Between Two Worlds

Instructor Introduction

The first formal writing assignment of the class asks students to write a literacy narrative reflecting on a personal experience with language as a way of asking them to consider how they apply language in personal settings outside of the classroom. Jayne's narrative of using language to navigate difference and arrive at a common place of understanding feels vital and touchingly human. Grounded in a family's furniture store as a site of cultural and linguistic barriers, "Between Two Worlds" moves through daily, practical necessities as well as a deeper sense of communion in community through the operations of language. The structure of the essay moves deftly from specific memories to broad reflections, branching from a tactile narrative stem into interior and abstract thinking. In subsequent paragraphs, Jayne continues to follow her points with concrete and vivid examples. Jayne invites us into Three Stars (the family business) as well as language as a site of meeting, of navigating livelihood, and bridging difference.

— Matt Dhillon

Between Two Worlds

"Hello! Welcome to Three Stars! Let me know if you need help with anything."

I was in second grade the first time I said those words to a customer. My voice was nervous, high-pitched, and a little shaky, but I stood behind the counter with a smile, the edges of my mouth dry and cracking, my crooked teeth showing, as confident as an 8-year-old could be. Three Stars, our family's small furniture store, had only been open for a couple of weeks, but I still got the same butterflies I did on opening day every time the door chimed and someone entered. The store smelled like a mix of Pine-Sol and varnished wood, the kind of smell that clung to your clothes by the end of the day. My parents had put everything into opening Three Stars, and even though I was just a kid, I knew I had a job to do.

A woman walked in, dressed in a colorful scarf and a jacket that looked like it belonged in a magazine. She looked around, then asked about the triangular glass coffee table displayed at the window. Marni smiled warmly and nodded, trying to understand. She spoke some English, but not enough to keep up with the customer's questions. After a few seconds of struggling, Marni turned to me and said with a confused expression, "¿Que dijo?" I stepped in, translating the woman's questions into Spanish and then Marni's answers back into English. We negotiated the price and went over the delivery plans. I watched the woman nod, satisfied, and then walk out with a receipt in her hand. Marni looked at me with relief and said, "Gracias, hija. No se que haria sin ti." I smiled and continued doing my math homework behind the counter.

For me, language has always been a connection between two different worlds. Growing up as the daughter of immigrant parents, I learned early that words weren't just for reading books or answering questions in class, they were for connecting worlds. At home, we spoke Spanish. It was loud, fast-paced, and full of sayings that didn't translate. At school, everything was in English. Sharper, more structured, more formal. I lived in both languages, constantly switching between them. One for home, one for outside. One for family and one for the life I was still discovering.

It wasn't always seamless. I used to feel a small twist in my stomach whenever a doctor asked me to explain something my parents couldn't understand, or when I had to interpret during parent-teacher conferences and explain my grades to them in a way that would make sense. I hated the way people slowed down their words when talking to Marni or Papi, or how I saw them nod and smile even when I knew they didn't understand. It made me feel responsible for being their voice in a language that wasn't theirs.

Over time, my role at the store started to feel different.

It stopped being just a task and started feeling like something deeper, like I had a part in shaping how people saw us. I was no longer just translating sentences. I was translating who we were. Like when I'd explain how Papi picked out a specific chair because he thought someone would really love the pattern of it. Through my voice, people got to see the heart behind our family business.

There were moments when my words eased tension, moments where I watched a customer's expression shift from doubtful to comfortable because they felt understood. Those moments made me realize that speaking two languages wasn't just about knowing the right words, it was about knowing how to make people feel heard. And it wasn't just about my parents either. The store brought in all kinds of people. Spanish speakers who lit up when they heard someone speak their language, customers who struggled with English the way my parents did, and even kids like me, who floated between languages and didn't quite know where they fit.

The first time I really saw myself in someone else was at the post office. A teenage girl was standing in line with her dad, who didn't speak much English. I watched her move naturally between two languages, translating the clerk's questions and patiently making sure her dad understood everything. It was a look I knew well, calm and carrying the weight of both worlds without complaint. That was when it really hit me. This wasn't just my story. There are so many of us, quietly stepping in to translate, explain, and connect. Growing up, caught between languages, expected to carry more than most kids our age could imagine. And maybe that's why Three Stars meant so much to me. It wasn't just about selling furniture, it was where I was able to find my own voice and space between two worlds, a place where I could be both completely myself and a bridge for my family and community.

Now when I walk into Three Stars, the smell of varnished furniture still hits me like it did when I was eight. Marni is usually behind the counter, sorting through receipts, and Papi is moving furniture. The radio plays softly, and the door chimes whenever someone walks in. I smile and step into my rhythm, listening, translating, connecting. But now, it feels different. Not because the task has changed, but because my understanding of language has.

It began with conversations across a counter, with my Marni looking to me for help, and with the sound of my voice moving between two worlds. It began in the small moments that taught me language isn't just about speaking, it's about understanding. It's about standing in the middle and making sure everyone feels included. Language has shown me who I am. It has taught me that I belong to more than one world, and that I can move between them with confidence. It's taught me that my culture is not something to hide or feel unsure about. And most importantly, it's shown me that my voice, in any language, matters.