Translating for Daniel: Part 1 of "Translation Overload" sneak preview

Dear Readers, as promised in my last blog post, the following selection begins my own parallel story of Jasmine, the fictional heroine of the book I’m blogging, “Just like Eve.”  When I finish Jasmine’s story, I hope to write my own – without blogging it – for future publication.  This selection and the following ones will be an intermission from “Just like Eve” and will provide a sneak preview of my own story.  I also hope, eventually, to significantly develop and revise “Just like Eve” and self-publish it as an e-book. 

And now for the first part of what will probably be a four part introduction to my future memoire:

February, 2005

            Sunday morning began like any other: rushing to get our two toddlers, 15 months and 3 years, ready for church and into their nursery and preschool rooms and breathlessly making it in time for the second half of the worship songs.  Settling into my seat, I reminded myself to follow the New Year’s promise I had made two months earlier.  Our pastor had challenged us, in place of a typical New Year’s resolution, to pray for a character gift.  I took him up on it, already knowing the one I needed, from 1 Peter: a quiet and gentle spirit.  Maybe that could get me off Prozac.  My children were sometimes a delight and other times overwhelming.  My older child, frequently throwing himself into rages, threw me into them too, and I was terrified I would one day lose it and hurt him.  Upon hearing my story, my doctor determined me to have Postpartum Depression and prescribed the drug of the day.  It helped, but I hated it.  Please, God, get me off this drug.

A long-time member of our church, Tom, retired, 70s, was invited up to the podium.  He introduced himself as part of a multi-church short-term mission team headed to Venezuela.  My ears perked up.  I had gone on house-building short-term missions to Mexico, and I had kept hearing of other mission opportunities, mostly in Asia and Africa, but I had been yearning for one to the country where I had lived at the very young age of one to four: Brazil.  As a bordering country, Venezuela was close.  My interest was sparked.

“The church is growing Venezuela,” he said.  Missionaries from our denomination had recently trained a few young, new pastors who were leading four new churches the missionaries had planted.  To assist the fledgling churches, four teams would head to the new churches for three weeks in May.  Could I make myself free in May?  The pastor of each church would lead each team to meet with families who had requested prayer; after prayer, the teams would invite the families to come to church.  I preferred to meet physical needs, like food and housing.  My interest was waning.

Tom invited any of us interested in the trip to talk with him after the service.  Then he added one important special request: a fourth translator.  With four churches, four translators were needed.  Only three were on board.  My interest was reignited. 

Translator?  Could I do that?  I had studied Spanish for five years and had studied abroad in Oaxaca, Mexico, enough to achieve some proficiency -- a decade earlier.   Could I be up to the task now?  

It’s you.  An unfamiliar voice from outside of me, yet inside of me, and seemingly so intimately close, whispered.  What is that? You’re the fourth translator.  Who is that?  

The voice spoke with a confidence I lacked, but I mustered the courage to find Tom after church.  I said my Spanish was rusty, but I’d take two weeks to consider it. 

Could we afford the trip?  In May?  I’d have to take spring quarter off from my new position teaching at the university on the non-tenure track (NTT).  But spring is the quarter with the fewest classes, and I was the newest NTT instructor.  I didn’t yet know if I would be offered a spring quarter contract.  My husband and I trusted the money could work out.  I was more worried about the Spanish. 

My two weeks was up.  Still hesitant, I found Tom.  Had a fourth translator been found?  “No.  Can you come?” he pleaded.  “Please, we need you.” 

I bought a bunch of children’s books in Spanish, mostly fairy tales and others I knew well, so they’d be easy to follow, and I read them aloud during bedtime story time to my children.  They didn’t care in the least bit that I was reading to them in Spanish, were as engrossed in the stories as always, seemed to follow them just as well, and I wondered whether they had even noticed that I had switched languages. 

Just as that soft little whisper encouraging me to be the fourth translator was a sneak preview of more to come, so were the memories returning of my earliest childhood in São Paulo, Brazil.  While reading to my children, who were the same ages I was while living there, I remembered sitting on my own mom’s lap at our little kitchen table in São Paulo, while she was reading Monica stories to me in Portuguese.  Monica was Brazil’s Charlie Brown, though a girl and very precocious, the favorite cartoon among Brazilian children of the 1970s.  She’s much more like today’s Dora: intelligent, sweet, and curious, but she gets herself into more trouble, and, miraculously, she always gets herself out.  I was also remembering one of the Monica stories when she and her friends built a rocket.  I soaked in the memory, not yet knowing it was the first of what would become many of my toddlerhood. 

But I also grieved it, sometimes fighting back tears while reading to my children.  I had lost Portuguese.  When I was six, Portuguese was no longer lovingly spoken in my home, and I lost it.  Hence, my own decision to read to my children in Spanish was bolstered, and this language, at least was returning, slowly, but coming.  Nevertheless, I felt entirely unprepared to be the sole translator for the church I would be sent to. 

* * * * *

 I had nothing to worry about.  I was translating for Daniel.  At 32, my age, he was young to be pastoring a church, but so were they all of these new churches.  I also soon learned he was engaged to be married.  I could follow him as easily as my kids could follow our bedtime stories.  I didn’t need to understand Daniel’s Spanish because I understood him.  Watching his expressions, his movements, his mouth form the words, and his eyes, everything that came from him landed into me crystal clear, whether I was on official duty, or we two were alone walking between appointments, or connecting with other teammates during off-times. 

            Some of these were fun banter, like the afternoon while our team was at the home of one of our hosts, waiting for a meal to be served, and a few of us – Daniel, me, and the 20-something Venezuelan male team-members – were hanging out in an open area outside the dining room.  The young team-members, wanting to learn some English, were pointing to various things around.  They started by pointing to some of the objects around us: the water jug, the carpet, the cat.  Then they began asking for some descriptions.  One pointed to my hair and asked, “Rubia?”  My hair is strawberry blond, but I made the translation easy and replied, “Red.”  Another pointed to some of the older team-members who were standing away and engaged in another conversation, and asked, “Viejo?”   I chuckled. “Old.”  Another pointed to himself and asked, “Guapo?”  This time, I laughed, and replied with a complementary tone of appreciation for his physique.  “Haaandsome!  Gooood lookin’!”  Then another pointed to Daniel, tall and thin, and asked, “Flaco?”  Daniel turned to him with a shocked face and smiled a teasing rebuke, waving his index finger back-and-forth in a clear cross-cultural gesture of “No, you don’t!”  He turned back to me and pointed to me.  “No, Karina!”   Then he pointed again to the young teammate in another teasing reproach.  The young men were laughing.  I was giggling.  Daniel commanded our attention. ”¡Karina!”  He pointed to me with a strong command in his voice.  “¡Soy tu pastor!  ¡No!”  I giggled and turned to the young man.  “Lo siento, no puedo.”  I’m sorry, I can’t.  I motioned, palm up, toward Daniel.  “Es mi pastor.”  He’s my pastor.  I looked back to them again.  “El me manda silencio.  Lo siento.”  He orders me silence.  I’m sorry.  I clasped my fingers together and spoke very apologetically.  

Daniel took on a triumphant smile.  “Gracias, Karina.”  I nodded, came up close to his ear, and whispered into it.  “No problema, Skinny.”  He threw up his head, chuckling.  Then he turned to me with a wink.  “¡Recuerdas!  Silencio.  Soy tu pastor.”  Remember!  Silence.  I am your pastor.  I giggled, stopped myself, got serious, put myself into attention, and saluted him.  “¡Si, Señor!”  Smiling, he nodded, then bowed his head in solemn gratitude.  Then he looked back up at me with a warm smile. 

* * * * *

             On other occasions, like after I shared a description of my home in São Paulo or when he showed me a neighborhood dump, we spoke no words and communicated just through our eyes.  Our familiarity was magical.  Did I know him?  

I also felt this with a few of my other Venezuelan hosts, particularly with the head elder, Samuel, a new grandfather.  It was to his home that we went for our first lunch.  The meal was simple but ushered in what I would soon call my cascada de recuerdos: waterfall of memories.  I began with what I usually do: the salad, this one a simple one of carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a little onion, lightly seasoned and without dressing, as none was needed.  The special entrée was a small portion of savory chicken.  But something unexpected happened when I took a bite of the black beans.  Tears rolled down my face.  My North American partners were embarrassed.  These tears were unexpected to us all, me especially.  The black beans tasted very familiar, but with a taste I didn’t even know was so familiar.  I learned later the South American way of cooking black beans:  they are soaked overnight, cook for many hours before they are served, and are seasoned with onion, garlic, salt, finely cut bacon, and a little vegetable oil.  At the time, I didn’t know what made them so distinct, just that I had known this taste, had loved this taste, but had not experienced it for a very long time. 

In the coming days, more familiar tastes arrived, along with the familiar sounds on the streets, the sights in the neighborhoods, and the interiors of people’s homes.  Memories from my early childhood poured like a giant waterfall, my cascada de recuerdos, and kept building, filling up my mind with my very early childhood into a remarkably colorful and vibrant picture, one that explained my life and the struggles I faced in kindergarten and first-grade with a culture shock unknown to my parents and teachers.  These will be shared in the future memoire, but some of them are already blogged in my first story of Venezuela and Brazil, especially in Part 2. 

My North American team-mates held a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment over my memories; my Venezuelan team-mates were charmed; Samuel showed special interest; Daniel was especially drawn in.  I kept sharing them with him.  Too many. 

He excused himself when I wanted to share yet another one.  Later, we sat down to lunch, directly across from one another.  I admitted under my breath, while looking down at my un-eaten plate of food, that I was sad he didn’t come to see what I wished to share.  He put his hand on mine, then tapped it, and gently said, “Karina,” then he made sure he made eye contact with me.  “Lo siento.”  I’m sorry.  His eyes said the rest.  I like you too much.

Click here to read Part 2: Understanding from Samuel

What My Eyes could Read, Part 1

For what does it profit a man to gain the world and lose his soul?

(Luke 9:25) 

Sunday, December 26, 2004, Ellensburg, WA

            “Did you get what you wanted for Christmas?” Our pastor opened his sermon with this question and then followed it with another: “Did you ask God for any character gifts?”  If we had not, he encouraged us to do so in place of a New Year’s resolution.  I knew exactly the one: “a quiet and gentle spirit,” a quality I had come across earlier in the year in 1 Pet 3:4.  Between my anxiety, insecurity, insomnia, Irish red-headed temperament, and post-partum depression, I was far from having a “quiet and gentle spirit.”  Both a new mom and a new college instructor, my juggling act overwhelmed me with anxiety.  My husband tried to help, but he worked long hours.  With no energy, I needed us both to do what I could: limit the words and maximize the understanding. 

“I can’t read your mind,” he complained. 

“You don’t have to read my mind.  Just read my eyes!” 

“You’re an English teacher.  Can’t you speak English?” 

No, I’m spent.  Can’t you just read my eyes?  And speak with yours too?

Before the sermon was over, I had resolved to pray every day of 2005 for a quiet and gentle spirit – something I sure did not have at that time.  Nor had I had it growing up in San Jose, California, where we moved from New York state when I was five.

Late 1970s, San Jose, CA

A song had come out about San Jose less than a decade before we arrived.  But the song described a town I have never known.  “LA is a great big freeway,” begins the song; then it shifts to San Jose: “You can really breathe in San Jose.”  Really?  Perhaps in 1968, when the song first came out, you could.  But by the late 1970s, everything had changed.  San Jose was the most important city giving birth to an up and coming, thrilling new world, soon to be known as Silicon Valley.  Dad had arrived in time to be among the first of the “Yuppies,” Young Urban Professionals.  They were young, brilliant, well-educated, and handed a career and a salary previous generations had known only through sweat, years, and seniority.  Dad moved us into a wealthy section of San Jose to work as a computer engineer at the new national headquarters of the especially high tech, high powered company of the 1970s, IBM.  He had caught the American Dream. 

            And I was miserable.  Maybe I was a “poor little rich kid” with a huge three story house and lots of stuff, but few friends, busy parents, and no siblings, except for the little brother who other people called “imaginary.”  We were all “latch-key” kids in my town, like the Peanuts’ kids who live in a world of few adults who speak in muffled mumbles.  In that world, you’d better make friends, or you’d be like me, a bewildered stray.  Small and shy, I was ridiculed at school, mocked for not cursing, last picked for PE, and teased for my red hair and freckled face.

            My teachers observed me in a world of my own.  I wasn’t reading, talking, or following directions.  In kindergarten, this was accepted.  Colin, my brother other people called imaginary, sometimes joined me in my kindergarten classroom, especially if I went into the kitchen room, our favorite spot.  My teacher had the classroom set up with different spaces: a large carpeted area where we all sat down for the ABCs and a full class story, read by the teacher; a project area with long tables for arts and crafts; a math center with another long table for instruction and activities with numbers; the “kitchen” room in the corner with a play stove, fridge, and other toys where Colin liked to join me; and a reading space in the corner, but I didn’t go there much because I couldn’t read.  Even though I didn’t make friends in kindergarten or connect with my teacher, I tolerated kindergarten, in thanks to the kitchen room and Colin’s company.

            That changed in first grade.  By this time, I was expected to do that mysterious activity other people could do: read.  Colin had stopped coming to visit me at school, I had no kitchen room, and I was overwhelmed with many kids in a classroom so small.  I tested smart, baffling my teachers.  But, thankfully, it wasn’t just that I wasn’t reading or following directions, I also wasn’t talking – and that was my first grade teacher’s in to get me into speech therapy.  I loved my speech therapist, a kindly gentleman with graying hair, glasses, a warm voice, and eyes that peered into mine with a sparkle of tenderness.  The other three kids in my speech therapy class smiled, chuckled, had wide eyes, and, like me, were hesitant to speak, had to work at it.  We liked each other, trusted each other, and never mocked each other.  Without speech therapy, I’m not sure how I would have survived first grade.  The funny thing is it wasn’t speech therapy I needed; it was the therapist and the other kids in the class.  I started following directions, I started talking, and the following year, I started reading.  I had to take summer school after first grade to avoid repeating it.  But, in thanks to speech therapy, I did not flunk first grade.  It worked.  But no one knew why.  No one could offer an accurate diagnosis of my condition: culture shock.

February 2005, Ellensburg, WA

Two months after I began praying for a quiet and gentle spirit, a member of our church came to the podium and announced a three week mission trip he was hosting to Venezuela.  Little did I know that this mission trip would answer my prayer for a quiet and gentle spirit by taking me down memory lane to my early childhood in São Paulo, Brazil.  Although I had been born in New York state, and we moved to San Jose from there, New York was also not the place I knew.  The one I knew was where we had lived when I was one year to four years old: São Paulo, Brazil.  My parents had both spent their youth there and had both attended the American São Paulo Graded School.  Fluent in Portuguese and a Computer Engineer, Dad accepted an opportunity to teach Computer Design at the University of São Paulo.

The host of the mission trip to Venezuela announced that he had already recruited a number of teammates and was inviting more.  He also had a special request: a fourth interpreter.  The team was going to serve in four churches, needed four interpreters, and had only three.  I had taken five years of Spanish, had studied abroad in Oaxaca, Mexico, and felt it burning within me to be that fourth interpreter.  But nine years had passed since I had studied Spanish.  Could I do it? I shared with the mission trip host that I’d pray about it.  Two weeks later, I asked him if a fourth interpreter had been found; he said no and would I do it?  Yes.  With three months to regain my Spanish, I set myself on a crash course with my old Spanish textbooks and a set of children’s books in Spanish that I had already read in English.

May, 2005, Valencia, Venezuela

            As it turned out, what really broke the language barrier while I was serving as an interpreter was not my study of Spanish, but my mystical bond with my Venezuelan teammates, especially Daniel the young pastor and team leader and his main elder, Samuel.  When language was a barrier, our eyes filled in the rest.  We could read each other’s eyes.

            My North American teammates, on the other hand, could not get on the same page with either our Venezuelan teammates, or with me.  When one of our Venezuelan hosts apologized for forgetting an essential dish to complement the meal, one North American partner said to me, “Tell him it was better he didn’t bring it.  There was a lot of food.”  I knew what a South American would hear from those words: “the food was no good.”  So I had to cover her tracks and translate, “Thank you, but don’t worry.”  

Meanwhile, the North American leader had much he wished to say.  He often approached me with yet another conversational topic to raise with our Venezuelan teammates.  I could see their discreet head shakes and their eyes just slightly cast down, conveying the message Ahora, no.  Not now.  So I mimicked their cues to my North American leader, who responded by repeating what he wished for me to translate.  Clearly, subtlety was not working.  I tried a different tact: an ever so slight lift of my finger toward my mouth, hoping he might catch a “shhh” signal.  No.  He repeated yet again what he wished for me to translate.  This, unfortunately, made me lose my South American subtlety and brought forth, instead, the Irish in me.  It’s a tendency I have to this day: if subtlety doesn’t work, my Irish self takes over, and I overcompensate.  I gave him a glare and a reprimand: “Not.  Now.”

            That evening, he reprimanded me: “Respect your elders.”  I apologized, explaining that I had “translation overload.”  I’m not fluent in Spanish.  Could he let me rest a little more?  Thankfully, he agreed and began to reduce his requests.  But he never learned what “translation overload” really meant: if the words had to issue forth from my mouth, I wanted them neither insensitive, nor ill-timed.  I was in a Catch-22.  Do I “respect” my North American leaders by revealing their insensitivity or do I remain sensitive to our South American partners? 

            Lying in bed that night, I started to recall similar misunderstandings throughout my life.  South American subtlety is not easily replicated in North America.  Despite my mom’s time in Brazil, subtlety has never worked with her.  Nor has subtlety worked with my husband.  Nor, of course, did it work in speedy Silicon Valley. I was beginning to see why I had been so out of place in San Jose and why, throughout life, a “quiet and gentle spirit” had so evaded me.
            The contrast between my Venezuelan partners reading my eyes with my North American partners who could not follow my words was only just the start to that quiet and gentle spirit that had so evaded me.  What spoke even more deeply were the sights, sounds, and tastes that ushered in what I began to call the catalana de recuerdos, the waterfall of memories.

      ~ End of Part 1.  To be continued . . . 
© by karina, 2020.  Please use with permission or a citation. 

Continue to Part 2