Lessons: On Being the Translator

Mi papi and mi mami have never learned English. And although I have an older brother and a younger sister who are just as fluent in English as I am, I have always been the go-to child for translations.

I remember once, while in Texas, mi papi got pulled over by a Texas Ranger for speeding. He was not going terribly fast, but he was distracted enough to go over the speed limit and he was pulled over. Picture this, a young colonized brown girl, who had no idea about the violent history of Texas Rangers, was suddenly the person mi papi turned to for a translation.

I remember feeling hot all over, immediately. Mi papi has always been the financial supporter of our household, and we lived paycheck to paycheck our entire lives. So a traffic citation, no matter what the amont was, was both unexpected and also disruptive to our tight financial situation. Mi papi turned to me, as we waited for the cop to walk up to his window, and said: dile que me perdone. Mi papi wanted me to beg for the Texas Ranger to get him of this ticket, and I felt so embarrassed. I was embarrassed that we were poor, and I was embarrassed that anyone knew about it. I was also taught to respect (even admire) police officers; indoctrination is funny like that, so I was ashamed to ask this police officer to give mi papi a break.

The Texas Ranger began talking to mi papi, and mi papi asked me to roll down my window to explain to him that mi papi did not speak English and I would be translating. I remember vividly how slowly I rolled down my window and telling that white man that mi papi was not capable of speaking for himself because he only spoke Spanish. I remember feeling embarrassed that mi papi did not know English. The Texas Ranger rolled his eyes, and told me how much mi papi was going above the speed limit and I remember telling mi papi what he said. Mi papi again insisted that I tell this white man to forgive me, and I remember fighting with mi papi in front of this cop about translating this plea because I was ashamed to say those words, I was ashamed to beg. I was ashamed to advocate for mi papi. I was ashamed to ask for a handout. I looked at the Texas Ranger, knowing I had to say what my dad said but also wanting to separate myself from mi papis request so I said: he said he is sorry and grimacing afterward.

I think that I do what I do today because I used to be ashamed of my Latinidad. I do what I do today because I used to be apologetic to police officers. I do what I do today because my parents embarrassed me due to their lack of assimilation. I do this work because there are so many of us who can use our voices to advocate for those of us who cannot. I remember feeling ashamed of the color of my skin in situations like this. I remember feeling guilty for advocating for myself and my family, and then I learned that this is what they wanted me to feel all along: shame. They want us silent, complacent, nodding, embarrassed, afraid. They do not want us unapologetic, fearless, and more importantly they do not want us to thrive.

I write all this because 2018 is about prioritizing my mental health due to generational traumas that I am still learning are within me and control me without me even knowing it. Also this year is about holding on to my stories and my experiences which have shaped me and what I do today.