I work with words. I also teach other people to work with words. Twice a year, I hold an 8-week (Saturday mornings only) introductory class for people interested in spoken-language interpretation. Along with the basic modes and techniques of interpreting, I stress ad nauseum the idea that language is always in flux, making it impossible for interpreters and translators to rest on their laurels and say, to quote George Lopez, "I got this."
Just think: in the past couple of decades "sweet" has come to mean "cool", but not the kind that is the opposite of hot. One can conceivably be both hot and cool and not even be talking about menopause.
"Bad" can be good but not virtuous, prompting some to say that it's "bad to be bad." Which would mean good. "Pimp" has become a verb and not necessarily a negative one; "sick" isn't; women can be foxes and cougars simultaneously, and few recall that once upon a time "making love" "pitching woo" and "courting" were all synonymous with flirting.
Along with changing language, court interpreters must recognize nuanced speech – lawyers use it heavily, especially with juries. Sometimes, I assign my students to pick a current event, and then read the stories published by opposing ends of the media spectrum. Their task is to de-spin the work of spin doctors, until they come up with non-nuanced texts. (The resulting stories are usually quite short.) And if my class contains individuals who are particularly inclined toward one political extreme or the other, this exercise often provides a good segue into the lesson on controlling emotions and bias while interpreting.
We must be prepared to follow changing developments smoothly. Unflappably, one might say. No words are morally bad. They may simply convey morally reprehensible or perhaps vulgar ideas. Screams, shouts, political incorrectness: nothing should shake the professional interpreter. A colleague once told me of a case he'd served on where the defendant, upon losing, chose to launch a series of invectives at the judge. The (very good) interpreter promptly let loose with the corresponding energetic string of profanity in English. After the courtroom was almost empty, the judge looked at my acquaintance and commented, "I know you were just doing your job – but you didn't have to enjoy it!"
At any rate, this is what I do. Whether translating at my desk or interpreting in a courtroom or deposition, words are my stock in trade and it is my job to keep up with changes in that stock. Calmly, smoothly, efficiently.
Life, on the other hand, delights in upending my smooth, efficient calm. There are times outside the courtroom when the subtle changes in language ambush me, and it's never pretty. When I was first dating John, we agreed to meet his mother for a quick bite to eat at Braums. (Besides the best milk around, Braums makes a pretty mean hamburger. Mean as in good, not average, stingy or heartless. Sorry, it's a word thing.)
I had only met his mother briefly once before and very much wanted to her to like me. As John and I stood in the parking lot, waiting for her to arrive, we snuck a few kisses, hugged, and laughed together – a lot. The moment her car pulled into the parking lot, though, I begged for a little decorum. John and decorum were not generally compatible. Still, for my sake, he tried.
One thing about conversation between John and his mother: they used a slightly different English than what I was used to. Some words seemed to preserve older meanings, unchanged in this little pocket of Texas. It was fascinating for a word person like me. So I listened with decorum and interest and tried hard to make a good impression.
It was all going so well. Then a sweet-faced elderly woman approached our table. Handing John a little card about friendship, she said, "I just had to come over to give you this and tell you that I so enjoyed watching the two of you making love in the parking lot..."
The noise suddenly got sucked out of the restaurant. Horrified, I glanced at John's mother. And at John. And at the smiling, elderly woman. My composure slid under the table and I wanted to follow.
Eventually, it registered that the other three were still chatting comfortably. My future mother-in-law was fully aware of the old meaning of the phrase. The only sign that anyone knew of my inner melt-down was the occasional twitch in John's shoulders as he held back his laughter.
I still have that little card. It's a good reminder that laurels and dignity are no match for real life.
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