Htin - Week 1 : The History I Hold onto

    This year marks my 4th year living in the states. At the mention of my recently immigrated status, all and sundry seem to say the same thing: “Your English is so good, did you grow up bilingual?” And my answer to that always had and always will be, a proud “no”.  

     

    I grew up in Myanmar, a country with its rich history of cultural traditions and most importantly, language development. Myanmar was first founded as a unified state in the 11th century by King Anawrahta. It brought together a diverse range of ethnicities to stand proud as an independent nation. After centuries of marinating history, the countryside still paints itself in the shade of its emeralds it produces while the growing urban cities tower above the flying pigeons as they flock towards the pagodas’ feeding grounds. The Sanghas pace in an undeviating line, resembling that of a strand made from saffron colored fabric while the elementary students walk in a serpentine line, but in the shade of cadmium. But unfortunately, my main point would never be discussed if I were to keep immortalizing my birth country. 

Enough poetic descriptions and imaginary sun rays hitting your face, since there isn’t anything mythical or legendary about the people of Myanmar. Yes, we may be unheard of. No, we don’t bend water—though it would’ve been an awesome ability to have against Queen Victoria and her armory of guns. Contrary to the beliefs of the American people, it turns out that the British do carry an immense amount of firepower. Then, they came, they saw, they conquered and changed our name on the maps. Thanks to the Queen, I now have to awkwardly stand around as I explain to people that I’m Burmese, from the country of Myanmar, who speaks Burmese. Though, I am relieved at the non-existence of the word “Myanmarnese”. 
   Yet, while Queen Victoria’s empire could seize our lands and exile our kings, they could never conquer the cadences of our language and culture. To understand why my “no” is so proud, one must understand its anatomy. English feels blocky and functional in my mouth, built for speed and transaction. Burmese, however, is music. Our alphabet does not march in rigid, jagged lines. Instead, our script is a sea of perfect circles, originally rounded by ancestors who wrote on delicate palm leaves, knowing straight lines would rip the history they sought to record. It is a language that cannot be spoken without an inherent humility and warmth.

Old Burmese

    When others offer the “bilingual” tag, they see a neat academic achievement. But to me, blurring the lines feels like a quiet surrender. If I allow Burmese to become just a secondary tool, a dialect reserved only for phone calls to my family and relatives, I will not be any better than the oppressors trying to silence my culture. Instead, I aim to be a walking vault for a language refused to die, and as long as I hold on to it, the history of Myanmar remains unconquered and the memories of my childhood survives.

I am not bilingual, I am a Burmese person who speaks English.