Language has always been a house with several doors to me. Chinese opened the door to family, English to opportunities, and Burmese was a locked door that I never wanted to open. The feeling of pride, love, shame, and distance all lived in this house as I grew up. Being born into a Chinese family from Myanmar while being educated in English meant growing up surrounded by multiple tongues, traditions, and cultures— ‘concepts’ I never found myself belonging to. At home I spoke Chinese with my family, at school I spoke English with my teachers and peers, while Burmese stood just a door away from me, a language I could barely grasp. Its presence and personality were completely known to me, yet I couldn’t help but feel ashamed of it. Where other children moved seamlessly between languages, I stumbled— ashamed of words I struggled to form while children my age could do so effortlessly and embarrassed by the culture that I was born into but struggled to claim as my own. I stood in the hallways of these doors— never fully being able to step into one room without closing the other one off.

My earliest confidence came from English, which quickly became my dominant tongue. It was the language of school, opportunities, and the ‘American Dream.’ I loved the neatness of English grammar, the vast vocabulary, and the power it gave me to read and write novels. Unlike Burmese, which tied me to a country that  I saw as ‘underdeveloped’  and a language that I saw as ‘messy.’ English was the only language I was formally taught as a main language, and it rewarded me with a sense of achievement that I never got from Chinese or Burmese. 

Yet beneath all that pride lived a deep insecurity. Burmese was different, it was everywhere. I heard the language on the streets, in classrooms, on the lips of my peers— and I just couldn’t keep up. My parents weren’t quick to notice my grades slipping in ‘Myanmar Studies’ either, they always assumed that I could adapt like I always did.  By age eleven, I still couldn’t read, write, or speak Burmese— which finally led them to enroll me into Burmese tuition, and I dreaded every single session. Despite the language appearing everywhere I turned, it still felt foreign— like I never belonged in the first place.

Unlike English, it did not come easily, and unlike Chinese, it was not nurtured at home. Every time I read Burmese—while being in school or tuition— my tongue felt clumsy, my accent awkward, my classmates way ahead of me, and how I was always picked last to read due to how behind I was. Chinese was no easier; I couldn’t write basic sentences nor read sentences without stumbling. After every time I read or spoke, I felt ashamed. I hated the way shame settled in my chest whenever I stumbled. I hated the way shame settled in my chest when teachers or relatives would laugh at my accent and pronunciation when I was just trying my best to pull myself closer to my heritage. But instead of pulling me closer to my heritage, these experiences widened the gap. I began pulling away from both my ethnic and national identities, convincing myself English alone was enough. If I could excel in English, then just maybe no one would notice what I lacked.

Looking back, I realize how much insecurity ruled me out of my own culture and heritage.

I clung to English so tightly that I treated my Burmese and my imperfect Chinese in the same way everyone did when I spoke it: as broken, as incomplete, as less valuable. For years, I identified myself with broken words, not realizing they carried a whole culture within me.

But moving abroad for my studies in Thailand brought me a newer perspective, a newer me. Away from Myanmar, I started to realize the loss of sounds I had once ignored: the vendors cycling past my house every morning, the firecrackers popping during temple fairs, the playful chaos of Thingyan with water splashing everywhere as the music boomed, the laughter of children running around and flying kites in open fields under the golden heat. These were not just sounds— they were languages themselves, carrying the stories of my childhood. Even if I could not speak Burmese or Chinese fluently, there lived my memories: the melodies of temple songs my grandmother occasionally played early in the morning, and the taste of dishes that only made sense in their original tongue. 

It was not until I arrived at the dormitory and saw a large group of Burmese students sticking together— not out of obligation, but the shared longing for home— that was when I truly felt the stirrings of my own longing and finally embraced my own heritage. Watching them, laughing, sharing stories, and leaning on one another in small ways, I felt a spark light up within me— a recognition of what I had tried to avoid and hide for so long. It was the first time I ever recognized the language as memories, traditions, and unbreakable bonds that connected all of us instead of being able to speak it perfectly. With them by my side, I no longer needed to run from the heritage I once hid from.

Today, instead of hiding from these languages, I find myself wanting to represent them. Studying in Thailand, I watched people people proudly celebrate their traditions and language, and it made me want to do the same. I don’t want Myanmar to be silenced or looked down upon, nor do I want to erase my Chinese heritage. English may remain the language I write and dream in, but it no longer has to stand alone. I shut doors because I feared what laid behind them.  However, I came to see that language is not a test that I failed in, but a gift that connected me to my own culture, memory, and belonging. Its doors can all stand open at once, each one of them leading to a room that tells me specific parts of my stories. My identity has space for all three languages— English, Chinese, and Burmese— each one carrying their own history, each with their own voice, and embracing them has taught me that no door has to stay locked forever.

Anika @ A Ka Ye Moe
ASB Green Valley, Thailand