Why Schools in America Treat Bilingualism Like a Liability, Not an Asset

When I filled out my daughter’s kindergarten intake form, I thought I was honoring her bilingualism. Instead, I triggered a test that told me how little our schools value languages beyond English.

The U.S. education system uses home language surveys to identify children who may need English support. A necessary step. But these same tools also lump bilingual kids into the same category, flagging them for testing as if knowing more than one language is a liability.

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Every child entering a U.S. public school is greeted by the same set of questions: What language is spoken at home? What language does your child first learn? On the surface, these intake forms and Home Language Environment Questionnaires serve an important function. They help schools identify English learners who may need additional supports to access curriculum and thrive academically. This is, in theory, a good thing. But in practice, the system fails to recognize or honor the assets of children who arrive at school bilingual. Multilingualism is framed as a problem to be remediated rather than a resource to be celebrated.

Take my daughter’s story. We have raised her bilingual in Mandarin and English since birth. When I indicated this on her kindergarten intake form, she was flagged to take an English language assessment... at five years old. Not because she struggled in English, but simply because she also knew another language. She was then required to demonstrate her reading, writing, listening, and speaking skills through a formal test, despite the fact that very few five-year-olds know how to “take” tests in any meaningful sense. My concern was never whether she had the English proficiency expected of a kindergartener. I knew she did. My concern was that the act of testing itself would set her up for failure. And no parent should feel pressured to coach their child to become a test-taker before they even enter school.

Research in bilingualism is clear: children do not learn a second language at the expense of their first. In fact, bilingual children often demonstrate a broader conceptual vocabulary and richer language awareness than their monolingual peers. Yet our school systems are designed to treat bilingualism as a deficit. By flagging children simply because they live in multilingual households, schools send an early and enduring message: English is what matters, and other languages are incidental. Even when my daughter passed the test, she was labeled “IFEP” (Initial Fluent English Proficient), a designation that will remain on her record as a permanent marker for teachers and administrators to interpret however they wish.

The problem is not that we assess children who truly need additional English supports. That is both necessary and just. The problem is that our current system collapses the identities of bilingual children into the same category as children who are learning English for the first time. There is no space in these surveys to affirm the value of speaking multiple languages. There is no mechanism to distinguish between children at the beginning of their English journey and children with English as a thriving part of a broader linguistic repertoire. Instead, our forms and policies reinforce a narrow, monolingual vision of what it means to be ready for school.

As a parent, scholar, and teacher educator working with multilingual communities, I wish I could confidently encourage parents to indicate bilingualism on these forms with pride. But the reality is more complicated. Right now, my advice has to be pragmatic: only mark bilingualism if your child is ready to sit for an English test. Policymakers can do better. Instead of flagging bilingualism as a risk, intake forms should ask parents about their child’s proficiency in each language and trust parents’ knowledge of whether their child can navigate school in English. A bilingual child who can access learning in English should be treated no differently than a monolingual child arriving with only English. Until we change the questions we ask, families will continue to feel torn between affirming their identities and protecting their children from unnecessary testing and stigmatizing labels.

Living in the Tension Between Longing and Belonging

The word longing is embedded in the word belonging. At first, they seem like opposites. One suggests you have arrived; the other, that you are still searching. But for many multilinguals, the two are inseparable. Every language we speak anchors us to a place or community, and every language we cannot fully reach stirs an ache for what is just beyond our grasp. We live in the liminal space of both truths.

I feel it when a Cantonese phrase surfaces in conversation and I am instantly back in my grandmother’s kitchen, steam curling from a pot of soup as she calls out, “食飯啦!” (“Come eat!”). I also feel it when I reach for a word in Mandarin, certain of its meaning yet unable to summon its sound, leaving me in silence. Each language I carry holds both the comfort of belonging and the pull of longing: one reminding me where I am rooted, the other reminding me of what I could or should be.

Over time, the longing doesn't disappear. What changes is our relationship to it. We stop treating it as a flaw to fix and begin to carry it as part of our identity; a quiet reminder that who we are is still unfolding, still tethered to the languages and cultures of places and people that shaped us. It becomes a longing that lingers with us in the scent of a dish we can almost name, in the half-remembered lyrics of a childhood song, in the way a familiar word can stop us mid-step.

And sometimes, the distance between longing and belonging closes for a moment. A shopkeeper greets you in your family’s tongue. You order a dish without having to translate it. Your child calls you by a name you thought had been left behind. In those moments, the ache softens, and we are reminded that longing has always been a part of belonging. Belonging is not about fitting in perfectly. It is about recognizing yourself in the words you have, and letting them anchor you to the people and places they came from.

And maybe that is the work of a multilingual life... to keep walking the border between what we have and what we hope to hold, gathering moments when language lets us feel whole, and carrying them with care until the next moment when longing and belonging meet.

Letting Children Lead in Their Bilingual Journey

This morning, I was reading a bilingual version of Mulan to my six-year-old daughter. I wanted to read it in Mandarin, not because she prefers it, but because it’s the language she doesn’t hear as often. In a country where English surrounds her, I’ve learned I have to protect time for Chinese. After the first page, she asked, gently but firmly, if I could read it in English instead. I hesitated. I felt the tug between honoring her comfort and holding on to a language I don’t want her to lose. Ultimately, I said yes. But I also decided to translate just one word per page into Chinese. She seemed to accept it as I read the story. Halfway through the book, she paused and pointed to 軍隊 (army), a word I had already said in Mandarin and translated once into English. “What does 軍隊 mean again?” she asked. A small moment, but it reminded me of something bigger: when we let children lead, they often return to the language in their own time.

As parents and educators, we carry deep hopes when it comes to language. We want our children to inherit what shaped us, to speak with our elders, to hold on to culture, to belong in more than one world. But bilingualism isn’t a one-way transmission. It’s a relationship. And like any relationship, it thrives on agency, trust, and consent. When children are positioned only as passive recipients of language, we risk making it a source of pressure rather than pride. What would it mean to treat them not just as learners, but as decision-makers in their own multilingual journey?

That might mean letting them choose the books they read in the target language, even if they’re silly or light. It might mean saying yes to music, movies, or games that build connection instead of drilling vocabulary. It might mean holding back the impulse to correct mid-sentence, and letting code-switching be a valid expression of thought, not a mistake to fix. These are not just pedagogical strategies. They are acts of respect. Small, everyday ways we show children that language isn’t just something they inherit, but something they shape.

This doesn’t mean stepping back entirely. Language development still requires modeling, consistency, and scaffolding. But it also requires recognizing that children are not replicas of us. They are becoming their own multilingual selves. Scholars of bilingual education have long emphasized that learner autonomy is one of the most powerful drivers of language retention. When children feel ownership over their language story, when they see it as something they want to carry, not something they have to, they are more likely to hold onto it in meaningful, lasting, and personal ways.

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！