The ATA Chronicle - September/October 2022 - 24

Drawing Resilience
from the Source:
The Well of Language
In addition to these tools,
I find myself, as a writer,
turning repeatedly to another
source: the well of language
from which we drink so
deeply, daily, that it's easily
taken for granted. Yet there
they are, hiding in plain
sight: the words we hear in
one language, then speak
in another as we listen to
immigrants tell their stories.
Of course, we're already
listening-at every moment,
with all the attentiveness we
can muster-for the meaning
of what we hear. When
we speak, we're equally
attentive to the meaning of
each utterance.
At the same time, we need
to be aware that every word
has a physical presence,
not only in our minds but
in our bodies: our ears,
tongues, throats, chests.
Being aware of how words
sound in our ears when
we hear them-of how
words feel in our bodies
when we speak them-
can provide a powerful
physical counterweight to
the undertow of suffering
tugging at our attention,
and tugging down our
boundaries, as we interpret.
During my time
interpreting for Aissata, an
attorney asked if she thought
her husband, brutally beaten
in prison, might still be
alive. She responded " Non,
c'est pas possible, " and I said,
" No, it's not possible. " At
that moment, meaning was
paramount in my mind. I had
come to know Aissata well
and mourned her husband's
likely death.
Yet there was a silent,
underground part of myself
that noticed how the fiercely
nasal non contrasted with the
percussive, alliterative hits of
pas possible. That same part
of me sneaked a quick sip
from the way, in English, the
long " o " in " No " modulated
to the broader " o " of " not, "
which in turn was echoed
in " possible " -and how all
those flat, drawn-out English
sounds contrasted with the
fluid French they rendered.
From an Ancient Art:
Four Fresh Techniques
As I've tried to capture,
as a poet, some of the
struggles and satisfactions
in interpreting for asylum
seekers, I've developed
techniques rooted in poetry
that have helped steady me
after challenging sessions, and
that may be of use to others.
But why poetry? Isn't
poetry too delicate a
companion to help us make
our way through a sometimes
charred, broken landscape?
What makes poetry up
to the task is that, as U.S.
Poet Laureate Ada Limón
said, it's " the only creative
writing art form that builds
breath into it. " 4
Each
stanza or line break gives
space for the reader to
breathe, to slow down for
an infinitesimal moment,
rather than charging, as we
tend to, ahead.
When our minds are hellbent
on meaning, poetry,
rooted in the body, holds us
to a slower pace. It insists
that we consider words in
all their dimensions-sound
and rhythm as well as sense.
When we interpret for those
who've experienced trauma,
the narrative can threaten to
undermine our bodies and
24 The ATA Chronicle | September/October 2022
minds. Poetry's unique gift
is to strengthen both. The
following techniques may
help unlock this gift.
1 After a session,
reclaim in writing
your solo voice. Writing
about your experiences in a
journal can be very helpful.5
But try choosing just a few
words or concrete details
that stick in your memory.
If some seem too painful,
feel free to choose others:
you're in charge. Rather
than encasing words in
conventional sentences, try
moving them around on the
page. Arrange and rearrange.
When I wrote about
Aissata, I found the pain of
her experience during genital
cutting bound up in small
details. Eventually they came
to rest like this:
Near the woman's hand, a small
bright knife with a little
handle, tied with a fuzzy piece
of red string
I remained fully aware
of each word's meaning,
but poetry opened me up
to other dimensions. I read
the words aloud. I noticed
how the sound of " handle "
echoed " hand, " and how
the vowel sound in " string "
semi-echoed " piece. " Then
there was " fuzzy " -its
sound, I realized, an outlier,
a bumblebee among sharks.
Just when I needed
something to steady myself,
I grasped at monosyllables:
" small bright knife, " " red
string " -each one sturdy as a
walking stick, or a heartbeat.
I love longhand's tactile
engagement, but if you
prefer typing, go ahead.
What's essential here is a
sense of freedom-anything
that lets you put space
around words to hear and
see them in new, powerful
ways. Immersed in, and at
the mercy of, an interpreting
session, you can't do this.
Now is your time to reclaim
your voice, your language in
all its dimensions.
session writing,
the shared rhythms of
consecutive interpreting.
Even during searing,
high-stakes testimony,
I've found-and clients
have confirmed-a quiet
but essential undertone of
mutual support in the shared
rhythms of consecutive
interpreting.6
2 Honor, in postis
going well, try to hear,
if only for a few seconds,
the back-and-forth duet
unfolding as your unique,
human voice interweaves
with another voice-also
human, also unique.
Later, in a journal or
wherever you do your
personal writing, try to
remember a few sequences
of words or phrases, first
in the speaker's voice, then
yours. Place these on the
page however you want,
just as you did when writing
about your experiences in
your solo voice.
Watch as these phrases
take shape. Speak them,
feel them in your body
like the hum that starts
up in your throat as you
welcome your favorite song.
Listen to the differences
between languages like
musical instruments, each
contributing its timbre as
thread to tapestry.
Do any of these sounds
evoke memories, whether of
hearing or learning? For me
(not a native speaker), that
tricky French " r " reminds
me of seventh grade, when
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The ATA Chronicle - September/October 2022

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