Language has always been a important part of my identity, shaping how I see the world and how the world sees me. From a young age, I recognized the power of words—how they could connect or isolate, empower or restrict. Growing up, I navigated different verbal landscapes, switching between the formal English expected in school and the more relaxed, rhythmic speech of cousins and friends. It wasn’t until one particular moment in my life that I truly understood the depth of this experience—an experience that forced me to confront my relationship with language, literacy, and identity.

One defining moment occurred in my middle school English class during my seventh-grade year. Our teacher assigned us to write and perform a spoken-word poem about an aspect of our identity. I was excited at first, but then I felt a creeping sense of doubt. What part of my identity should I explore? More importantly, how should I speak? Should I use the well-educated English I had been taught to write in school, or should I sneak in the slang and dialect I used with my family, friends and cousins?

At home my family spoke mostly bengali, and little bits of english and phrases borrowed from other languages. This way of speaking was natural and vibrant, but in school, it felt out of place. I had learned to filter my speech, carefully choosing words to fit the academic expectations placed upon me. I had grown comfortable in this ability to switch between linguistic identities, but now, standing in front of my class with my poem in hand, I felt exposed.

When the day of the performance arrived, my heart pounded as I stepped onto the small stage at the front of the classroom. My poem was titled “Voices in My Head”, and it explored the constant switching of language I did in different places. I started with formal English, the kind I had mastered through years of essays and presentations in school. But as the poem progressed, I let myself slip into the natural tone of my home dialect. I infused it with the slang I used with my friends, the words that felt like home. I could see the curiosity in my classmates’ faces, and I worried about what they were thinking. Would they see me as less intelligent? Would they judge me for not sticking to the so-called “proper” way of speaking?

Then I reached the final lines of my poem: “I am fluent in more than just words / I am fluent in worlds.” As I finished, a silence filled the room, then a sudden burst of applause. The teachers smiled and nodded, and a few of my classmates even clapped louder than before. I realized that my fear had been misplaced. No one had dismissed my words; in fact, my authenticity had resonated with them.

That moment changed the way I viewed language and literacy. I realized that language is not just about correctness—it is about connection. It is about expression. I had spent years trying to separate the different parts of my linguistic identity, believing that certain ways of speaking were only appropriate in certain places. But the truth was that all of these forms of language were a part of me. My home dialect was just as valid as the English I wrote in essays; the slang I used with friends and cousins carried just as much meaning as the structured sentences of my schoolwork.

After that day, I embraced the idea that language is fluid, adaptable, and deeply personal. I no longer felt the need to suppress parts of my linguistic identity to fit a specific mold. Instead, I saw the beauty in the way I could shift between different forms of communication, each one reflecting a different piece of who I was.

Looking back, I realize that my relationship with language and literacy has been a journey of self-discovery. That moment in my English class taught me that language is more than just rules and structure; it is a reflection of culture, history, and personal identity. I now understand that being articulate doesn’t mean conforming to a single standard—it means having the ability to communicate in a way that is true to who you are. And in finding my voice, I found the power of my own story.