never had the vocabulary to connect with my family, my heritage, or my culture.

During my visit home, I realized there were many things I had always wished to talk about with my abuelita. What was her hometown of El Grullo like? What did she love about my abuelito Chacho? I could always ask the questions, but the rich nuances of her answers would always be lost to me, a non-native speaker.

Hailing from vastly different parts of the world, my parents settled in Canada for a better life. I was born with opportunities they could never have allegedly imagined. As “mother tongue” goes, “The street beneath my feet is paved with rows of gold… or so I’m told” (Flores 0:32).

Likening asphalt pavement to gold is a bit of a stretch. Even if the streets glistened with the promise of the North American dream, I cannot help but wonder sometimes if it’s worth being so far from fragments of my identity, my family, and the stories of a shared people.

During my 2019 trip to Mexico, I felt like an outsider in my second home. As the years pass without returning, I drift farther away from Mexico City. Slowly but surely, I lose a part of myself.

My cousins, aunts, uncles, abuelita, and I are not only separated by distance – 3,899 kilometers, to be exact – we are also divided by words, a gap that widens as I slowly lose my heritage language.

I have always felt torn between worlds. Ironically enough, a Spanish proverb commonly used by the Latino community reflects my autobiography: “Ni de aquí, ni de allá.” Neither from here, nor there. Each of my cultures feel so familiar to me, and yet I am not wholeheartedly “from” any of them. Sitting on the rooftop of a home embedded in my family heritage, this became more clear to me than ever. In my 21 years on this earth, I don’t think I will ever completely belong. But that’s okay. Maybe not belonging anywhere is a part of my identity itself.