traductor

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02

I WALK, YOU WALK, WE WALK CON UN TRADUCTOR ROBOT :: LORI ANDERSON MOSEMAN :: FIELD NOTES

Sample 1 (second iteration, page 1)

There is a typo in the title: tranductor should be traductor (translator). In this early draft, I am still generating Spanish via Google and have not consulted a Spanish speaker. The story switches languages frequently. To insure the Spanish is translated somewhere in the text, the prose base layer cycles through twice, much like stanzas do in Peter Gizzi’s “Vincent, Homesick for the Land of Pictures” from The Outernationale. I think I am turning to Gizzi because of how his form doubles back, but there it is twice “To move on, to push forward, to take the next step, to die.” There is, too, a little of Gizzi’s glimmering (“Leaves shine in the body and in the head alike / the sun touches deeper than thought”) in the two mountains within this poem.

Sample 2 (third iteration, page 1)

You can see in the above markings, I decide to try using line breaks in the base layer to insure possible readings between black and gray layers. But that did not help. The poem is still too claustrophobic. Line breaks did not create enough visual space. So, I open up distance between words. I wish I could be as generous as Brad Vogler. In his long poem “months” in my radius, a small stone, he dedicates a whole page to a single line: “wanting each line to build into a telling.” On the previous page, a facing page, he offers: “tangled allowance of lingering.” My mother’s dying took months. It was a slow process — what Vogler would call “A couple of scratch scratches at a time.” But here I am cramming disparate textual events together as if the energy of juxtaposition opens space, as if speed could generate extra time. I need to try and create, like Vogler does, a “listenscape // a hold shaken but … / held // these are our // lake // lake /// calls /// (a) / loud hold.”

Sample 3 (third iteration, page 3)

The third form came about because poet Sarah Wyman suggested information in my previous version of these field notes enter the poem as footnotes. To learn lessons on parsing poetic prose, I turn to Erick Sáenz. His book, A Surros A Mi Padre, is just out from The Operating System. I keep rereading to see how he does it: he reclaims a lost parent, reclaims a lost language, reclaims his Latinx heritage. His work is intense sense of migration and connection.

His meditation, “In Translation [In Translation],” talks about “Intervenir/Intervene” co-written by Rodrigo Flores Sanchez and Dolores Dorantes (translated by Jen Hofer). The way Sáenz describes their “call and response” helps me navigate my revisions: “Sometimes there are two different dialogues occurring. I am the line between these two dialogues, mediating. Intervening. ‘Everything has disappeared. / There are traces, signs. But everything has / disappeared. There are translations.’ At times the text is shouting and whispering. Like a conversation inside a conversation.”

I am not Latinx, but I did grow up in Salinas, California — a place Sáenz transports us to on page 36. There he is called upon as translator for his “white co-workers” who speak little Spanish. Enter students’ parents: “My body stiffens when parents wander in, questions that beg complicated answers. The process is tedious…// understand what the parent is saying // figure out how to answer // translate to spanish // speak it back. Mostly the words tumble out, their reactions speak loudly.” Readers feel his body as languages migrate through his mouth. “I bite my lip and feel my face go flush.”

As Sáenz embodies language, he engages his senses. All is palpable. Yet, his most haunting skill is withholding. The mystery of his father (and his father’s homeland, father’s language) are parsed brilliantly. Excluding place names and proper names, there are only 40-some words in Spanish in the 100-page book. He left me longing for the Spanish soundscape of Salinas. He leaves me guilty for trying using a language I do not speak. I edit out some of the Spanish; then, I turn around and let the translation robot generate more for me. But I also commit to Spanish lessons on Duolingo. And, I am reading Viaje de Regreso by Israel Dominquez (translated by Margaret Randall and published by The Operating System.) In “Madera Húmeda,” Dominquez claims: “El nombre de este lugar / es la contrapartida de su esencia.” “The name of this place is the counterpoint of its essence.”

Of course, in writing these field notes, I have already changed the poem’s form again. The footnotes expanded and are on a page facing each section of the poem. The notes are in grey text, and I have fashioned another poem (?) by selecting words throughout and making them black. Here are the footnotes for page one.

03

Film Review: ‘Un Traductor’

January 20, 2018 2:50PM PT

It’s not often a Sundance premiere evokes memories of no less than “Patch Adams,” but unfortunately that comparison is hard to avoid with “Un Traductor.” Siblings Rodrigo and Sebastian Barriuso’s first feature feels maudlin and contrived, even though it’s based on their own father’s experience as a translator assisting Havana hospital staff with Ukrainian patients in a children’s ward after the Chernobyl disaster. This drama’s combination of the slick and crudely string-pulling may seem an awkward fit for Park City, but Brazilian star Rodrigo Santoro’s presence should boost its chances in the more commercial settings where it belongs.

In 1989 Malin (Santoro) is a professor of Russian literature at the University of Havana, living a comfortable life with his art-curator wife, Isona (Yoandra Suarez), and young son Javi (Jorge Carlos Perez Herrera). One day he and other department members are mysteriously relieved of their teaching duties — because, it turns out, they’re urgently needed as translators in dealing with victims of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, some of whom have been flown here to relieve Soviet medical resources overburdened by the crisis. (An end title notes that this program continued as late as 2011.)

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Assigned a night shift in a children’s ward under supervising Nurse Gladys (Maricel Alvarez), Malin is initially appalled by this unasked-for obligation, which consists largely of telling bewildered adults that the condition of their frightened offspring is terminal. When the kid he first interacts with dies a day or two later, he angrily storms out. Still, “I quit” isn’t really an option. (Asked what authority he can plead to, Gladys snaps, “Call Fidel.”) Rallying, he’s soon holding a daily story time for the ward’s small residents, and becoming so emotionally involved that he begins seriously neglecting his own family.

The pathos of children wasting away in a medical facility far from home is so innate that “Un Traductor” only required tasteful restraint to successfully lay siege to the tear ducts. Alas, the directors and scenarist Lindsay Gossling go in the opposite direction, making every heart-tug and plot device as portentously obvious as possible. Apart from the predictably lachrymose ward sequences, Malin’s escalating conflicts with wife and son have a pat, soap-operatic feel. Additionally, the background of drastic political change (as the USSR’s demise deprives Cuba of its greatest economic support) is portrayed without any particular insight.

The film’s glossy veneer (why does humble academic Malin live in such posh digs?) further works against the raw emotions of its subject, and pacing is often slack. The performers are adequate but too often required to speechify toward one another, each occupying the indignant high moral ground without grasping that their viewpoints aren’t actually in conflict.

While one can excuse some of “Un Traductor’s” decisions as intending to ennoble the directors’ father, the film dwells overmuch on Malin’s saintly self-sacrifice, as if his suffering were somehow more profound than that of the afflicted or their families. Santoro responds with a humorless, preening performance that is not among his best.

Those who don’t mind a little — or even a lot — of by-the-numbers sentimental manipulation will probably find this a moving experience despite its flaws. For the sake of such less discriminating viewers, however, it was probably a tactical error to include the intel (among too many closing texts) that the directors’ real-life parents divorced a few years later — news that quite sours the formulaic reconciliation their dramatized counterparts have just enjoyed.