Lost in Translation

A Little Taste of Africa

-Kerri Anderson

Amongst a small shopping complex on Martin Luther King Blvd in North East Portland, sits the Horn of Africa. Behind the counter Mohamed Yousuf and his wife Khadija prepare platters of lukku hurdi (chicken and yellow curry) and foon hoola diima (lamb in a house-made sauce)— traditional dishes of Northeast Africa— to serve to tables of eager customers.

Guests do not receive silverware with their meal but instead, eat with their hands from one large platter that is placed in the center of the table for the entire party to share. Eating here is not just about the flavorful dishes on the unique menu, but about gaining an authentic cultural experience.

“We give [the table] a platter and they eat together like the culture. If it is a private party, we give you an upstairs room and you take your shoes off and sit down on the floor to eat, like the culture,” Mohamed says, who moved to the U.S. in 1989 as a refugee originally from Ethiopia.

The Horn of Africa, which opened its doors three years ago, is just one of many African-inspired eateries cropping up in North East Portland that are owned by African immigrants or refugees like Mohamed and Khadija. The growing African population that provides a necessary network of support has helped make Portland one of the most popular cities for refugees to relocate to in the U.S. Refugees are forced to leave their home countries in order to escape war, violence, and political corruption.

Mohamed fled his home in Ethiopia when he was 17 to escape the brutal attacks he could have faced from the government due to his participation in the political rebellion movement during the Civil War.

“All the younger people from my ethnicity was killed because of the movement we were in. All of the revolutionaries had to leave,” Mohamed says. “Either you go to jail or you are killed.”

Mohamed relocated to a refugee camp in Sudan before moving to Cairo, Egypt to study business and English at university on a UN scholarship. After marrying Khadija, Mohamed moved to California in 1989. Khadija stayed behind to work as a chef for foreign diplomats, but she was able to follow her husband five months later, and the couple moved to Portland to start their new life.

“I’m happy. I’m safe. I didn’t die.” Mohamed says. “This is home now.”

Mohamed says he never wanted to work for a company, but always hoped to start his own business. Mohamed decided to combine Khadija’s cooking talent with his business and English skills and open a food cart at the Portland Saturday Market. The unique East African cuisine was an instant success at Portland and other festivals on the West Coast. When customers started asking where the real restaurant was located, the Yousuf’s worked to save enough money to lease a building.

Yousuf and Khadija opened the doors to their restaurant three years ago. Today, Horn of Africa offers an insightful view into the cultural differences between America and Africa. “It’s a big difference,” Mohamed says. “Back home, they don’t worry about tomorrow.”

Learning to adjust to America’s focus on individual success instead of depending on family for support was one of the biggest differences Mohamed noticed. “Back home there is more sharing, here it is very individual,” he says.

Today, Mohamed and Khadija are both American citizens and have two daughters who speak both their native African tongue and English fluently. It is important to the family that the girls are raised with an understanding and pride of their culture and heritage— something many refugees try to maintain.

While the network of African refugees continues to grow, a small community is developing near the area of MLK Blvd offering a refreshing taste of African culture.

Stop by one of the grocery stores, barber shops, or restaurants and talk with the owners to learn more about their story and the places they come from.

Check out Kerri’s feature story, A Home Between Cultures

Double Meanings: To “Go Both Ways”

-Neethu Ramchandar

For years I’ve made fun of her. From everything for her skinny arms to her goofy habits. She made fun of me right back –it was a part of being best friends in middle school. She’s still one of my closest friends, which gives me the license to continue to make fun of her.

Krishna Goparaju is a student at the University of Missouri Kansas City studying medicine. She’s brilliant. She recently told me a story about a high school experience that I’m excited to share.

Krishna was sitting in her high school history class minding her own business. However, when a debate started she decided to jump right in. Not wanting to take a strong opinion on either side of the discussion, she raised her hand and said “I go both ways.”

In India, this would have meant that she supported both sides of the discussion. It was a diplomatic statement that she had hoped would sooth a lot of angry minds.

When her class erupted in laughter, Krishna was baffled. She sunk into her chair and focused on the empty piece of paper in front of her. It was only much later that a classmate took pity on Krishna and explained to her that the sentence she had blurted in class insinuated that she was bisexual.

This phrase is used commonly throughout the world. In many Asian cultures, going both ways means that the individual is supportive and not wanting confrontation. However, just miles away, Western nations used it as a discreet way of explaining that an individual likes to have sex with both men and women.

One way or another, we’re all familiar with the term. It’s even appeared in popular media. In the Megan Fox movie where she gobbles down people in slutty clothing and pretends to be a good actress – I believe it’s called Jennifer’s Body – she uses the phrase “I go both ways” to insinuate that she kills both men and women.

Urban dictionary only provides two definitions for “going both ways.” Both have sexual innuendos. However, I think it’s important to always be aware that language is malleable. We change it based on tradition, dialect, and trend.

Although Krishna may have suffered a slightly embarrassing moment, especially in her fragile teenage state, I hope that her friends eventually get the exposure to enough dialects and languages that they understand- language changes and we have to change with it.

A Suggestion in Spanish

-Neethu Ramchandar

Thank you Mr. Jehle.

Understanding language is important. It’s unfortunate, but true. And the more languages you know the better. You can get better jobs, faster promotions, travel opportunities, and much more.

This is probably why the University of Oregon requires all Bachelor of Arts students to complete two years of a language. I’ve been told that these two years can’t compare with the knowledge you gain while traveling abroad, but we acquire a fairly basic level of verb conjugations and a collection of short phrases to talk about ourselves.

Me llamo Neethu. Yo tengo viente años. Soy de Nuevo Mexico. Yo tengo un hermano y el tiene viente y tres años. Yo soy un periodista.

That’s about all I got.

It’s a shame that through those years of Spanish class, I don’t remember more than a few simple sentences. Instead I remember the torturous hours spent in front of my computer slaving over online exercises. Sure many of them were simple, but they were so tedious. Not to mention that even the slightest mistake in verb conjugation would result in yet another “retry” screen.

It was during my third term of Spanish that a friend decided to pity me. We were sitting next to each other on the big grass lawn in front of the library. It was a warm day and we were both cranky over our homework assignment. To add to my crankiness I found that she was done at least thirty minutes before me. I’m not a horrible student, so this was something I needed to investigate.

My discovery was in this one simple website- or rather a link on a website. It doesn’t break any of the rules that professors warn us against at the beginning of class. It doesn’t translate sentences or find you words. I suggest using wordreferance.com for that. This website simply lists Spanish verbs and their various forms.

It’s a website created by the Department of International Language and Culture from Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne. The home page is not very helpful. It lists courses and contacts for people that we will probably not have the chance to ever meet- or need to meet. In fact it was created by a man named Fred F. Jehle. I don’t know much about him other than he retired from teaching in 2003 and created an incredible website.

Anyways, I suggest ignoring most of his website and navigating to the second link that reads “Spanish Verb Forms”.

http://users.ipfw.edu/jehle/VERBLIST.HTM

Use it, book mark it, reuse it.

It’s with this single website that I survived (I mean enjoyed) my Spanish courses. I hope it helps you as well. Especially during those dreaded online activities.

Miscommunications in Mexico

Sara during her trip in Mexico.

-Neethu Ramchandar

Language- even if you become proficient in a language, you must always be aware of its constant changes and connotations depending on where you are speaking.

Sara Clark, International Studies graduate student, shares her story delving into the meaning of Coger. When the Spanish began to conquer Mexico, the conquistadors took goods, land, and people. They would rape the women to show power over the people. Although in some Spanish speaking countries, such as Spain, the word Coger is synonymous with Tomar and means “to take”, the connotation of Coger quickly transitioned when Spanish men began “to take” Mexican women.Today, In Mexico, Coger has a very sexual and vulgar meaning.

Clark had learned Spanish for a few years now, she had studied abroad In Spain when she was 20 years old, but now she had decided to make a significant shift. “I decided that I wanted to work among the Latino community,” Clark explains. “And for that, I needed to know a different dialect of Spanish.” To accomplish this, Clark set voyage to Mexico where she quickly found her Spanish to be splattered with differences. Caught in a linguistic hullabaloo, Clark often relied on her friends for translations and connotations.

One summer night, after visiting clubs and dancing with a group of friends, Clark was offered a ride home. Wanting to show off her independence she replied to her friends, “no problema, yo puedo coger un taxi,” (no problem, I’ll take a taxi). Their reaction to her newly accomplished independence was disappointing to say the least. As they erupted into laughter, Clark found herself confused as she repeated the phrase to herself checking conjugations and pronunciations.

Finally, Clark inquired to her friends who mockingly replied, “really Sara? Coger? You want to sleep with the taxi?” Clark had said that she had wanted to sleep with, not the taxi diver, but the actual vehicle itself.

“For weeks they teased me asking me if I wanted to Coger,” Clark says.

Lost in Translation

A traditional mridungum drum.

-Neethu Ramchandar

The soggy Portland leaves squish beneath my Converse as I make my way to the looming brown house. My personal cloud of doom senses my anxiety and splashes beads of rain to rest upon my cheeks in jest. Today I have my first private class with Subash Chandra, a globally renowned drummer, and I have been warned of what is expected of me – perfection.

My hand rests on the doorknob for a moment. I breathe slowly trying to exhale my jitters. In a dim hallway, I wipe at moist cheeks, no longer able to distinguish the sweat from the rain as the drops trickle down my neck.  I walk to the classroom – the only door with any light peeking from the cracks. I knock and nudge the door open. When the famous man sees me, he greets me in our shared mother tongue, Tamil. Great, I think to myself. No one mentioned to this percussion genius that, although I am bilingual, my fluency level is still infant in comparison.

The previously feeble jitters have now transformed into a distinct tremor in my hands. I let my thumb run over the calluses of my other fingers wondering if I am ready for this experience. His hands are much rougher with drumming experience than mine. They are thick and a dark brown with only the underside remaining a lighter white, stained with years of calluses. As my session begins I try not to look up. I focus on my hands and the quick circles they make as my fingers flutter across the drums. I force my mind to be a metronome, using the ominous tapping of the rain on the window to count so viciously that no other anxious thoughts may be entertained. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two—and suddenly he says something.

“Sabash,” he repeats and then adds in Tamil, “Why did you stop? Keep playing.”

Continuing the song, I wrack my brain for meaning. “Sabash” he had said. If only I could remember what that word meant. I knew his name was Subash, but he wasn’t nearly old enough to be dealing with Alzheimer’s and the need to repeat who and where he was. And then, it slowly dawned on me, hovering like a nimbus cloud. Criticism. I was a bit surprised that I had failed to meet his expectations of me so quickly. Within the first ten minutes of my tutorial I had let down all the people who had helped me reach this point; that’s quite an achievement on my part. As I wallowed in my pool of pity the word slipped out again.

“Sabash” he says with closed eyes, either enjoying the song or hiding from the next attack of a melody. As I stop he opens his eyes and repeated in Tamil, “Sabash, Sabash, no matter what don’t stop.”

“No matter what?”  What was going to happen? Would he banish me from his classes? Would I be made the example of what a bad student was? Even worse, would he tell my dad?

And then, as quickly as the pool of pity had come, a high tide of determination washed it away. I straightened my back and focused on my fingers, striking so fiercely that each beat bounced off the walls and returned to invigorate the next beat. The next time the word slipped out, I ignored it. I was not going to let him so easily crush my efforts.

And yet, the harder I played and the purer the notes sang into the air, the more often he said “Sabash.”

I had been ignoring it for a while now and I wondered how many times I missed it. With my lesson coming to an end I try to study his face.

The skin sits loosely and he looks breakable with age. Only his hands looked steady, a reminder that as long as he lives, he will be a drummer. I know that after today’s lesson, no one would look at me and think the same. My drumming career is officially over.

As I walk to the car with my dad I hang my head in shame. My father glances down at me and asks what was wrong. Concentrating on the imprint my shoes leave in the sodden earth, I choke out “Dad, what does ‘sabash’ mean?”

He hesitates. I look up to see that every muscle in his face is fighting a smile. “Neethu,” he replies. “Sabash means ‘very good’.”