In Translation

I fanned myself vigorously with one hand as I blotted out the sweat from my forehead with the other. The mid-afternoon August sun was merciless, beaming into my squinting eyes and wrapping my body with a stifling embrace. Had it been any other day, I would have welcomed the warmth, closed my eyes, sprawled out on the grass, and surrendered to the summer heat. But this wasn’t any day. This was International Orientation.

This was the day I had been waiting for the entire summer, or honestly, longer than that. It was not the official first day of class, but the first day of welcome weekend. This was the day when I would have the chance to meet my new classmates and hopefully make friends.

Okay, just be yourself…but also your best self.

I sat up straighter and crisscrossed my legs on the lawn as I forced myself to focus on the buzz of conversation around me. I honestly couldn’t tell whether the sweat on my face was from the rays of the sun or from the stress and butterflies in my stomach. My body felt like it was in fight or flight mode, its way of telling me that this was important, that I had to make a lasting impression.

I surveyed the faces of the dozen girls seated around me, all new, and each just as eager and anxious as the next. A voice broke through the murmur of side conversations. “De donde son?” asked a girl with a welcoming smile.

“Yo de Colombia,” someone said.

“Yo de Peru,” said another.

My turn approached. I swallowed. What version of myself should I present?

“Yo de Bolivia” I said. A compromise.

It passed unperceived, and the conversation moved forward. Naturally, girls latched on to their shared experiences, high school names, cities, and family friends. At some point, Latin America becomes very small; everyone knows a friend… of a friend… of a friend… who knows you.

One girl turned to face me and asked in Spanish, “Where do you live, La Paz?” She asked it kindly, with genuine curiosity, but I still flushed. This was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. “Actually,” I responded, “My parents are from Santa Cruz, which is the other big city in Bolivia, but I currently live in Connecticut”.

The word Connecticut landed heavy. I felt the blood rush to my face and my shoulders contract in tension. Everyone's judging, everyone knows I don’t fit in. I was now hyperaware of the lack of a breeze and felt the thick, oppressive air drown my body as if I were underwater. My ears rang. I held my breath.

“Oh, so you're a gringa,” one of the girls responded.

I could tell she didn’t say it as an insult–it wasn’t rude. Just matter-of-fact. But to me, it felt like an accusation. A label that rolled off her tongue and sliced me.

That's not true! I am Bolivian, I spend months there every summer, and both my parents are from Santa Cruz. Plus, I grew up in Brazil, so I spent most of my life in South America anyway.

But I only rebutted her in my mind. My silence was safer. I gave a little shrug.

“I guess,” I laughed awkwardly.

It wasn’t a lie. After all, my passport was blue, with an eagle and stars inside. I was born in Hoboken and had spent the last three years in Connecticut. I was American, and proudly so. But the term gringa reduced me to something smaller than myself.

That night, as my fan turned uselessly and I tossed and turned because of the heat, I searched “Gringo”.

I cringed. It had not felt derogatory earlier that day, but there was no denying that it meant “outsider,” it meant “not Latina.” The word marked a split between how I saw myself and how others had perceived me earlier that day. I couldn’t stop the memories that floated to my mind.

***

Where am I from?

My first day at my new school. Sophomore year. Connecticut.

I struck up a conversation with a girl in my AP US History class.

“I just moved from Brazil,” I said, trying to sound casual.

We chatted for a bit, then she suddenly interjected: “Oh yeah, you definitely have an accent.”

I flushed.

“Really?” I asked. The comment hit me like a brick. I felt my identity crack and my smile tighten. I couldn’t have an accent.

English is my first language. If I don’t sound like I’m from here, where do I belong?

An accent wasn’t supposed to live on my tongue. I wanted to disappear into sameness.

So I listened. I listened to the clipped vowels of my classmates, to the rushed rhythm of their words, to their nasal tone that I began to mirror. I molded my vocabulary to fit those around me. I mimicked others texting, memorizing abbreviations: fr, idk, idc, ily, asap, btw, lol. When my friends said something I didn’t understand, I nodded and laughed along. Later, I would look it up: “Left on Delivered.: Press Enter. Quietly.

I typed relentlessly that year. I didn’t want to be caught unaware of a reference or be ignorant of the norm.

Am I Brazilian?

Age seven.

The whole apartment is filled with the rich smell of condensed milk and cocoa powder as my mom stirs a pot of brigadeiro in the kitchen–a beloved Brazilian treat that no birthday party can be left without. The chocolate truffles are neatly arranged across the table, leaving just enough room in the middle of the table for the cake.

The candles flicker and warm my flushed cheeks as my friends begin to sing “Parabéns pra você, nesta data querida…” loud and off-key. My heart glows golden, and I feel right at home.

Am I Bolivian?

It’s noon in Santa Cruz, and the dining hall feels like a little oasis, shielding us from the blistering midday sun. I dig into the plate of majadito in front of me—golden rice topped with a perfectly fried egg—devouring each bite before my cousins and I plead to be excused. As soon as we’re given the nod, we leap from our chairs and race outside.

The air is thick and sweet–humid and tinged with the scent of fried yuca drifting from nearby kitchens.

“¡Juguemos a las escondidas!” someone shouts, and we scatter in fits of laughter. I find my hiding spot behind the wide mango tree at the edge of the property, pressing myself into its shade. I hold my breath and listen. From a distance, the neighbor’s stereo hums to life, and the familiar tune of “Viva Santa Cruz” echoes through the neighborhood.

I know every word. I sing it at every family gathering, loud and proud, because this is my family, my culture, my home.

Am I American?

I waddle through the snowy streets of Hoboken, my tiny boots squeaking against the slushy pavement. Clutching my dad’s hand, I chatter excitedly, reciting everything I learned at school that day. I count to thirty—my proudest accomplishment—and he beams with praise before lifting me onto his shoulders.

“Can you see the Empire State?” he asks, pointing across the Hudson.

I nod, then bury my face into his jacket, shielding myself from the biting wind.

The city stretches out before me, vast and glittering. But wrapped in my dad’s coat, high above the ground, I feel small, safe, and completely at home.

***

Eventually, I was able to toss and turn myself to sleep. I woke up with the same butterflies as the day before. As I wandered onto the Quad, I made eye contact with a girl I had seen on the first day of orientation.

“¡Hola! “Ana Lucia no?” She asked as she approached me.

“¡Si! ¡Hola! ¿Paola?” I asked back.

“¡Si! No me pude presentar bien ayer. ¿Qué xopá? ¿Que tal tu primer día?”

As we struck up a conversation, I noticed how she spoke.

Where’s that accent from? It’s energetic and fun. Ah, of course. She’s from Panama. Right by the Caribbean.

At one point, she used a word I didn’t recognize. “Que dijistes?” I laughed a little, “I don’t know that word.”

She paused and smiled, “Ah, Arranque? It’s like a party. You’ve never heard that word before?”

I shook my head. “No, I just say fiesta or junte.”

For once, I wasn’t embarrassed. I didn’t make a mental note to look it up later.

“But that's so interesting,” I continued. “It’s cool how every country has their own words.”

“Yeah, and with your three languages, you probably have an expression for everything,” she chuckled.

Yeah, I guess I hadn’t thought about it that way.

As the crowd around us thinned, we kept talking. Slowly, we found a rhythm–a blend of her rapid Spanish with an even mix of my Portuñol, Spanglish, and reinforcements of “likes” and “literallys.”

By the time I walked back to my dorm that night, my tongue felt thick, and my throat slightly sore, but I noticed my shoulders had dropped. The tension I’d been carrying melted, surrendering the way ice does to an August day–how a picolé drips onto Brazilian sand, how helado de canela pools under the Bolivian sun.

Discussion Questions

1. In what ways does the author’s deployment of language help illustrate the conflict—and, ultimately, resolution—she conveys through her narrative? How does it help convey her own shifting experiences and attitudes?

2. In the middle of the narrative, the author breaks from the central storyline to share a series of richly imagistic and sensorial moments. What is happening in these moments, and how are they in conversation with that central storyline that bookends the narrative?