Translating Ana Castillo

The violent repression of our spirits and sexuality has gone against our molecular connection with the Earth. We continue on this mummified track because the process of alienation and denial that has been violently imposed on humanity has existed for so long, we’re numbed into apathy. We have forgotten but it is not too late to remember.
Ana Castillo, “Resurrection of the Dreamers,” Massacre of the Dreamers.

The only interesting sort of translating is that of classics.
Boris Pasternak


My coursework for the doctorate in Spanish complete, I was in the process of writing my dissertation when Prof. Charles “Chuck” Tatum, a pioneer scholar in Chicana and Chicano literature—and one of the finest persons on this planet—invited me to take part in a course he was teaching.

That experience altered my life.

Having spent years immersed in the literature of Latin America and Spain, I had no knowledge that Latinos and Latinas in the United States were producing incredibly accomplished and beautiful works—in English. That semester I read several books that continue to haunt me to this day, including Ana Castillo’s brilliant first novel, The Mixquiahuala Letters.

Since then, I’ve been preaching the glories of Latina and Latino literature with the zeal one usually finds in religious converts.

Regarding Ana Castillo, throughout the years I’ve included her writings as required readings in my classes. And at present I’m a faithful reader of her weblog entries. I also subscribe to her email list. It was precisely through this list that I learned that she needed help translating a few of her poems into Spanish.

Generally, I dislike translating. Years ago I prepared the Spanish text for John Annerino’s bilingual publication, The Wild Country of Mexico/La Tierra Salvaje de México. Because the author is a friend, and I was well acquainted with the excellent quality of his photojournalism, I agreed to take on a task which, in the end, I much enjoyed. I do, however, tend to agree with Boris Pasternak’s assessment that translating is akin to copying someone else’s paintings. Because a translator is duty-bound to preserve the integrity of the original text, there is little room for personal creativity.

But translation does allow you to take a glimpse into an author’s thoughts; and because this represented an extraordinary opportunity to rummage inside of Ana Castillo’s creative process, I responded to her call.

After exchanging a few emails, Ana agreed to trust me with the assignment. My first task then became to help her choose several poems for translation from her most recent work: Watercolor Women, Opaque Men, a novel in verse.

(Early in our communications, I learned that Ana needed the poems translated into Spanish so she could read them at a poetry festival that’s taking place this week in Granada, Nicaragua. This is my second hometown, the city where I spent my adolescence. The coincidence still staggers me.)

The poems of Watercolor Women, Opaque Men narrate a woman’s journey to selfhood and independence, in spite of facing considerable hardships and limitations because she's the daughter of migrant workers. The verses also tell the stories of a few of the people that the heroine—known throughout only as Ella/She—encounters along the way. As usual, Ana narrative is enthralling. What’s more, in her usual boldness for literary experimentation, she bends the boundaries imposed by genres, marvelously so.

In Watercolor Women, Opaque Men, Ana revisits the themes that preoccupy her: motherhood, family, the plight of exploited workers, the importance of recording and honoring the stories of our ancestors, a woman’s right to be strong and independent, the contributions of Mexican immigrants to U.S. society, the right to love without restrictions of age and gender, and the quest for self-discovery.

After reading Watercolor Women, Opaque Men—a book I highly recommend—I made a list of the fifteen poems I felt would go over well with a mostly Central American audience. Out of my suggestions, Ana selected four: “Lord and Lady of Sustenance,” “Mamá Grande,” “Cipactli: Woman as Monster,” and “Tonalli.”

The translations, as I had expected, proved quite challenging. When rendering poetry into another language, verses will always lose much of their telling rhythms as well as the more subtle nuances of meaning. Nevertheless, I gave the project my best effort and had a lot of fun in the process.

I’d like to share a few samples from my “collaboration” with Ana Castillo. In this excerpt of “Lord and Lady of Sustenance,” the heroine recalls how in spite of the ceaseless hardships she and her family experienced in their lives as agricultural migrant workers, there were a few tender moments that redeemed them:

I held on to the little things,
stashed in crevices,
to pull out when I really needed them.

The time, for instance,
when my mother kept both of us in
to cure my chronic ear infection.

She warmed olive oil on the hot plate,
poured it in my ear with a borrowed dropper
and used a luxuriant piece

Of cotton from an aspirin bottle to keep it in.
I remember the aroma of her flour tortillas on the comal.
As for my father:

He leaned over and whispered,
“You look just like your mother—
the prettiest woman

I’ve ever known.”
He kissed me on the brow.
That was how he said he loved me.


My translation into Spanish of these poignant verses resulted in the following:


Me aferré a las cosas pequeñas,
ocultas en las grietas,
para sacarlas cuando de verdad las necesitaba.

Como la vez, por ejemplo,
que mi madre se quedó conmigo en casa
para sanar la infección crónica de mi oído.

Ella calentó aceite de oliva sobre el calientaplatos,
lo echó dentro de mi oído con una cuentagotas prestada
y empleó un pedazo exuberante

De algodón de una botella de aspirinas para mantenerlo dentro.
Recuerdo el olor de sus tortillas de harina en el comal.
En cuanto a mi padre:

Él se agachó y susurró,
“Eres igualita a tu madre—
la mujer más bonita

Que jamás he conocido”.
Me besó en la frente.
Así era como él decía que me amaba.


The poem “Mamá Grande” has a surprise ending that proved a fascinating exercise in translation. In English, the verses read:


Then, without having asked,
made an announcement,
requested the father’s permission,

Or even wondered if the girl would have consented,
Mamá Grande cut the braid with her
sewing scissors.

With a sharp zas,
unrecoverable and no way to retract,
gone just like that.

“Here,” Mamá Grande said,
handing over the severed tresses,
“One day you’ll need a few pesos,

“You can sell this.
When all accounts are made,
you will always be your most reliable resource.”


The translation:


Entonces, sin haber consultado,
dado un indicio,
pedido el permiso del padre,

O haberse preguntado si la niña hubiese estado de acuerdo,
Mamá Grande le cortó la trenza con sus
tijeras de coser.

Con un agudo zas,
irrecuperable y sin manera de retractarse,
cercenada como si nada.

“Aquí tienes”, dijo Mamá Grande,
entregándole la cabellera tronchada,
“Algún día necesitarás unos pesos.

“Puedes vender esto.
Al fin de cuentas,
siempre serás el recurso en que más puedes depender”.


And in the poem “Tonalli,” the narrator defies convention by falling in love with the main character, Ella, a much older woman. In English, the verses read


“She’s older than Mamá”
clucked my sister,
pointing out the obvious,

Who has been cuckolded more
times than she can count
and does not understand that faithfulness

Doesn’t depend on social requisites
of appropriateness, like age or status.
But on knowing what you want

And recognizing it,
if you are lucky enough
to have found it.


The translation of these seditious verses:


“Es mayor que mamá”,
chistó mi hermana,
señalando lo obvio,

Que ha sido engañada más
veces de las que se pueden contar
y no comprende que la fidelidad

No depende de requisitos
de lo que es apropiado, como edad o posición social.
Pero en saber lo que uno quiere.

Y reconocerlo,
si uno ha tenido la suerte
de haberlo descubierto.


Admittedly, the translations were quite rushed, and neither Ana nor I had the luxury of time to consult with one another in order to further polish them. Nevertheless, I’m satisfied with the results. What’s more, as if getting Ana Castillo’s visto bueno wasn’t reward enough, she had the extraordinary kindness to send an email to the members of her list in which she recognized my work. Her message reads, in part:

Mis apreciados lectores y amigos, dear readers and friends:
I trust this greeting finds you all in good health and spirits.

I want to take this opportunity to thank the many individuals who responded to my request for translations of Watercolor Women, Opaque Men excerpts. It was nearly overwhelming & much appreciated.

I'd especially like to thank the novelist, Silvio Sirias, author of Bernardo and the Virgin for formally taking on the task and for the translations. In the process of his endeavor I was invited to submit work to a periodical in Barcelona. So, sometime in the future we'll see Mr. Sirias' translations there w/ my original work.

The periodical Ana refers to is Paralelo Sur and it’s available both online and in print.

This was, for me, one of those rare occasions when working with a person one has greatly admired from afar was everything one could’ve hoped for, and more.