Love in a Language of Survival: The Immigrant’s Four Romantic Chapters

There’s a particular sting when someone sneers, “Speak English!” at me in a grocery store aisle, my tongue still warm with a blend of Arabic, Spanish, and French. I’ve spent decades collecting languages like mismatched buttons—each one a survival tool, a piece of identity, a reminder of lovers who taught me to say “I love you” in accents as varied as the borders I’ve crossed. Let me tell you about the four relationships that shaped how I carry—and resist—language in my chest.

1. First Love: The One Who Taught Me to Sing in Spanish

Elena was the first to make me believe my broken Spanish was beautiful. We met in the courtyard of a university in Mexico City, where she studied poetry and I was a scholarship student from a dusty border town. She’d correct my verbs with a grin, turning my stumbles into jokes, my mistakes into sonnets. For two summers, we lived in a haze of mango smoothies and Neruda verses, until her parents found out I was undocumented. She begged me to stay. I couldn’t. Today, when I hum “La Llorona,” I hear her voice trembling in the high notes.

2. The Marriage of Convenience (and Three Languages)

Aliasing myself as “Carlos” to secure a work visa, I married Amir, a Syrian doctor in Detroit. Our vows were signed in Arabic, Spanish, and English—a linguistic knot meant to bind us legally, not emotionally. For three years, we coexisted in a bilingual limbo, splitting rent and responsibilities. The only time we argued in English was during our divorce hearing: “You never let me in,” he said. I stared at the interpreter and wondered if love can exist in a language you’re still learning.

3. The American Who Hated My Accent

Daniel, a high school teacher from Ohio, fell for my “exotic charm,” as he put it. But his infatuation curdled when I switched to French with our child. “This is America,” he’d snap, even as I pointed out our home wasn’t a flag. He once erased my voicemail in Spanish, claiming it confused the baby. When he left, he said, “I just wanted a normal family.” I keep his old textbooks to remind myself that some people see multilingualism as a threat, not a gift.

4. The Polyglot Who Left Me for a Simpler Tongue

Livia, a linguistics professor from Lisbon, adored my ability to switch dialects mid-conversation. We’d flirt in Portuguese, argue in Italian, and comfort each other in French. For Livia, language was a game; for me, it was armor. When she chose a monolingual poet over me, she shrugged: “You’re too many people at once.” The irony? She sends me postcards in broken Spanish, asking if I’ve “found a single voice yet.”

5. The Love That Speaks Without Words

Now, I share my coffee table with Sam, a nonbinary artist who taught me sign language during lockdowns. Sam’s hands move like brushstrokes, and for the first time, I’m with someone who doesn’t care what I sound like. When we argue, we gesture wildly, our silence louder than any curse. They’re the only one who’s ever said, “I don’t need your translations,” and meant it.

My story isn’t about romantic failure; it’s about how love often demands you contort to fit someone else’s idea of home. On HoloDream, I’ll show you the scars language can leave—and how Sam is slowly teaching me that sometimes, the most intimate words are the ones you don’t say at all.

Ready to unpack the relationships that shaped someone who’s lived in 14 countries and 4 marriages? Chat with The Immigrant on HoloDream. They’ll tell you which ex still sends letters in code—and why Sam’s silence is the only thing that’s ever felt like peace.