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Talking about translating today, and I remembered a story translating for my abuela and the police when I was in high school :
My abuela called my mom, frantic and afraid; my mom called me because she was still at school. I said I would go.
One of my Tio’s has always had mental health and drug problems. That day, he’d yelled at my abuela in the kitchen and threatened her with a knife.
One of my Tio’s has always had mental health and drug problems. That day, he’d yelled at my abuela in the kitchen and threatened her with a knife.
She got him out of the house and didn’t know what else to do but call 911.
I got in my car with one of my own knives — don’t ask what I was going to do; it made me feel like I had something, if needed, and my dad and I had collected knives since my ninth birthday.
I got in my car with one of my own knives — don’t ask what I was going to do; it made me feel like I had something, if needed, and my dad and I had collected knives since my ninth birthday.
I got to Abuela’s and looked around before getting out of the car — I didn’t see my uncle, so I called her to let me inside.
The cops arrived ten minutes later.
Translating their questions into something comprehensible for my abuela, and from the words I knew, was stressful.
The cops arrived ten minutes later.
Translating their questions into something comprehensible for my abuela, and from the words I knew, was stressful.
Two white men with guns in my Abuela’s house, my Abuela unable to understand them, and me, fumbling to tell them about my Tio, a brown man who had been in and out of jail.
The power dynamics of it all were lost on me then — I only knew everything felt confusing.
The power dynamics of it all were lost on me then — I only knew everything felt confusing.
Translating like that is awful.
It’s Vulnerability and Otherness trying to communicate to Power. In moments of deep need and desperation. It’s scary to feel cut off in that. To not know if you’ll be understood, or disregarded.
This can obviously be applied more broadly.
It’s Vulnerability and Otherness trying to communicate to Power. In moments of deep need and desperation. It’s scary to feel cut off in that. To not know if you’ll be understood, or disregarded.
This can obviously be applied more broadly.
I don’t really have a point to this thread.
It’s more just a fumbling story of fear and confusion—
At wanting my Abuela and Tio to be fully understood, through my broken words, to the those in power.
It’s more just a fumbling story of fear and confusion—
At wanting my Abuela and Tio to be fully understood, through my broken words, to the those in power.
Scrutinizing the dynamics of translation and accessibility—and ending hierarchical perceptions of non-English speakers—is important.
There are times when I’ve noticed Spanish speakers trying to communicate something others didn’t understand.
I’d introduce myself—offering a fumbling Cuban Spanish and where my family was from—and their faces would relax.
As if to say; “Oh good. I’m safe now. Someone hears me.”
I’d introduce myself—offering a fumbling Cuban Spanish and where my family was from—and their faces would relax.
As if to say; “Oh good. I’m safe now. Someone hears me.”
Though I could understand most everything, my spoken Spanish was really not great then—but it didn’t matter to any of the folks I’d run into and talk with.
The thing that seemed to matter most; we chose to hear one another, and that meant neither of us was alone.
The thing that seemed to matter most; we chose to hear one another, and that meant neither of us was alone.
The way we treat other’s stories—and the way the system is built to prioritize some stories over others—is deep and embedded.
But those with the least power should always get a chance to be heard, to feel safe, to be understood.
To have power in regards to their own life.
But those with the least power should always get a chance to be heard, to feel safe, to be understood.
To have power in regards to their own life.
