Bethany Fisher was raised in the Marshall Islands, the daughter of American missionaries who spoke English at home but who insisted that she and her siblings speak the Indigenous language of the island republic everywhere else.

The parental say-so proved smart when the family returned to the United States. With the fluency they gained as children, Fisher and her sister Anna followed their mother, Barb, into careers as interpreters serving Marshallese speakers who have migrated to America in recent decades. As many as half of��the estimated 60,000 Marshallese speakers��in the world��live in the U.S., with large populations clustered in Arkansas, Hawaii, Oklahoma, Oregon and Washington.

Although the Fishers have been able to build careers out of their specialized knowledge of an Indigenous language, many interpreters of such languages struggle to piece together good-paying work in the United States. That’s despite a desperate need for interpreters who speak what are often known as languages of lesser diffusion, especially those spoken in the United States by migrants from Mexico and Central and South America.

But some states are beginning to pay more attention to access to interpreters for such languages, including at least one — Oregon — that is creating a program to certify interpreters. Across the nation, interpreters with skills in such languages are organizing in collectives to fill gaps in coverage, particularly in federal immigration courts or detention centers and in health care settings.

Fisher works for about 17 different companies that provide interpretation services for health care systems, businesses, schools, courts and government agencies. Most of her work is over the telephone, from her home in South Carolina. Many days are unremarkable, with a focus on interpreting insurance or tax matters, Fisher said, but some days she goes “from zero to 60” with an emergency call.

“Birth calls are really fun because you’re just thrown into the room: ‘All right, she’s like 10 centimeters dilated and we’re going to tell her to push,’ and all this kind of stuff,” Fisher said. “And then you’re there for maybe an hour or two or even less. And then you hear the baby cry, and then everybody’s excited. So anytime that happens, I always get really emotional cause it’s like, ‘Oh, this is really exciting.’”

In Oregon, where an estimated 35,000 people speak an Indigenous language from Mexico, Central America or South America as their primary language, lawmakers set aside money in this year’s budget for a program that would make it easier for interpreters of Indigenous languages to get certified for their work.

The legislation, which awaits the governor’s signature, includes $2 million to support the creation of language proficiency evaluations. The program would allow Indigenous interpreters to obtain formal credentialing and recognition as qualified, fluent interpreters, said Cam Coval, the co-founder of . The Portland-based nonprofit helps people seeking legal immigration status access legal, social and Indigenous-language interpretation services. Unlike more widely spoken languages, many Indigenous languages do not have formal certifications in proficiency, a barrier to professional recognition.

Lawmakers have budgeted another $500,000 for interpretation services, money that would go toward a fund that not only pays living wages to the interpreters of such languages but also helps the people who speak those languages access legal and medical help. The money would be administered via existing organizations that work with people who speak Indigenous languages, including a state-funded program that by pairing them with lawyers in federal immigration court.

Indigenous languages are spoken by about 20% of the people Pueblo Unido helps with legal matters, Coval said.

“It fits very clearly with the legal needs and health stability needs,” Coval said of interpretation services. “It’s also, of course, a fundamental human right and essential for social inclusion and regular participation and experiencing the benefits of living in this country.”

Puma Tzoc, whose first language is Kʼicheʼ, a Mayan language indigenous to Guatemala, coordinates interpreters for Pueblo Unido through the . Its members are from Mexico and Central America and speak Spanish, K’iche’, Q’anjob’al, Akateko, Chuj, Mixteco Bajo, Purépecha, Q’eqchi’, Zapoteco, Ixil and Mam. They also work to establish standard pay rates and fair treatment of Indigenous interpreters.

Tzoc said he first witnessed the power of access to interpretation about a decade ago, when he was living in New York. There, he was asked by a friend to interpret for a man who had languished in jail for months because he was unable to communicate with authorities in his native language, Kʼicheʼ. Shortly after Tzoc’s intervention, the man was released.

“That was remarkable for me,” Tzoc said. “And that’s when I started being more involved and searched for more information about being an interpreter.”

In New York, Indigenous interpreters face many of the same issues around organization, credentialing and pay. They’ve begun work to form a collective, modeled on some of the West Coast initiatives, said Luis Gallegos, an administrator for the collective. They currently have about 25 interpreters representing nine Indigenous languages through , which is under the umbrella of ,an organization that works to advance the social, economic and cultural inclusion of Indigenous migrants in New York City life.

The Colibrí Interpreters Collective in 2020 began working to make sure that speakers of Indigenous language had accurate information about the pandemic in their own languages.

Currently, the collective works with NYC Health, the Mayor’s Office of Immigrant Affairs, the city’s Department of Cultural Affairs as well as health care systems, the federal court system and the New York City Department of Education. The collective hopes to expand its reach and the languages covered in the coming years, Gallegos said.

In California, among those leading the way is , a Los Angeles-based nonprofit with a network of 350 Indigenous language interpreters available in California and remotely. The Indigenous-led nonprofit conducts twice-monthly virtual sessions to train new interpreters, many of whom dial in from states with less organized interpretation services for Indigenous languages. In 2021, CIELO set up 4,000 interpretation assignments for Indigenous speakers in need. The nonprofit connects social service providers, state and federal courts as well as hospitals with Indigenous language interpreters.

A spokesperson for CIELO said they’re also constantly studying the social and political climate of Mexico and Central America to better understand the root causes of immigration and to prepare for the arrival of Indigenous-language speakers from specific communities.

The lack of interpreters for such languages has “grave consequences” at the border, according to a by the Center for American Progress, a left-leaning think tank based in Washington, D.C. Without adequate interpretation services, migrants who speak Indigenous languages may face increased challenges navigating the asylum system or exercising their rights. They are less likely to report abuse they may have experienced in detention, the report notes. It might also slow the immigration process and lead to “family separation, extended detention and even wrongful deportation.”

“There just aren’t enough Indigenous language interpreters in general in the U.S,” Zefitret Abera Molla, the author of the report, said in an interview.

That’s why organizations like Pueblo Unido, CIELO in California and the Colibrí Interpreters Collective in New York are pushing for alternative pathways that make it less burdensome for Indigenous interpreters to prove their proficiency, Tzoc said.

“Our Indigenous interpreters will be able to get into those entities that require those certificates or proof. So I think it’s a win for us, for the Indigenous interpreters and for the community we serve,” he said.

Fisher, who this fall will begin pursuing a master‘s degree in translation and interpreting at New York University, describes interpreting as being a conduit of communication — and an art. When she’s interpreting Marshallese, she speaks in the first person as though she is that person, including conveying their anger or irritation or even profanity.

“I kind of feel like I’m putting on different costumes or different hats,” Fisher said. “You are basically speaking as that person.”

Tzoc, whose second language is Spanish, often uses relay interpretation when he’s interpreting for Kʼicheʼ speakers in court settings. He will listen to the Spanish interpretation of English proceedings, and then interpret the Spanish to Kʼicheʼ.

Then, he’ll interpret the Kʼicheʼ speaker’s response in Spanish to the original interpreter, who will render it from Spanish to English for the proceedings. Tzoc said that hearing the words in English and Spanish first before interpreting it for the Kʼicheʼ speaker helps him convey the meaning of English phrases and words that have no direct equivalent in Kʼicheʼ.

It can get a little complicated in his brain, Tzoc admits: “It’s a machine in my head.”

Whenever November would roll around, James Gensaw, a Yurok language high school teacher in far northern California, would get a request from a school administrator. They would always ask him to bring students from the Native American Club, which he advises, to demonstrate Yurok dancing on the high school quad at lunch time.

“On the one hand, it was nice that the school wanted to have us share our culture,” Gensaw told me during an interview. “On the other, it wasn’t always respectful. Some kids would make fun of the Native American dancers, mimicking war cries and calling out ‘chief.’ ”

“The media would be invited to come cover the dancing as part of their Thanksgiving coverage, and it felt like we were a spectacle,” he continued. “Other cultural groups and issues would sometimes be presented in school assemblies, in the gym, where teachers monitored student behavior. I thought, why didn’t we get to have that? We needed more respect for sharing our culture.” James Gensaw’s work in California’s public high schools as a Yurok language teacher and mentor to Native American students is part of a reckoning with equity and justice in schools.

Yurok language in schools

Tribal officials say Gensaw is one of 16 advanced-level Yurok language-keepers alive today. An enrolled Yurok tribal member, Gensaw is also part of the tribe’s , which is at the forefront of efforts to keep the Yurok language alive.

Today, the Yurok language is offered as an elective at four high schools in far northern California. The classes meet language instruction requirements for admission to University of California and California State University systems.

Yurok language classes are also offered in local Head Start preschool programs as well as in some K-8 schools when there is teacher availability, and at the College of the Redwoods, the regional community college. To date, eight high school seniors have been awarded California’s , a prestigious accomplishment that signifies commitment to and competency in the language.

When I started researching the effects of Yurok language access on young people in 2016, there were approximately 12 advanced-level speakers, according to the Yurok Language Program. The 16 advanced-level speakers in 2022 represent a growing speaker base and they are something to celebrate. Despite colonization and attempts to by interrupting the transfer of language from parents to their children, Yurok speakers are still here.

Throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, boarding schools in the United States operated as spaces for what I refer to as “culturecide” — the killing of culture — in my latest book, “.” Students in both the United States and Mexico were often made to attend schools where they were beaten for speaking Indigenous languages. Now, new generations are being encouraged to sign up to study the same language many of their grandparents and great-grandparents were forced to forget.

Language as resistance

The Yurok Tribe made the decision years ago to and as part of that, to teach Yurok to anyone who wanted to learn. They have many that are open for all. Victoria Carlson is the Yurok Language Program Manager and a language-keeper herself. She is teaching Yurok to her children as a first language, and she drives long distances to teach the language at schools throughout Humboldt and Del Norte counties.

“When we speak Yurok, we are saying that we are still here,” Carson said in an interview with me, echoing a sentiment that many Yurok students relayed to me as well. “Speaking our language is a form of resisting all things that have been done to our people.”

The students in Mr. Gensaw’s classes are majority, but not exclusively, Native American. Through my research I learned that there are white students who sign up out of interest or because nothing else fit in their schedule. There are Asian American students who wish that Hmong or Mandarin was a language option, but they take Yurok since it is the most unique language choice available. And there are Latinx students who already are bilingual in English and Spanish and who want to challenge themselves linguistically.

In my book and , I document how access to Indigenous languages in school benefits different groups of students in a range of ways. Heritage-speakers — those who have family members who speak the language — get to shine in the classroom as people with authority over the content, something that in other classes. White students have their eyes opened to when they study the Gold Rush, Spanish missionaries in California, or other standard topics of K-12 education that are taught from a colonizing perspective. And students from non-heritage minority backgrounds an increased interest in their own identities. They often go to elders to learn some of their own family languages after being inspired that such knowledge is worth being proud of.

Bringing languages like Yurok into schools that are still, as historian Donald Yacovone points out, , does not in and of itself undo the effects of colonization. Getting rid of curricula that teach the – the notion that colonizers “discovered” the Americas and had a legal right to it – is a long-term process. But placing Native American languages into public schools both affirms the validity of Indigenous cultural knowledge and also at the same time. It is a place to start.

One step at a time

In my experience, as a researcher on education policy and democracy, I have found that is something that better prepares young people to learn how to interact in healthy ways with people who are different from themselves.

Gensaw, the Yurok language teacher, is at the forefront of this. One year when he was again asked if he could bring the students to dance around Thanksgiving time, he said yes, but not on the quad. He requested a school assembly space where student behavior could be monitored. The school said yes, and the students danced without being demeaned by their peers. These steps are just the beginning of what it takes to undo the effects of colonization.

This article is republished from under a Creative Commons license. Read the . Emerson College provides funding as a member of The Conversation US.

When we think of countries south of the U.S. border, it is easy to imagine Spanish-speaking communities and people. And making statements like “people in Central America speak Spanish” or “the Mayans are dead” do not tend to be questioned. Because everyone in Latin America — and everyone with Latino origins in the U.S. — speaks Spanish (or Portuguese), right? Well, not exactly. 

The Mayan people still live in Central America, speak indigenous languages, and wear traditional clothing. Millions of people speak indigenous languages that pre-date Spanish on the continent by thousands of years. These languages — whose roots stretch deep into the region’s pre-colonial past — are as different from Spanish as Mandarin is from English. But it’s no surprise that this is, well, a surprise to many in the U.S. Instead of images of the thriving indigenous communities across Latin America, we see sci-fi networks talk about “the mysterious collapse” of the Mayan empire and/or their ancient apocalyptic predictions. 

Meanwhile, in Guatemala alone, 40 percent of the population speaks at least one of 23 indigenous languages. When Latino migrants come to the U.S. from these communities, they often speak their indigenous languages, too. Some may speak Spanish with varying levels of fluency, while others do not speak it at all. 

The bottom line is: Spanish is just one of the many languages spoken by members of the Latino community. 

These assumptions have real repercussions, particularly given the limitations about what we know about the diversity of the Latino immigrant community in the U.S. For instance, traditional census tracking methods, such as making the only indigenous racial category American Indian or Alaskan Native, because this group is typically assumed to be exclusive to communities native to the U.S. A recent mapping project done in collaboration with UCLA and CIELO found that The U.S. Census Bureau estimates that between 15,000 to 19,000 people speak an indigenous language from Central America live in the entirety of the U.S. Clearly, our approximations are faulty. 

where administrators and teachers don’t know that their students speak an indigenous language, and don’t even know they should be asking. When schools are not equipped with the information to ask the right questions, they are unable to provide the unique services their Indigenous Latino students need. Not only are their native languages overlooked, they are often misidentified as Spanish, causing them to receive inappropriate or incomplete support. This problem became compounded by the pandemic, which and . In order to close learning gaps exacerbated by the pandemic, schools must be provided with information and training to ensure that they can meet the needs of all students. 

While the recognition of indigenous languages is layered in a complex and politically fraught history, there are that schools can take to ensure that they account for and support all students. 

First, schools must create inclusive home surveys that provide space for, and encourage, families to include all of the languages their children speak. Second, schools must conduct professional development training for all school officials involved  in registration on the importance of proper identification and provide them with data on the most commonly spoken languages in the area. Where appropriate, this means ensuring staff are aware of the existence of indigenous languages and the differences between indigenous languages and Spanish. Third, schools must provide translators in the language that parents feel most comfortable with, not just Spanish. 

Although it is a best practice to hire teachers and staff who speak indigenous languages, the could pose a challenge. One potential solution could be turning towards the community to facilitate , or hiring multilingual graduates of the school district. At the School District of Palm Beach County in southern Florida, an emerging approach has made it possible for them to hire staff who are multilingual in the most common indigenous languages spoken by the student population. According to Francisco Harvey Oaxaca, the director of multicultural and migrant education, several of their Community Language Facilitators (CLMs), who are responsible for providing multilingual support to students and the community, are graduates of Palm Beach. Finding enough multilingual teachers and staff is certainly a problem faced by many schools, but in viewing the greater community as a linguistic and cultural resource, it may become more possible to find the needed personnel. 

Community members and administrators at Los Angeles Unified School District have advocated for direct support for their Indigenous and Native students. In June 2021, a was dedicated to providing relief for these students, especially as their communities were disproportionately affected by the pandemic. Leaders hope that this money will be used to better identify Indigenous and Native students, and “ensure LAUSD schools are places that affirm their unique linguistic, cultural, and historic backgrounds.” The school district is still working with community partners to determine how the grant money will be used. 

Multilingual students are an asset to schools and communities, and accounting for that linguistic diversity shows students that their skills are valued and allows teachers to best support their students. 

Caroline Osborn is a third-year student at the University of Virginia where she is studying economics and anthropology with a minor in Latin American studies.