Lost in translation
The emotional weight of multilingual expression
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I was recently discussing with a friend whether a certain word was grammatically correct for a sentence we were working on for an Instagram post.
She said, “I don’t actually care; I don’t respect this language enough to care.” I found her comment amusing, but it also led me to reflect on the topic of language more broadly. My friends often wonder how I managed to succeed in my English and creative writing program, given that I still struggle with certain English rules. I sometimes find myself questioning the same thing.
This weekend, I was invited to a Mexican Independence party, which we call ‘Noche Mexicana’. When I arrived at my friend’s apartment, they welcomed me with open arms, dressed in beautiful traditional outfits and hairstyles. The night made me reflect on home and how I carry Mexico with me.
I moved to Montreal two and a half years ago, and while people often ask if I miss the food and my family (which I do), I also miss the language I use to express myself. Sometimes, I feel like I’m missing parts of myself due to linguistic barriers that are hard to overcome. I always like to remind people how much funnier I am in Spanish and how frustrating it is that some of my friends will never get to see that side of me.
One of my personal biggest challenges when it comes to language is reading and writing. Due to ADHD, my struggle with reading is omnipresent, even in Spanish. Complex texts in university present a significant challenge, but they also make me proud of my ability to focus and successfully engage with the material. Despite this, writing remains a different story. I was born and raised in Mexico, so before university, I wrote mainly in Spanish. English and serious writing have always been intertwined in my mind. However, my English poetry often feels somewhat alienated from my true self, due to language differences and the unique cultural context of my Mexican background.
I’m used to writing in English for essays and poetry. After the semester ends, I’m always surprised to find myself still thinking in English. I forget words in my mother tongue when talking to my parents on the phone. They tease me, and the term ‘malinchista’ comes to mind.
According to Mexperience, ‘malinchista’ is a term some Mexicans use to describe other “Mexicans who show a preference for foreign things, speak gushingly of the order and tidiness to be found abroad, or are critical of Mexico and Mexican ways vis-à-vis their foreign counterparts.” I’m always a bit embarrassed to admit that I write mostly in English, but my family and friends in Mexico understand that my audience is primarily anglophone in the current cultural context. I’m deeply grateful for the chance to weave Mexican context and rich Spanish vocabulary into my English poetry. Last month, I wrote my first serious poem in Spanish for a Latin American anthology, and it was accepted. Although I was excited, it took me about a week to recover from the emotional impact. The poem was about my recent breakup—despite writing over five English poems on the same topic, this one in Spanish affected me the most.
I recently read an English translation of the poem Hombres Necios by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Some translations use words such as silly or foolish for the original Spanish ‘necios’, a nuance that might be lost on non-Spanish speakers, and significantly changes the poem's impact. ‘Necio’ is a term I grew up hearing, describing an ignorant person who lacks intelligence or reason and is stubborn. Thus, translating “Hombres necios que acusáis a la mujer sin razón” as “You foolish men who lay the guilt on women” doesn’t capture the full essence of the original text.
Despite these hurdles, I strive to preserve the core of my mother tongue in my poetry. My poem Mi Niña Hermosa, set to be published in Augur Magazine later this month, includes Spanish phrases that carry unique emotional weight. The title, Mi niña hermosa, is a term of endearment my mom uses, which doesn’t carry the same emotional meaning when translated to English as “my beautiful child.” Another Spanish term in the same poem is ‘tianguis,’ referring to a traditional open-air market. In English, “street market” or “bazaar” might be used, but they lack the cultural depth of ‘tianguis,’ making its translation feel almost inadequate.
Writing in English for an anglophone audience also implies that the cultural issues I address can be easily overlooked. For instance, I recently wrote a poem about death and femicide in Mexico, honouring the lives of women like Debanhi Susana Escobar Bazaldúa, Adriana Fernanda López, 9-year-old Michelle, and Susana Rojas—cases that have profoundly impacted Mexican society. Their stories deserve recognition and should reach beyond national borders. Unfortunately, readers outside this context might not engage with these names or understand the media coverage and violent cultural background that Mexican women face.
Language becomes a barrier that I sometimes use to protect my work, creating a special connection with my people and maintaining the integrity of my art.
I wouldn’t change anything about my current life and the environment in which I nurture my writing. My primary goal is to continually evolve and enhance my craft.
Writing in a different language has not only broadened my horizons but has also created valuable opportunities to connect with like-minded individuals, including fellow Mexicans. It has allowed me to share my unique background with a diverse audience, and I am heartened by the positive reception and appreciation for these cultural insights.
Through these connections, I aim to bridge cultural gaps and offer readers a richer, more nuanced perspective. As I continue on this journey, I am motivated by the prospect of growing both personally and professionally, and by the hope that my work will resonate and inspire those who engage with it.
This article originally appeared in Volume 45, Issue 2, published September 17, 2024.
