If you asked me earlier this week what bilingualism is I would have said "knowing two languages." You didn't need to be fluent in both, just being able to speak or understand another language seemed enough. But I quickly realized that bilingualism is much more complex. It's not just about the number of languages you know, but also about how those languages develop, interact, and shape your identity.
There are balanced bilinguals, who use both languages with similar proficiency and ease, often switching depending on the context. Then there are unbalanced bilinguals, who are stronger in one language than the other. For example, a student might be comfortable speaking Tamil at home but rely heavily on English for academics and social interactions. Neither type is "better," but these differences can affect how someone navigates school, relationships, and even their sense of belonging.
I see this even in my own life and relationship. My boyfriend, for example, is stronger in English. His reading and writing are much better in English, but he can only speak Tanglish (Tamil mixed with English). Although I would say my Tamil is better than his, as I can speak and write in Tamil, but I struggle to read fluently out loud. Together, we both represent two different points on the bilingual spectrum, and both of us have moments of feeling "in-between" not fully at home in one language or the other. That sense of in-betweenness is something many bilingual students carry with them in the classroom.
Language loss is when a heritage language gradually fades as a dominant language takes over. For many immigrant families, this happens when parents begin speaking more English at home out of fear that their children might fall behind in school. During the time when myself and other first generation Tamil Canadians were starting school, many educators informed our parents that talking to us in English and not our native language would be beneficial for our English development. While many parents' choice to let their children speak English came from a place of care and protection, it unknowingly led to a generational shift where the children, and later grandchildren, lose fluency in our heritage language. Over time, the heritage language can become something they only partially understand, but cannot confidently speak, read, or write. Language loss is more than losing words, it's losing access to culture, stories, and identity.
For educators, recognizing this reality is crucial. A student's first language is not a barrier to overcome, but a resource to build upon. Supporting bilingual students means affirming their identities, encouraging translanguaging practices (using both languages to think and learn), and respecting that language ties deeply to family and belonging.
As I continue my journey as an educator, I carry my own experience as both a caution and a reminder that schools have the power to either silence a child's heritage language or to honour it as an essential part of who they are. My hope is to be the kind of teacher who chooses the latter.
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