To know that you know who you are: Translation, Teaching, the Self, and the Author

To know that you know who you are: 

Translation, Teaching, the Self, and the Author

by Meghan Miraglia 

I’ve been considering my identity in relation to the work I’ve been translating for quite some time. In fact, it was this idea (the incongruencies in identities between myself and the original author) that at least partially hindered me from taking this course at all. I felt weird about translating pieces by someone who had lived in another country, centuries before I did. I felt (and feel) weird about translating works by an author of color, especially where I occupy a position of historic and continued racial privilege. I felt (and feel) weird about translating works by men when I am a woman (though, many men don’t bat an eye when translating works by women, but that, I suppose, is a story for another day.).

When I say “weird”, what I really mean is a combination of startling awareness and discomfort. I was reminded of this sensation during Bruna’s talk on Friday, when she recounted the experience of reading samples of her work translated by various translators. She was shocked and dismayed by how many translators rendered her characters into a white, elite version of themselves – everything was different. Too different. The characters weren’t themselves at all.

I’m filling out applications for public and private school teaching jobs right now, and every school is asking for some sort of positionality statement. Administrators want to know who you are – but, more than that, they want to know that you know who you are, and how your identities impact your teaching. I incorporate my positionality statement in interviews and job questionnaires, and I reference antiracist and feminist theory in my cover letter because I believe it’s important to acknowledge who I am. It reminds me of Achy Obejas from the Washington Post article, when she assessed “whether she [could] do the translation [of The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao] authentically”. Even though she was fluent in Spanish, she had to give consideration to whether she could “‘translate a book featuring Peruvian drag queens’”. Contemplation and awareness matter.

In a cover letter, it’s standard practice to write why you are a teacher, and why you are teaching your content area. My life as of late has been a perpetual answer to the perpetual questions: why teaching? Why English? and, more specifically, why literature? and why writing? I say some variation of the following. Engaging with diverse, quality, and rigorous works of literature allows us to see ourselves (mirror) and see others (window). For folks who occupy marginalized identities, seeing themselves is critical, as their voices have been historically marginalized and/or silenced in the publishing realm. For folks who occupy positions of privilege, seeing others is critical, as it is through empathy that we begin to dismantle systems of socio-political oppression. 

The personal is, as Lorde says, political. Literature is political. The publishing of literature is, you guessed it, political. As Patel and Youssef write, “anglophone literary translation [and the broader publishing realm] border force are the gatekeepers. […] They define the scope of a “good” text, what will “work” in translation, what will sell.”

So, I get it. And, I agree with Patel and Youssef’s statement that this “translator as bridge” metaphor is bunk. It perpetuates a colonial idea of translation: cross over, plunder/conquest, and return with the riches. It makes me wonder about translator’s notes at the beginning or end of texts (and, now that I’m writing that out, I am wondering why translator’s notes sometimes appear at the beginning vs. the end of a text. Hm.): do they do “positionality statements”? I think they should, even if the statement is brief, like, a handful of sentences. Contemplation. Awareness. Acknowledgement.