Lost In Translation

THE BRAIDS

I spent 6 hours and a good chunk of my paycheck having braided extensions put in my hair yesterday. I wasn't forced to do it at gunpoint-I did it because I like the style and I know from experience that wearing braids limits how much handling must be done to the hair for a time, therefore allowing it to grow. I wanted this. Usually a woman is excited to show off a new look; be it a hairstyle, an article of clothing, even something as simple as a new lipstick. I am no exception in this regard, under most circumstances. So why is it that I am awake at almost 4 a.m., in a panic and dreading walking into the Kingdom Hall 9 hours from now?

This story begins, really, nearly 5 years ago when I regularly began attending the meetings at the local Spanish congregation with the goal of eventually becoming an official part of it. At the urging of my mother I had taken Spanish classes off and on since middle school. I developed a real interest in the language and in the vast array of peoples that speak it. And it was something that, for having had only a public school background in it, I was somewhat good at, or at least had the potential to be. I had already made many friends over the years in the surrounding Spanish congregations and had become a regular fixture at Spanish gatherings. I saw that within my own territory in English, a great number of the individuals who were still polite and receptive were Spanish-speaking. Over the years, the goal gradually was pushed to the back burner, frankly, because of other distractions and a foolish (but quite typical of youth) longing to do whatever my friends were doing at the moment. But the desire was always there; I used my limited Spanish when and wherever I could, and in 2003 I had the privilege of attending an international convention in Chile. Being there really got the fires burning again.

In 2005, when I was still off work on disability and having regular physical therapy for MS, I found myself with a lot more time on my hands to really dedicate to studying Spanish again. A sister who lived nearby had just recently moved to Spanish and told me that if I wanted to start coming with her to the meetings she would take me, as I was still unable to drive due to my illness. I enjoyed reviving my relationship with the Spanish brothers AND with the Spanish language, but I had fears. This local congregation I'd be attending wasn't made up primarily of bilingual publishers, as in the case of many other congregations in the area, where, as soon as the final "Amen" is pronounced, everyone is speaking English. Some brothers were relatively new to the country. Many didn't speak much English, or any at all. What if I never learned to speak Spanish well enough to preach or give talks or comment with as much fluency as I did in English? What if only ever half-understood what was being said at meetings? What if I didn't understand what was being said to me in a conversation, and as a result responded incorrectly or inappropriately? And my biggest fears of all: What if the brothers and sisters who don't speak English at all never see who I really am because of the language barrier? What if my personality becomes lost in translation, and I don't make any friends?

Most of my fears WERE realized, leading to some uneasy (or often downright embarrassing) moments that, thankfully, I can laugh at now. I don't know that I'd have the strength I have today, in my language skills or even in some other areas, if I didn't have to work so hard to overcome those obstacles. Most importantly, I realize that I didn't overcome anything, really. Jehovah helped me because he wanted me to work for him. And here I am still working. I am happy and at home with my brothers and sisters here. I don't believe my personality has been lost in translation either; love is love, and we can feel it from one another no matter what language we speak. I feel a very close bond with my brothers and sisters; partly because they are just awesome, and partly because my parents raised me to adapt. It has been a beautiful experience. But that isn't to say that there haven't been challenges.

5'10" and cocoa-skinned, I used to feel painfully self-conscious about even standing up during the meeting to walk to the restroom. I felt like I tree growing spontaneously out of the Kingdom Hall carpet. Those in my car group would frantically usher me to the front seat because I was "grandota." I realize now that it was a reference to my height-especially in comparison to the rest of the group-but for someone who doesn't know the language well (and who even felt awkward about her size in English),the rough translation I'd come up with in my own head made me feel like a big bull in a china shop-ungraceful and in the way, all the time. When fielding questions about why I walked with a limp, I found myself stammering to explain what multiple sclerosis is in Spanish and sighing helplessly as I'd watch people's eyes glaze over and then the same person I'd just sweated over explaining to would turn around and "explain" it simply with "Ella tiene un problema con sus huesos." ("She has a problem with her bones." MS is a a disorder relating to the central nervous system, not the bones. But I guess people just tune out after a while when someone isn't explaining something well enough). That was frustrating. Then there are the assumptions-people assuming I don't like spicy food, or that I live alone because American parents kick their children out at age 18 (a memo my parents certainly didn't get) or that I eat potatoes at every meal, or that I'm single because American women just like being independent.

Things get even trickier when we factor in that not only was I born here, but I'm also Black. I understand that in some cases I may be the only Black person that one of my Spanish-only friends has ever had a personal conversation with and that their knowledge may primarily have been shaped by what they see on TV or in the street. This is how the nickname "Ustedes" (given to me by my bilingual friends, literally meaning "You all") was born. I was flooded with questions and comments about the skills that "ustedes" have in playing basketball, dancing, singing, barbecuing, you name it. I wasn't offended. I'm still not. I'm happy to shed some light in an area where some people may have previously been in the dark (no pun intended). This isn't just something that happens with a person of a different culture moving to a Spanish congregation; I think it's to be expected when you are the only person, or one of very few persons from one culture integrating oneself with a group from another culture. And it's ok. There is no learning if questions are not asked.

But there are moments where you do wish the questions didn't have to be asked, or that you wish the misconceptions didn't exist. You cringe when you are in service and you see someone of your ethnicity doing something crazy and everyone looks at you as if you were the representative for the whole race. There are many misunderstandings that can occur between cultures just because we are all different (not better, not worse, just DIFFERENT) but when you are the one who understands both you become the default ambassador, explaining and defending the differences all the time so that everyone sees each other and loves each other the way you are able to love them all. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. I've had to take the pressure off myself in the latter area somewhat because it just gets to be too much. In the end it is Jehovah's organization; I simply have to pray and trust that he will make sure we all love and accept one another as brothers despite our differences.

I've been blending and representing and teaching and learning this way for four and a half years now, and I don't plan on stopping anytime soon. But occasionally, there are moments, like the one I know I'm going to have when I walk into my meeting tomorrow and people are touching my braids and asking how I wash them and why I don't just grow my hair long like that, when I'll feel for a split second like a Martian and wish that somebody just knew the answers already. Everybody wants to be understood. Then again, I never fit completely in in the English congregation either. I've never been enough of one thing or one culture to put myself in that small of a box. I'm from California, for crying out loud! I suppose I'm a little of everything. I've always loved and embraced diversity. What really matters is this: As I heard a brother say once, our culture, really, is serving Jehovah. What a concept! When we do that, we may have our differences but nothing gets hopelessly lost in translation. Everything else-our nationality, ethnicity, traditions-are like seasonings and condiments: just sprinkled on for flavor.