The poetics of translation errors
and my foot-in-mouth disease
Sometime after moving to Spain, I developed the habit of signing up for nonrefundable events.
I saw it as forcing my hand in language learning. I’d spent months cowering in my apartment with flashcards and Spanish-subtitled Netflix. But eventually Netflix deciphered I wasn’t in Kansas anymore and unceremoniously banished me from the family plan. And anyway, I hadn’t moved to Madrid for its sweat-drenched interior bedrooms.
First were the contemporary dance classes—proof that 70% of communication truly is non-verbal. I’d float in and out of the studio like an apparition, saying a maximum of six words inside. Translation errors were rare with so much physical context, and any serious misstep was absorbed into the umbrella of expressive, improvisational movement.
But then came the writing workshop. I knew it was in Spanish when I registered. I also knew I didn’t even know the word for “workshop” in Spanish. None of this deterred me.
It took place in a candlelit interior room—less sweat-drenched, more drafty—that felt designed to give the ambiance of “ablaze with creativity.” But between the draft and the dripping candles and the tiny paper cups of champagne, it was mostly just “ablaze with fire hazards.”
The instructor asked us—in Spanish—to scribble down a list of words. My grasp on the assignment somewhat hazy, I labeled the whole thing “complicada.” Then, as an ode to the ambiance, I went with “oscuro” (“dark”). Still confused, I added “perdida” (“lost”).
From there, it got harder. There were so many words I reached for, but found I wasn’t acquainted with them yet. I looked at the instructor who had mentioned she was expecting (and, to quell any doubt in my Spanish comprehension, was also sporting a serious baby bump). I wrote “madre”—mother.
Then, realizing we were all the product of mothers really and wasn’t that a nice thought, I waxed existential with “hijo/a” (“child,” in both male and female). Now I was really reaching.
Thirty seconds left and to my side, an empty plate. The advertised “brunch included” had been much lighter than I’d expected. So to wrap it up, I went with a bit of a zinger: “hambre,” meaning “hunger.”
As she collected our papers, the instructor thanked us for being so vulnerable as to list these words to describe “a vosotros mismos.” Words to describe yourselves. Cue: sheer and utter horror.
She explained that she would now redistribute the papers at random so we could write the life story of the person whose paper we received. We would read them aloud, and the subject would identify themselves with a hand raise.
My heart sank to my ass (a word with which I became acquainted weeks later, when pointing to a sculpture in a museum, saying, “what an elegant ass she has.” I’d meant to say neck. So no, this wouldn’t be my last offense.)
My paper found its way into the hands of one of only two men in the class. I tallied up the words in my mind. “Complicated.” “Dark.” “Lost.” “Mother.” “Child” (gender ambiguous). And, of course, “hungry.” What the hell was he to do with that?
He penned a heart-wrenching tale of a woman, lost and lonely, trying to shoulder the expectation of motherhood. “Do I want it? Or do I only feel that I should?” he read with gusto, channeling a fierce empathy for the female experience. How well he knew the plight. It was as if every woman could see themselves in the story—every woman except me who, once he’d finished, had to sheepishly raise her hand.
The sob story. The victim. The vulnerable one. She wanted more than to be a cog in the machine of procreation. She wanted more than to have her identity reduced to her willingness to generate an “other.”
She wanted more than a few muffins and a fruit skewer.