In Spain, a debate has been raging that extends beyond the subject to the language/s being used to propel it. The subject is the language/s of education in Catalonia, the autonomous region of Spain whose official languages include both Catalan and Spanish.
Flags from Spain and Catalonia
The factions are not as distinct as the languages, and the genesis of the debate is lengthy. Although it has undoubtedly intensified in recent years, its roots go back to the late 70s, when Catalan was first introduced in the elementary and high schools in non-intensive/-exclusive way. Since then, Catalan’s influence in education continued to grow, culminating in its 1992 ratification as the official language of instruction in all non-university schools and institutes in Catalonia. The standard was reinforced by the Linguistic Policy Law of 1998 and again in 2006. Soon after, a small group of Catalonians began to criticize the lack of Spanish in education, catalyzing several efforts (of varying degrees of success) to further include the language.
Although Spaniards are divided on the issue, with monolingual education—whether in Catalan or Spanish—being supported by some, and bilingual education by others, there does seem to be an aspect on which the factions almost unanimously agree: that the issue has become (or perhaps always was) excessively political, and that those who actually implement the policies, who educate, have had little say in the formation of such policies.
The voices of these individuals are beginning to emerge in various forums, but the debate continues still, a polemic most affecting those who have even smaller say than educators—the students themselves.
Particularities aside, the situation is representative of an important problem that all education systems, regardless of the region, state, or nation they correspond to, must face: that is, determining the best methodology with respect to language education (i.e. its policies and goals), and who should be made responsible for implementing it.
Private education might be considered a preemptory avoidance of the problem, although with its high cost and selectivity it may also be said to simply rearrange the imposition of specific, exclusive standards. The fact that it is optional seems to be its only irrefutable point of exoneration.
However, that is assuming the students and others generally not involved in the formation of political and educational policy best know how to shape the educational system and, by extent, the future linguistic makeup of a place. Most would grant that the majority of educators and politicians wielding power and influence likely wield knowledge and experience as well.
So, what’s the best way to handle the issue—in Catalonia, specifically, or more generally? In another way: whose influence is best, most valid, true, etc., and how should it be promoted above the others?
The phrase “lost in translation” elicits a host of responses, be they memories of language confusion while traveling, quotes from the film of the same name, or general considerations regarding translation, its possibilities, failures, limits. The most obvious associations for many are comical in nature, reflecting harmless vocabulary lapses or cultural naiveté. And then there are the more everyday instances of linguistic imprecision or confusing inconvenience. Finally, there are examples with graver results, examples wherein being “lost” predicates terrible discovery.
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One such example is that of Willie Ramirez, a Cuban-American high school baseball star who, in 1980, found himself in a hospital, quadriplegic. The culprit of this terrible realization was a simple and avoidable translation error: after Willie was rushed to the hospital for intense headaches and fleeting consciousness, a communication rupture between Willie’s doctors and family members occurred, resulting in Willie being treated incorrectly for a self-induced drug overdose, allowing an intracerebellar hemorrhage to fester, unnoticed for two days.
The rupture stemmed from a single word—predictably, a false cognate: intoxicado. In Cuban Spanish, it is used to describe a person who’s ingested bad food or drink; it is not used like the English intoxicated, which refers exclusively to someone who’s consumed alcohol or drugs. The words were apparently used to both inquire if Willie had ingested drugs and to state that Willie may have been sick after consuming a bad hamburger at the fast-food chain Wendy’s.
The imperfect memory of both the medical workers and Willie’s family regarding exactly what was said and who said it leave only the word intoxicado as the official record. Once the hemorrhage was discovered, emergency surgery was performed, but the lasting damage was done. A resulting lawsuit brought a settlement of $71 million. The annual salary of a medical interpreter is $40 thousand.
Although the case is improbable and singular, it is nonetheless a terrible reminder of translation’s value and necessity.
One of the most common reasons to learn a language is travel, for knowing the native language of a new place can undoubtedly deepen one’s experience while there, whether it’s reading about the place’s history or contemporary culture, conversing with the locals, or hearing passing voices in the street. For many, in fact, the relationship is actually inverted: travel is predicated by a desire to learn a foreign language.
That said, the majority of travelers to foreign places are not motivated by such desire, and have little interest in learning the language beyond in the most basic communicative sense. As many such travelers will attest, travel of this nature can be exciting, confusing and funny—sometimes, simultaneously. It can also be, unfortunately, quite frustrating: from asking directions to ordering food in restaurants, this negative aspect often deters would-be travelers from going to places where unknown languages are spoken.
Globalization, though, and other forces, are motivating travel hotspots to work toward limiting this sense of frustration, to bridging the communication gap. Besides the arguably preferred method of travel industry workers learning the most popular language(s) of their clients, cities and governments (above all) employ methods not rooted in traditional language. We experience the most popular of these everyday, regardless if our location is domestic or foreign—that is, pictographs. Ranging from road signs to product instructions, these seek to communicate information without words.
But, two things to consider: first: pictographs have existed for thousands of years—they predate written and spoken language, according to many experts; and second: globalization in general and specifically some of its most integral tools—above all, the Internet—are not exclusively rooted in language. What’s more, the language used is almost always brief. Like travelers who encounter foreign languages, so too are Internet users’ encounters with foreign languages necessarily fleeting and functional. The language exposure may be wider, sure, but usually it is very shallow.
The Internet as a tool is notable here above all because it has become such a dominant one when researching and planning travel—and likewise while traveling, as both a reference and communication tool, for most. It, along with pictographs and other travel tools that seek to limit foreigners’ linguistic frustrations, might be considered contradictory to foreign language acquisition.
Are these speculations extreme, unfounded, or does the increasing influence of non-language-rooted communication tools and methods indeed threaten whatever foreign language travel traditions existed before?
As any person who’s traveled outside of his or her native country (or often dines in foreign-food restaurants) knows, the translation of food items names can vary widely, producing a diverse range of responses—excitement, confusion, humor and fear, among others.
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For foreign restaurants, it seems there are above all three options when it comes to written item translation. The first and undoubtedly least common is to make little to no effort to translate item names and descriptions. You’ll most often see this in restaurants that view translation as unnecessary, above all because of the restaurant’s location, i.e. its patrons, who ostensibly understand the foreign language or are familiar-enough with the items to not need translations of them. Occasionally, though, you’ll encounter untranslated menus in particularly posh restaurants as well, motivated by something like staunch authenticity.
The second most common option is similarly extreme: every name and description is translated as literally and thoroughly as possible. The most obvious motivation for this is to reach a wider audience, for with a complete lack of translation, patrons unfamiliar with the language and dishes might be less open to try the food. Of course, this isn’t universally true, but it’s understandable that many people prefer to orient their food choices around ingredients/items they already know they like. As a result of such exhausting translation, though—especially if the original language is erased completely—these restaurants will often retain a minimal sense of authenticity, and even repel those seeking a genuine meal from whatever region or culture supposedly represented.
Finally, there’s the moderate and most common option of providing translations in addition to the original menu language. This may be considered an effort to both encourage and reciprocate the sort of open-mindedness the foreign patrons will demonstrate in dining at the restaurant. There is no formula on how to appropriately achieve this balance, and the efforts undoubtedly vary, sometimes with hilarious results. Whether by providing completely bilingual menus or simply retaining the original names of the dishes, these restaurants seek to provide authentic cuisine to as many people as possible.
This final option, though, raises some questions that go beyond the translation of food items, extending to the crux of translation in general: that is, above all, how does linguistic distance affect our understanding and experiencing of authenticity? Does translation in some ways work against true authentic experience? An example: an Italian restaurant decides to start calling its manicotti Noodles Stuffed with Cheese and Meat and Covered with Tomato Sauce, but you know the recipe had been left completely untouched: would you feel as though the meal/restaurant/your experience had changed? If so, would that decrease the possible of your returning to the particular restaurant?
As a translator—regardless of what kind of texts—, are there are certain parts of language (besides names, perhaps) that you simply won’t translate? If so, what are they, and why do you refuse? Is it because you view it as impossible, or because doing so would cross some boundary of authenticity?
Argentine Spanish is strewn with words and colorful phrases from Lunfardo, a rich vocabulary born on the streets of Buenos Aires in the second half of the 19th century. Now considered a fixture of the Spanish language in Argentina (especially in and around Buenos Aires) and Uruguay, linguists cite the use of Lunfardo as a defining characteristic of the Rioplatense dialect. Add a dash of Argentine flavor to your Spanish vocabulary with the Transpanish blog’s ongoing feature highlighting some of the most frequently used terms in Lunfardo.
A popular lunfardo term is junar, a verb that is believed to have derived from the Romani language Caló of Spain and Portugal. In this language, which has inspired many other lunfardo terms, junar means “to listen”. In modern use, though, the meaning has changed.
The first meaning may be described as “to watch” or “look”, although it is more specific than mirar or ver. That is, junar is to look at someone in a roguish or even leering way. Oftentimes, it can be used to describe a person’s excessively obvious/aggressive “romantic” gaze, e.g. Él te está junando “He is leering at you”. Although it refers to a manner of looking in a specific time and space, it can also occasionally have implications beyond the particular instance.
The second meaning is basically synonymous with conocer, which also has a dual meaning—“to meet” or “to know”—though junar more closely compares to the later. It can translate very directly to conocer in an example such as ¿Junás a María? “Do you know María?” or less so in another, ¿Quién la juna a María?, which is a rather pejorative way to say that nobody knows María, or that she’s not worth knowing.
The third meaning may be considered a sort of extension of the first and second meanings. That is, junar can be used both positivity and negatively with reference to a more essential characteristic or intention of a person—a characteristic beyond what is immediately, physically perceivable (e.g. a person’s manner of looking at). A close common Spanish equivalent here might be a combination of conocer and entender. Although it has a wider range of use than the first meaning, it commonly relates to romantic situations, e.g. La juna por la infidelidad “He/she knows she is unfaithful”.
It’s interesting to consider, first, how junar of lunfardo changed from the original form of “to listen” from Caló, and second, how the contemporary lunfardo meaning severed. At what point did the division between listening and seeing begin to blur, or, was the change less organic, i.e. did the initial rioplantense user of it simply decide to do so in this new manner? Finally, the dual lunfardo meaning raises the question: at what point does a physical characteristic, such as a manner of looking at someone, become more than physical—that is, essential of a person?
The word junar turns up in the lyrics of the tango “Atenti Pebeta” by Ciciarco Ortiz and Celedonio Flores.
Cuando estés en la vereda y te fiche un bacanazo, vos hacete la chitrula y no te le deschavés; que no manye que estás lista al primer tiro de lazo y que por un par de leones bien planchados te perdés.
Cuando vengas para el centro, caminá junando el suelo, arrastrando los fanguyos y arrimada a la pared, como si ya no tuvieras ilusiones ni consuelo, pues, si no, dicen los giles que te han echao a perder.
Si ves unos guantes patito, ¡rajales!; a un par de polainas, ¡rajales también! A esos sobretodos con catorce ojales no les des bolilla, porque 1e perdés; a esos bigotitos de catorce líneas que en vez de bigote son un espinel… ¡atenti, pebeta!, seguí mi consejo: yo soy zorro viejo y te quiero bien.
Abajate la pollera por donde nace el tobillo,dejate crecer el pelo y un buen rodete lucí, comprate un corsé de fierro con remaches y tornillos y dale el olivo al polvo, a la crema y al carmín.Tomá leche con vainillas o chocolate con churros, aunque estés en el momento propiamente del vermut. Después comprate un bufoso y, cachando al primer turro, por amores contrariados le hacés perder la salud.
For most former, current or potential foreign language learners, one of the most important motivations for doing so involves the language’s future relevance—both as the language is being learned and afterward; in other words, the question of What will learning this language do for me?. Of course, this varies from person to person—as do the more general, unintended circumstances of learning—, but some of the most common motivations include business competitiveness, immigration, travel, and personal study/improvement, among others.
Recent language growth trends shed some light on these motivations, i.e. who they propel to learn foreign languages—or, more importantly, which languages appeal most inclusively to the myriad relevancies and learning circumstances. Currently, the three most widely spoken languages are Chinese, Spanish and English, at 1.2 billion, 329 million and 328 million speakers, respectively. Trends of the Internet, perhaps the most inclusive global communication device, are most useful to contextualizing the figures. In 2000, there were roughly 34, 187 and 20 million online users of Chinese, English and Spanish, whereas in 2011 these numbers had risen to 509, 565 and 164 million.
Given its monumental rise in popularity, it seems that Chinese will likely be one language of the future—perhaps the language, i.e. that which comes to dwarf all others. This is, of course, assuming that the Internet’s influence will continue to rise—to blur geographic boundaries—; for as it stands, Chinese’s geographic reach is far smaller than that of English and Spanish.
Related to this is the fact that traditional methods of language spread have been basically unaffected by the Internet—chief among them, immigration. The United States is a prominent example: each year, 700 thousand to one million people legally migrate to the country, and over half of these come from Spanish-speaking countries. Of the estimated 300 thousand undocumented immigrants that arrive each year, the percentage is even higher. Whether intentional or not, this results in a massive rise of both English and Spanish in the U.S., a process not matched by Chinese beyond its originating region. Besides, the process inevitably transfers and acquires more than just language: there is the speakers’ community and culture too, which further motivates and gives relevance to the learners’ efforts.
Because of nations such as the U.S., with their large populations of native Spanish speakers, native English speakers, and bilingual speakers living closely together, some believe that one language of the future might be more fully developed variant of Spanglish. Considering this alongside the Internet’s seemingly indefinite growth, it’s not difficult to imagine a sort of mutant world language combining not only English and Spanish, but also Chinese, among others.
What do you think? Will the Internet, immigration, and other forces ultimately homogenize languages, or will the majority of popular languages maintain their numbers and continue to thrive independently?
Immigration translation is no doubt an important effort for any country with immigrants, as many arrive with little to no knowledge of the national language. By translating to a variety of languages, countries ease the already difficult process of immigration, lesson the sense of isolation and confusion. As a result, immigrants are likely to feel more welcomed, and be more interested in integrating linguistically into society in a positive way.
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Although exactly what is translated varies widely, in the vast majority of cases, who does the translating does not: that is, the government, usually with the massive aid of tax revenue. While many support this system—see it as a valid nationwide effort to encourage immigration and diversity—there are many who do not, especially when the effort is not as successful as it should be. Moreover, many feel that an important aspect of immigration is learning the official language(s) of the new country.
These positions considered, immigration translation becomes more than a simple question of economics; rather, it is one of national linguistic identity. On the one extreme hand, a country could nationalize one language, and make little to no effort to translate it to a variety of others—at least, using tax revenue. This wouldn’t necessary discourage immigration, but rather, that immigrants would learn the official language either before arriving, or make concentrated efforts to do so once they had arrived. The “sink or swim” method, this would have many consequences, both positive and negative, that aren’t difficult to predict.
On the other extreme hand, a country could expend massive amounts of money and effort on translating as diversely and extensively as possible. This would be highly inclusive, ostensibly allowing immigrants to live in the country without ever having to learn the official language. Granted, many immigrants live in this manner today, but the difference in this scenario would be that the language of these minority groups could, over time, rise to comparable levels of popularity as the initial “official” language(s). A positive aspect of this scenario would be a massive rise in demand for translators, at least initially. A negative aspect would be an increasing linguistic division within a nation, and widespread communication difficulties.
As a result, most nations have tried to avoid such extremes, providing some immigration translation so as to be inclusive but, ultimately, resisting sustained efforts that might threaten national language dominance.
As a translator, have you worked exclusively within such a moderate approach, or within extreme ones as well? Furthermore, how important is physical location to your work, i.e. does remote work allow a translator to escape the various pitfalls of extreme immigration translation approaches?
If translation is an effort in faithful recreation, a translator must consider as thoroughly as possible the medium of the source, its essence, and work toward achieving it as the foundation of the translation. For a written text, this can seem (deceptively) simple, for written language has a static quality once on the page, supposedly, distinct from its author. One simply needs to reproduce the language and tone.
But with films or television, this “recreation of essence” is not such a seemingly straightforward endeavor, as the words are real voices originating from real, visible people. A crucial decision must be made: whether to dub the voices or add subtitles.
The first option is a sort of usurpation, while the second is a concession. To dub is to fundamentally alter the work, to silence true voices for others that cannot escape artificiality. It suggests that “meaning” is distinct from that which makes it, and implies that meaning or content is translation’s most important aim. It denies voice. It understands translation as static, to be inevitably achieved.
Subtitling, on the other hand, takes a markedly different view of translation. For these translators, the speaker is essentially linked with his or her spoken words (as an author with his or her written words) and thus, any translation that replaces it with another is an inherent failure.
However, there are of course more practical questions to be considered, as most viewers, regardless of the particular TV program or film, won’t likely be concerned with the issues above. Above all, it becomes a question of enjoyment, and although enjoyment varies, translators have generally worked toward translations that will be enjoyed by as many people as possible.
In the Americas, the vast majority of foreign films are not dubbed for theatrical release, although many are afterward released on DVD in both dubbed and subtitled versions. In Spanish-speaking countries, most foreign language TV programs are dubbed and highly popular, whereas the U.S. above all rarely shows foreign language programs. Those that are shown are normally not dubbed or subtitled, as they are expected to appeal to a small and highly specific audience.
What do these trends suggest about the regions’ ideas and opinions of television/film entertainment, foreign languages, culture exchange, and translation? Should they be criticized, and if so, what is a better alternative? Among all of this, what are the responsibilities of the translator? What aim(s) should he or she strive toward?
For most English speakers, the word troll, out of context, most commonly registers as a noun, perhaps due to the striking imagery it elicits. Cue short, hideous monster-men hiding under a bridge, waiting to capture unknowing passersby. The horror of this imagery is no doubt why the word most strikes us in this manner—as a noun— but the specificity of it contributes too. That is, as a contemporary noun, troll’s imagery does not vary, although historically it has.
For instance, in the early to mid nineteenth century, troll (along with its alternate spelling, trowl) was a sort of drinking song that could be repeated indefinitely. Even earlier (1570-1670), it was used to describe a wheel. The connection between these two meanings is not a difficult for one to discern. Save that they were used in England, the etymological origin of these varieties is unclear, which perhaps contributed to their diminished use and eventual obsolescence.
The surviving meaning, though, has clearer roots. The Oxford English Dictionary describes troll as: “One of a race of supernatural beings formerly conceived as giants, now, in Denmark and Sweden, as dwarfs or imps, supposed to inhabit caves or subterranean dwellings.” Early Scandinavian mythology has survived much like Greek mythology, and today transcends many languages and disciplines. But of course, like with any language, some words simple do not translate. The noun troll, it seems, is one such example.
Poster of Troll Movie
However, in contemporary context, troll is most commonly used as a verb. This use likely originates from the Old French troller, a hunting term: “to quest, to go in quest of game, without purpose”. Subsequent adapted use in Old English stripped the hunting imagery from the term, so that it could be applied to any sort of directionless rambling or movement.
Although Modern English has retained the traditional use in some cases (e.g. “to troll for fish”), it has also adapted it in an interesting manner that seems to incorporate the noun troll as well. That is, to troll, in Internet speak, or to post deliberately antagonistic messages on chat boards or other forums, without any discernable goal besides disruption. In this use, we have both the lack of direction and purpose, as well as the scary imagery of a troll, for such troll messages (or trolling) are often intentionally offensive and vicious. In the same manner a troll a bridge snatches up victims, or a hunter or fisherman trolls for any and all game, so too are Internet trolls indiscriminate.
