A few years ago, probably when B and Z were 5 and 7 and V was just little, there came a day, a moment, when it just hit me. "I can't do this anymore."
This was trying to communicate with my kids in Latvian. Trying to pass on the cultural heritage with which I was raised. I would talk to them in Latvian again and again, only to have them respond with confused looks and annoyed comments about, "I don't know what you're saying, mama!"
The details of the moment are beyond me now, but the feeling that I had at that moment was one of being broken. It was a feeling of failing. It was a loss. It was giving up.
I fought with myself- what was more important? A language, or being able to build a relationship? A language, or communication? A language, or a bond?
I chose the latter. In every case, I chose the latter.
But, there is no denying that it was stacked against us from the get-go. From living in a place where the language wouldn't be useable, to not being around even family that would use the language, and most importantly, it not being the language of our couple- the odds were never in our favor.
Part of me wants to weep, another part wants to rage, another part just looks on feeling like a failure.
There is hope, I suppose. We'll move back to the States and be near more people who speak Latvian. We might send the kids to summer camp in Latvian. Maybe even Latvian school. There is a chance that they might still pick it back up- a good possibility even- but we all know that the ease with which they could have learned the language as toddlers has been lost. This was stolen from them by circumstance, by fearful adults lacking understanding, by my personal inability to just keep going. *sigh* It's a massive loss.
Growing up, I never identified as American. I just didn't feel it. This was because I was being raised Latvian in the USA. Our home language was Latvian, we went to Latvian school on Saturdays, we went to Latvian camp in the summers- all the way through high school. Spending all that time being Latvian took effort, and it took me away from other experiences that might have made me feel more American. We never really celebrated the 4th of July, not really, because we were always already at Latvian camp. I didn't connect to American holidays, because mostly, we had Latvian versions or Latvian ways to celebrate. Heck, even my favorite American holiday- Thanksgiving- was taken over for years by Latvian time because ALJAs Kongress happened then. Our food was Latvian, especially at holidays and celebrations. Most of my lifelong friends are Latvian, the way one would expect of a second generation.
But when my son needed to present a cultural lunch, he shocked me by demanding to bring in hotdogs as an American delicacy. What? He didn't even mention anything Latvian. I mean, on the one hand, thank goodness I didn't have to make piragi. I could have done it, but it wouldn't have been easy! And it would have been EXPENSIVE. Whew. But it's weird when your experience is so different than that of your children. My kids have 2 passport countries, and neither of them is Latvia.
So I find myself, admitting, sometimes through tears, that I am Latvian, but my kids are not.
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