I was born in Castilian, but I write in Catalan.

PalmMy relationship with Catalan hasn't been constant, nor, much less, monogamous or exclusive. On many occasions, I've betrayed it and even treated it as a second fiddle. I can't say I've always been aware of this, which also entails a certain degree of responsibility. My mother tongue—and the only one I've used to socialize for many years—has been Spanish. This could be attributed to the fact that I come from a semi-foreign family (so to speak), if our linguistic reality were different and we didn't have to demand somewhat more compelling excuses. With Mallorcan patriarchs—one from Portocristo and the other from Palma—and Iberian matriarchs—one from Extremadura and the other from Galicia—both my mother's and father's families wove most of their universe in Spanish.

It's not with regret but with pity that I think they suddenly surrendered to comfort, to the lack of conflict. Since my godfathers' knowledge of Spanish must have been superior to my godmothers' knowledge of Catalan, the latter was the language that prevailed, like oil over water, without any effort. Over the years, I've learned that this is the risk you run when you leave everything to chance. And it's not as if my godfathers completely abandoned their mother tongue to communicate with their sons and daughters. In fact, thanks to this, I can still find hints of Catalan in some conversations with my father. He, who is even more of a Spanish speaker than I am, seems incapable of finding a careful translation for expressions like "estar engalabernado" (to be engalabernated) or "tener mala herida" (to have a bad wound). When I recognize these phrases, I like to think that this is my godfather, chatting through him. As if this had been just another way to leave her mark, to accompany him, to be present through her words.

Despite having lived and named most of my life—my intimacy, my emotions, my dreams and worries—in Spanish, this also happens to me: there are certain things that, for me, only exist in Catalan. 'Colpidor,' 'pair,' 'prenda,' 'arrufar': these are some of my latest dictionary searches, words I love because they name precise details and nuances that deserve to exist. But in my case, the origin of these traces is another. When I began to become aware of the diversity of Catalans, in the plural—of each person's Catalan—I feared that mine would be too stiff, affected, textbook-like, because this was where I had learned it. When I began to share it in less didactic, more relaxed settings, I doubted my accent, my diction, my Palma-speak. The more I talked to him, the more self-conscious, awkward, and uncomfortable I felt, and at the same time, the more space he took up in my life, the more connecting vessels he filled, and the more he enriched my identity. That language hadn't become a part of me; it had always been.

Catalan is the language of my memories of my godfather, even though they called him Pepe.Grandpa Pepe"Do you understand me, girl?" he used to say, after a more or less well-founded explanation.

Catalan is the language of books.The steamboat, the first to give me a taste of the satisfaction of having a small library at home, and the one that years later allowed me to discover Antònia Vicens and Carme Riera. It's also the language that allowed me to put words to love, through the songs of Ferran Palau, and the one that taught me to play with it, with the lyrics of Maria Hein and Fades. And with it, I've experienced stories that, without it, wouldn't have the same meaning, like those in movies. The 47 and The teacher who promised the sea.

Catalan is the language that introduced me to the purest friendship, Anna's; the language I use with María, even though we constantly betray each other as Spanish speakers; and the language that brought me together with Bel and Lluc.

Catalan is the language that endeared me to my teachers: it was Milagros's language, although with her, words weren't necessary, because she knew how to understand me only through my drawings; of Queta, to whom I gave all my love by writing stories that were just for her; and of Sebastià, who thought he was teaching us universal literature when, in reality, he was unlocking a new way of perceiving the world for us.

Catalan is the language of the only journalism I've ever enjoyed doing, the language with which I've dared to narrate things that hurt and things that did good. It's the language with which I began to write to myself. And this hits me hard.

Catalan is the language of the person I became from my 20s to my 30s. And it's the language I'll perhaps raise my children with one day. It's the language I can't stop narrating my life with.