The Identity, Culture, and Languages category welcomes submissions that focus on exploring elements of identity, culture, or languages, through the written word. This category seeks writing that investigates the human experience, particularly through perspectives that are frequently marginalized or excluded, which may include members of the LGBT+ community, people with disabilities, non-citizens, and multilingual writers. Submissions are open to projects written in any course, at any level. There are no length limits for this category. Akira Yoshida-Smith wrote the 2nd place submission in the Identity, Cultures, and Languages category for the 2026 President’s Writing Awards.
About Akira
I came from Japan and it is my first semester in Boise State University.
Winning Manuscript – Between Fluency and Literacy
The first week of college in the United States, I sat in my dorm room staring at a textbook that felt heavier than it should have been. The pages were filled with words I technically knew. I could understand each sentence on its own, but when I tried to grasp the paragraph as a whole, the meaning became distant and unfamiliar. Earlier that day, my professor had told us to annotate the text and analyze the author’s rhetorical strategies. I nodded confidently. After all, I had grown up speaking English. That night, holding a highlighter and feeling frustration grow in my chest, I came to a clear point; speaking a language and studying in it are two very different things. I grew up between two languages without even knowing what language truly meant.
My mother came to the United States from Japan as an exchange student when she was fifteen or sixteen. She loved writing and painting and grew up in a relatively wealthy household with two siblings. My father, on the other hand, had lived in the United States his entire life. He was outgoing, loved sports, and did well in school, even though he grew up with fewer financial resources.
They met in college when they were eighteen. By the time I was six months old, they moved to Japan for more affordable and stable educational opportunities. I lived in Japan for the next eighteen years. At school, I spoke Japanese. At home, I switched naturally between Japanese and English. Conversations at the dinner table flowed naturally between the two languages. Sometimes my father would start talking in English, and my mother would reply in Japanese. No one translated the text. No one stopped. English never felt like a subject I had to master; it was simply part of the air I breathed. It felt effortless, almost invisible.
Ironically, even though my mother loved writing and could spend hours at her desk sketching or drafting ideas, I was never good at reading books. I often struggled to finish assigned novels. Reading felt slow and demanding. I preferred shorter texts, conversations, or visual media. Because I spoke two languages comfortably, I thought I was already literate enough. I never thought much about what literacy really meant.
When my parents encouraged me to attend college in the United States, the same college where they had once met, I thought I was ready. English had always been part of my life. I never really felt like an international student. I felt like I was coming back to a familiar place. That illusion disappeared quickly. In my first writing-intensive course, the reading assignments were long and dense. Academic articles did not have the natural connection and flow that a conversation does. They asked for patience, focus, and critical thinking. Professors wanted more than just surface understanding; they expected analysis. One day, the professor explained that our essays should follow an MLA structure. Around me, students nodded as if this were obvious. I sat quietly, pretending I understood. I had never actually learned the MLA format before. In Japan, writing assignments often focused on expression and personal reflection more than on building a structured argument. That night, feeling overwhelmed and embarrassed, I reached out to my mother. I told her, “I know English, but I don’t know how to write the way they want me to”. She laughed softly, not at me but in recognition. She said “it is normal for you not knowing how to do that. Knowing a language and organizing your ideas are two different skills.” She said that in English writing professors want you to: first, clearly state what you believe then, provide evidence, finally, explain why that evidence matters. Don’t expect the reader to make the connection for you.
As she spoke, something shifted in my mind. I had been relying on fluency to sound natural.
Academic writing requires structure. It required slowing down and guiding the reader step by step. I started to see that literacy wasn’t just about feeling comfortable with words. It was about intentionally shaping them. Still, the adjustment was not immediate. I remember sitting in class while other students talked about themes as if the answers were very obvious. I understood the general idea, but when it came to explaining my own interpretation, I hesitated, worried that my thoughts were too simple or unclear. I got the general ideas, but when I tried to go deeper into the analysis, my thoughts just scattered. For the first time, English felt heavy. If it had always been natural to me, why did I suddenly feel behind?
That question made me face an uncomfortable truth: I had confused fluency with literacy.
Between fluency and literacy, there is a delicate balance that many people overlook. Fluency is about how smoothly someone can read or speak, while literacy involves understanding the meaning behind the words. When learning a language or trying to improve reading skills, focusing on one without the other can lead to problems. For instance, someone might read quickly but not grasp the actual content, or they might understand words but struggle to read them out loud. Striking a balance between fluency and literacy allows a person to communicate clearly and understand what others say, which is essential in everyday life. Both skills feed into each other, making learning more complete and effective. Because I could speak comfortably and I assumed I already understood the language deeply. College showed me that literacy requires more than comfort— it requires attention, patience, and the willingness to question what I read. Fluency helped me speak smoothly in everyday situations. I could joke, argue, and express opinions without having to translate in my head. Academic literacy required endurance.
It took questioning assumptions, identifying patterns, and sticking with a difficult text even when it didn’t make sense right away. In Japan, I had rarely pushed myself to read long, complex works in any language. I used to rely on being naturally good at English without putting effort into building stronger reading and writing skills. College showed that gap. At first, this realization felt discouraging. I used to think being bilingual growing up would give me an advantage right away. I felt stuck between identities—not quite international but not fully domestic either; I wasn’t having trouble with grammar, but I did struggle with interpretation and structure.
Gradually, my perspective began to shift. I started reading with more intention. Instead of rushing, I took my time and annotated slowly. I looked up academic terms even when I thought I mostly understood them. I always make an outline of my essays before I start writing. I asked myself if my proof actually backed up my main point. I went to office hours and asked questions I used to feel embarrassed to ask.The texts didn’t suddenly turn easy, but they became navigable. I also began to see my bilingual background differently. Moving between Japanese and English had quietly trained me to adapt. In Japanese, communication often depends on context and subtle implication. A speaker may leave ideas unstaid, trusting that the listener understands the meaning. In English, however, writers are expected to be clear and direct arguments are valued. Learning to shift between these modes became an advantage rather than a weakness. I became more aware of the audience, tone, and structure. I found out that ideas can be shaped by cultural expectations in different ways.
Through this process, I redefined what literacy meant to me. It wasn’t really about loving books or reading quickly. It wasn’t about speaking perfectly or having fancy vocabulary. Literacy is about engaging deeply with language by questioning it, organizing it, and using it
intentionally. It meant recognizing that understanding is built, not assumed. The night I sat in my dorm room overwhelmed by that first textbook was a moment that changed everything for me. It made me face my assumptions about myself as a learner. I was never bad at English. I was still growing. I wasn’t failing; I was moving from comfort to consciousness. Looking back, I see that growing up between two languages did not automatically prepare me for academic success. What being bilingual gave me was not only fluency and literacy, but also flexibility.It taught me how to navigate uncertainty and adapt to new expectations. Literacy, I now understand, is not a fixed achievement. It is a process that changes over time as contexts evolve. It takes humility, patience, and effort. Today, when I open a challenging reading assignment, I still feel a slight hesitation.
But I no longer see that hesitation as inadequacy. I think it’s just part of learning. Being bilingual didn’t erase the struggle, but it gave me the tools to get through it. Learning to navigate between languages, structures, and identities has become the most meaningful literacy of my life.