Mi Familia
On the precipice of creative writing, always on the precipice. I have a writing partner that deserves to be deified for his level of patience and commitment.
But this…
New obsession. Nothing bad, perfectly manageable.
Johnny B got me back into learning Spanish. He introduced me to Señor Jordan, a kindhearted Spanish teacher that took it upon himself to put up a free video series on the net. It’s a good supplement to the Rosetta Stone lessons I’ve been sporadically absorbing these last two years.
John’s an animal. He drives hither and yon absorbing the Spanish stations for hours at a time. He engages invisible companions in extemporaneous conversation. I couldn’t do it like that. I have to know exactly what’s being said. It’s much more my speed to dissect a CNN en español article I pull up on my Internets, keeping most of the language in my head. But there was no doubt that my friend’s newfound passion for All Things Latino was incredibly infectious. I was already taking home piles of Spanish children’s books from the library, extricating the meaning with the help of colorful paintings, rereading the stories with a child’s excitement. But taking John’s cue, I kicked it up a notch. More Rosetta lessons, a Señor Jordan vid a day to keep la professora away, A Complete Idiot’s Guide to Learning Spanish my exclusive bedside reading, John and I have even begun watching English language films with Spanish subtitles flashing on the bottom of the screen.
For many years now I’ve wanted to translate the work of my great-grandfather, José Joaquín Ribera Chevremont, my father’s father’s father. Pop-Pop wanted to do it himself. He had a store of José’s poetry, but never got around to it. He admitted that he was hesitant to upset the music of the language with the comparably stiff sounds of English. Unfortunately it was a hesitation that followed him to the end of his days, and now nobody knows where the work is.
I’ve tracked six books down to about a dozen libraries across the nation. The mother lode resides in the library at the University of Puerto Rico, which makes sense, since they were the ones that published most of his poetry.
Jose’s brother is Evaristo Ribera Chevremont, whom Wikipedia cites as being "considered by many the most lyrical poet from Puerto Rico," and amongst the top four Puerto Rican poets of the mid-twentieth century. His work isn’t currently being published, but many of his books are available through Amazon.
I kept this desire in me for a long time. A decade prior, I attempted to translate great-grandfather José’s obituary. I had nothing but my wits, a Spanish-to-English dictionary, and the shadow of a high school education; back in the day, even at my most lucid, Spanish was a subject I was consistently in jeopardy of failing. So it should be no surprise that translating the article took me all damn day, and the results were promising, but dubious.
And then I saw what Google Translate could do to a large body of text with the click of a button. An inexplicably explicable transformation in an instant. Technology, once again, made my world a better place.
Ain’t nothing to it but to do it. I purchased two of Evaristo’s books, an anthology of his work and what I would later find out to be an autobiography detailing his childhood. I’ve been plugging away at it for weeks, putting one sentence under a microscope at a time, changing the language while maintaining the meaning, the style, and hopefully the intention of the author.
Besides an ingrained desire to express myself through words, there has been two experiences in my life that have prepared me for this endeavor. One was being an adaptor for a Japanese anime series. I worked on Fighting Spirit, and chronicled Ippo Makunouchi’s meteoric rise to prominence as Japan’s most formidable (and good-natured) featherweight. I would be given a rough translation, and I would painstakingly transform the words into something that sounded distinctly human, making sure that the new dialogue fit the parameters of the characters’ lip movements.
The other was working for Joe, a writer and holocaust survivor. For many months, I was an extension of his artistic ambition. I stayed with him, and helped mold his work into something suitable for the public. It was a tightrope act, paying homage to his abilities and at the same time correcting missteps and preventing egregious rambling.
The sliver’s worth of insight I’ve acquired from my translations so far have been rewarding beyond my wildest expectations. I feel like I’ve opened a stone slab a hairs breadth, just enough to see the treasure beyond. I’m electrified by the process, completely willing to spend all the time I need to penetrate this ongoing mystery, and to share my findings with as many people as possible.
Evaristo was born in 1896. His mother was the one that encouraged him to read poetry and soak up the classics. She died at twenty-three when he was only five. But before she left, she imparted a request that he would never forget:
"Always remember Spain, my son."
I went to Puerto Rico when I was in fifth grade, and there were few places I’ve been in all my travels where I felt more comfortable and complete. I was a Jersey boy escaping frozen grounds and frustrating schoolwork, touching down in San Juan in the early evening. Warm wind shimmering through the trees, the moon reflected in the ocean, a truly magical place.
I was conceived in Puerto Rico. I’ve seen a picture of the hotel, and Mom can point out the exact room where love made life. When I’m completely immersed in the poetry, it feels like my forebear’s experiences are extending through my own, and that by understanding the past, I can delve into the mysteries of existence itself.
My favorite film up for best picture this year was Midnight in Paris. Owen Wilson plays a nostalgic screenwriter that finds himself wandering the streets of Paris. At the stroke of midnight, for reasons that are never fully articulated, he is sent on a journey to the roaring twenties. Wide-eyed and spellbound, Owen ends up hobnobbing with the likes of Zelda and F. Scott, Picasso, Dali, Gertrude Stein, Hemingway, and filmmaker Luis Buñuel.
I’ve never been one to dwell in the past. I do my best to be present in all things, and it’s kept me in the here in now. Still, in learning more about my ancestors, I can appreciate the lineage of not only their day to day life, but the actual thoughts and feelings that have stretched across the gap of forgotten time to become a welcome part of who I am.
I’ll make these translations available to anyone else that is willing to go on this journey with me. We all could use a little more poetry.
