QuechuWHAAAA?????

Interpreting for Ecuadoreans can be hit or miss if they are from some mountain region in rural Ecuador where their first language is not even Spanish but something indigenous like Quechua.

I try to explain this to people and they look at me like, Que chu Wha??? Yes, it’s a language. It’s a beautiful language, actually, but it’s annoying when you are asked to interpret for this kind of litigant because THEY DON’T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK SPANISH. Hello? It’s not their first language. Or maybe they just grew up speaking both and so therefore they do not speak either particularly well, and this makes my life a fucking pain in the ass.

I’m not angry or anything, it’s just the way it is, and this is a rant.

So this Ecuadorean gets on the stand the other day and was asked what happened during a fight. He replies, “Me sabia pegando.”

To someone who was raised speaking proper Castilian (Spanish, whatever you want to call it), this statement makes absolutely no sense. It translates to: He/She was knowing hitting me.

Or something like that. In fact, what the person really meant to say was: Me pegaba, (He would hit me, or He was hitting me) depending on context.

So you see my frustration? I would like to learn Quechua but that’s not possible so I’ll just have to listen to quaint Andean flute music on PutuMayo CDs or something cause that’s the closest I’ll ever get to learning the language.

The Spirit is Willing But I Forget to Login

I should be posting something new AT LEAST every week here on this court interpreter blog, but I’ve been busy and not very motivated. Apparently, I have two fans, two court interpreter groupies. Thanks to both of you. Now go tell your court interpreter friends to read my blog or subscribe to it or whatever so everytime I post a story about this insane job they will get an alert and they can share the love.

Muchas Gracias.

Court Interpreter

Ok Ok, I’m Back

I’ve been ignoring this blog for way too long and two people over the past several months have complained so I’m back to blogging about this ridiculous profession. (I say that with much affection towards my fellow court terps).

So what’s new? I suppose I should again talk about what I do for a living, which is interpret Spanish in a courtroom somewhere in the United States where lots of Spanish-speaking people live (specifically the ones who tend to get into trouble with “la ley”).

I’m taking a break today from my disgusting courthouse cafeteria ham and cheese sandwich to discuss an attorney client interview I just did with the kind of person who is particularly loathesome: the child sex abuser. They are like little monsters and they come in different linguistic flavors … some from Dominican Republic, others from Peru, or Mexico, or Spain. They all speak Spanish with delightfully different accents and they are all accused of the same heinous crimes.

And the amazing thing is the spin they put on their crimes. “I never asked her to kiss me,” is a common response. Or the ridiculously vague, “I accepted her.”

Enough about this topic. It was on my mind today and so I’m writing about it, but usually I don’t have to interpret for these kinds of cases. Truth be told, I can handle it. I’m just sorry the rest of the people in the courtroom have to hear it. I feel very uncomfortable thinking that other people around me are feeling uncomfortable. Plus, when it’s time for a defendant to say, “Yes, I put my ____ on her ____” it’s basically me who has to say the words out loud.

Ok, enough already with the subject.

I’m not hungry anymore.

Top 10 reasons why court interpreting rocks

1. We are indispensable. No interpreter? No trial. No plea. No arraignment. Where’s the interpreter? Sigh … Yeah, baby!

2. Prosecuties. (I would have made this the number one reason why court interpreting rocks but I don’t want to come across as too lecherous … But damn! Some of these women gave up careers as models to hang out with criminals but hey, more eye candy for me.

3. Case dismissed! Interpreter shows up all ready to go and alas, no more case ..

4. Best seats it the house for tense attorney-client exchanges. I get to hear the juiciest details! Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul …

5. Court in session at 9:00 a.m. not a minute later! HA!! Please. I’m lucky to be interpreting by 11:30.   (ok, slight exaggeration but you get the idea.)

6. Make friends in high places. I got friends who are judges and sheriffs. Who are you friends with?

7. Hot prosecutors. Oh wait, I already mentioned that.

8. Permission to interrupt a judge in mid-sentence with no consequences. “Sorry, Your Honor, the interpreter couldn’t hear that last sentence.”

9. People thank us constantly. Shit, I’ve even been offered money by grateful litigants. (I always accept cash but not money orders unless it’s special circumstances)***

10. NO HOMEWORK. YEAH. SUCKERS!!!

*** KIDDING.

Clackety-clack, Don’t Talk Back

The other day I had to interpret for an indigent Venezuelan man who had been hauled into court for non-payment of child support. This guy owed $23,000 in arrears.

He was a funny lookin’ guy who hobbled in with a walker. Not too old but definitely not too young or fit, either. He almost looked like a real life version of a Simpsons cartoon character.

As soon as he approached me to take his place in front of the judge, I knew something was amiss. I thought I heard the faint sound of marbles banging together.

A sideways glance confirmed the sad truth. This guy had some very bad false teeth in his mouth. I guess it’s like when you buy a T-shirt that’s too big and just doesn’t fit right. Well, this guy’s teeth were definitely the wrong size.

I don’t know much about false teeth but I do know that when they’re in wrong, the sound is unnerving. Everytime he said something it was all marbles. Marbles, marbles, marbles. I know how to say marbles in Spanish!

To make matters worse, he was basically illiterate and had a very tough accent. If God wanted me to have a bad, bad, day, he’d have me interpreting for this character on the witness stand in front of television news crews in a high profile case.

Thankfully it was a quick case and I didn’t have to interrupt TOO  many times. Poor guy …

I’m so mean ha ha ha … just kidding.

If Some Humans are Asses …

… and all judges are human …

then … wait a second (neurons whirring) THAT MEANS SOME JUDGES ARE ASSES!

Indeed, I can’t stand it when a judge feels the need to tell me where I can and cannot interpret.

-”Mr. Interpreter,” I need you to sit over there in the first row of public benches.

-”Here, Your Honor? Judge, it’s difficult to hear the witness from back here.”

-”Well, we can’t have you distracting the witness.”

Distracting the witness? Distracting? Hello? Did the witness say they were distracted? Does the witness have a brain? What about distracting the interpreter? How about equal access to justice for the non-english speaking plaintiff who is entitled to hear everything in Spanish? My ability to interpret everything into Spanish DEPENDS on my ability to hear everyone clearly!

Don’t stick me in the corner of the courtroom next to an air vent, ok? I don’t want to be near the crying baby, either. It’s hard enough to have to listen to someone talking over the sound of my own voice, let alone do that with a fusspot in diapers three feet away.

Do you know where I need to be? I need to be next to the witness if it’s witness testimony. I need to stand near the court reporter. The court reporter is my friend, and many a reporter has thanked me for interrupting a proceeding in order to clarify something not heard.

I need to go prepare for a trial. No more whining for today.

Stinkin’ Litigants

Today I got to interpret for a man with a mighty powerful stench.

I guess you could say that interpreting for members of the public exposes one to the possiblity of atmospheric contamination. Can you actually get sick from inhaling air that is infused with the putrid smell of rotting fruit?

I noticed the four odor on my way to the hearing room. The air molecules in the hallway leading to the doorway were carrying the wretched chemical compounds.

My case wasn’t ready and I decided to wait in an adjacent empty office. The smell was just as bad in there, too. I gagged.

Sensing no escape, I walked into the lion’s den and sat down beside the litigant. Why o why didn’t I bring my wireless equipment to work today? Of all the stinkin’ days … Everytime this guy moved, let alone spoke, waves of rank air flowed into my breathing space. Not wanting to limit this guy’s right to competent interpretation, I kept my voice up while holding on to the far edge of the table.

Unfortunately for me, a woman sitting behind me decided she preferred to let her chest cough out freely into the room instead of covering her mouth. I found myself responding to this rear assault by leaning forward.

The stinky, rotting fruit ligitant was pumping additional waves of gag-inducing odor in my direction as he protested his case. I’m normally in favor of allowing litigants to speak their mind but somebody just had to shut him and sign whatever piece of paper he needed to get him on his way.

The hearing officer decided he needed to check some files. Silence. Torturous silence. To my left, another member of the public attempted in vain to hold in a deep cough. Out it came, thankfully into her hand. With nowhere to lean but back in the direction of Mr. Fruitfly himself, I am caught between a cough and a hard place.

The bubble of clean air under my nose is shrinking fast and I start to hyperventilate. Didn’t anyone ever see that movie The Andromeda Strain? The old man and the infant were the only ones to survive a deadly airborn virus because of their rapid breathing.

So can a stench actually be contagious? Who knows. I’m an interpreter so I overanalyze everything.

Each second seemed like 5 minutes. The awful fear, of course, is that after a period of time immersed in a foul odor, the nose adapts. The thought that I could actually get used to the smell provoked immediate nausea.

Finally made it out alive and walked/ran quickly to the nearest exit. Fresh air!! Relief.

The Joy of Interpretation

Well, last Friday was Good Friday folks and being the lucky civil servant that I am, the courts were closed! Let’s all chant the mantra together: “Vuelva usted mañana,” vuelva usted mañana,” vuelva usted ….” ok you get the idea.

Do I miss interpreting when I’m not interpreting? Honestly, I love to interpret. I’m sitting in a cafe right now, typing away, browsing the Internet, and there’s nothing I’d enjoy more than helping someone who doesn’t speak any English (and whose native language is preferably Spanish) order their coffee and bagel. Who knows, maybe I can work the situation into a dinner date if there’s chemistry … (Hey, interpreters are human, too …)

Or maybe the owner of the cafe gets into an argument with a Spanish-speaking employee … count on yours truly to jump into the fray to ensure smooth communication. Granted, in these out-of-court situations, I may be tempted to step into the role of mediator, too.

Speaking of spontaneous interpreting, I was on the train the other day and noticed a man with a ticket in his hand trying to communicate something to a uniformed officer. Benevolent cotilla that I am, I approach the strangers and instantly hear the inflections and accent of a Spanish speaker. The poor guy is having a rough time trying to convince Officer Clark that his ticket is valid.

“Excuse me, do you guys need an interpreter? I’m a certified court interpreter (I leave the “federally” part out, because frankly I suspect they could care less what level of certification I’ve have).

Officer Clark pauses and looks at me.

“Tell him his ticket is expired.”

For a second, I consider advising this friendly law enforcement agent to direct his statements to the ticket holder himself (Am I a stickler for good interpreter protocol or what?) but decide against this in light of the tense circumstances.

The man responds and quick with my pen and notepad, I launch into consecutive mode, jotting down excuses, dates, and numbers. Just kidding. I’m a court interpreter, not an obsessive lunatic who doesn’t know how to unwind after work! I keep the man’s utterances to manageable lengths and dutifully interpret the officer’s terse responses.

After about five minutes of linguistic ping-pong and no end in sight, the police officer gives me a look that can only suggest he’d rather be watching a football game and throws in the towel.

“Alright, well consider this a warning,” he tells the man.

“Gracias, muchas gracias. Thank you,” he replies.

Now why can’t contentious civil cases end like this?

I’ll see you all in court …

Notes on a Trial , part I

POKE ME: If I’m interpreting at the witness stand for the plaintiff and you, my interpreter partner in crime (kidding), are sitting right behind me and suddenly you hear me interpret “I turned left” when you know the plaintiff actually said “I started to turn left”, POKE ME!!!

I don’t care if you are afraid of embarrassing me unnecessarily. The witness’ punitive damages are at stake! I’m secure enough as an interpreter to roll with the punches. I won’t even be offended if you correct me on the most seemingly insignificant detail. Truly.

Now, if you make a mistake while I’m riding shotgun, I might not be so inclined to poke. I have to admit, it’s hard to drum up the courage and conviction to interrupt our moment of solidarity in the name of justice.

I think we all have to be a little more laid back and a little less insecure (you insecure court interpreters know who you are) and take the “pokes” in stride like the cool and confident professionals that we are.

Got married on the same date …

I was intepreting for the plaintiff in a divorce settlement conference. The judge proceeded with his line of questions:

Judge: When were you married?

Plaintiff: September 20, 1999.

When it came time for the judge to question the husband, he proceeded with the same line of questions.

Judge: Sir, can you confirm the date of your marriage.

Defendant: I think it was the same date that she said.

Judge cracks up: Well, I should hope so. Gee, what a coincidence.

Plaintiff laughs out loud as I’m interpreting this hilarious exchange.