postcard from America: translation

I apologize to my fellow bloggers for being a bit scarce. I've been travelling, and jet-lagged, and was just at the ALSC conference where I got to meet Harrieteers Emily Warn and Steve Burt. I've been thinking a lot about translation, not just because I was on a panel about poetry, philosophy, and translation, but because I have been in the act of translation... that is "carrying across" boundaries--myself, my luggage, my family. Because of a paperwork glitch in a visa in 1997, which means he must check the "yes" box on the green form coming into the country which asks if you have ever had problems with the INS, my Greek husband still encounters difficulties when we go through passport control. We inevitably get sent to the Orange Room (or whatever it is called in the particular airport we are in), along with various resident aliens and visitors whose paperwork or appearance or demeanor has somehow sent up flags with the immigration officer.

So there we are, with a 3 year old who has been 10 hours cooped up on a plane, now running wildly around, getting shouted at whenever he crosses an ominous red line in the carpet, as we wait to find out if they will let my husband into the country, or, for some arbitrary reason or other, send him back on the next plane out. There are no rights here--no rights to an attorney, no rights just because you are married to a citizen. Everyone in the room is exhausted and tense. Some have the stoical resignation of those used to being under the arbitrary sway of civil servants. I wonder how many US citizens even know of the existence of such rooms and corridors, conviently out of sight, in the airport, behind which are interview rooms and restraining cells, limbos of all kinds, and some circles of hell.
We are trying to translate ourselves from one country to another. In doing so, in the tense moments before the officer decides on our case (though my husband has brought a whole file of papers explaining the initial misunderstanding and the subsequent reversal of the initial "expeditious removal", a whole file of papers from the embassy in Athens and articles from the AJC and New York Times), we ourselves switch to a private language, or a private language here, Greek. Our son finds a playmate, a Chinese boy who shares his frustration with sitting still, and they are briefly delighted to roll around on the carpet together, sharing a common language of laughter and gestures. When the Chinese boy and his family go off--perhaps free to travel, perhaps back on a plane, or worse--our son asks where he has gone. I can't give him an answer.
Every step of the way--security, baggage, there are questions and rules about what we can take with us, what we must leave behind. People are busy discarding liquids in bottles that are too large, or getting rid of excess weight. It isn't unlike what the translator does. He wants to get as much of his precious and fragile cargo across as possible, he hopes unbroken. But hard decisions will have to be made. You are only allowed fifty pounds. You cannot bring sharp objects. You must discard anything suspicious. You must report anything suspcious. The bag may need to get unpacked and repacked several times to get everything in. Everything may not get in. The bag may get damaged, it may go missing.
But for all this, we never consider giving up travelling. For as there is much to be lost, there is much to be gained. The INS officer has conferred with his superior, and we are allowed to pass. Suddenly friendly, with a wink, they suggest that maybe next time my husband should just check "no" in the trouble box. I am almost ready to weep with relief.
We get out to the baggage carousel. Our bags are not there. They have gone to Boston.