curve ball

One thing I love about interpreting is all the quirky, amazing, fascinating people you get to work with: both patients and medical staff of all kinds. And sometimes, if you're lucky and you work in a teaching hospital, you get to walk around with legendary doctors just exactly when they happen to be sharing their laboriously gathered wisdom with their med students, residents, and fellows.

I think about these people sometimes - the old, snow-haired men with hearing aids and slow purposeful movements that go with their slow, thoughtful words - and feel both honored to work with them, and just a wee bit nervous about what kind of curve balls they're going to throw me. Because there is ALWAYS a curve ball. 

The other day, I went into a patient's room with just such a team. The boy's diagnosis was a passing illness, on the upswing, and medically there wasn't much to do but prod at his belly a bit and declare he was to be watched and given medicine a little while longer. This I learned as the team gathered around his bed and did exactly that - almost to the point of ignoring his dad, who, I noticed, nodded vigorously at everything anyone said to him, and spoke in an octave much higher than your average man. "Perhaps," I thought, "he's nervous," so I did what I could to include him in the conversation as much as possible, despite the team's focus on his boy. 

Then, out of the blue, our attending snowbird looked me straight in the eyes, pointed his index finger right at me and said, "Can I ask you something outside?" Confused, I assumed he meant the boy's father, so I addressed the question to him. But almost before I finished my first phrase, I heard the words that bring any interpreter's smooth attempt to maintain transparency to a screeching halt: "No. I meant you." Uh oh. 

So I made my apologies, discombobulated, "We'll be right back sir, just a moment, I'm sorry," and we all filed out. The big man made a big show of glancing seriously behind him and shutting the door. I was sure I was in trouble, or there was some serious issue afoot with the patient that needed to be discussed - but why he should want to ask ME a question, I couldn't fathom.

Fortunately, the answer came soon enough. As it turned out, the attending wanted me to go back and ask, in as culturally sensitive a way as possible, whether or not the boy and his father had been getting enough to eat. Apparently, there had been a problem with/confusion around ordering food or paying for it. In the explanations that followed, I learned that this doctor was prepared to pull whatever strings were necessary with social work or the kitchen to make sure everyone got enough to eat: to the point that when one of the residents said that they could probably get a discount for the father, the attending replied, rather darkly, "Or we could just give him some."

So, not only was this attending physician taking precious time out of everything to make sure the family was eating: he made a clear effort to make sure it was done without causing offense or embarrassment, and he was prepared to find unorthodox solutions to that problem. He was so invested in the answer, in fact, that when I came back, I had to report my conversation word for word before the tension in his face eased, his concern abated.

When I got back to the office and told of my adventure, my colleague said, "oh yes, I know that doctor. He's terrible at speaking directly to the patient, because he thinks too collaboratively, but he really, deeply cares. He is one who investigates and uses his influence to really make sure that all of the families' needs are taken care of. And then he teaches that to his students." 

It's such a privilege to see medical staff fighting in this way for the patient demographic that I serve: poor, with low health literacy, sometimes poor literacy in general, refugees. So often in my line of work we worry about the times we weren't called to interpret for someone, and the staff just "got by" on "my crappy Spanish and his broken English." We worry they'll come back to the hospital because they didn't know how to take their medicines, or because they missed some key piece of information. We worry they might not know what they were diagnosed with or treated for (yes, that happens). So it does my heart good to know that there are influential people like this attending who will use their position and the resilient, good character they've developed over the years to make sure that their patients, at least, get excellent service. 

thankful

There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.
- Thomas Merton

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A few years ago a friend told me her family's thanksgiving tradition was for everyone to spend some time that day making a list of 100 things they were thankful for, and then sharing them with each other later, around the meal.
I've remembered that often, and even tried it once or twice, but this year it occurred to me that I am thankful for all the people I know... and that's probably over 100. This year my mission is to tell every person I have a current connection with that I'm thankful for their presence in my life.

Some of you might say, hey, that's what you did for your birthday, and it was weird back then.


To you, I say: 1. it never hurts to tell someone you value them, and 2. it's already been six months, they may have forgotten.

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations - these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit - immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.  This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously - no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption.

- C.S. Lewis

If you are reading this, I am thankful for you, too. Whether we're enemies, or friends, or only met once... I have learned something from you, my life is richer because of you, and I remember you. Thank you.


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Update:
So I've written 70 of the 100 notes I intended to write: I've written emails, sent snapchats, sent text messages, and made hand-written notes. I've fantasized about phone calls, but it hasn't happened yet. Uff. Let me tell you, it's been tiring. After 39 or so, I didn't want to do any more. But has definitely been a very interesting journey.

I've found myself feeling so vulnerable, so exposed, that I started explaining to people what I'm doing, in an attempt to feel less awkward. There's something about that level of sincerity that makes me afraid I will come across as needy or awkward, or just plain strange. Afraid my attempt to tell people what they mean to me, or how beautiful they are, will backfire and sound like a cry for attention. Seriously - after writing about 40, I felt like I had skinned my heart, flayed it open for everyone to see. It was raw. It was scary. I wasn't sure if I'd rather people reply, because then I'd know I hadn't been dismissed, or if I'd rather they didn't, because when they did I felt so embarrassed.

But, my discomfort notwithstanding, I've had some truly amazing responses. Coworkers have hugged me. One lady said she's going to print my email and read it every day because she wants to be the person I described. Many people responded with thankfulness, affection, and surprise. Another person even wrote a similar note back to me.

I still have a ways to go: some of the notes I haven't written yet are for some of the most important people in my life. But so far I have really enjoyed reflecting on the difference each person makes in my life, and what I learn from them, and how I see God reflected in who they are. It's been good to do this especially with people I don't particularly like, because I've realized some new things about them. It's also been good to reflect on people who are kind of peripheral in my life, because they have a big impact too.

Over the years I've started paying attention to how often I think of people I've known throughout the day, and it's amazing to me how often I think of people that I haven't seen in ages. Overwhelmingly I am realizing that every person you know shapes your world a little. In German there's this word, "prägen," which literally means stamped, as in minted, embossed or coined. It took me months to understand this word in context, but eventually I figured out that people were saying that they had been stamped or shaped by something. I like the connotation of metal being shaped, because metal, though fluid, is also rigid. Once you've been "geprägt," that shaping probably won't change for a while, at least until something else comes along and stamps over what's already there, or gradually smooths it out. People affect me like that. We emboss each other (it sounds so much sillier in English! ha!). 

Anyway. Gotta get going on the notes I've still got left! I am not sure how often I'll do this, but I think I'm going to make it a semi-regular practice. At the very least so that I can acknowledge all the people who've loved me into being.

Update #2: 
Bonus to this whole adventure: being in my friend's homes, or looking over at coworkers' desks, and seeing that they kept my words and hung them up on their walls or refrigerators.... Places where they're easy to see and remember. 

scene

In the transplant clinic, talking to the social worker:

Dad: "Esto viene a ser un tema diferente, pero quizás no tan diferente. Queríamos preguntarle algo. Mire, es que mi mujer y yo no tenemos papeles," (pauses)

Child: starts tapping foot nervously and looking at parents

Me: "So this is off-topic, but maybe not so off topic. We wanted to ask you something. The thing is, my wife and I don't have papers."

Social worker: nods "Uh huh."

Dad: "Entonces queríamos saber, si a nosotros nos deportan, que va a pasar con la salud de nuestro hijo? El hospital le va a seguir dando sus mecidinas?"

Me: "So we wanted to know, if we get deported, what will happen to our son's health? Will the hospital keep giving him his medicine?"

Social worker, compassionately: "Well, the hospital won't be in charge of taking care of him. My best advice for you is to find somebody, a relative or a friend, who could take care of him if you two were gone."

Me: "Bueno, el hospital no se haria cargo de el. Lo mejor que les puedo aconsejar es que encuentren a alguien, parientes o amigos que puedan cuidar de el si ustedes dos no estuvieran."

End scene


During all the political uproar in the last few weeks, this is the scene I keep replaying in my mind. There's a lot I could say about it, a lot of things I could point out, but I want to say one thing.

There is a lot of uncertainty in the upcoming months, but in the midst of it, I know this. Minorities have been a huge topic in this election. I want to remind us that minorities are people. Most of them are people who need to be heard, people doing their best to meet their own needs, working as hard as they can to plan for their families and loved ones. If we ostracize, if we ignore, if we treat them as "the others" we are denying them opportunity to make good on what they are capable of. Things that benefit not just them, but the rest of our country. Moreover, we deny ourselves the opportunity of standing in awe of the beauty, dignity, and resilience of another human being.

prophecies like screaming toddlers: how we got here

So I recently spent like 4 weeks studying Jeremiah through Trinity Anglican, and in this post I took some time to reflect on it, including some just factual stuff but also what I gained from it personally.

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I learned several things through the study. One is that Jeremiah is arranged more like an anthology than a chronological compilation of works, and that this was done with a purpose. Much like experimental types of literature (I'm thinking of surrealism, modernism, dadaism, that sort of thing), the book of Jeremiah is intentionally chaotic. It doesn't just work on you through the meaning of the words you read - it uses form to affect you too, thus mimicking in you the confusion and frustration of the people of Israel at the time of their deportation to Babylon. I liked learning that, it's pretty meta. And helps me push through the frustration to try and make meaning.

The class also helped a lot with that meaning making, thank goodness. We learned that Jeremiah's work occurred in the 40 years just before/during/after Judah's deportation to Babylon, and that he spends his ministry announcing that the people have broken their covenant with God, and therefore consequences - in the form of takeover by and deportation to Babylon - are coming. Now I cannot lie to you - I am TERRIBLE when it comes to history. That subject matter just doesn't stick with me very well, no matter the format. So there is a lot more that got discussed that I really would have to put in a lot more effort to retain, but I did learn some of the names of the different kings, and I have the notes to reference how they fit into the general story of the time. All this contextual information is WAY more than I had to work with before when attempting to read through the prophet Jeremiah.

Similarly, the class teased out of the text some of the major stages of Jeremiah's life and walked us through them. I really appreciated that about Ashley (the teacher): her gift for painting a picture of everything that would've been happening, of how all the pieces fit together.

So we learned that it is unusual for a prophetic text from the Ancient Near East (ANE) to include any information about the prophet, his or her life - nevermind his or her thoughts/feelings about the messages they had to deliver. And yet those things are included in the text of Jeremiah: who he was, things he did, his opinions of what God asked him to say. So, just as the form of the text is equally as important as the meaning of its words, the life experiences of the prophet himself, and his opinions of his message, bear just as much meaning as his actual message. I had no idea.

A key feature of the book of Jeremiah are all the "symbolic action reports" God tasks him with. These are things that God asks Jeremiah to do, and then turns the actions into symbols by ascribing meaning to them. They are part of the prophetic message, enacted metaphors. It makes sense that God would include these, really, even more sense if you know anything about how basic metaphor is to human understanding of reality, or if you consider embodied cognition. Embodied cognition is the idea that physical reality affects our thoughts. For instance, one study found that, if you're carrying a heavy clipboard, you will take a conversation more seriously; another, that if you're carrying a heavy backpack, you'll judge the top of a hill to be further away; yet another that if you hold a warm drink you will feel more emotional warmth toward the people you're talking to. These are small indications of how closely our understanding is tied to our bodies, so to me it makes sense that God - all-knowing, wise, creator of the human experience - would understand this about people and use the physical actions of his prophet to communicate with his people on a level more than verbal. Plus they were just weird things to do, and he had to know that would stick in people's minds and make them wonder.

Anyway. I really appreciated hearing a more in-depth analysis of some of the action reports, like Jeremiah "redeeming" the field his family member came to sell to him after the town it was in had been ransacked by the Babylonians, and God asking him to agree to buying the field. A field which happened to be in Ben-hinom, later known as Gehenna, which, when Jesus mentions it in our New Testament, is translated as "hell". So Jeremiah had to buy back a piece of hell, redeem it. What beautiful foreshadowing.

So I've brushed up on a good bit of history in this class, and been privy to some excellent exegesis (meaning explanation of the what scholarship has learned about particular passages of text to help us better understand them); but what I valued the most about the class was learning more about the actual chronological life of Jeremiah in his context. Getting a picture of who he was and how he fit into the situations that were going on around him.

This was the most valuable piece to me because, to me, it makes his message more digestible. It can be really hard to read the prophetic books. It feels like the prophet says the same things over, and over, and over, and they are painful, confusing things to read. Israel gets called a prostitute, accused of infidelity, told they will be destroyed, told how they will be destroyed... the threats and accusations and complaints get overwhelming. The reader is left in the difficult position of not knowing who to identify with - you understand Israel, their actions seem reasonable, yet God is clearly very upset with them. So you feel guilty because you understand, but also know that God is technically righteous, so shouldn't he be in the right? So does that make you just as bad as the Israelites? God's voice is confusing too. Can he really mean all those terrible things? Isn't it all kind of overwhelmingly intense? Who's right here?

Basically, it feels like walking in on a pair of kids who are already 5 minutes into a fight. You want to sit them down and get them to tell you what happened, so you can get a clear picture, and form an opinion, so you can figure out what's just. But instead of clarifying, they just keep shouting, and now they're shouting at you. Taking this class gave me exactly what I wanted: the chance to sit everyone down and learn about what went down to get us to this level of rhetoric in the first place; the chance to see how the rhetoric fit into the sequence of current events. It spaced it out, it explained the intensity of emotion going on on both sides, and, bonus, also explained the whole anthology, out-of-order thing, which really intensifies the confusion factor.

Also, getting to learn about Jeremiah's life and the different kings and characters (by reading those bits of text that talk about it all at once) really humanized it for me. Knowing how Jeremiah felt about the messages he delivered (because it's written down in parts of the book), knowing that he had a "tragic phase" and just talking about the life of the man who spoke the words somehow helped me know how to feel, because it placed the words into a story, with people in it. It's hard to explain, but it kind of feels like turning the volume down to a level where you can hear what's being said.  Hah.

So thank you, Trinity, and Ashley, for that. I hope to sit down with the material again soon and tease out the timeline a little more, but for right now this is good. It will probably help me understand Isaiah and Ezekiel too. Hah!

bike commuter

Atlanta is a city of rolling hills, as if the gentle swell of a calm ocean had solidified into rock, overlaid with concrete. I suppose this has something to do with tectonic plates and long-gone seismic activity, but for the bike-commuter, it means alternating between torture and exhilaration - the glory of flying and the agony of slowly pedaling uphill.

Tonight, as I plodded up the final hill in my neighborhood (too steep for my burning thighs and aching lungs to handle on the bike), I thought about the adventure I'd just had. The cracked sidewalks, sporadic streetlights, cars whizzing by too close for comfort; the random men walking, catcalling, glaring, and even apologizing for almost running into me... I thought of urban hiking, and how not-trendy it is, despite nature-hiking being practically a requirement for people between the ages of 20 and 30. That, I thought to myself, is what I call an adventure,

And it makes me wonder if, having once learned that you can overcome the cultural norms you have in your own head, if that desensitizes you to other people's ideas of what can and cannot, or should and should not be done. I am always doing things other people find too inconvenient, or just plain untenable, but those things always seem totally reasonable to me until someone else makes a comment.

In any case, I've been carless this week, and it has led to some interesting reflection. Ha! These are only a few thoughts, but we'll see how long it lasts before the novelty wears off.

the identity of an interpreter

Some of my colleagues have described interpreting as being similar to acting. One coworker talks about how she likes to get into the characters. For practice, she watches movies that have been dubbed into Spanish, just to see how the movie deals with all the normal, crazy things we deal with in speech: things that don't have clear, comfortable equivalents like jokes, idiomatic expressions, and slang.
Another pair of colleagues recently gave an excellent presentation on dealing with death and delivering bad news as interpreters. They made the case that we interpreters, because we speak in the first person, truly inhabit the role of the people for whom we interpret, and therefore deeply identify with them - to the point that we may experience vicarious trauma from hearing - and telling - their stories.


Yesterday I had the privilege of interpreting for a woman who, despite being active and still in possession of all her faculties, is approaching the end of her life. So I did what we do. I wedged myself into a corner next to her chair, in front of the MD and at her side, and started repeating everything everyone said, just as close to how they said it as I could. I soon realized that my patient was intelligent, educated, with a good vocabulary, so I stepped up my linguistic game, reaching for words that maintained the meaning-for-meaning exchange, but belong to more educated discourses.



It was the type of interpretation I deeply enjoy, because there's a certain elegance to it, and it stretches my creativity with language. As I've mentioned before, I'm a very verbal person. When I explain to people what I do, their eyes often get wide and they say, "Wow, learning all that medical vocabulary must be hard!" And it's true, that part is a challenge - one I enjoy, because I find it fascinating. But in reality, there's a relatively small set of words and phrases I use all the time, every day, because if my patients don't know the big medical words, then they don't get used much. We stick to everyday words like "pain," "what's bothering you?" "belly," and so forth. That means that when I know my patient has a command of Spanish that allows me to confidently use words like "abdomen" instead of "panza," and say things like "cuando tratamos estos temas..." instead of "cuando hablamos de estas cosas..." you might not think it's a big deal, but I get pretty excited.



The thing about really reaching into my linguistic resources like that, though, is that it requires an increase in focus and concentration, which also means paying less attention to the world around you. For those two hours - my fellow interpreters are groaning in recognition - it's a long time to concentrate that hard! - for those two hours, my surroundings faded and I paid attention only to the words, and the ideas and emotions in them. And because it was a palliative care conversation, they were very sad words indeed. At points I had to coach myself not to cry, not to let my voice shake.



So all the while I am interpreting, I'm focusing in on the characters, the two people I'm giving voice to, and making sure they understand each other. But I'm also having my own thoughts and reactions to what is going on. So I was surprised at the end of the session, when I actually looked at my patient's face for the first time in a long time, and I had a feeling of coming back into myself. It was like I looked at her, and me, who I am, came back into focus. I remembered that I am young, that I'm not dying, and that she is a completely different individual, unknown to me. But at the same time, I felt such love for her. And when I came back to myself - it was strange - but I had this sense of peace.


It was like the whole time I was interpreting, identifying with her, some part of me inside was panicking and thinking, "I'm not ready for this! I haven't thought about this! This is awful!!!" but when I stopped and looked at her, and remembered that we were separate, I could see what was evident from what she had been saying. That she's thought about it; that she has time to keep thinking about it. That she has deep bonds of love with people she cares about. That she has the strength she needs from God to walk down this path. That she is wise. That she is prepared to go through what is coming to her. That this was her struggle, and it was ok.



Going home, I remembered that moment, and I cried. I prayed and told God all the things I'd wanted to tell her, the things I'd been thinking in the back of my mind as I spoke her words. And I cried because I was sad that this loving, hard-working, mature, normal sort of woman was facing death. And I cried mostly because the dignity with which she faced it was breathtakingly beautiful.

my job exists because of injustice

I thought I had talked a little bit about what I do on this blog, but when I did a word search, it turns out I've only mentioned it in passing, twice. So allow me to officially say that I work as a Spanish Medical Interpreter - even though I am often casually referred to as "the translator". It is a relatively young field, only about 25 years old, so although some people are familiar with interpreting in the context of the UN, and conference interpreting, a lot of people have never heard of medical interpreting. To break it all the way down, I work with medical staff, who call me in to help them communicate with patients who are 1) primarily Spanish-speaking, and 2) who's proficiency in English is somehow limited.

The patients I work with run the whole gamut: they may not know English at all, they may know only the words they need to get by in their job, or they may be almost fully fluent, but out of their depth in a medical setting. If you speak, or have attempted to learn another language, you can probably imagine why this is necessary. If you were talking to a doctor about a pain, some unexplained bleeding, a chronic illness, a procedure you've never heard of before, or something you're worried about in that second language, even if you consider yourself able to get by, you'd probably feel much more confident about the interaction if you had the option of speaking and being answered in English, too. That confidence is what I give to my patients, and to medical staff.

I once saw a South Asian woman, in full Sari, standing in the middle of a hall on a hospital ward in Georgia, looking so isoltaed. She was a pillar of color transplanted from another world into this tan-and-white washed-out place. As soon as someone handed her the phone, it was like her world snapped back into focus - she could tell the nurse what was going on with her family member in the other room. She could find out what medicine the nurse had given, and what the doctors' plan was for the day, and that the nurse wasn't ignoring them, but actually working on what needed to be done for discharge. There are horror stories of people being in the hospital without being able to talk to anyone or understand anyone, and so thinking they were in prison, or dying, or not knowing that they were dying, or unable to speak to anyone for 18 days. You never know how important talking is until you can't.

So as you can imagine, this work is deeply satisfying; to be able to be that conduit that allows someone to have full awareness of and ability to participate in what's going on around them. But it is also fascinatingly complex and full of anxious moments, times when you have to make a decision under pressure, on your own, that will have lasting consequences. If you could ask my friends, or acquaintances, they would tell you that I can easily go on for over an hour about the ins and outs of interpreting: the people and situations I encounter, and what it's like to be always negotiating the in-between. Not unlike most professions, I suppose, interpreting is a world unto itself.

One thing that's fascinating about being a Spanish Interpreter, in particular, in the medical field is that the patients I serve come from all different corners of the Americas: Colombia, Dominican Republic, Venezuela, Puerto Rico, Mexico, Guatemala, Bolivia, Ecuador, Honduras, Uruguay, Paraguay, Argentina, Chile, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Panama, Costa Rica, Cuba, and Equitoreal Guinea. And occasionally Spain. Each of these people, to get to where they are both geographically and in life, have passed through so many different experiences and places that each one is completely different. Sure, there are some patterns, but there are so many patterns, that most days, it doesn't feel like it. I never know who I'm going to meet when I walk into an encounter - it might be a Cuban person from Miami, or a recently emigrated lawyer from Venezuela, or a migrant worker from Guatemala... the list is endless. This has a lot of different implications in terms of vocabulary I need to know, skills I need to employ, and background knowledge I need to have/acquire.

One thing that took me completely by surprise at first was meeting patients who spoke Spanish as their second language. My first experience of this was with a Mam speaker. I had never heard of the language before, and naturally asked why we hadn't just used the phone service to connect with a Mam speaker, rather than calling me, a Spanish interpreter in to do the job. What I learned that day opened my eyes to this fact:

My job exists because of Spain's participation in colonialism.

Think about it. Why do so many countries in South and Central America speak Spanish? Why does Mexico speak Spanish? Because of Spanish conquistadors. We recently had Columbus day, and my facebook feed was inundated with angry posts about how we should be celebrating indigenous peoples day. Well, that day when I met my first Mam speaker was when I first came into contact with someone who speaks a living, breathing, evolving, indigenous language.

Since then, I have met speakers of Mam, K'iche', Q'anjob'al, Akatek, Chuj, Zapotec, and Mixtec. Today I had the privilege of hearing Carmelina Cadenas, from Maya Interpreters LLC speak at a professional conference for medical interpreters. I learned that in Guatemala alone, there are 22 officially recognized indigenous languages; that many of these languages are actually more like 2, or 4 separate languages, and that though they are called "dialects," they often really aren't mutually intelligible - which in the field of linguistics could be used to argue that they are in fact distinct languages that belong to the same language family.

Indigenous languages are still spoken across all of the Americas. According to Wikipedia, South America and the Caribbean are home to 350 indigenous languages that are currently still spoken, but there were 1,500 at first European contact. Hearing Carmelina speak today, hearing her speak to us in Akatek, really made it hit home for me that all of the many wonderful people I serve would not speak Spanish but for colonialism. My job, as it is, would not exist but for colonialism. Not linguistically, not politically, not economically. The situations that my patients are fleeing from, the reasons for which they are emigrating, would be completely, 100% different, if they existed at all. My job exists because of injustice. And it's not something where I can look at it and say, "well, what I am doing is a tiny drop in the ocean of restitution that's required." There is no going back. Those horrors have been done. My patients speak Spanish, and many have since birth. Those other 1,150 languages are dead now, and will never need an interpreter.

I'm sorry, I just had to sit with that for a minute. I don't really know what to write after that.

I love my job precisely because it IS a drop in the bucket of justice that's needed. I love working and giving my patients the dignity and participation they deserve because they are human, and it's not their fault that they ended up where they are, or who they are, or when they are. Day after day of speaking someone else's words, even though I do have to speak my own later, is a good sacrifice, and I am glad to make it. But this is work in the trenches. This is work on the ground, and as one person, there is a limit to the impact I can have here. I hate that there are so many speakers of Q'anjob'al and Mam, here in my state, who don't have access to the language services I can give to Spanish speakers. I know that there are young people growing up here, who speak English and either know or have the opportunity to know those Mayan languages, or other languages of lesser diffusion. I want to help inspire and train those people. I don't want to walk into a room with a family from Guatemala and have my heart sink because I know we're going to have to make do, because there is no interpreter for Chuj. I want to walk in and be able to say, "Actually, this family speaks Chuj as their primary language. Let me get you the right interpreter," and then make a few phone calls and see the relief on the mom's face.

So far this has been a vague dream, an idea. But today I met Carmelina, who grew up as a migrant worker and now works as one of 3 certified court interpreters for Akatek in the whole country, and is part of a company called Maya Interpreters LLC, and my idea turned into hope. It was good to see that there are people in the world aware of and working on this. Maybe I can get in there with them and start pulling some weight here in my state, where the Mayan community is bigger than I ever imagined.

Where's home?

You've probably read about me in BuzzFeed. Ok, sure, maybe not me personally. But they had a list a while back (actually a few lists) about these people called Third Culture Kids. Basically TCKs are people who grew up in a country that was not their parents' country of origin, because of the work said parents did. If you know much of anything about me - if you've read the beginning of this blog, even - you know that I grew up in a few different places because of my parents. So technically, I'm now an ATCK, or Adult Third Culture Kid. And one thing TCKs have in common is that we get a little anxious when asked where "home" is, or "where are you from?"

I have also grappled with anxiety about this question whenever it is asked. The standard things you'll hear people say about how they pick the place that makes the most sense for the conversational context they're in, or choose what to say based on how much they feel like revealing about themselves - I've done all those things. And I've struggled with the concept of 'home:' I've lamented that I've never had one, joked that 'home' is just the word I use for where my bed is that night, and generally done my best to deal with the transience.

But recently, I've been thinking some more about home. My strongest feelings of being at home have historically been when I feel most connected to God through the practices of my faith. I have often felt like I've come home for the first time in weeks during church services, or while I pray,  while reading the Bible, or doing something I feel God is leading me into. Recently, though, I've been feeling like I was at home in certain physical spaces, and it's been interesting to notice having that at home feeling in the actual room where I often pray. Tonight I was surprised to notice that I felt at home when I stepped into the elevators at work. I have come to associate that feeling of being at home with God's presence, and I didn't expect it in the hospital elevator. But who's to say he isn't there?

I am so incredibly grateful that I do have that sense, though. And how interesting that it comes to me through my faith. I wonder if Jewish diaspora feel the same way, or Muslim migrants.

Anyway, I just wanted to get started writing about it tonight to see the thoughts on "paper."

Goodnight!

caught in the current

When I first started working here, I was so surprised by the colors. Every hallway has a specific color, so that if you're familiar enough with the building, you can know where you are just by seeing the colors and patterns on the walls, or the floor. Part of being a children's hospital, I suppose. Today I was standing in a yellow hallway, which is on the surgery floor, and got on the elevator to go down.


At the last moment, a tall man in blue scrubs stepped across the path of the closing door - a moment of excitement, of tension that dissipated as soon as he'd made it in. We waited, each in our own world. The elevator went down, picked up another passenger. The big man greeted him, but I didn't even look. The doors closed. The elevator kept moving down. When the doors opened again and we went to exit, the big man stopped himself, bent gracefully forward and said, "After you." Embarrassed, I complied. He reached the door to the public area of the hospital before I did, and once again gracefully opened the door.


"Thank you!" I said, startled into speech, now even more embarrassed even though I'd meant it, even though I'd wanted him to feel seen and appreciated. Why was I making meaningful contact with a stranger in the hallway? "I'm southern," he said with a smile in his voice, "sorry." Now that I'd started talking, my voice seemed to keep going without me. "You are!" I affirmed. And then, suddenly, we were in a conversation. "Where are you from?" "Not this country! Spain." I said, lagging behind him, hoping the interaction would end, still not comfortable saying my thoughts out loud. He continued the conversational thread, the words sticking us together in a way my body language couldn't fix. I gave up and caught up with him.


I learned he was from a smaller city nearby, we swapped complaints about traffic, and he asked what my job at the hospital was. "Interpreter," I told him. "My name's Earnest," he said, offering to shake hands. I shook and said, "Nice to meet you," forgetting my own name, as I recently have been. So he followed up. "What's yours?" I told him, and we parted ways at the gift shop, as he explained he was on a mission to get some chocolate.


I kept walking in the same direction we'd been going, still riding the current of that walking chit-chat, gradually slowing down and coming back to myself.


And this is what it's like to be an introvert. At least, it happens a lot that your environment overwhelms and sweeps you up without your permission, and it's uncomfortable. For some people, an interaction like I just described wouldn't faze them at all. On the contrary, it would be an enjoyable part of a normal day to chit chat with many people as they go about their daily business.


And I won't say I didn't enjoy talking to Earnest, because I definitely felt happy afterward, but it required all the resources of my attention and energy to connect with him in that 1-2 minute span, plus some emotional management because I felt so many different things. Which is fine when you're not overtaxed, or trying to think about something else, but can be grueling if you are. It's a difficult balance. People often think that introverts don't like being around people, but that's not the case. Everyone needs people. But finding a good balance between connecting with people and not allowing yourself to be too overwhelmed is challenging, and something I find isn't often understood or supported by the world around us.


So anyway. I wanted to reflect on that feeling of being swept up in a bit of small talk with a stranger, and then coming back to earth again. I do appreciate his being willing to connect.


Happy Thursday, y'all!

riches and freedom

"If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time.

But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together"

- Aboriginal activists group, Queensland, 1970s

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Yesterday was a very normal Tuesday. I was in one of the neighborhood clinics, following the peds MD around to visit her majority Spanish-speaking patients. In the middle of a visit, one of the other MDs popped her head in to ask when we'd be done, since they had a meeting at noon.
"And they made some beans for lunch, they're in the back, if you want some." she said before her head disappeared behind the door.

Come lunchtime, I made my way back into the breakroom. When I rounded the corner I saw, to my amazement, not one, but two crock pots sitting on the tiny green counter, walled in by cabinets and lockers, crammed into the tiny space along with  a refrigerator, water cooler, and a table and chairs. A few of the RNs and other staff were hanging out, or passing through. I made my way to the refrigerator to get my lunch out, but after a minute, I got up my courage and dared to ask. "Can I have some too?" "Of course you can!" came the reply, "This is an equal opportunity lunch!" So I got a styrofoam cupful of pinto beans 'n pork and sat myself down at the table with a couple of the RNs. 

After a few minutes I learned that one of the employees, Ms. E, had made those beans, and brought them to clinic for all the staff to share. Not only that; knowing that one of the staff didn't eat pork for religious reasons,  she had made a second, smaller crock pot full of beans with chicken. I asked if there were some sort of occasion, and learned that no, Ms. E just cooks sometimes. I was floored. 

After a while, Ms. E herself came in and sat down with us. She turned out to be getting on into her 6th decade of life, with beautiful, smooth, dark-chocolate colored skin, and, as she described it, cooking gave her something to do when she got home. 

So for the rest of my lunch, I sat with her and the two other nurses and mostly just listened. The conversation meandered from cooking, to grandparents, to naming children, with lots of laughter and good humor in between. I joined in when I could, and tried to listen with my whole heart, because I was delighted to be welcomed into such comfortable table conversation with people so different from me. It was like being in a different country, in the best way.
In the end we all thanked Ms E for lunch, and said our goodbyes before going back to work.
  

Since then, I keep telling people about Ms. E's generosity, because I cannot get over it. She routinely spends her money and time buying and making food, so she can bring it to share with her coworkers, because she wants to?! Who does that?? What a beautiful way to love! What an excess of generosity, coming from just exactly who she is!

And I keep thinking about that and my experience around the table with her and the other nurses, because in America right now, we are struggling. We are struggling to get over this divide we've created between different people groups. Our culture, our system right now makes people despair of being treated fairly, makes people fear for their lives, exacerbates people's poverty. But the thing is that in creating this divide, we've hurt both sides - the oppressed and the privileged. 

Privilege is not unharmed by this dynamic of systematic oppression. Our culture right now prevents amazing people - like Ms. E and the nurses I sat with - from flourishing, and the rest of us miss out. Even if those women aren't specifically targeted, the divide we've created between their culture and white culture impoverishes us all. We silence them, and criminalize them, and we lose. We lose the richness our life could have if we helped our compatriots to flourish, instead of perpetuating a world where they and their families struggle, on some level, for every basic dignity.

I understand - better than many - how hard it can be when two cultures collide, and have to figure out how to relate to one another and respect one another. But I want to live in a country where we at least try to give dignity and space to the different cultures we contain. I work mostly with the hispanic/latino population in my city, and there is also a large African American population, as well as South East Asian and Korean populations. What would it look like for America to truly be the "melting pot" we learn about in American History? What kind of Beloved Community might we see?

introductions

So here's the thing. I've followed Jesus for a long time.

When I was a kid, my parents were missionaries, meaning they were people who decided that they felt like God was asking them to pick up their lives and go somewhere else to help people there follow him. So they went to seminary, which is where you can study the Bible and Christian theology really in depth. They met there, and married, and had me, had my sister, and then, finally, moved to a different country. Their goal there was to help existing churches start new churches with new people who wanted to follow Jesus too. So that is the family I was born into.

As you can imagine, I heard a lot about God growing up. And since my parents are really smart people who went to seminary, I learned a lot of theology growing up, too, and learned that what you hear in church isn't necessarily true, but God always is. And my parents taught me that he's given us what we need to get to know him, and so you have to study and pray, and listen to other people who know him, so you can learn about him for yourself. With an invitation like that, and parents living what they preached, why wouldn't I go try to get to know God? So like I said, I follow Jesus.

And as I read, and prayed, and listened to people who'd been following the God longer than I had, something mysterious happened. I began to learn things, not from the teachers, not from the preachers or the books, but from the inside. And I didn't really notice it until I would then learn those same things from the teachers and the preachers - later. And as I read and looked for God on my own time, I felt protected. I felt love that resonated deep inside me. Some people say that when they start following Jesus, they experience peace, but for me, it was protection and love.

Eventually I put two and two together and figured out that I had, for years, been experiencing what Jesus was talking about when he said the Holy Spirit would be our teacher, and a spring of fresh, living water inside of us, and what Paul means when he talks about the Holy Spirit being in us. Those were things I'd read, but they then took on new meaning.

But I didn't figure that out for a long time, not until I'd been in college for a while. See, I didn't stop wanting to follow Jesus when I left my family because I'd accepted this connection with God for myself a long time ago, and it didn't depend on them. It was the root that nourished my life and kept me safe in the dizzying vortex of change. And as I followed Jesus into college, he sent someone to tell me what he was going to do. I was at a normal gathering of people from my church who were praying for each other, and as we prayed, the girl praying for me started telling me that God was showing her he was about to deepen and grow what I knew of him, beyond what I'd ever imagined. And in the next 3 years of my life, that is exactly what happened. And in that process I learned that the protection and love I'd felt growing up, and the things I'd learned on my own, were moments I could point to and say, "God was with me there." I had, as a child who'd decided to accept the invitation to try and get to know God, actually begun to get to know him. Not from a book, or a teacher, but in my real life.

That is my story. The story of my life. I hope I make space sometime to talk about what this relationship with God, through Jesus and the Holy Spirit is like, because so far I've only told you how I realized that that is, in fact, what was going on. Often it's still hard to realize and remember that God is living and active in my life, because he's not a visible, physical presence to us. But I wanted to write about it, because there's one funny feature about this relationship: it's easy to miss. Somehow, even though you might think regular interactions with the God of the universe might be remarkable, they slip from my memory ever so quickly, and it's not until I try to tell someone something about my week that I realize God's been doing something. So I want to tell the stories, so that hopefully I can mark them better, and maybe other people can benefit from hearing them.

This is my introduction.

I've followed Jesus for a long time. And to my surprise, it's the most real thing I've ever committed to.

verbal relationship

Tonight was amazing. I've been meaning to write again, knowing that people have said over and over again over the years that I have a way with words. People have said, "I'd read a book if you wrote it." Honestly, I haven't been reading many books lately, and my writing really isn't what it used to be. But I think (I hope) that when you have a way with words, it doesn't just vanish like smoke because you get out of practice. As proof, I present evidence in the form of emotional eloquence: when emotion hits, my words paint pictures and make rhythms without much intent.

One thing hasn't changed, and that is, the central place of words in my life. I've been realizing that there are some people to whom words mean the world. For whom words are the building blocks of reality, and everything else is supporting evidence. I am one of those people. Unless I'm careful, I'll listen to your words and not watch your actions or your facial expressions. Other people, though, are different. For them, words can be hard to put together; or maybe they don't mean much, because to such people they don't stand up to the picture actions or patterns paint.

But because I am so verbally inclined, and further, verbally trained, words have taken a central place in my life. I grew up with four languages in my brain, five if you count the one highschool brought into my life. So I was always known for the languages I knew. My languages are as much a part of me as my extended family, and being asked which ones I speak and how many is like being asked "who's your momma and daddy?". Going to college was a respite from being defined by how many languages I knew, just as much as it was a break from being my parents' daughter.

But now, having graduated and started my adult life, I've come back to my languages, my verbal virtuosity and versatility and made it into a livelihood. As an interpreter in the medical field, I code-switch every few phrases, trying to find the closest equivalent as fast as you can blink, doing my best to match register and context. This has led to unexpected difficulties. For one, it's made my many languages so readily available to me all the time, that it's sometimes hard to stick to just one. I'll be talking to you and suddenly throw in some German, because I couldn't think of the right English words. Another thing is that at work, the words are never my words. After a long day, it can be a relief just to say my own opinion.

I guess what I'm saying is, this: words have been my entertainment, my self-expression, my family heritage, my teachers, the focus of my studies, my information portal, and now my bread-winners. I'm surprised to note how much their functions in my life have changed - still central, always central, but not the same.

So, why was today amazing? Because I got to witness two breathtaking artists, and listen to the words they put together out of their hearts, and because they reminded me that I, too, need to write.
This may be a rusty piece, but it's good to be trying (at least trying) to write again.