It was a hot summer afternoon and I was sitting in the living room with the curtains half closed with the glow of my laptop lighting my face. My mom was on a call with my grandmother in Pakistan but I pretended not to notice. Some part of me was hoping she wouldn’t call me over, that I didn’t have to sit through another strained call but eventually she did. I remember the sound of the connection crackling at first as my mom switched to a video call and then my grandmother’s face on the screen framed by her scarf. She smiled so big when she saw me, her eyes soft and kind.

She started speaking to me in Pashto, her words coming fast and full of energy. I glanced at my mom. I, as usual, didn’t understand anything she was saying. My mom leaned in closer, smiling, and began to translate: “She’s asking how you are, how school is going.” I nodded quickly, putting on a smile, and answered in English, “I’m fine, school is good.” My mom translated my words back for her. The whole time my grandmother kept smiling, nodding, repeating little phrases I didn’t understand. I tried to follow along but inside I felt this heavy gap as I grew more uncomfortable. I wanted to respond to her directly, not through someone else. I wanted her to hear my voice, not my mom’s.

At one point she said something long and then laughed and I laughed too, even though I had no idea what was funny. I could hear the difference in our worlds through that silence between her words and my replies. When the call ended I just sat there for a moment before crawling away to my desk. It felt like I had all these invisible walls between me and my own family. That call made me realize how much language can connect people, or rather, keep them apart.

But this wasn’t the first time I had felt that way. Whenever relatives or guests from Pakistan visit, I find myself standing in the middle of the living room with everyone talking around me, their conversations a mix of English, Urdu, and Pashto buzzing around while I only catch a word here or there. I nod and smile but I don’t say much. Most of the time I sit quietly, waiting for a sibling or parent to explain something to me, but even then I know I’m only getting a fraction of what’s being said. The rest of it floats above me, just out of reach.

I think that video call stuck with me because of how happy my grandmother looked. Her joy was simple. She saw me, she spoke to me, and for her that was enough. For me though, it felt complicated. I was happy to see her too but there was a nagging sense that I was disappointing her without meaning to. What kind of grandson can’t even talk to his own grandmother?

When I think back to it now, I realize it wasn’t just about me and her but something bigger. A lot of kids from immigrant families can relate to my experience, our parents’ language doesn’t always carry over to us. We grow up surrounded by English, in school, through media, with friends, and sometimes the home language fades more and more out of use. Sometimes we try to learn, sometimes we don’t, and before we know it we’re sitting in front of a glowing screen relying on our parents to bridge the gap. It says something about how language ties to culture, how it gets lost across generations and how that loss shapes the way we connect.

That call with my grandmother showed me how much I was missing. It wasn’t just the words but instead the closeness that comes from being able to joke with someone, share stories, and truly understand them. Language goes deeper than communication, it’s memory, history, and belonging. Without it you can feel like you’re pressing your face against glass, close enough to see everything but unable to step inside. 

Since then I’ve thought about trying to learn Pashto, not just for myself but for my family. I certainly don’t think I’ll ever be fluent but even picking up a few phrases feels important. If nothing else it would let me say more than “I’m fine, school is good.” And maybe next time my grandmother laughs, I’ll actually know why.