If words were notes, my life would be a symphony. Every story, every sentence, and every word spoken is a note in a much bigger composition. Just like when I was learning to play the flute, I had to choose the right note, tempo, and pause to communicate something meaningful. Language is the same. 

In the beginning, it wasn't easy to find the right chord. When I was a child, my world was the comforting sounds of Haitian Creole. It was the first language I ever heard and the first I ever spoke. My earliest memories. My mother’s voice teaching me how to cook, lullabies before bed, phone calls with my relatives. Creole was more than just a way to communicate. It was the soundtrack of home. 

That is what Creole is to me: effortless, warm, and alive. I loved that it could carry emotions so clearly. It wasn’t just about saying things; it was about feeling them. 

As I progressed in my flute studies, I realized that a developed musical ear opened the door to creativity and improvisation. Listening was an integral part of my practice. According to my instructor, by training my ear, I would be able to recognize different pitches and create more accurate sound production.

I would time travel with my mom at 4:00pm. Why? That was the time when our neighbor, Miss Desire, would gather us to spill the tea. Miss Desire, her dress as old as she was, would cross the street, her dress flowing with each step, then greet us with a deep sigh. I would sit down holding my “Blue Magic pomade,” listening to different kinds of tales while my mom combed my hair. The tone of Miss Desire’s stories was electric, woven with scandalous threads that captivated both my mother and me. “Did you hear about Mrs. Johnson and her new beau?” she would say, her eyes twinkling. Just as I tuned my ear to the details in music, I found myself caught up in the rhythm of Miss Desire’s gossip, waiting for the big moments and little details that made each tale special. The way my mom and Miss Desire spoke to each other, the laughter and banter, it all seemed effortless. That is what Creole is to me: effortless, warm, and alive. I loved that it could carry emotions so clearly. It wasn’t just about saying things; it was about feeling them. I felt the depth of meaning in every word.

As I got older, French entered my life. I used to sit down to practice French pronunciation and grammar every Tuesday. It felt like a rite of passage. It wasn’t as natural as Creole, and I did not like it. But there was a certain elegance to it, a precision that Creole didn’t have. I began to understand that language could be tied to status. In Haiti, French is often considered a language of education and opportunity. French was more “official,” more “sophisticated.”  French also determines your social class status. The higher your fluency, the higher people would think your social class was.

School was in French, and I was expected to be fluent. I remember feeling proud when I could read French books or speak French without stuttering, but there was also this pressure to speak it perfectly. French wasn’t just about communication; it was about doing things the “right way.” It shaped my understanding of how language can represent not only who we are, but also shape how others perceive us. Creole was my heart, but French became my mind. When I moved to New York, everything changed. Suddenly, I was surrounded by a new type of rhythm and note. This new chord was called English.

My first day at school was a nightmare. I couldn't understand the teacher, and I felt like an outsider among my classmates. For the first time in my life, language became a barrier rather than a bridge. English felt cold, distant, and confusing. It wasn’t like Creole, where emotions flowed freely, or French, where there was structure and familiarity. EI used to dread answering questions in class, terrified I’d pronounce something wrong or that my accent would make people laugh. I got a headache each time I tried to formulate a sentence or couldn’t recall the exact word I wanted to use.

Over time, though, something changed. The more I listened to people around me, the more I began to pick up on how the language worked. I started watching TV shows, mimicking how people spoke, and practicing English every chance I got. Slowly, it stopped feeling so foreign. By the time I could hold a conversation without hesitating, I felt a sense of freedom. English, once an obstacle, became a tool. It opened doors—new friends, new ideas, new opportunities.

I became fluent in English. But at home, I still spoke Creole. I started to notice how different I was when I spoke each language. With Creole, I was more relaxed and joyful. Speaking Creole connects me to my roots and heritage. It was a vibrant melody; English was just useful. But eventually, I noticed something interesting. I would naturally switch languages in my head. Emotional things—such as family or personal struggles—always came to me in Creole first. Intellectual ideas or abstract concepts usually surfaced in French. And English became the go-to for daily life.

I started to work as a freelance interpreter. Now it was not about speaking for myself; it was about being the voice of others. Interpreting for people—especially those navigating the asylum process—showed me how important language really is. Language became a responsibility. It was about capturing someone’s story. Sometimes their French or Creole would be broken, and I’d have to make sense of it for an English-speaking audience. I had to ensure nothing got lost in translation.

As my journey with language continues, I realize that each one has been like a different instrument in the symphony of my life. Creole was the first song I ever heard. Each beat was like home. French was more like a formal melody, structured and refined. English felt like jazz, unpredictable. Just like music, there were moments I stumbled, hitting the wrong note, but I kept going. Together, they created the symphony of my life.