If, like me, you are the child of an immigrant, you may have grown up with translating responsibilities – that is, you found yourself speaking on behalf of a parent whose English was still improving, or who lacked the confidence to express themselves with nuance in a doctor’s surgery, shop, or council office.
For the children whose parents rely on them to interpret, it’s a lot of responsibility. I did not carry this burden (my mother spoke English well) but I did become the de facto strongly worded letter-writer, and the one who would manage any bureaucratic nightmares. This was because, even though Mum’s English was great, there was a part she couldn’t quite get – the bit of the dance that is indirect, where the bad news is obfuscated in politeness: “Thank you for your complaint. We are terribly sorry to offer you nothing.” Instead, Mum would tell me what she wanted to happen, and I would begin, “Dear Sir, I write to you regarding an urgent matter…”
I’ve been thinking about this, because I have started to send my own letters to a friend. I call her my “doubt proofer”: she removes the parts where I doubt myself. For example, my application to volunteer on an education scheme: “I care passionately about the education outcomes of poorer children,” I began, “although I have no direct education experience nor children in the age range of the scheme.”
“Delete this” came her note, with the second part underlined.
It makes sense: language reveals us more than we think, and as we are human, that includes our shortcomings. Someone offering to plug that gap is an underrated kindness.
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that every adult needs a second pair of eyes. Those truthful friends are a real gift.
