In Translation

Even as I stood before them as their writing teacher, I have stood in awe of my non-native students over the past 20 years.  From Mexico, Poland, and Russia, from Pakistan, China, and Botswana, these amazing people had stepped from the linguistic comfort zones of their own countries and had come to American speaking English with varying degrees of agility – but they came, and in their new country, they bought groceries, worked at their jobs, and attended college. Their English wasn’t perfect, but they spoke it anyway.  Their first language wrapped itself around their tongues and their pens, taunting them with intricate thoughts and personal reflections that their English failed to express.  But every mis-spoken word and every misplaced pronoun brought them closer to English fluency.  And I, little more than a guide along the road these students had chosen, bowed to their bravery and conviction.  Although I sympathized with their struggles and shared their frustrations, I could never really empathize – because these people had the courage to do what I would not.  

And so, I came to Spain. I carried a moderate sense of basic Spanish verbs and vocabulary, a sliver of auditory comprehension, and very little ability to speak the language.  Compared to many of my non-native students, I was over-prepared.  But my first weeks in Spain left me completely overwhelmed and disoriented.  No matter how much I studied in my apartment, when I ventured out, armed with a tiny dictionary, a verb book, and phrases written on scraps of paper and carried in my pockets, things fell miserably apart as soon as I spoke. I knew my pronunciation was terrible – not to mention that I used the wrong words in the wrong order. Worse yet, I soon as I spoke, the loquacious Spaniards answered me.  And entonces, I was completely lost.  Although I muddled through from week to week, I walked slower and stood shorter with the weight of my incompetence.  Trips to the grocery store, the fruit market, and the local bar became daily tests in which I was always found wanting.  Sometimes, I just didn’t have the energy to make more mistakes, so we went without the fresh apples or spinach which would have required one more interaction than I was ready to handle that day. 

Not only could I not understand words spoken to me, the cultural differences left me feeling awkward and out of place wherever I went.  I learned to stand back and watch before launching into any interactions.  But no matter how carefully I watched or how much I practiced, I remained estranjero.  I couldn’t see the sign on my back, but clearly, the natives knew I was not one of them.  I was tolerated but never embraced.  And I began to welcome the bubble of anonymity that came with my otherness.  I spent a great deal of time alone.  Walking in the park, I could hear the Spanish around me, but without needing to interact, I felt safe and comfortable there.  When I was at the college and could speak English, I felt better, and then temptation was strong to huddle close to my American students and fellow professors where the water was shallow and the risks were few.  

Determined to learn this language, I took a Spanish class at the college.  The professor, Luis, performed feats of linguistic magic and helped us laugh through our challenges.  Like a good instructor, he expected us to speak to him only in Spanish. Despite his fine teaching, many evenings after two hours of class, I left without asking my questions, and I never sought his help outside of class.  I know he would have answered my questions willingly, but the challenge of speaking more Spanish, of saying what I don’t understand in a language still so prickly on my tongue overwhelmed my need to know.  Afraid to reveal the extent of my incompetence and dreading the verb-tense calisthenics I would have to endure before my question would be understood, I learned to shut out the questions that peppered my brain throughout the day. 

I hung in there, I finished the class, and I am thrilled to say my Spanish improved dramatically.     Shopping for my groceries, I can give and receive dinero accurately.  I can follow most conversations directed at me, and although my responses are still delayed and quite flawed, I have lost some of my hesitance and have accepted that without mistakes I will make no progress.  

In a larger sense, I have gained what I truly sought – a personal understanding of the struggles my students face.  I know why they smile and nod, and I know that sometimes, smiling and nodding is as good as it gets.  I understand why so many sit back in class and seem detached from the discussion, and I know why they cling to those who speak their own language.  And now, I know with my heart and my aching head and my pounding fists.   I know that living a new language is not just intellectually challenging; it’s a personal metamorphosis that’s both exhilarating and terrifying. 

And now, I understand how much of our selves is lost in translation.