Language salad
Will Fingilish destroy Persian completely? Absolutely not
By Lilly Ghahremani

There are a few things my mother and I will never agree on: that Madonna has any musical merit at all, that sushi is a good meal ("I swear I can taste the seaweed," she says as she spits it out), and... Farsi.
Our debates began with the simple question of what to call our language. Was it Farsi or Persian? I didn't take this issue as personally as many older (and perhaps more learned) family friends seemed to. The Iranian vs. Persian and Farsi vs. Persian questions consistently provide scripts for theatrical debates of well-rehearsed opinions over darkly brewed chai that take place into the hours of the night. (Indeed, our Iranian pride rarely allows us change course midstream!)
My Persian-daughter temptation was to cave to her point of view simply because she's my mom and by the Code of Persian Procedure, she is always right (there is a token caveat for father's veto, but it's really quite overlooked). She won on her own merits, with the simple point that speaking English yet referring to the language of "Farsi" is as ridiculous as talking to someone about how you're "taking EspaÑol."
Our second heat of linguistic debate centers on mixing languages. This is the debate that consumes us. As I see it, there are three variations on the Persian-American child. First there are those who can speak, read and write. The golden children, these folks are fully literate. Then there is a sector of the population who speak, but have only some or no reading or writing ability. And of course we have the ever-present third class, identifiable by a look of complete confusion and a "huh?" when spoken to in their mother tongue.
Born and raised in the United States, I am of brand 2. By contrast, my younger brother and sister are definitively part of batch 3. I figured that assured me favorite child status, but it did not. How I ruined my chances to exploit this hard-won ability (I had studied Persian every semester for four years of college) was beyond me. I hadn't acquired most favored nation status in the Ghahremani world, and I wanted to know why. With her trademark honesty, my mother told me - she detested that I resorted to infusing English into my Persian conversations. For the record, I shall now state my case.
My usage of English was born of frustration and necessity. Propelled by my urge to participate in Persian conversations without sacrificing an ability to fully explain or express my thoughts, I began to use English filler words. For an example:
"Jane o khailee doost daaram. Valee meetuneh annoying baasheh." (I like Jane very much. But she can be annoying.)
With each sentence, I weighed the cost and the benefit; getting all those other words out of my mouth was worth plugging with an English word here or there - or seemed so to me. Mom did not agree. She claims the rampant usage of "Feengeeleesh" is a social disease that preys upon our linguistic currency. As armchair anthropologist, she notes that it has ravaged the Los Angeles community beyond repair, and she didn't want me to catch it. (Cover your ears, Iranian moms!) I kept on.
I gathered Persian friends in college and law school, hitting an anticipatable sharp learning curve during my years at UCLA. My friends welcomed me into their circle; many of them were also prone to "mixing", and I trudged forward with my enthusiastic use of broken Persian. I found that the comfort of knowing that I had a fallback language eased me into speaking Persian less consciously. Whenever possible, I'll pronounce the English word I'm dropping with as much of a Persian accent as I can muster. As time goes, I find that the Persian words come to me much more naturally, but I am subconsciously grateful for that crutch.
I write this brief note as platform and one-woman rally of support for those individuals who find themselves in the same predicament. Will the use of Fingilish destroy the Persian language completely? My thought is no. Absolutely not. Over the course of time, it will build more confident speakers of the Persian language.
With our mass emigrant population, we shoulder an obligation to support the promotion of our language at any level. We must keep those words alive. "Fingilish" is a badge worn by a culture that struggles deeply with biculturalism (on soil that isn't always the most welcoming). It is, in its own silly way, a show of love by people who live with one foot on each continent.
As for me, well, I continue to speak my own brand of Persian, and to throw in English substitutes for words that simply aren't in my mental dictionary yet. Yet. That is the key.

Lilly’s mother, Zohreh, wrote the following article in response to her daughter

A mother's response
Spare us with the Finglish
By Zohreh Khazai Ghahremani

It has been tough raising three bright Iranian-Americans. Oh, bright they are, and I'm not saying this to be a bragging mom. They've been on to me ever since they could talk. Forgetting I was the one who put the first words in their mouths, they laughed at my accent, my misuse of words and my point of view -- when they were old enough to know what it was.
Our Persian jokes weren't funny -- or politically correct -- to them and the poems and proverbs that were meant as a lesson, lost their dignity in my poor attempt at translation.
While my friends, who had more time with their children at home, succeeded to teach them Persian, I, as a writer, full time dentist/dreamer, aspired to enlighten mine with the knowledge of Persian literature. Alas, their nannies, friends and the media had planned otherwise.
After many unsuccessful attempts (Saturday classes, un-openned books and losing Persian alphabet games), I knew it was time to throw in the towel when they got down on their knees and begged me to "Please not speak that language" in front of their friends. Loving them, I gave up the battle and prepared to face massive criticism from family and friends. A disappointment to the Persian society, I learned to hang my head in shame. "Of all the people, we thought you'd do better than that." They scolded.
I've never regretted my decision. While failing Persian, they had a normal American childhood and were not culturally divided from their peers. Instead, as adults they showed pride in their heritage. They now can pursue the study of my language if they should choose to -- and one already has -- without feeling "different". Do I laugh at their mistakes? Sometimes, but it is never with ridicule. I am proud of the mere attempt and appreciate their efforts. The mistakes they make is theirs and only theirs.
When this mixture of Persian and English (a.k.a. Finglish) is criticized, our children are not the target. The criticism is addresed to those of us who came to this country as born and raised Persians who knew no other language. Even those who did speak English, had a firm grasp on their mother tongue. Now it is sad to listen to some of us talk.
Thanks to the "salad" we've made of our two languages even the non-Persian speakers have no trouble understanding our conversations. While the accent remains Persian, every other word is English. When our children do this, it is due to their limited vocabulary and "a lack of better words". What is our excuse?
No dear Lilly, you are not criticized, for your generation's accomplishment is beyond expectation. It is us, the parents/mentors who stand corrected. Can 'Finglish' be exclusive to the young 'Iranicans', please?