When Multilingualism Doesn’t Pass Down the Way We Hoped

The other night, I watched my child recite a poem in Mandarin with a fluency that startled me. Clear tones, confident rhythm, an ease I never had. Mandarin is part of their heritage through my wife, but for me, it's my third language—learned in classrooms and textbooks, functional but never intimate. My heart languages are English and Cantonese, shaped by my family, friends, and schooling in the everyday life of my transnational childhood. And as I listened, pride and loss sat side by side in me.

I’ve come to realize that intergenerational multilingualism rarely replicates itself cleanly. Children don’t inherit language equally, especially in diasporic contexts where societal structures privilege some tongues over others. My daughters will likely surpass me in Mandarin, walk beside me in English, and carry only traces of Cantonese. And while this trajectory makes perfect sociolinguistic sense—given exposure, utility, and institutional reinforcement—it still stirs a quiet grief. Cantonese is one way that I know to connect, to belong, to remember. What does it mean to raise children who won’t ever feel at home in that language?

Language loss across generations is not just linguistic; it’s emotional and cultural. Scholars have written about “heritage language shift,” the process by which dominant social and educational pressures nudge families toward linguistic assimilation, even when multilingualism is present at home. I see this playing out in real time. Not through resistance, but through slow, uneven shifts shaped by migration, schooling, social context, and competing demands. And I’m learning that my job as a parent is not to fight those shifts outright, but to recognize their complexity. To grieve what’s receding while also appreciating what’s emerging.

My children are not lesser for not speaking Cantonese the way I do. They are growing into a multilingualism that reflects their reality, not mine. They may never say certain phrases I associate with comfort or home, but they are developing linguistic and cultural tools that will serve them in ways I can’t yet predict. To parent in this space is to live in tension: between holding on and letting go, between mourning and marveling. And maybe that’s the deeper work. Not passing on a perfect version of ourselves, but making peace with who they are becoming in every language they carry.

When You’ve Only Known Me in One Language

A friend and I were talking about our childhoods outside the U.S.—how we grew up, what we missed, and what’s been hard to translate into our lives here. At one point, she said, a little exasperated but mostly resigned, “I wish people here knew that I’m funny in my other language!“ In English, she felt flat—less expressive, less herself. Her humor didn’t land. Her stories didn’t carry the same rhythm. And it made me wonder: how often do we think we know someone, when in truth, we’ve never known them in all the languages they carry?

Language is not just a means of communication—it’s a repository of self. It carries our ways of thinking, our modes of connecting, and how we move through the spaces we call home. In its sounds and silences live the cadence of our childhoods, the values of our communities, the cultural texture and emotional undertones we don’t have to explain. We don't just translate words; we shift ways of being. I felt this vividly while out with English-speaking friends at a dim sum restaurant. I ordered in Cantonese, navigating the menu and staff with ease and familiarity. After the meal, one of my friends said, “I’ve never seen you speak Chinese before." He expanded, "it felt like I was seeing a whole new side of you.” That moment stayed with me. Because it was true—they were seeing a part of me they’d never encountered. Not a different version, just a fuller one.

In monolingual spaces, especially ones dominated by English, so much of who we are can remain out of view—not because we’re hiding, but because there’s no space to be fully heard. If you’ve only ever known someone in one language, how much of their humor, history, or heart have you missed? How many layers of identity stay beneath the surface simply because they haven't been spoken aloud? Language limits perception—not just of what we say, but of who we’re able to be in the eyes of others.

For those of us who teach, lead, or learn alongside others, this invites a deeper kind of listening. Not just for what is said, but for what is withheld, translated, or reshaped to fit the dominant tongue. It means listening for the silences that signal discomfort, the pauses that carry meaning, and the expressions that don't quite land in English but carry weight elsewhere. To know someone well is to make space for all the ways they express who they are, and to understand that some of the most vital parts of a person live in the languages you’ve yet to hear.

Beyond Two Monolinguals: Rethinking How We Understand the Bilingual Mind

The bilingual mind is not just a combination of two monolingual minds—it’s a fundamentally different way of thinking, communicating, and learning. Yet many educational models still treat bilingualism as the sum of two language tracks: English on one side, Spanish on the other, each developing independently. But bilingual children don’t live in two linguistic worlds; they navigate a single, integrated system. To support them effectively, we need to shift from a parallel model to a holistic view of bilingualism—one that honors the complexity and strength of how bilingual minds actually work.

Holistic bilingualism recognizes that children draw from their entire linguistic repertoire to communicate and learn. A child might start a sentence in Mandarin and finish it in French, not out of confusion, but because they are navigating meaning fluidly across languages. They are using all their language tools to express ideas, solve problems, and engage with the world. This isn’t linguistic failure; it’s linguistic sophistication.

Think of it this way: no expert in track and field would compare a high hurdler to a sprinter or a high jumper, even though hurdling blends characteristics of both (Grosjean, 1989). A high hurdler is an integrated whole—a unique and specific athlete who jumps and sprints. In the same way, a bilingual speaker doesn’t live in two separate language worlds. They use language as an integrated system—a unique and specific way of communicating with language A and language B that reflects who they are and how they think.

Teaching through a holistic lens means valuing this integration. It means we assess for meaning, not just mechanics. We support flexible language use, rather than restricting students to “stay in one lane.” And most importantly, we see bilingual students not as two halves to be measured, but as whole thinkers and learners whose bilingualism is a powerful asset; whose languaging practices are unique to the bilingual mind.

The Hidden Strengths of Language Learning: How Bilingualism Shapes Resilience and Connection

My five-year-old daughter sat in her classroom, eyes bright with determination as she tried to explain something to her Mandarin-dominant classmate. At first, she spoke in English, but when she noticed her friend’s confusion, she quickly pivoted—gesturing, simplifying her English word choice, making eye contact, and incorporating a few Mandarin phrases. Her classmate’s face lit up with understanding, and suddenly, the conversation flowed. I watched in awe as my daughter navigated this moment with such persistence, refusing to let language be a barrier. It wasn’t just about communication; it was about problem-solving and being flexible, driven by a deep desire to connect. In that moment, I realized that bilingualism was shaping her in ways I'd read about but hadn’t fully appreciated—hidden strengths that went far beyond just speaking multiple languages.

You see, bilingual individuals share a distinct human experience—one that requires constant adaptation, perspective-taking, and creative problem-solving. Because they regularly move between languages and cultural contexts, they develop skills that go beyond words. Inherent to the bilingual experience is an ingrained sense of empathy. They know what it means to struggle for understanding, to search for the right word, or to bridge gaps between different ways of thinking. This awareness makes them highly attuned to others’ challenges, prompting them to adjust their communication instinctively. Whether simplifying language, switching tones, or intuitively reading body language, bilinguals learn to connect across differences. This ability to shift perspectives makes them natural bridges between people and cultures, fostering deeper understanding in an increasingly interconnected world.

Another hidden strength of bilingual individuals is their cognitive flexibility. The mental agility required to switch between languages strengthens their ability to multitask, solve problems creatively, and adapt to new situations. I see this often in my own life, navigating between Cantonese, Mandarin, English, and variations of Chinglish. When speaking with my family, for example, I instinctively switch between English, Cantonese, and Mandarin, adjusting depending on whom I’m addressing. At times, I’ll reach for an English word with my dad when I can’t recall the Cantonese equivalent, I’ll rephrase an English sentence in a way that makes more sense to a Mandarin speaker, or I'll interject English words with a Cantonese accent so it is contextualized to a Cantonese-dominant speaker. This constant linguistic flexibility isn’t just about translation—it’s about shaping thoughts in real-time, filtering between different structures, and finding the most effective way to communicate. Becoming bilingual truly goes beyond learning language—I see it in my daughter when she pieces together ideas in different ways, finds creative solutions when words fail her, and navigates between languages, both consciously and subconsciously, to make herself understood. Bilingualism is a way of thinking that allows her to adapt, problem-solve, and embrace challenges with confidence.

Becoming bilingual isn’t easy. It takes effort, persistence, and countless moments of struggle—searching for words, navigating misunderstandings, and working through the mental gymnastics of switching between languages. But through these challenges, bilingual individuals develop a set of strengths that go far beyond language itself. Bilingualism fosters perseverance, empathy, and cognitive flexibility—hidden strengths that shape how they engage with and contribute to the world. Watching my daughter in that classroom, I saw a glimpse of who she is becoming—resourceful, resilient, and deeply attuned to others. Whether in schools, workplaces, or across cultural divides, bilingual speakers bring a unique way of thinking and connecting that truly enriches the world around them.

One Parent, One Language: When the Model Works—And When It Feels Out of Place

I was raised in a One Parent, One Language (OPOL) household. My father spoke to me in Cantonese, my mother in English. But my Cantonese wasn’t limited to our home—I was also immersed in it at school and in my daily life growing up in Hong Kong. OPOL worked well for us because these were my parents’ heart languages—the languages they felt most comfortable expressing themselves in. But what happens when the language a parent speaks under OPOL isn’t quite their own? What if the model, instead of creating a natural connection, introduces a feeling of distance for one parent, like something is missing or doesn’t quite fit?

The strength of OPOL is its clarity—each parent provides consistent exposure to a language, helping a child develop proficiency in both. When the languages are deeply tied to the parents’ identities, it reinforces not only linguistic ability but also emotional connection and cultural grounding. This is particularly powerful when one of the languages is a non-dominant / minority language that might otherwise be lost (e.g., Spanish in the USA). For many families, OPOL helps children grow up multilingual with strong bonds to their heritage and the ability to transcend cultural and linguistic boundaries. But when a parent is assigned a language they wouldn’t normally use—perhaps a non-native language or a heritage language that feels unfamiliar—it can create a sense of distance, making conversations feel more like an effort than an exchange.

This is where OPOL has its limitations. Language is more than just words—it’s how we build trust, share laughter, and make sense of the world together. When a parent speaks to their child in a language that doesn’t feel fully theirs, something shifts. Jokes don’t land quite the same way. Deep, winding conversations—the kind where a child asks why a hundred times—feel harder to sustain. The quiet comfort of a heart-to-heart, where a child unspools the details of their day and sorts through their feelings, can feel just out of reach—the right words hovering close but never quite landing. Even discipline, which requires both clarity and emotional nuance, can become difficult; the guiding voice meant to teach and correct can sound harsher than intended, stripped of the softness that makes a child feel safe enough to listen. A language that is meant to be a bridge can, instead, start to feel like a wall.

Is it worth the sacrifice? Strict language separation can create a sense of order, but it isn’t always the best path to communication. A child doesn’t acquire a language in rigid halves—they pick up what they hear most often, what feels natural, what allows them to engage fully in the world around them. Consistency matters, of course, but multilingual parenting isn’t a test of discipline or purity; it grows through exposure, interaction, and the freedom to use language in ways that feel meaningful. A parent who mixes languages, who instinctively switches to the one that allows for deeper conversations or moments of tenderness, isn’t failing at OPOL—they’re making sure language remains a gateway to expression, not a guardrail of restriction. Because at the end of the day, what stays with a child isn’t the perfection of a method, but the voices that shaped them—the ones that soothed them to sleep, answered their endless questions, and made them feel at home in every language they carry.

Speaking Without Apology: Finding Confidence in the Languages We Carry

The other day, I was speaking in English with someone whose primary language was Mandarin. As we navigated the conversation, I had a fleeting thought: It’s too bad my Mandarin isn’t strong enough to express myself fully. But then I caught myself. That wasn’t entirely true. My Mandarin is good enough for a meaningful conversation. Yet, somewhere deep inside, the voice in my head expected my Mandarin to match my English fluency—an impossible standard. And then I wondered: was this person having the same thought about their English? Were we both holding ourselves to expectations that no one else had placed on us?

This feeling is all too familiar for multilinguals. No matter how much we know, we are often hyperaware of what we lack. We hesitate before speaking, apologize for mispronunciations, and downplay our abilities. Receptive bilinguals, included. Monolinguals, on the other hand, rarely seem to experience this in the same way. For example, a person who speaks only English rarely stops mid-sentence to lament that their English isn’t quite English enough. This discrepancy illuminates how multilinguals too often measure their own voices against impossible ideals—ideals shaped by a monolingual bias.

Take the United States as an example. Someone who grew up hearing Spanish at home but speaks it with an accent might tell themselves, I should be better at this. I sound so "American." A second-generation Korean speaker might hesitate before speaking, afraid of using the wrong honorifics. A Vietnamese speaker might avoid conversations with elders altogether, not wanting to face the embarrassment of forgetting a word mid-sentence. Meanwhile, those who speak English with non-standard accents, or what is dismissively called "broken English," are often judged unfairly and treated as less capable simply because their English doesn’t fit rigid norms. These are two sides of the same coin. Whether it’s feeling inadequate in our heritage languages or being judged for speaking English "imperfectly," the underlying message is that only certain ways of speaking are fully accepted. That fluency is the price of cultural authenticity and belonging. But language is not just about correctness—it’s about communication, culture, and connection.

So what if we stopped apologizing? What if, instead of measuring ourselves against unrealistic standards, we embraced the richness of how we already speak? And recognize the way we speak—accented, code-switched, imperfect—carries the history of where we’ve been, the people we’ve known, and the worlds we navigate. Rather than seeing our language abilities as something to fix or perfect, we can recognize them as evidence of adaptation, bridging, and connection. Perhaps the goal is not perfection. Perhaps the goal is to feel at home in our voice.

高掛紅燈籠：Lighting the Way for Tradition and Life in Bilingual Schools

It's the Lunar New Year at our Mandarin dual-language public school in Los Angeles.

Red lanterns line the school courtyard, swaying gently in the breeze. 紅燈籠高掛，迎接新年—symbols of prosperity, luck, renewal. The air hums with anticipation as the reverberating drums signal the arrival of the 舞獅。 The lion dancers—左搖右擺，步步生風—weave through the crowd, their movements bold and alive, while children squeal in delight. Just beyond, a face-changer performer lifts a fan, and in an instant—bian lian變臉，一瞬之間，面貌全非。 Gasps ripple through the crowd. The magic of 新年 is here.

At the entrance of our bilingual school, a dragon winds its way across the wall—長龍蜿蜒—each scale a paper plate, each plate painted by a child’s hands. 龍，祥瑞之兆，承載著好運與力量。 Some plates are carefully detailed, others wildly colorful, but together they conjure something greater than any single piece—獨木不成林，眾志成城。 The children point, searching for their own contributions—我的呢？在哪裡？—their faces lighting up with pride. Pride that connects their art to ancient beliefs, passed through generations that are ever enduring—承傳千年的文化，如今就在眼前。

For those in the school community who celebrate, these moments whisper: 你屬於這裡，你的文化被看見，被珍惜—you belong here; you are seen and known. For those experiencing it for the first time, it’s an open door—請進，請欣賞，請體會。 And for the parents standing at the edges, hearts warmed by the sense of nostalgia felt deep in their bones, it is evidence that their culture is not just something that they leave at home—文化不僅是歷史的回音，更是今日鮮活的篇章。It is relevant. It's alive.

Some schools acknowledge culture. Others bring it to life. When a school chooses the latter—when it lets 紅燈籠照亮走廊 red lanterns fill its hallways, when it 讓紙盤龍化為傳承的橋樑 turns a paper plate project into a majestic symbol of belonging, when it 讓孩子親身體驗而非只是在書本上讀到 allows tradition to take root—it does more than just teach about a holiday. It affirms that culture is not just something to be studied. It is something felt. 它做的不僅是教授一個節日，而是賦予一種認同，讓文化真正被感受、被理解、被珍惜。 And today, in this space filled with light and movement and squeals of joy, our Chinese heritage is alive and I couldn't be more grateful. 新年快樂，萬事如意！

Silent Strength: Reclaiming the Beauty of Receptive Bilingualism

To the quiet bilinguals of the world—those who understand a heritage language deep in their bones but might not speak it back fluently—your story is worth celebrating. Too often, society tells you that understanding isn’t enough; that without perfect fluency, you’re somehow less whole. But they couldn’t be more wrong. The ability to listen, to comprehend, to feel the weight of words passed down through generations, is not just a skill—it’s a bridge. A lifeline. A sacred connection.

You are proof that languages live in more than just spoken words; they live in our hearts, in the laughter of a family dinner, in the familiar rise and fall of an abeula’s lullaby. You carry your language in the way you read between the lines, in how you instinctively know the cultural weight of a phrase, in how you interpret love in a voice that speaks more than words. And this, this quiet strength, is a gift. It’s a tie to your ancestors, to the stories that came before you, and to the culture you hold within.

But let’s be honest—being a receptive bilingual isn’t always easy. The world can be unkind, reducing bilingualism to a competition, a rigid standard that silences those who don’t fit the mold. You may feel judged by others or even by yourself. You may feel like you’re standing on the edge of two worlds, belonging everywhere and nowhere all at once. It can be lonely to carry a language in your heart but not on your tongue.

And yet, every moment you hear, understand, and hold that language is an act of defiance against forgetting. Receptive bilingualism is not a lesser form of bilingualism—it’s a powerful declaration that heritage matters, that culture matters, that connection matters. So, to those who quietly listen, who piece together meaning and make connections across cultures, who hold their heritage with reverence even when the words catch in their throat—you are the keepers of something beautiful. You are enough. And the world is richer because of who you are with these languages within you.

The Multilingual Home: Six Evidence-Based Approaches to Raising Bilingual Children

Parents today recognize the immense benefits of raising bilingual or multilingual children. For many, it’s about preserving cultural heritage and fostering a sense of connection to family and tradition. Others value the cognitive and social advantages of bilingualism, such as enhanced problem-solving skills, greater empathy, and improved career prospects.

Yet, the path to raising multilingual children can be challenging. Parents often wonder: How should families balance a minoritized language (a language with less visibility or power in a society) with the dominant societal language (the primary language spoken in the broader community)? Should each parent take on a specific language, or should the home environment focus on one language exclusively? And if children don't achieve "perfect" bilingualism, is it worth the endeavor?

Six Approaches to Raising Bilingual Children

The following table outlines six well-established approaches to raising bilingual children. Each strategy includes a brief description, an illustrative example, an analysis of why the approach is effective, and potential challenges families may encounter. Link to table here.

Practical Strategies for Long-Term Success

Raising bilingual children is a long-term commitment that requires intentional planning and adaptability. The following strategies can help families maintain momentum while fostering language development:

1. Make It Engaging: Incorporate books, songs, games, and media in the target languages to make learning enjoyable.

2. Create Consistent Routines: Dedicate specific times to each language, such as reading bedtime stories in the minoritized language or using certain vocabulary and phrases to engage with bedtime routines.

3. Build a Support Network: Seek out communities, playgroups, or schools that reinforce the minoritized language. Connecting with other families who share similar goals can also provide motivation.

4. Celebrate Milestones: Acknowledge and reward achievements, such as using a new phrase or completing a book in the minoritized language.

5. Cultivate Intrinsic Motivation: Share about the benefits of bilingualism with your child, emphasizing cultural connection, cognitive development, and future opportunities. When children understand the "why," they are more autonomous and empowered in the process.

6. Model Lifelong Language Learning: Share your own positive experiences with the languages you are learning and/or passing down. Children often model their attitudes on their parents’ excitement and commitment.

In our family, we embrace a multilingual approach, speaking both Mandarin and English at home to the kids, with English spoken between parents, English/Mandarin/Cantonese spoken with different grandparents, and some Cantonese exposure from me to share another part of our cultural heritage. Living in the English-speaking United States, we have intentionally supported our daughters’ exposure to Mandarin from the start through children’s media, Mandarin-speaking caretakers, Mandarin-focused preschools, and now enrollment in a Mandarin-English dual-language immersion public school. We also strengthen their connection to the language and culture with visits to family in Taiwan and Hong Kong. While our children are multilingual, we recognize that their linguistic journeys will be different from our own and remain committed to cultivating their motivation to take ownership of their unique multilingual experiences.

What approaches have worked for your family? Share your experiences in the comments—I’d love to hear how you’re fostering bilingualism or multilingualism in your home.

Unmuting Diversity: Challenging Linguistic Bias in the Language Classroom

“Your English is so good!”

This seemingly innocuous phrase often reveals underlying linguistic bias. While meant as a compliment, it implies surprise that someone could master English so well—an assumption rooted in stereotypes about who is or isn’t expected to be proficient. In language classrooms, similar biases can shape interactions and expectations. Educators may unconsciously hold certain students to higher or lower standards based on their accents, fluency, or cultural background, reinforcing hierarchies of language and marginalizing diverse linguistic identities. Unmuting diversity in these spaces requires us to recognize these patterns and actively work to create truly inclusive and equitable learning environments. Below are four ways to consider linguistic bias, which I shared in a recent session at the CATESOL State conference (see handout).

Accent Discrimination

Accent can be a powerful marker of identity, but in the TESOL classroom, it sometimes becomes a basis for discrimination. Accent discrimination occurs when individuals are judged based on how they sound, often aligning with societal biases against certain linguistic and cultural backgrounds. For example, a TESOL instructor may unconsciously favor students whose accents align with “standard” varieties of English, providing them more opportunities to speak, while students with different accents are overlooked or critiqued more harshly. Overcoming accent bias means recognizing and celebrating linguistic diversity—even in the ways we speak English—fostering an environment where all voices are valued equally.

Language Hierarchies and Global Englishes

Not all Englishes are created equal—at least in the eyes of many traditional curricula and assessments. Language hierarchies often privilege Standard American or British Englishes, positioning them as the “correct” or most-desired varieties of Engish while sidelining other global varieties. This creates a perception that some ways of speaking are inherently more valuable than others, perpetuating inequality. Imagine a TESOL curriculum that focuses solely on American English while ignoring vibrant English varieties of Indian Englishes, Singapore English, or African American Vernacular English. By embracing Global Englishes, educators can validate the diverse linguistic realities of students and challenge these entrenched hierarchies.

Fluency-Based Assumptions

Judgments based on a student's fluency often overlook the complexities of language learning. A student’s ability to speak fluently doesn’t always reflect a deep understanding of course content, just as a student with limited fluency might possess remarkable insights. In TESOL settings, educators sometimes assign leadership roles or critical tasks based on perceived fluency, inadvertently marginalizing quieter or less fluent students. Recognizing the broader competencies students bring to the classroom means moving beyond surface judgments and appreciating the different ways they contribute.

Breaking Cultural Stereotypes

Cultural stereotyping happens when educators make assumptions about language-learning abilities based solely on a student's cultural, ethnic, or national background. These stereotypes flatten the rich diversity within cultural groups, leading to missed opportunities for genuine connection and understanding. When a TESOL instructor assumes all students from a specific country struggle similarly with pronunciation or share the same learning style or interests, they ignore individual strengths and challenges. Moving beyond stereotypes means taking the time to understand each student’s unique experience, creating more inclusive classrooms where all learners can thrive.

Unmuting diversity in the language classroom means more than acknowledging linguistic differences—it’s about actively valuing and amplifying them. By challenging biases, dismantling hierarchies, and embracing the rich tapestry of global Englishes, we create spaces where all students feel seen, heard, and respected. In other words, we empower students to bring their full linguistic and cultural identities to the classroom, transforming these spaces into hubs of equity and belonging. It’s not just about teaching language; it’s about fostering a world where every voice has a chance to thrive.