Like many youngsters, I fell in love for the first time when I was around 11 years old, on my very first day of sixth grade, to be more precise. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Donning my first-day-of-school best, which was comprised of a bedazzled "High School Musical" tee and unnaturally white, not-yet-worn Converse sneakers purchased for the very occasion, I had lurked awkwardly down the hall and hesitantly peeked into Room 208, nervous that I was about to walk into yet another wrong classroom, as I already had twice that day. Fourth period, French 101 with Mademoiselle Stone. Am I in the right place? I reluctantly peeled my unfocused and petrified eyes off the floor upon which they were glued in order to avoid all the judging gazes of my prepubescent peers and scanned the room. A giant mural of the Champs-Elysées was etched along the wall. Plastered directly opposite was a poster of the Eiffel Tower. A French flag was draped above the chalkboard next to a bulletin board with a few key French words and phrases: "bonjour!", "au revoir!", "merci beaucoup!". Not only was I sure I was in the right room, but it was love at first sight. From that moment on, I knew that the French language and I would have a lifelong love affair.

And truly, I was not wrong. My love of French has only grown. So much so, that it has bled into other foreign languages as well, causing me to dip my proverbial toes into (and consequently, also fall in love with) Italian, Spanish, and even a touch of Mandarin (although my affair with Mandarin was admittedly quite brief). I have committed not only my studies at NYU to Romance languages, but my life, heart, and possibly even my sanity.

Young love has enormous potential to shape us. Such vulnerability and passion at such a young and impressionable age can be instrumental in the formation of our identities. In terms of aspects of our personalities, love can emphasize or soften. Even create and destroy. My experience with languages is no exception. The thing, though, is this: I'm not sure if it's that my English-speaking self is influenced by my multilingualism, or if it's that with each language I speak, I take on an entirely different identity.

Now, before you suggest that I may be suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder (formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder) and promptly visit a psychiatrist for some professional help, I assure you this phenomenon is far more common that you'd think.

In fact, linguists Jean-Marc Dewaele and Aneta Pavlenko did a study between 2001 and 2003 in which over 1,000 people who spoke more than one language were asked whether they "feel like a different person" when they speak a different language, to which over two-thirds replied "yes" (Alice Robb, 2014, "Multilinguals Have Multiple Personalities"). In fact, in his 2014 article for New Republic, "For Three Years, I Spoke Only Hebrew to My Daughter. I Just Gave It Up. Here's Why.", journalist Noam Scheiber recounted the experience of abandoning his dream of raising his daughter bilingual solely because he found his Hebrew persona to be "much colder, more earnest, and, let’s face it, less articulate." His young daughter found his alter ego to be so harsh that he found himself losing her affection, causing him to opt for his inner anglophone. Many, if not most, polyglots will tell you that each language has its own distinct mood and nuances, often giving the sense of a completely unique linguistic identity. I find that this is due not only to cultural influences associated with the language's country of origin, but also the structure and vocabulary.

Long story short, different means of expression have a way of altering the essence of the expression itself.

So now that we've established that I'm not suffering from DID and identified this as a common and innocuous affliction, I feel comfortable admitting to my linguistic alter egos:

English

As my native language and the language that I grew up speaking with family and friends, I recognize good ol' English as the basis of who I am, and it is certainly the one which I am most comfortable speaking. Personally, I feel English has a bluntness to it that I find contributes to my straightforwardness. It's a sleek and modern language that's truly alive and extremely accommodating, encouraging and heck, insistent of using of new slang and lingo.

Living in New York additionally makes me feel like I'm on the cutting edge of culture and innovation. In terms of sound, it's infinitely less sing-song-y than Italian, but it's nowhere near as harsh as say, German. English-speaking me is a candid, cosmopolitan city slicker, keeping up with the trends and perhaps even helping to start them.

French

French me is a tad more demure and romantic. I completely indulge in the flowery, dreamy vernacular and always try to make the content of my speech as beautiful and poetic as it literally sounds. French is poetry. French is art. I speak in colors; my words dripping out of my mouth in a effortless stream like paint dripping down Monet's canvas. French is flirty, ripe with euphemisms and cheeky phrases. Despite the apparent openness and vivacity of the language, there is always a sense that perhaps there is something that is not being explicitly said, as if I am ending every sentence with a wink.

Italian

There's a sense of warmth in my speech when I speak Italian. It's as if I had just been feed a giant plate of homemade pasta from my nonna every time I talk. There's a certain optimism as well. It's instinctual to refer to almost everything as bello or buono. But even saying something is a nightmare (che incubo!) sounds like a dream. There is the most fascinating dichotomy in Italian, where urgency and relaxation coexist. Despite the rapidity, the rolling "r"'s and staccato type cadence, Italians pay careful attention to each and every sound they make. Much like the tenderness that is ubiquitous in their cooking, art, and culture, gli Italiani cradle their words like pillow-y gnocchi on their tongues and, even though it is not my first language, I feel like the Italian side of myself does the same.

Spanish

My most recent endeavor is conquering the Spanish language, and this desire has brought me all the way across the Atlantic where I am currently studying abroad in Madrid. My Spanish self is in its infancy and coming out of its shell with every passing day. She is eager to learn and explore. The passion and liveliness of the city is mirrored in the way that the locals speak, with genuine tenderness for and interest in the lives of others. Spanish is cómodo (comfortable). It is intuitive and forgiving and laid-back like a Madrileño during a siesta. The language almost seems custom-made for each individual, with potential to be frenzied and passionate like a frantic flamenco or relaxed and easy like a gentle salsa. And much like life here, it moves at the speed of you.

Each language allows me to express myself in a unique and novel way that perhaps I couldn't otherwise. If my life is Instagram and my thoughts are my photo, then each language I learn is like a new filter, each distinct from the other. Each of these parts unites to make me who I am. With every language I learn and work to master, I feel like I become a more complete person with a better understanding of my real essence. Despite their separate and individual identities, each of my linguistic personas contributes to the big picture: me. So maybe I don't have "Multiple Linguistic Personality Disorder" at all, but rather "United Nations Syndrome" instead.