On (love) languages and the vow to complexity by Martina Malcotti

As the stereotypical Italian that I am, family is everything to me. I was raised by my parentsjust as much as by my grandparents, and every (mildly) relevant celebration is always worth a full-extended-family, midday-to-dusk, four-course meal. A significant part of my family, however, does not utter a single word of English. For the 17 years I spent living in the same provincial town of 3000 souls, this never seemed like much of a problem, but ever since moving to the kaleidoscope of 5-nationalities-and-lived-in-17-countries kids that UCU is, that changed. Among the countless things I started reflecting on, I have one that I often love to spark late-night conversations about. “Would you want your partner to learn your language?,” I often like to inquire. The answers I get are a fascinating spectrum, each of them a tiny manifesto on a person’s love and identity. There are the hopeless romantics: “Of course, it’s a sign of commitment!” Then, the brutally honest “I can’t ask them to do that, it’s too much!” And, the comfortably global: “We’ll just speak English, it’s less of a hassle.” 

There is a quiet pressure, especially in multicultural spaces like ours, to become frictionless - to shed the clunky parts of our identity that don’t travel well.

For me, the answer has always been a quiet yes. Not because of my linguistic patriotism, but because my Italian isn’t just a language: it’s the architecture of my memories, the soundtrack of my origin story. I realized English, for all of its glory, has no word for abbiocco - the comfortable drowsiness you experience after a long, hearty meal. It cannot capture the specific, theatrical despair of my nonna’s “Porca miseria!” when she accidentally burns her food. There’s a line from Celine Song’s Past Lives that haunts me: “You dream in a language that I can’t understand. It’s like there’s this whole place inside of you where I can’t go.” 

This question, however, extends far beyond my specific Italian context. In a place like UCU, where our lives are a patchwork of cultures, it touches on a core dilemma of international relationships. This isn’t about testing a partner about verb conjugations or demanding fluency. It’s about what we consider the essential, untranslatable parts of ourselves that we need a partner to witness. 

We live in an era that worships efficiency: dating apps are optimized for quick compatibility, communication is reduced to emojis and abbreviations. We streamline our resumes, bios, and online selves until we are legible and easily consumable. There is a quiet pressure, especially in multicultural spaces like ours, to become frictionless - to shed the clunky parts of our identity that don’t travel well. Speaking English is simply more practical. And yet, something in me resists. Because love, at its best, has never been a particularly efficient enterprise. It’s messy, time-consuming, and illustriously impractical. 

Asking a partner to learn your language is a monumental request. It’s hours and hours of study, the vulnerability of child-like mistakes, and the cognitive load of thinking in a new key. To advocate this as a universal requirement for international love would be both cruel and unrealistic. But, to me, to champion the attempt is to champion a profound type or curiosity. It’s an act of love that says, “I am interested in the raw, unedited version of you. Show me the you that exists before the translation.” 

When they, for the first time, make your grandma laugh in her own language, at that moment they are no longer a visitor, and the sound of her laughter becomes the sound of a bridge being built. 

Naturally, the path is paved with glorious hiccups. There will be mispronunciations that turn innocent words into profanities, or the frustration of trying to explain a local idiom that sounds so perfect but does not hit the same way in English. You’ll become a human dictionary, a perpetual translator, not just for words, but for contexts, explaining why a certain phrase is devastatingly funny or unspeakably rude. This process, as awkward as it is, forges a unique intimacy. You build a private, hybrid language together, a linguistic playground of inside jokes and fused phrases. More importantly, you gain a new lens on your own world. You witness your own culture through their fresh, wondering eyes, rediscovering the magic in rituals and customs you’d taken for granted. And when they finally produce a halting, heartfelt, half-sentence to your family in your native language, the resulting eruption of joy, claps, and more wine poured for a toast is a testament to a new, open border between your histories. When they, for the first time, make your grandma laugh in her own language, at that moment they are no longer a visitor, and the sound of her laughter becomes the sound of a bridge being built. 

So, while the answer will always be personal, the question is universally revealing. In a world that often operates on the principle of least resistance and encourages us to be streamlined and easily digestible, choosing a shared, accessible language is the obvious, efficient choice. But love, at its best, isn’t always about efficiency. Wanting to learn each other’s languages is a conscious vote for a richer, more complex kind of connection. It’s an acknowledgement that some of the best things in life are not necessarily user-friendly, that the easiest path might be the one that bypasses the deepest valleys and the most stunning views. It’s a hope of what love might choose; not the smooth, convenient highway, but the winding, challenging, and ultimately more beautiful trail: the one that leads to that “whole place inside of you.”