Equivalence

xime silva

Nine years old and holding my Bible to my chest like a teddy bear, my mom asks me to pray for a good husband. She holds her rosary, asks me to picture my wedding day.

***

The first time I bring my girlfriend home to meet my mom, I introduce her as my best friend. Anna wears purple nail polish, chipped at the tips of her fingers from biting. Since Anna can only speak English, and my mom can only speak Spanish, I’m once again given the task of fitting others’ words over my tongue. I’m well-versed in transforming language in this way, especially for my mom.

She shakes Anna’s hand, asks, ¿Tienes hambre? The literal translation of which is Do you have hunger? In English, hunger is not something one can possess. It’s a state of being; one is hungry. My mom looks at me, reminding me that I’m the only bridge between her and my girlfriend. I turn to Anna. She’s asking if you’re hungry, I say. She chuckles nervously, her laugh like a shy bell. She nods.

I begin to realize that I don’t feel like a bridge between them so much as a filter; I choose which semantical impurities to remove, which ideas. There is no such thing as a one-to-one equivalence of words in different languages.

***

In my nine-year-old brain, my wedding is somewhere in southern Mexico, sometime after the summer heat has subsided and the autumn rains are yet to begin. My man wears a perfectly fitted wool tux with satin-faced lapels and patent leather loafers. My dress hugs my figure, its hand-embroidered floral details flowing down the tiered skirt.

Half of the audience doesn’t speak the language in which the ceremony is officiated. A common sentiment, though, is shared: they’ve all been gathered here to witness the happiest day of someone’s life. And doesn’t this transcend language? Isn’t God, and a woman in a white dress, and a man in a suit and tie, something entirely wordless?

***

At the dinner table, Anna sits to the right of me, my mom at the opposite end of the table. She apologizes for not having the time to cook something more elaborate—just sandwiches. Lo siento, she says. (Literal translation: I feel this. Accurate translation: I’m sorry). The problem with translating, for me, is that language itself is operating in translation. My mom is already a translator, in a way, trying to put into words the fundamentally wordless impulses of her body and mind. I have to generate a second translation for Anna in my attempt to return to the native tongue of reality. Every word is a stand-in; every syllable imperfect.

***

My man is the spitting image of his God. His nose is turned-up, has a narrow bridge, points to the sky. His eyes like a mirror of heaven: blue and clear and wide. His hands reach for my sheer veil, lift it carefully. This reveal, too, requires no language.

***

In the middle of dinnertime conversation, when Anna’s hand travels quietly to my thigh, her fingers stroking the seam of my jeans, my mom notices, pauses her eating. She says, Ahorita regreso, then leaves the kitchen.

I look at my sandwich, sliced diagonally, the left half slouched a bit. See, I want to tell Anna, my mom is saying that the sight of you, of this—its implications—form a pit in her stomach. Instead, I say, She’ll be right back. I want to believe I’m doing my job, taking my mom’s words and repackaging them accurately for Anna to understand. Even if I feel the lie as the words jump off my tongue.

***

My man and I say our vows. My man leans in for the kiss, his whole white Jesus watching us from behind the altar. In this fantasy, I feel no urge to swerve, to dodge his kiss. My lips rush towards it, and this does not feel like a kind of surrender.

***

My head rests on Anna’s shoulder. Do you think she knows? she asks, her chin atop my temple. I shrug, prod at my sandwich with a fork. When my mom returns, her jaw clenched with hostility, my spine becomes erect. Anna’s hand rests at the edge of the table and I place mine on top of it.

My mom reaches into her pocket, holds her rosary. She gestures towards our hands. ¿Esto qué? (This what?/ What is this?/ What are you?/ What does this mean?/ Explain this/ What?) I hold Anna’s hand tighter. I have nothing to say for myself. I become paralyzed at the responsibility of forming words all by myself.

Finally, my mom gives in, unclenches her jaw. She lets out a sob—something that does not require translation.

Xime Silva is a junior at Interlochen Arts Academy. Her work has been recognized by the Poetry Society of America and the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards.