I grew up in an English, monolingual household. Since turning eighteen, I have lived with two bilingual families, helping with childcare – families that have not only shaped the way that I see myself, but also the way that their children perceive other people. My first experience taught me what is now one of my core beliefs: the ability to understand and speak a second language is one of the greatest gifts that a child can be given.
After finishing my A-Levels, I took a leap and decided to move to France before starting university the following year. I had no idea what to expect, especially since I had very little experience of other countries. Most of my family holidays had been in Cornwall. But I persisted with my plan because I desperately wanted to become ‘fluent’ in French.
Fluent is a word that I have come to despise; what does it mean to be fluent in a language? Does it mean you can speak without thinking? Speak without making mistakes? Or simply hold a conversation? Sometimes I struggle with all three in English.
I decided to become an Au Pair, and after finding a ‘host family’ on a slightly dodgy agency website, I packed my bags and moved to a small, rural town in the north of France – a small hop across the Channel, but a place that culturally felt like a million miles away.
My task was to look after two boys, aged five and one, and teach them English through playing games, chatting about our days, and reading. The family had lived in New York for a year in 2021, two years before my arrival, and wanted their eldest child to keep up his English, as well as for their youngest to pick it up through immersion. In return, the adults of the family would speak in French with me.
The first breakfast that I had with my host brothers, the day after I had arrived, was nothing if not awkward. They both stared at me with a sense of curiosity, and whenever I tried to speak with the eldest child (the only one who could speak at all!), he gave me rather short responses. At least I’ve tried, I thought to myself. It was eight months later that my host mum told me that he had struggled to understand what I was saying, as he had never heard an English accent before.
At the beginning of my time in France, I didn’t think there was any way that my host brothers and I could become as similar as we did. These children, raised on apéros and a number of books, clothes and toys that only a large family of doctors could afford, lived a very different life. It was only when we started sharing words and phrases that I realised how much language could bring people together.
The eldest child began to adopt vocabulary that I used instinctively in English. When he first met me, he described everything as ‘great’ – whether that was his day at school, the picture that I had just drawn, or football. I, on the other hand, think everything is either ‘pretty’ or ‘cool’.
When I started using these words in front of him, he would give me a confused look before continuing to speak. It wasn’t long, however, before he started using them himself. Colourful skies, blossoming flowers, and shiny cars became pretty. Hama beads, superheroes, and Lego became cool.
A key part of language acquisition for children is hearing words used over and over again in different contexts, until their brain naturally grasps onto what the word means and its nuances. I rarely explained the meaning of words that I used in front of the children, which could be seen as patronising or annoying. Instead, I used them so often that they understood.
Even my one-year-old host brother learnt to distinguish between apples, pears and bananas in English. And more importantly, knew that ‘une pomme’ was the same thing as ‘an apple’ – an incredible skill for a toddler, and one that only those who have been raised in two different languages from the get-go possess so early.
French words and phrases began to shift into my speech too. ‘Bah’ replaced the English ‘err’, and whenever someone referred to something I didn’t understand, I’d casually ask, ‘C’est quoi ?’ (what’s that?).
The most beautiful part of this language exchange was that it allowed me and my host brothers to understand each other on a different level. Firstly, because we understood the difficulties of speaking another language, having non-native accents and the embarrassment of being misunderstood. But also because using the same language meant that we could understand the meanings behind just the words: we could understand how the other was thinking and feeling, because we had learnt the vocabulary that the other would use to express themselves.
And so, the nationality and ‘English-ness’ that made me odd at the beginning of my stay, actually became something that they shared. And vice versa.
I now see identity not as something fixed, defined by where you were born or how you speak, but as something that develops over time, shaped by the people you meet and the things that you learn.
And for children raised in bilingual households, like my host brothers? They might never think of their identity as anything other than an exciting mish-mash of different cultures, words, and people.