Precerpt from My 20th Language - What happens in my head when two (or more) languages meet

People often ask, “Do you translate into English when you’re listening to or speaking another language?” The short answer is no. Maybe I did once—back when I was still learning to trust the foreign language to carry meaning on its own. But now? No. Not even subconsciously.

I know this because interpretation—real-time, oral translation—is not my strength. My brain doesn’t want to rock between two languages. It wants to stay rooted in one. And when I’m in that language, I’m all in.

A potent example: years ago, I traveled with a group of U.S. Senators’ wives to the Soviet Union, serving as their liaison to the USSR government—particularly to the republic peace committees and the national women’s committee. I also helped informally as an interpreter when needed, though interpretation was never my forte.

During a tour of Leningrad (now St. Petersburg), the group stood before a monument to World War II. The guide explained the history of the Nazi blockade of the city. I turned to the wives and relayed what she had said—or so I thought. They stared at me blankly. I realized, with a jolt, that I hadn’t translated into English at all. I had explained it to them in simplified Russian, as if they were students in a language class. “That wasn’t English?” I asked, this time in actual English. They shook their heads. I switched tracks and gave them the overview—this time in the right language.

Years later, after the Soviet Union had become Russia and peace between our countries was still fresh, I found myself in Portland, Oregon. Pyotr Velkovich, vice president of the Belarus Peace Committee and a friend, had been invited to give the keynote at the International Rotary Foundation meeting. The event coincided with a visit from students from Minsk to Portland Public Schools—an exchange I had helped establish a year earlier. Since I was in town to assist the Minsk Superintendent of Schools (who spoke no English), I attended the Rotary event to support Pyotr.

He had brought his own interpreter, Anna, and I sat beside her at the head table. “Do you know what Pyotr will be talking about?” I whispered. It’s customary—and kind—to give interpreters a copy of the speech in advance.

“No,” she said. “He told me you’re interpreting.”

“No way,” I said. “I’m not a professional interpreter—and he knows that.”

But when Pyotr was introduced, he turned to me and said, “Betti, so mnoy.” (Betty, come with me.)

Oh, no!

I hate interpreting. My brain doesn’t work cross-linguistically in that way. I don’t listen in one language and hear another. But there was no time to protest. I trotted up to the podium with him.

I survived. Once, I had to ask him to repeat a large number. Otherwise, I managed—and I still remember the power of his speech. At the end, he presented a piece of metal encased in plastic: the serial plate from the last SSM disassembled under the SALT treaty. The applause was long and heartfelt.

But Pyotr wasn’t finished. When the room quieted, he said, “Vokrug mira est’ kolokola.” (All around the world there are kolokola.)

I panicked. The only word I knew for kolokol was bell. I looked at Anna and hesitantly translated, “And all over the world there are bells.” It made no sense. Anna shrugged—she was just as confused.

Then Pyotr continued: “They are great bells, big bells, warning of nuclear disaster.”

Whew!

“But I did not bring you a big bell,” he said. “I brought you a small bell.” He reached under the podium and pulled out a tiny bell. Its tinkle could only be heard because the room was hushed in anticipation.

“To hear this bell,” he said, “you need the silence of peace.”

Afterward, several Rotarians complimented me on my “remarkable control of English.” I’m not sure what that says about my English—perhaps they heard a trace of my New England accent—but I do know this: I do not listen to one language and hear another. Not Russian into English. Not French into English. Not Indonesian into English. Not anything into English.

That’s been a challenge, too. When I was completing my PhD at the Pushkin Institute, I had to pass a series of exams called zachyoty, including one to prove fluency in a foreign language. The choices were French or German. I preferred German. The university preferred French. So—French it was.

I argued that Russian should count as my foreign language since English was my native tongue. The administration laughed. “No way,” they said. “Russian is your second native language.”

And that’s how it was treated.

I had to translate a chapter from a psychology book—on the nature/nurture debate in intelligence development—from French into Russian. That was called a referat. I had to produce referaty on other topics, including one on philosophy (because the degree was Doctor of Philosophy, PhD). Then, for the L2 zachet, I had to translate a pedagogical article on a topic I recall only as a popular teaching practice at the time from French into Russian in an hour under observation and immediately afterward discuss another topic, Skinnerian theory, in French with a French professor. No prep time. No dictionary. Just me, communicating in L3 (French) and translating from L3 into L6 (Russian), with L6 treated as if it were L1 (English).

I could not have done that if I were trying to think through English. That’s why I avoid interpreting when I can—though, of course, if I’m needed, I do it. But it’s also why I sometimes can’t find le mot juste even in English. I often know the juste word in another language, but not in the one I’m currently using. Somewhere in the back of my mind, all the words are scrambling for prominence, but I can’t reach them—because my brain is locked into the language I’m speaking.

That’s me. That’s my response. I can’t speak for other multilingual people. But I don’t translate in my head. I live in the language I’m in.

For more precerpts from My 20th Language. click HERE.

For more posts about language learning, click HERE.

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