{"id":17453,"date":"2021-12-09T13:11:04","date_gmt":"2021-12-09T12:11:04","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/?post_type=stsp_text&p=17453"},"modified":"2021-12-16T12:33:59","modified_gmt":"2021-12-16T11:33:59","slug":"head-ropes-a-life-in-translation","status":"publish","type":"stsp_text","link":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/text\/head-ropes-a-life-in-translation\/","title":{"rendered":"Head Ropes: A Life in Translation"},"content":{"rendered":"

Andes, New York, 2021 \/ Vienna, 1921.
\n<\/strong>I translated the tattered letter for Aunt Sharon out loud by the fireside. The agent from the Vienna office of the Royal Mail Steam Packet Company was confirming the details of my great-grandmother Irma\u2019s reservation. To emigrate from the hyphen of the disintegrating Austro-Hungarian Empire to the United States, one-way, for life. Her husband had pre-paid all the tickets, including the fees: Kopftaue<\/em>, quarantine, landing.<\/p>\n

Kopftaue<\/em>? Literally: head-ropes. Perhaps the ropes they cast off when her steamship let go of Europe? But that was just my best guess. Meanwhile, I pondered my own head ropes. Ten years ago, I immigrated in the opposite direction. Now, I was back visiting the country where I was born, where Irma died in 1971. She never returned for a visit in fifty years. Each of us moving uneasily between German and English, in different directions. Neither of us truly assimilating.<\/p>\n

Berlin, 2021.
\n<\/strong>I translated old advice columns from the Yiddish daily Forverts<\/em> with some friends from the Internet, posting one paragraph per day:<\/p>\n

22 November 1945.<\/p>\n

She found out by chance from her daughter-in-law\u2019s friend that her son has already come back from the army and has already been home for more than a month. \u2013 The offended mother asks if she should call up her son or just leave it up to him\u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

All the columns seemed to be asking about family love and painful, unbridgeable distances. Her son had just served in the US military. Was he ashamed of his immigrant mother?<\/p>\n

Sderot, Israel, 2017.
\n<\/strong>After the rabbi\u2019s speech in Hebrew, which I didn\u2019t understand, I delivered my mother\u2019s eulogy in English, the language she spoke her whole life. Much of the local audience at the hilltop cemetery, Hebrew speakers with roots in Russia or Morocco, people who had never met the deceased, could barely understand my rambles about my mother\u2019s many gardens:<\/p>\n

When we moved to Far Rockaway, the first thing we did was spend hours cutting down all the tall weeds in the backyard, some of them up to my chest. One day we were driving to Ohio and stopped at sunset to daven near some woods. There were all the same weeds, and two Korean women had also stopped to gather some of them! \u201cWhat are they? What are you doing with them?\u201d my mother said. \u201cThey\u2019re called suuk<\/em>,\u201d the women said, \u201cand they have healing properties.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The English word is mugwort. A weed is just a word you don\u2019t know.<\/p>\n

Hanoi, 2017.
\n<\/strong>I wrote in my journal:<\/p>\n

We arrived at today\u2019s art space, Huong Ngo, on a road that sold silk, not knowing where the space began or ended. The rooms led into each other by way of narrow spiraling staircases and branched off in unexpected directions. The first time I searched for the bathroom, I found what seemed like a locked dungeon. Each of the other times, I had to wander around until I found it again. There was also a roof terrace connected to none of the others, not even by any of the many secret passageways. […]<\/p>\n

We were so ready and we had put so much thought into each slide of this silly slideshow, as we explained the categories of \u201cuntranslatable\u201d texts we\u2019d identified with recordings from Cathy Park Hong, Kurt Schwitters, etc.<\/p>\n

But the real excitement was watching everyone spring into action, grab a poem and immediately get to work. Each group had its own approach, which they decided on almost right away. I walked around recording little interviews with my cell phone. Translations into Vietnamese, Australo-Singlish, Chinese, German (me and Greg), and Spanish.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

My favorite translation was of a Christian B\u00f6k poem that only used the vowel i. In the Vietnamese version, translated by Yen Duong, Kaitlin Rees, and Quy\u00ean Nguy\u1ec5n-Ho\u00e0ng, every word had the d\u1ea5u h\u1ecfi (question mark) tone. The English began: \u201cWriting is inhibiting. Sighing, I sit, scribbling in ink this pidgin script.\u201d A line from their Vietnamese adaptation, back-translated: \u201cKill the chicken, open the grave.\u201d<\/p>\n

Berlin, monthly schedule, circa 2016.
\n<\/strong>First Tuesday of the month, 8 pm:<\/em> Translation Lab in the upstairs library of Max und Moritz on O-strasse over leek flammkuchen and the beer of the day, which was always Barre because it was always a Tuesday. Ina read Mayr\u00f6cker\u2019s original out loud, tripping on the odd Austrianism, and then Donna read her translation while we all circled words for discussion on our printouts.<\/p>\n

Some weekday evening chosen last month, 7:30 pm:<\/em> The monthly SAND <\/em>meeting. We were drinking red wine out of coffee mugs, sitting on the floor of Lyz\u2019s living room. The author had kept smashing two swear words into one, and we couldn\u2019t agree on the punctuation. Finally, we enshrined our verdict in our house style guide: \u201cCompound profanities do not take a hyphen.\u201d<\/p>\n

Fourth Thursday of the month, 7:30 pm:<\/em> The translators\u2019 Stammtisch. \u201cAnd I said to him \u2013 you can\u2019t call Jarlsberg Swiss cheese! It\u2019s from Norway!\u201d<\/p>\n

Berlin, 2013.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Ben and I were already spending most nights at each other\u2019s places, but the UK\/US language barrier was an ongoing annoyance. I figured out what an aubergine was soon enough, but it was so frustrating that my \u201cpants\u201d meant his \u201ctrousers\u201d and his \u201cpants\u201d meant my \u201cunderwear.\u201d<\/p>\n

Berlin, 2012.
\n<\/strong>I was walking to a club called Cookies with Ralf when we spotted a fox pursuing its own nightlife. A few minutes later, we crossed paths with a woman walking her dog. \u201c<\/em>Wir haben gerade einen Fuchs gesehen!\u201d I announced. Ralf was flummoxed. \u201cWhy did you tell her that? What would you have said in English? \u201cWe just saw a fox!\u201d \u201cOh,\u201d he said. It wasn\u2019t a translation problem. It was one of my early disappointments, realizing that strangers in my new country didn\u2019t speak to each other randomly on the street.<\/p>\n

New Jersey, 2011.
\n<\/strong>Amidst my preparations to emigrate \u2013 and compress my life into one suitcase \u2013 I wrote in my journal:<\/p>\n

The cleanliness of starting over, of not bringing, of sizing myself up through my things. After all I am American: what I have is what I am. And when I forget all the things that I have, do those things get buried like a pearl or a splinter?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

New Jersey, 2009.<\/strong><\/p>\n

From a little essay I wrote titled \u201cSettling Down Somewhere\u201d:<\/p>\n

I learned to make pickles and pies and sourdough bread and mead from local honey. This wasn\u2019t the same kind of street cred, but it was a kind of monogamy with a place that could last. It was less lonely than a thousand one-night stands with points on a map, leaving you in your tent in your sleeping bag over frozen faraway ground. […] I feel hopeful that if I resist impatience and learn the land, particular<\/em> land, that knowledge will serve me better. I can\u2019t start over far away. It\u2019s here or nowhere.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Mexico City, 2007\u201308.
\n<\/strong>I wrote in my blog:<\/p>\n

For New Years in Mexico City, we dressed to the nines (I couldn\u2019t do better than a six or seven) and spent the first half of the night chatting and drinking Mexican nut-flavored liqueur and Spanish wine. I was self-conscious because my shirt, the best I had, happened to be the one I\u2019d caught fire in at Bacchanalia. So it has a patch with a barcode American flag. I wasn\u2019t sure which was more embarrassing: the American flag itself, the social commentary, or having any patch at this dressy occasion. But no one cared.<\/p>\n

Then midnight approached and we all stood ready with cups of grapes, listening to the announcement on the radio. According to the tradition, the clocks chime twelve times at the New Year and you have to chomp down your twelve grapes for good luck before the chimes are over. It didn\u2019t work out \u2013 the radio broadcast left them out \u2013 so everyone was disappointed. But we ate our grapes anyway and then all fifteen of us in Amado\u2019s extended family went around hugging and exchanging wishes for 2008 until everyone had hugged everyone else.<\/p>\n

Then we were served an elaborate soup, chicken tortillas, and an entire roast pork (which I didn\u2019t touch). We spent the next hours:<\/p>\n

    \n
  • doing Mexican dances \u2013 I was clueless at all the complex steps<\/li>\n
  • singing folksongs \u2013 Bonnie and I came in as the gringo contingent with \u201cAmazing Grace\u201d<\/li>\n
  • declaiming poetry \u2013 I piped in with Yeats\u2019s \u201cWhen You Are Old\u201d<\/li>\n
  • and telling jokes \u2013 I told the polar bear joke… in Spanish*<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n

    *Punchline: \u201c\u00bfUstedes son seguros que soy un oso polar? \u00a1Hace el frio de la chingada!\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

    That joke was easy to tell in different languages, but I always needed help with the punchline.<\/p>\n

    Ben Gurion Airport, Israel, 2006.
    \n<\/strong>From my journal:<\/p>\n

    * Reunion w\/ Family After 4 Years *<\/p>\n

    […] My mother pulled up outside my notice, and wasn\u2019t sure if it was me, so she called my cell and when I reached for my pocket it brought tears to her eyes.<\/p>\n

    Such an unparalleled moment, seeing one\u2019s own family and they\u2019re strangers and parents and siblings simultaneously. My mother and Yisrael added pounds and age, and Avi turned into an adoring, smiling 5-year-old who seemed so radiant to see me. They both did. […] Moshe\u2019s a little messmaker. […]<\/p>\n

    Avi & Yisrael taught me Hebrew words, which I wrote down… I really want to learn the language, feel left out by it. The kids speak it amongst themselves.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

    What I remember but didn\u2019t write down was pointing at three-year-old Moshe, who I had just met, looking him in the eye, and saying akhi.<\/em> My brother.<\/p>\n

    Nuremberg, 2005.
    \n<\/strong>A journal entry (in my German-in-progress) after the backyard Fourth of July party with the other US exchange students: \u201cHeute habe ich die Unabh\u00e4ngigkeit Amerikas nicht gefeiert, sondern mein eigene. Ich bin nicht mehr in meinem Land, darauf soll ich stolz und dar\u00fcber froh sein.\u201d [Sic.] Today I did not celebrate America\u2019s independence, but my own. I am no longer in my country. Of that I am to be proud and about that happy.<\/em> I wonder whether I would have written that so bluntly in English, especially given how bitter I was about my mother.<\/p>\n

    New Jersey, circa 2002.<\/strong><\/p>\n

    My brother Josh and I tried to learn Elvish. I would call him downstairs and we\u2019d go through another lesson on the Internet together. I think we reached lesson 3.<\/p>\n

    Long Island, 2001.<\/strong>
    \nI wrote in my journal:<\/p>\n

    My mother wanted to move to Israel beginning this summer. I wouldn\u2019t be going along if she went, but I\u2019d move to New Jersey and go to high school near my dad\u2019s house. In the midst of all this, I came out. That was a gigantic boost to my morale, and having everyone be accepting. I liked it where I was. Why move if I\u2019m finally happy?<\/p>\n

    My mother, even if she didn\u2019t know its reason, saw my contentedness, and I\u2019d imagine she must have felt guilty. So she gave me a choice. If I thought I sincerely liked it here better than things would be in [New Jersey], she would stay for four more years.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

    What a choice for a thirteen-year-old. My mother had laid her emigration at my feet, and what happened next would be my responsibility. Was I really \u201cfinally happy\u201d?<\/p>\n

    Queens, 2001<\/strong>.
    \nI translated a story by Amy Tan into Esperanto and emailed my efforts to the eminent Don Harlow. Keep working at it, he replied. You\u2019re not there yet.<\/p>\n

    Far Rockaway, New York \/ Chatham, New Jersey; 1999.
    \n<\/strong>Before hanging up with my dad, we\u2019d trade I-love-you\u2019s in as many languages as we could think of. Kimi o ai shiteru. Szeretlek. Ich liebe dich. Ich liebe dich auch<\/em>. Only later did I learn that parents and children didn\u2019t say these things to each other in these languages. Familial love has different colors in different countries.<\/p>\n

    Far Rockaway, New York, 1998.
    \n<\/strong>I had two imaginary countries, each with its own language: Nian, where they spoke Nianese, and Suland, where they spoke Sulandish. Nianese looked vaguely like Japanese \u2013 it was basically scribbled or garbled nonsense. Sulandish looked vaguely like handwritten Hebrew and had actual vocabulary and grammar, which I came up with in class when I was supposed to be learning Gemara or something. All nouns started with \u201cgaw,\u201d which I think resembled a gimmel, and all verbs started with \u201ckwan,\u201d which looked like a resh.<\/p>\n

    Camp Na\u2019arim, Pennsylvania, 1996.
    \n<\/strong>Whenever a fax came for me there would be an announcement on the loudspeaker and I would run through the woods to the main office, my tsitsis flying loose over my shorts, proud to collect my cryptic missive. My father\u2019s faxes ended in codes: \u201cJ MPWF ZPV WFSZ NVDI!\u201d or \u201cHCUM YREV UOY EVOL I.\u201d The messages were predictable, but I\u2019d run straight back up the hill to my bunk, grab a pencil, and get to translating.<\/p>\n

    Brooklyn, 1994-95.
    \n<\/strong>Translating the Torah phrase by phrase with our teacher, which meant chanting the original and the translation as one long song with two alternating notes.<\/p>\n

    \u05d5\u05b7\u05d9\u05bc\u05b9\u05a4\u05d0\u05de\u05b6\u05e8 \u05d9\u05b0\u05d4\u05b9\u05d5\u05b8\u05d4\u0599
    \nand Hashem said<\/p>\n

    \u05d0\u05b6\u05dc\u05be\u05d0\u05b7\u05d1\u05b0\u05e8\u05b8\u0594\u05dd
    \nto Avram<\/p>\n

    \u05dc\u05b6\u05da\u05b0\u05be\u05dc\u05b0\u05da\u05b8\u059b
    \ngo forth<\/p>\n

    \u05de\u05b5\u05d0\u05b7\u05e8\u05b0\u05e6\u05b0\u05da\u05b8\u05a5
    \n<\/em>from your country….<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

    When we finished reading (and thus translating) Bereishis we had a siyum party with candy and Coke.<\/p>\n

    Brooklyn, circa 1995. <\/strong><\/p>\n

    My translator mother\u2019s fax machine spooled out blocks of blurry Japanese. The following day, she fed her English translation back into the fax machine, which translated it into a mechanical gurgling sound and transmitted it to Japan, a country she had lived in and left.<\/p>\n

     <\/p>\n

    \"\"Jake Schneider, circa 1994.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

    Andes, New York, 2021 \/ Vienna, 1921. I translated the tattered letter for Aunt Sharon out loud by the fireside. The agent from the Vienna office of the Royal Mail Steam Packet Company was confirming the details of my great-grandmother Irma\u2019s reservation. To emigrate from the hyphen of the disintegrating Austro-Hungarian Empire to the United […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":15878,"template":"","categories":[12,41],"class_list":["post-17453","stsp_text","type-stsp_text","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-non-fiction","category-texthelden"],"yoast_head":"\nHead Ropes: A Life in Translation - stadtsprachen<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/text\/head-ropes-a-life-in-translation\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"de_DE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale:alternate\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Head Ropes: A Life in Translation - stadtsprachen\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Andes, New York, 2021 \/ Vienna, 1921. I translated the tattered letter for Aunt Sharon out loud by the fireside. The agent from the Vienna office of the Royal Mail Steam Packet Company was confirming the details of my great-grandmother Irma\u2019s reservation. To emigrate from the hyphen of the disintegrating Austro-Hungarian Empire to the United […]\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/text\/head-ropes-a-life-in-translation\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"stadtsprachen\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/Stadtsprachen\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2021-12-16T11:33:59+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/04\/textheldengrafik_grey-e1619013631881.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1232\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"917\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@stadtsprachen\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Gesch\u00e4tzte Lesezeit\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"11\u00a0Minuten\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/stadtsprachen.de\\\/de\\\/text\\\/head-ropes-a-life-in-translation\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/stadtsprachen.de\\\/de\\\/text\\\/head-ropes-a-life-in-translation\\\/\",\"name\":\"Head Ropes: A Life in Translation - 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I translated the tattered letter for Aunt Sharon out loud by the fireside. The agent from the Vienna office of the Royal Mail Steam Packet Company was confirming the details of my great-grandmother Irma\u2019s reservation. 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