Living in a Multilingual World (The One About Language in our Post-Truth Times)

Perhaps one of the unintended consequences of Trump’s presidency so far is its effect on translators. I know that I’m going out on a limb here, translators being bottom of the heap when it comes to the White House’s incumbent’s chief victims. Nonetheless, it is an issue I feel pressed to raise, being a part-time (and very occasional) translator.

Our work is usually fraught with linguistic booby-traps and idiomatic swamps. One minute, you are on safe ground and you feel confident of what you are producing. The next minute you are sinking in quicksand and even a bilingual dictionary is of no help at all. It is a cruel world out there already for translators. Therefore we do not need Monsieur Trump to add to our calamities.

The problem arises from the president’s (every time I type the words “Donald Trump” and “president of the USA” in the same sentence, I get a mixed reaction. One is uncontrollable laughter followed by endless crying. Maybe I should work on a translation for those feelings and put it on a T-shirt to sell) use of the English language. He very rarely means what he says and he does not say much. Unless you count his constant tautology.

Take the word “bad”. I have enough on my plate with the “yoot” of today using this adjective to describe something or someone as “good”. Yes, you read that right. “Bad” is not “bad”, but “good”.

For Pussy-Grabber-In-Chief, however, “bad” is something he disagrees with, not necessarily something that lacks quality, i.e., not good. Which would automatically qualify the thing or the person as “good” (if you ask me). It serves Trump’s simplistic, binary vision of the world to offer this black and white concept. Agree with the Muslim travel ban? Good. Disagree? Bad.

How do you translate that hair again?

But as a translator, I work on ideas, not just words. That means that a sentence like “A lot of bad ‘dudes’ out there!” is bound to give me sleepless nights. Note how straightforward it is (muchos tipos malos por ahí), and yet, we know that the majority of people Trump targets are law-abiding Muslims. Therefore, I cannot agree with the word “bad” even if my job is only to translate.

The president is not alone. On this side of the Atlantic, former education secretary Michael Gove lashed out at experts just before the Brexit vote, stating that “people had had enough” of them. The translation of the word “expert” into Spanish is “experto/a”. In both English and Spanish it means “a person who has a special skill or knowledge in some particular field. Well, not anymore. I am not sure whether to go for the dictionary definition (specialist), or Gove’s one (conman, especially of the EU-financed variety). What if the translation is for a Brexiteer? What if Trump’s entourage hires me covertly to translate important documents? Highly unlikely, I know, but you can never be too sure.

It is not just those who worry about civil liberties and human rights who are troubled by what is going on in both Europe and the States. It is also linguists, translators and academics who wonder if our language will ever be the same. After all, what is the translation for “fake news” again? “Noticias falsas”, you say? But the other side claims they are part of an alternative facts world. Pass me the smelling salts, will you! At least that phrase is an easy one to translate.

© 2017

Next Post: “Thoughts in Progress”, to be published on Saturday 18^th March at 6pm (GMT)

Living in a Bilingual World (Recitative)

Traduttore, traditore

Thus goes this old Italian axiom. Translator, traitor. And sometimes I join the chorus of disapproving voices whenever a book or poem I have read in the original language has failed to deliver the same hypnotic feeling in the lingo translated into.

I have already addressed this issue in previous posts (here, here, and here). But whereas before I focused mainly on my own experience as a former translator and interpreter (although every now and then I still dabble in the odd translation, especially if it's well paid), today I would like to concentrate more on the travails a language specialist faces in his or her daily labour.

So, traduttore, traditore?

I don't think so. Or at least not most of the time. A translator is a living bridge that serves as a link, and on occasions as the only link between cultures and therefore the onus on him or her is far too big to think of their work glibly or to dismiss it off-handedly. There are many examples of bad translation and one of them can be found in one of the links I provided above. Yet, the positive case studies far outweigh the negative ones. The translator's job is not just to transpose words, phrases and idioms from one language to another, but to place them ever so carefully in the right order and context so as to make the reader believe that what they are digesting is the real McCoy. And that's artistry at its best.

A few weeks ago the owner of one of the blogs I frequent, Willow from Life in Willow Manor, uploaded a couple of poems by two Italian poets. One of them you can find it here and the other one here. What captivated me from the first moment was not just the beautiful images each work evoked, but the careful and detailed translation. Remember, they were being transposed from a romance language to a Germanic one. And the translator pulled it off, in my humble opinion.

Those two poems also reminded me of the time when I came across a translation of one of my favourite pieces ever by the Mexican nun Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz a few years ago. This was a woman born at a time when Spain still had a strong colonial presence in America, 17th century; when 'to speak too openly was the equivalent of sinning'. Juana Inés de Asbaje y Ramírez de Santillana's talent shone from a very early age and she used it to further women's cultural rights from her ecclesiastic position. It was her achievements in this field that have led academics and scholars alike to name her Latin America's first femininist. And when you read the poem I have selected below you will find out why. And all thanks to the wonderful power of translation.

N.B. (I found this translation online but could not find the author. Please, be aware that no permission has been sought to reproduce the text and should the author want me to remove it, I will comply immediately with her/his request. Also, should the author want me to credit him/her with the translation of the poem, I will update the post accordingly. Thanks)

You Men

Silly, you men
so very adept at wrongly faulting womankind,
not seeing you're alone to blame
for faults you plant in woman's mind.

After you've won by urgent plea
the right to tarnish her good name,
you still expect her to behave
you, that coaxed her into shame.

You batter her resistance down
and then, all righteousness, proclaim
that feminine frivolity,
not your persistence, is to blame.

When it comes to bravely posturing,
your witlessness must take the prize:
you're the child that makes a bogeyman,
and then recoils in fear and cries.

Presumptuous beyond belief,
you'd have the woman you pursue
be Thais when you're courting her,
Lucretia once she falls to you.

For plain default of common sense,
could any action be so queer
as oneself to cloud the mirror,
then complain that it's not clear?

Whether you're favored or disdained,
nothing can leave you satisfied.
You whimper if you're turned away,
you sneer if you've been gratified.

With you, no woman can hope to score;
whichever way, she's bound to lose;
spurning you, she's ungrateful
succumbing, you call her lewd.

Your folly is always the same:
you apply a single rule
to the one you accuse of looseness
and the one you brand as cruel.

What happy mean could there be
for the woman who catches your eye,
if, unresponsive, she offends,
yet whose complaisance you decry?

Still, whether it's torment or anger
and both ways you've yourselves to blame
God bless the woman who won't have you,
no matter how loud you complain.

It's your persistent entreaties
that change her from timid to bold.
Having made her thereby naughty,
you would have her good as gold.

So where does the greater guilt lie
for a passion that should not be:
with the man who pleads out of baseness
or the woman debased by his plea?

Or which is more to be blamed
though both will have cause for chagrin:
the woman who sins for money
or the man who pays money to sin?

So why are you men all so stunned
at the thought you're all guilty alike?
Either like them for what you've made them
or make of them what you can like.

If you'd give up pursuing them,
you'd discover, without a doubt,
you've a stronger case to make
against those who seek you out.

I well know what powerful arms
you wield in pressing for evil:
your arrogance is allied
with the world, the flesh, and the devil!

REDONDILLAS - Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

Hombres necios que acusáis
a la mujer, sin razón,
sin ver que sois la ocasión
de lo mismo que culpáis;

si con ansia sin igual
solicitáis su desdén,
por qué queréis que obren bien
si las incitáis al mal?

Combatís su resistencia
y luego, con gravedad,
decís que fue liviandad
lo que hizo la diligencia.

Parecer quiere el denuedo
de vuestro parecer loco,
al niño que pone el coco
y luego le tiene miedo.

Queréis, con presunción necia,
hallar a la que buscáis
para prentendida, Thais,
y en la posesión, Lucrecia.

¿Qué humor puede ser más raro
que el que, falto de consejo,
él mismo empaña el espejo
y siente que no esté claro?

Con el favor y el desdén
tenéis condición igual,
quejándoos, si os tratan mal,
burlándoos, si os quieren bien.

Opinión, ninguna gana,
pues la que más se recata,
si no os admite, es ingrata,
y si os admite, es liviana.

Siempre tan necios andáis
que, con desigual nivel,
a una culpáis por cruel
y a otra por fácil culpáis.

¿Pues como ha de estar templada
la que vuestro amor pretende?,
¿si la que es ingrata ofende,
y la que es fácil enfada?

Mas, entre el enfado y la pena
que vuestro gusto refiere,
bien haya la que no os quiere
y quejaos en hora buena.

Dan vuestras amantes penas
a sus libertades alas,
y después de hacerlas malas
las queréis hallar muy buenas.

¿Cuál mayor culpa ha tenido
en una pasión errada:
la que cae de rogada,
o el que ruega de caído?

¿O cuál es de más culpar,
aunque cualquiera mal haga;
la que peca por la paga
o el que paga por pecar?

¿Pues, para qué os espantáis
de la culpa que tenéis?
Queredlas cual las hacéis
o hacedlas cual las buscáis.

Dejad de solicitar,
y después, con más razón,
acusaréis la afición
de la que os fuere a rogar.

Bien con muchas armas fundo
que lidia vuestra arrogancia,
pues en promesa e instancia
juntáis diablo, carne y mundo.

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Grave)

Havana, Cuba, September 1997. OSPAAAL and the Tricontinental Magazine, for which I work, have organised an event called 'Che's Legacy in the Threshold of the 21st Century' (or so I think it is called). As the official translator and interpreter of the organisation my main job is to liaise with the various delegates to the convention and talk about the work the magazine and the OSPAAAL do. Although I have long stopped being so naïve and gullible regarding the political and economic reality of mid 90s Cuba, I undertake my tasks with the professionalism required of a polyglot who has to communicate in English, French, German and Spanish with people from Austria, France, the UK, the US, Canada and various islands in the Caribbean, mainly French-speaking.

The main event is held at the the Journalists' Centre on the corner of 23rd Avenue and O St. I am familiar with the building having attended many painting and photo exhibitions in the foyer before. It is already 10am and the launch is about to take place. The people from ESTI (Empresa de Servicios de Traducción e Interpretación) are in their places and ready to go. I feel slightly jealous. There was a time when I wanted to belong to ESTI. But life sent me to a language school just after graduation and there I stayed for almost two years after which I became a free-lance interpreter, translator and Spanish teacher.

The chairman of OSPAAAL comes over to say hello. He is a likeable man, ex-consul of the Cuban embassy in Turkey and someone I shared my anecdotes about eating kebabs in the UK with. He found them amusing because that used to be one of his favourite foods when he lived in that eastern European nation.

All of a sudden the lights dim and the first speaker comes on stage. It's Aleida Guevara, one of Che's daughters. She talks about how nice it is for everyone to gather under the same room together to honour his father's memory, how he would have loved to see this dream come true, people from many countries uniting against the mighty Yankee imperialism. After her a succession of speakers come and go. Lunchtime arrives. We are asked to cross the road and make our way to the restaurant on the opposite corner downstairs (the name escapes me now). Together with the throng of delegates, speakers and interpreters I plod along. Out of the blue I feel a hand pulling on my arm. I turn around and find the chairman of OSPAAAL standing right in front of me flanked by Aleida Guevara on one side and the Turkish consul on the other. The chairman is grinning.

- This is the man to help you out, Aleida, he speaks many languages!

- Oh, thanks, well, I am Aleida Guevara...

The conversation starts and I, sneakily, check my watch. Hmmm... I still have time to have lunch, probably forty minutes or so. The consul can't speak English very well, so we resort to German, whereas Aleida can speak neither German nor English. The crowd thins out until we are the only ones in the building.

We make our way upstairs, talking all the time. The consul turns out to be a great talker and Aleida relates to him many anecdotes to do with her almost fatherless upbringing.

Twenty minutes elapse.

Upstairs both the consul and Aleida are interested in a painting exhibition that has been up for a long time now and which I have seen a couple of times. The conversation continues. I keep checking my watch. I have possibly five minutes left maximum to catch some food.

Finally the consul shakes my hand and Aleida's and says goodbye. He thanks me profusely for being so helpful. Aleida turns to me and looking at one of my ears exclaims:

- You know what? My father used to say that men should not wear earrings. He was dead against men who wore any type of jewellery, except for watches.

And with that she leaves.

Note: One of my work colleagues, the editor-in-chief's PA, saved me some lunch, which needless to say was lavish as befitted an event organised to acknowledge Che's legacy. So there was a happy ending, at least for my poor stomach.

Living in a Bilingual World (Agitated)

Summer 1997. I had been at Tricontinental Magazine for a couple of months as the official translator and interpreter or as the cleaner used to call me as 'el tradultol'. My daily tasks included overseeing the translation of the different contributions sent by the magazine's columnists into Spanish and work alongside an American woman called Karen and resident in the island for many years on the translation from Spanish to English. This proved to be more difficult obviously.

That day we were expecting a delegation from South Africa. I was fascinated and enthralled at being able to meet someone from a country I had heard so much about but knew so little about, too. Mandela's release from prison a few years before had taken over the only two television channels we had in Cuba at the time and the image I had of him was that of someone who had withstood a lot of pain and distress in order to make his country a better place. I was looking forward to meeting this party from the African nation.

At around 11am the South Africans turned up and the chairman of OSPAAAL, the NGO that produced Tricontinental Magazine, came to greet them. I was there by his side and I noticed a sigh of relief from the lady in charge of the group when she noticed that both of us were black. However that small comfort was to change in no time.

They were invited in and led upstairs to one of the meeting rooms. Once inside, we all sat down and started discussing ideas, plans, projects. I was feeling nervous and restless. The reason? I could not understand a word of what the party from the African nation was saying.

I had been to university, performed in an improvisational theatre outfit in English, done free-lance translation and interpreting a for a couple of years, taught at a language school, and yet nothing prepared me for the shame that overcame me in that small room. I was mumbling, stammering (quite badly) and on two occasions had to be helped out by one of the other OSPAAAL's members. The woman in charge of the delegation, who, a few minutes before had greeted me so warmly, was throwing icy stares in my direction now. How to explain to her that the English I had learnt in uni was from the USA? How to put that to her in a way that she could understand that I was not pretending not to comprehend what she was saying, that I just COULD NOT GET IT?

And then, the bomb.

She used the phrase 'PC culture' and I, like a striker who just carries on dribbling the ball he has just been passed without stopping, took it in my stride and tried to put it in the back of the net; I spat the words out:"La cultura de la computadora personal". I should have realised that something was wrong. Even the rest of the South African delegation, men and women, who could not understand one word of Spanish could see that my gaffe had been too big. It was the same colleague from before who interceded for me and helped clear the situation once again.

Once outside the South African woman heading the party reprimanded me, unfairly, for not understanding her. I tried to explain to her in the best way I could that it was nothing to do with her but with the type of English I was used to. It did not help that at the time I still had a strong northeast American accent, mainly from Boston, where many of my post-graduate teachers hailed from. In the end she calmed down a bit and realised that it was not my fault.

It was only years later and whilst living in the UK that I came across the same expression, but by then I was ready and was able to translate it properly or give it my own variation: 'PC-culture'="Actitud politica correcta". If only that lady had been there.

Copyright 2007