Portuguese Is NOT Spanish

Portuguese-speakers sometimes ask for Spanish interpreters. I don’t know what they’re thinking: either that it’s easier to get someone in Spanish or that there are no Portuguese interpreters at all. Sometimes, they insist on keeping you. They say, “No, no, I understand”. I find this extremely inconsiderate, because, sure, they understand me, but I can barely make out what they are saying. They don’t even switch to Spanish; they keep talking in Portuguese, assuming that, if they understand my Spanish, I must understand their Portuguese. I tell them so, and ask the rep to allow me a moment so I can get what they really need. Anyway, we must not, for any reason whatsoever, accept a call in another language other than the one we were hired to interpret.

Sometimes, the rep excuses himself. "Oh, I'm sorry, she asked for Spanish", and I go "I know, I know". There are a few ignorants, though, who hear French or Italian or Portuguese or even Chinese, and think it's Spanish. Yes, I am not exaggerating, I have taken calls in all these languages in which the rep thinks it's Spanish.

But there are other languages that are not Spanish and I can’t avoid. There are many Mexicans who come from Indian villages and don’t even master Spanish, but instead speak, say, quechua. I once had a lady who, instead of responding to my introduction and question, started to moan. It was the I-don’t-want-to-be-here moan. Her husband took the phone and, in a non-conjugated Spanish, explained she didn’t speak Spanish, but _______. (Don’t ask.) What was the call about? She was 8 months pregnant and this was her first visit to a doctor!

Jesús Colomé, Virginity and Manners

I will mention some calls I don’t want to forget, just for the sake of future parties I may go to.

One of my first memorable situations was the one in which this Dominican was impersonating Jesús Colomé. He called a bank and said he was Colomé and that he needed information about his credit card. The bank representative asked him to confirm his address (one of the most common identity verification questions) and he said: “I came to the Dominican Republic because the season is over.” “Yes, sir, but what is the address on the account?” “Well, I live in Florida, but I came to the Republic because the season is over.” The rep didn’t understand, which made me think he knew nothing about baseball. And “Jesús Colomé” coundn’t verify anything. He was outdoors, in some place ful of people, which added more to the confusion because he was hard to understand and he couldn’t hear us well either. And I could not say to the bank rep “Hey, he’s not the guy he’s saying he is”, because an interpreter only interprets languages, not situations. I can’t say something that has actually not been said, nothing can come from my own mouth and I can’t say what I “think”. We were beating around the bush for like 5 minutes, 4 and a half more than we should have. Finally, “Jesús Colomé” got tired and hung up.

More recently, a Mexican called a health insurance company. He wanted a gynecologist’s phone number in his area. Since there are several types of gynecologists, the rep asked him if he needed it because of a pregnancy situation. The Mexican answered: “No, it’s that we suspect our 14-year-old daughter is having sexual relations.” I was tempted to change at least one of the numbers the rep was giving out, but I didn’t dare.

Spanish-speakers sometimes call me stupid things like “niñita” (little girl) or “mi amor” (darling, love). Some speak over my own voice, when I have already started interpreting. Some reps call the attention of us both, like if I was part of the problem because I am also Hispanic. Others are very empathic, asking me to interpret things like “If you don’t shut up and let the interpreter talk I will hang up right now.” Now that I think about it, rude people who call to have a problem solved, well, I don’t know what they’re thinking of. Don’t they even suspect that there must be someone in the world who is not going to take crap from them? It’s like mistreating a waiter: you never do, or risk having your food spit on in the murky confines of the kitchen. When you ask for a service, you don’t scream or insult or act like if you had natural rights to the service, even if you do. When you deal with people and you want to be dealt with as people, you symbolically quit your rights and become humble. Or else.

What This Is About

I have been an interpreter for some time now: more than 6 months. Since I have been doing this job, I have come up with many interesting tales to tell, but I have never done so publicly for several reasons. First, it’s a tiring job. How eager can one be to write about job-related stuff when you are just too happy to have ended your shift and be able to disconnect from everything? Second, I wouldn’t sign with my own name. Even though I trust that my writing any of the things I plan to write will not be against any confidentiality laws, there’s always someone who doesn’t understand or is too tightly wound. I would never fail to meet the interpreter’s code of ethic, and my readers will see that.

Those are only some of the reasons I have waited over half a year (!) to do this. Until now, my experiences have served me as party and group conversation and to make myself seem more interesting than I really am. But I have noticed how I forget my stories, the same way one forgets good jokes heard here and there.

I am a work-at-home over-the-phone interpreter. You will soon find out it’s not as idyllic as it seems. The telephone rings and I answer; on the other line, I can have a bank representative, a welfare case worker, an emergency line employee, a rep for water, electricity, telephone, cable, gas… They all have something in common: they are in the United States, speak English and need to take care of a Spanish-speaking client. They say they will add the Spanish-speaker to the line. The Spanish-speaker may or may not know what is happening. He also may be polite and patient, or not. He may be able to hear me, or not. I may hear him, or not. It may be an emergency, he may be desperate. One never knows. The gringo may be polite (generally) because he works at customer service. Mostly, it’s the people I am interpreting who are the spice of the call.

It’s the first time I put in writing what it means to be an interpreter since I started being one. In time, whoever reads me will notice that I have crossed feelings about my job. Sometimes, I hate it to death and literally scream when I hear that uber-annoying ring. Some other times, mostly when I am not actually working but just thinking about my job, I forget how unbearable it can be and I become very proud of what I do. The plain truth is that it is extenuating work that requires continuous use of the brain. Jobs that require continuous use of the brain are far more extenuating than those that require use of the body. I say this without pretensions. I have done several jobs of both types and I feel confident in my judgment.

Some of my funny experiences will seem to soften the impact of the work even if they really don’t. Some of my difficult experiences may not really be so. My only real use for this blog is to entertain myself and those who decide reading it is worth their while.