Translations

When I was traveling, it was apparent every day to me just how important being understood really is. There are few things more frustrating than trying to communicate or understand something, only to be continually thwarted by the language barrier.

For example, I bought water from an old man every day that I was in Bangkok. His small, dusty store – a dated, half-hearted attempt at “convenience” – was a couple of doors down from the place I was staying. I had asked a woman at my guesthouse for the Thai way to say “My name is Phil. What is your name?”, and sprung my knowledge on my new friend the next time I bought a bottle of water. He smiled, and he shook his head. I tried again. He smiled uneasily, and handed me my change. I walked away with a physical necessity (water), but without the important emotional one I sought (a sense of connection with cryptic old Thai dude).

So, I have mild but compelling urge to help those who aren’t easily understood. I feel for them, because I have been there—and I think this may be something that runs in my family.

My mother is the same way. She always tries to make sure that everyone is involved in a conversation, or understands what is being discussed. For instance: Once, she was in Ireland on bus tour with my sister and my aunt in Dublin or Belfast (I don’t recall which it was). The driver was pointing out the sights with his charmingly thick Irish brogue—until he had to stop the bus because of a protest march in the street. Into the microphone, he let loose a trail of accented expletives that would make a trucker blanch – “feckin’ feck, feck, mother feckin’ feckers.”

True to form, my mother felt the need to make sure my sister and aunt understood: “Shhhhh! Girls, listen… it’s Gaelic!”

My uncle (mother’s brother) is similarly disposed to translating. A former priest, he is a deeply spiritual and erudite man. I saw him recently for Easter dinner at my parents’ place, and as usual he was a lively part of the pre-dinner conversation with all of my relatives. Somehow, during the course of the discussion, the dulcet British colloquialism “Bugger off” came up. Don’t ask how, because I have no idea – but it crept in nonetheless. My brother-in-law Artour is originally from Russia, so my uncle realized there was a possibility that he might not understand the term.

“Artour,” he said pleasantly, amidst a crowd of my relatives still basking in the glow of the risen Christ, “Buggery is anal intercourse.”

The room cleared in the ensuing uncomfortable silence, but at least everyone understood what was said. Understanding language is essential in any diverse culture: be it Irish, Thai or My Parents’ Family Room.