There are days when I remember
The shtetl I’ll never see
Great aunts and uncles I’ll never meet
The dust and dark
That choked my great-grandfather
a coal miner
the whispered prayers
changed names
the candles snuffed out
The hours
weeks
years
spent pretending
not to be
There are days I remember
My own whispers
The looks I got
calling my father papa
saying bracha before I ate
refusing baptism
with hands so small
they could barely hold a pencil
I have inherited journeys
years of wandering
through deserts
snowfields
unfriendly cities
I have inherited stories
Songs of mourning
bitter work
hardship
But on those days
when my great-grandparents’ voyage
across oceans, across worlds
feels closest
I remind myself of the songs of joy
of the challah recipes
the prayers sung with voices
loud and shaking, rejoicing
They never made it to the promised land
they never got to see their candles
standing proud on a shabbos table
but I know they hear my voice now
they see me on the bima
holding the torah for all to see
they rejoice with me
in all our hardship
I have inherited journeys
hardships
sorrow
but also the strength
the joy
the passion
to stand up
and keep walking
Pet names are a persistent remnant of childhood, a reminder that life is not always so serious, so formal, so complicated. They are a reminder, too, that one is not all things to all people.
Kwame Dawes tells a story about a panel discussion on poetry and translation. A writer expresses her frustration about Russian poetry in translation, since taking it out of its original context affects the rhyme and meter. “How would you like to be kissed through a curtain?” Someone answers, “Better than not kissing at all.”
What attracts me to translation is its mediated, flawed nature, its human-ness. I tell my students that poetry is about deep listening. The poem is both a medium and a material/object of attention-making. The role of any poet is as a transcriber and a translator, wending through language’s essence. Poetry is for the immigrant child making their way across fractured landscapes, the artist forging trails into the unknown, the migrants traversing borders into an unfamiliar world. This wending, like Celan’s welding of words, brings us to the languagelessness of breath: pure poetry. Like kissing through a curtain and then lifting the veil to open up a new path.
- Kissing through a Curtain: Notes on Translation By J. Mae Barizo