Growing up, I only spoke my mother\'s tongue.
Growing up, I was told to be different in my mother\'s tongue.
Growing up, I grew to dislike my mother tongue.
Not because of my mother, but because of those who spoke with me.
Not those that were truly kind but those hiding behind vicious masks.
Not those that tried to understand me, but those who wanted me to change.
I learned to once more love the languages of my mother.
I found comfort in fairy tales and legends, but only I found enjoyment from them.
I learned I loved the old and flowery way of the language, which had a sharp edge to it.
But it was wrong; I was wrong. Most stories that I read made me shudder.
The ways the authors of my later childhood made use of the language made me horrified.
It was the language of the mother whom I love, a language which tells the most wonderful tales, and yet they butchered it.
I turned away from reading in that language.
Instead, I choose to read in a language I learned alone.
It was a language truly for me and me alone, a language that connected me with more.
While I grew more skilled in my newfound skill, the tongue of my mother never developed further, and I felt resentment. Not towards the language or the people, but towards me for letting it rot.
I like to think that each language has it own personality.
I like to think that my English is a sarcastic lady who likes to swear and use flowery words to mask her venom.
I like to think that my Italian will grow to be an old lady dressed in black and only found with a paintbrush in hand.
I like to think that my Chinese will be a cultured lady who, if provoked, swears like an ancient grandmother who can only write and speak in poetry and riddles.
I think deep down that the language taught by my mother is but a mere child. A child lost in troubles beyond their years, who prefers to keep their mouth shut, as if to avoid possible conflict. I dare not imagine what she could have been or what she will grow to be.
All I know is that as of now she is not the yellow of the egg.