Dignity and a Runny Nose

I don't usually post in such quick succession, but I don't usually get attacked by babies in court, either.

Today I had a rare interpreting assignment - rare, in that I rarely accept them. My practice is primarily translation and I like sitting in my little corner office (formerly my son's bedroom), surrounded by dictionaries and other resources. Instrumental music streams from Pandora as strings of words and phrases populate my mind. I sift through them, weighing, sometimes researching, perpetually seeking the right ones for the text before me.

It's a zen place, is my office. It's comfortable and comforting. But every so often I exchange it for the rapid-fire pace of interpretation. Change is good exercise for mind and soul, so from time to time I put my interpreting license to good use and let my brain run a different kind of obstacle course.

Off come the sweatpants and t-shirt, and out of the closet comes the suit and closed-toe shoes. I use a small briefcase. I even put on a little makeup to boost my professional appearance.

And that brings us to today.

There was only one case on the docket that required an interpreter. The offender was a juvenile. She was accompanied by both her mother and her child, a cherub with rosy cheeks and bouncy curls. Since Grandma was both Mom's guardian and Baby’s sitter, the judge allowed us all to approach the bench.

I interpret in court so rarely that I no longer have equipment. That's a mistake. As I stepped up slightly behind Grandma and began to interpret simultaneously, Baby reared back in shock. Those sparkling eyes squeezed almost shut. "NO!" she yelled, perceiving in me some kind of threat. The judge glanced over. Grandma tried offering a bottle, which promptly flew through the air, narrowly missing me. The judge didn't stop, so neither did I.

"No, no, no!" Baby insisted, launching her pacifier at me. Every time I got too close to her grandmother the tears began to flow. Little snot bubbles formed. Grandma shifted her to the other hip. I shifted to the other side of Grandma, trying to keep distance between me and Baby without interfering with Mom and the judge.

Then Baby’s fists balled up and she alternated between trying to hit me and trying to push me away.

Grandma turned from one side to the other, alternately trying to pacify her and keep her away from me.

I alternately dodged baby fists and feet and tried to keep access to Grandma's ear.

I can only imagine the show we were giving the folks in the gallery.

The short hearing was eventually over. Mom, Grandma and Baby left. The judge, who had been focused on Mom but couldn't help catching the action in her peripheral vision, stared at me - I couldn't tell whether in amazement or shock. Finally she said, "What was THAT?"

I wanted to say, "The death of my dignity, Your Honor." 

Instead, I asked for a signature on my time sheet and left. But on my way out of the courthouse I found the answer.

Baby was sitting on a bench with Grandma. As soon as she saw me, she squealed with laughter and reached for me, eyes sparkling.

So what was that, Your Honor? 

Just a little reminder to step out of my world from time to time. To forgive and forget. Maybe be a bit more flexible sometimes.

Just a little Reminder with bouncy curls and a runny nose.

Ó Carol Shaw 2018

When No One Seems to Listen

Friend Murphy, ever deaf to my pleas, has partnered with technology and upped our dysfunctional game. I now stand accused of not being who I say I am.

One of my Facebook accounts was disabled for “pretending to be someone else”. My account (and by extension, I) was deemed bogus. Without due process or hearing, I was abruptly ejected from that back-fence-around-the-world that I enjoy so much.

The initial shock morphed into something akin to loss, or maybe a form of existential crisis. It felt like my friends were all in the local hangout together because they were the cool kids who knew the secret code, and I - well, I was not. I was stuck on the outside, knocking on the door and looking for a keyhole.

Soon, the Five Stages of Facebook Loss set in.

Negotiation

A simple mistake, I thought. I have - sorry, had - two accounts. One for family and old friends; the other for colleagues, business friends, and my professional groups. Someone must have seen my picture on both pages and decided one was Me and the other was Not Me.

So I wrote to The Facebook Team (as the notice was signed) and explained the situation. 

The next morning, I received an email from Adele Gisell at Facebook. They could do nothing until I submitted the correct documentation. I sent a copy of my license to Ms. Gisell and moved into the next step.

Anxiety

Who did this to me? Who jumped to that conclusion and why didn't they talk to me first? Did I leave anyone mid-conversation? Did they now think I didn't care? Life was being shared and I wasn’t part of it. Did they miss me?

An email from Donnatella Oceans at Facebook dropped into my box. It was identical to the email received earlier. I submitted a copy of my passport (duly redacted) and moved on.

Irritation

Facebook said that a friend had reported me as an imposter. Some friend! And what's with the form letters, Facebook? And those were my photographs and memories and conversations with old friends. Mine, Facebook, not yours. At least give a little warning!

The next email, this time from Dezfara H'ghar, was identical to the previous emails and confirmed my suspicion that I was dealing with algorithms, not people. There was no human intelligence examining my documents; just a program, a two-dimensional robot designed to scan for certain patterns. The irony of a pretend customer service agent telling me that I was pretend was not lost on me.

Scheming

If you can't beat ‘em, join ‘em, the saying goes. In their lack of sentience, the programs could only search for patterns. So patterns they would have. For the disabled Facebook account I had used my original surname and my current one in order to be more easily identified by old friends; none of my legitimate documents contain that set of names. I would provide them with fake documents to beat a charge of being fake myself.

The following morning, I received an email (this time signed Blue Dela Cruz). It was the same form letter as before. Apparently, they can recognize fake documents but not real ones.

Resignation

Today, I quit what is arguably an excellent metaphor for our current political times. Despite all the busy back-and-forth, no one is accepting solutions that work for all parties. Questions are asked with little to no attempt to understand the problem. All responses are considered fake, regardless of any truth they may contain.

So today I quit trying to move the massive machine.

I'm taking action: not against but forward. Getting back in the game. Reestablishing connections. Reentering the social exchange. Because unless we make the effort ourselves, nothing happens.

And while it may feel like no one is ever really listening, I know that isn't true.

Murphy.

Murphy is always listening.

Ó Carol Shaw 2018