Mother Tongue

Literally the language of your mother, your mother tongue is traditionally held to be the language spoken to you by your mum, the language with which you were cradled and lulled to sleep, the one that seeped into your subconscious brain while it soaked up the sounds of the world around it and grew into a sentient being. 

A person’s mother tongue is often also identified as their first language because it is presumed to be the first language they ever spoke, given a child’s propensity to mimic their main carer (still generally supposed to be their mother, even in today’s world). 

Your first language, however, can also arguably be described as the language that comes most naturally to you, the one you go to first to express yourself with the least amount of mental effort – your default setting. No matter how fluent you may be in other languages, when your brain is exhausted, there will no doubt be one language that comes the easiest to you above all others.

For many people their mother tongue and first language differ. While my mother tongue and first language started off as the same, they now no longer are. My mother tongue is Italian, but English is my first language. Even though I am fluent in the former, the latter is absolutely the language I communicate best in. But speaking Italian feels more genuine, more like me. And I find this curious.

The nature of a mother tongue and its connection to one’s identity is something I have been thinking about for some time. Even the term itself – mother tongue – is intriguing. It’s so suggestive, hinting at something inherently comforting and soothing. And, in fact, when I speak my mother tongue I feel grounded and secure, attached to something ancestral in me, to deep roots that form part of who I am. 

It also connects me to a foreign and far away place. In Italy, language is used with deep expression and passion; it carries both obvious and underlying emotions. The tone, emphasis, and modulation used convey so much more than the mere words themselves, and I’ve always loved how Italians put themselves out there in this way.

My mother tongue is a key element of my identity so being fluent in it is important to me. Speaking it feels rich and enveloping, like a mother who nurtures, protects, and embraces. I like the sensation of the words in my mouth, the way they fill every corner like a spoonful of peanut butter. English doesn’t feel this way.

If my mother tongue can have such a profound and emotional influence on me, I often wonder whether all people who have a mother tongue, one different to the language they must use day to day, feel the same. How do they feel when speaking their mother tongue? Does it feel like coming home? Because that’s how it feels to me.