A Journey Toward Biliteracy:

I grew up in a home without Spanish. My parents, both Mexican American, were born and raised in El Paso, Texas. They were bilingual, but they chose not to pass the language on to me. As a child, I never questioned why. It was only later that I came to understand the fear and punishment behind their silence.

My parents were punished for speaking Spanish in school. Not figuratively punished, but literally — through corporal punishment at the hands of teachers and administrators. For them, English was survival. Spanish carried shame and pain. So, when they started a family, the message they had internalized was clear: Why should I teach my child Spanish if it will only get him punished?

That silence shaped my childhood. Most of my extended family in El Paso and nearby Juárez spoke Spanish almost exclusively. When we visited, I stood on the margins, unable to join conversations or fully grasp the stories, jokes, and histories flowing around me. Entire worlds of lineage, belonging, and identity slipped past me because I didn’t share the language.

I often think about what I lost. Mexico has a rich oral tradition, and Spanish was the language of those stories. Without it, I missed out not just on words but on ways of thinking, ways of connecting.

Discovering the Power of Language Abroad

I first realized that language was more than words when I served in the Peace Corps. I lived in Marrakech, Morocco, for two years, teaching blind students mobility and orientation. During that time, I was forced to confront my own relationship with language — not as an educator, but as a learner.

I had studied French in college and thought I could lean on that for two years. In Morocco, French was the language of the educated elite. Arabic was the language of daily life. Early in my service, I walked into an eyeglass shop. A French-speaking customer carried on a lively exchange with the shop owner. When it was my turn, I began in French, but my vocabulary quickly ran dry. Out of desperation, I switched to Moroccan Arabic — the language I was struggling to learn.

Suddenly, everything changed. Their shoulders relaxed. A smile spread across his face. The air between us warmed. My Arabic was rough, but the effort mattered more than perfection. That moment taught me that language is not just communication. It is connection, belonging, respect.

Peace Corps language training had given long hours of study during our in-country orientation, but fluency came only to me after months of mental exhaustion, stumbling through conversations, and eventually reaching a breakthrough: the moment everything “clicked.” I realized that to know a language is to be allowed into a new community.

As someone who had grown up on the outside of my own heritage language, this revelation was profound.

Leading as a Principal

Years later, I became principal of a dual language elementary school in California. The school was, and is, a Title I elementary program that serves a predominantly Latinx student population, with many students coming from bilingual or Spanish-speaking households. Once again, language was at the center of my work — but this time, I was leading efforts to preserve it.

I often sat in SST (student support team) meetings with parents of children who were struggling academically. Sometimes parents asked whether their child’s placement in the dual language program caused the difficulty. They wondered aloud if learning in two languages was confusing or harmful. Their concern was genuine, but it was rooted in a long history of schools sending the opposite message.

I always answered firmly: “No. Learning two languages is not the problem — it’s a gift.” I explained that decades of research in cognitive science show that bilingualism strengthens the brain’s executive function system — the set of mental processes that help with focusing, problem-solving, and switching between tasks. Researchers such as Ellen Bialystok have shown that children who regularly use two languages develop stronger attention and mental flexibility, because their brains are constantly choosing which language to use and when. These benefits aren’t abstract; they show up in classrooms as persistence with difficult tasks, better self-monitoring, and the ability to shift strategies when learning becomes challenging. More importantly, I encouraged the parents to continue speaking and reading to their child in their home language. “Don’t abandon Spanish,” I would say. “It is an asset.”

I could see disbelief in some parents’ faces. U.S. culture had taught them that English was the gateway to success, and that clinging to Spanish would hold their children back. To be told the opposite by a school leader was disorienting, but also releasing.

The Power of Ceremony

One of my most vivid memories as principal was our 5th-grade promotion ceremonies. Each year, I invited one student from the English-only program to deliver a speech in English and one student from the dual language program to deliver a speech in Spanish.

I will never forget the effect it had on the crowd. As the Spanish-speaking student began, the entire room shifted. Parents who had been restless, half-distracted, suddenly sat upright. Their faces lit with pride. Phones went down. The sound of Spanish in that space, spoken confidently by a child on stage, brought joy and validation to families and guests who had long been told their language was a deficit.

In that moment, Spanish was not something to hide. It was something to celebrate.

The Systemic Barriers

Despite these moments of affirmation, I often felt deep frustration. In my district, as in many others, dual language programs ended in middle school. Students could spend years learning in two languages, only to find that the pathway stopped before high school graduation. The message was clear: Bilingualism was tolerated for a time but not truly valued as a lifelong resource.

This practice felt insincere, even cynical. Was the goal really to cultivate biliteracy, or simply to transition students to English? Too often, I saw programs treated as temporary accommodations rather than commitments to equity. These program decisions do not happen by accident — they are shaped by a long history of English-only policy and the belief that bilingualism is something to be “managed” rather than embraced. The system’s preference for transitional programs reflects a deeper discomfort with the idea of a truly multilingual United States.

I believe equity means more than access to the same curriculum in English. Equity means protecting and nurturing a child’s first language, not stripping it away. To ignore or remove that language is what Angela Valenzuela once called “subtractive schooling.”

Parents knew it too. They would ask: Why is there no dual language high school option? Why does the system stop short? And I had no good answer.

Language as Belonging

As a leader, I tried to push back in ways I could. Every parent communication — whether a flier, a phone call, or an automated message — was delivered in both English and Spanish. At first, families were surprised, even hesitant to respond. But eventually it became normal. Parents expected to hear their language honored. It was not an extra courtesy. It was the baseline of respect.

In classrooms, I saw the beauty of bilingualism come alive. Children switched between English and Spanish with ease, often blending them seamlessly in ways that reflected both creativity and competence. Their joy was contagious. Language was not just a tool — it was an identity, an inheritance, a source of confidence.

Why It Matters

My own journey — from the silence of my childhood to the connection I found in Morocco, to the leadership I tried to embody as a principal — has taught me this: Bilingualism is not simply about cognitive advantages or economic opportunities. Those are real, but they are not the heart of the matter.

Bilingualism is about belonging. It is about refusing to force children to choose between their heritage and their education. It is about saying that all students, regardless of background, deserve to see their full selves reflected and respected in school.

When schools end dual language programs at middle school, they send the message that belonging has an expiration date. That the cultural and linguistic wealth students carry is only tolerated, not embraced.

We can do better. We must extend pathways through high school. We must ensure that ceremonies, classrooms, and policies alike affirm the languages children bring with them. We must move beyond tolerance to true affirmation.

For me, this work is not abstract. It is personal. I know what it means to lose a language, to stand on the edges of family and culture. I know what it means to find connection through words haltingly spoken in a new tongue. And I know what it means to watch a child stand tall at a podium, speaking Spanish to an audience that finally feels seen.

That is the promise of biliteracy — not just academic achievement, but dignity, equity, and belonging.