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“They’re pretty Zen, don’t you think?” I chirp to the new writer-in-residence about the bison. I remember from the website: We ask residents to keep a safe distance from the bison; they are not usually aggressive, but they are large animals, and can cause serious injury. But I continue to feel drawn to these mysterious and beautiful creatures in spite of the warnings.
A memory: I am at a Québécois friend’s house for Christmas. Jules comes up to me and wishes me a Happy Hannukah. I squirm and feel my cheeks rush with blood. Hannukah was over weeks ago.
“I love the Jewish religion,” he continues, in flawless English. “You don’t eat pork, right?” Actually, I tell him, I don’t keep kosher, so I’m pretty much an omnivore.
“Really?” he seemed genuinely surprised. “I knew a Jewish guy from work and they had to have two sets of dishes, lots of rules.” I force a smile, put my hands in and out of my pockets. “The traditions are beautiful,” chimes in his wife enthusiastically. “The one around Easter, what’s it called again?” I swallow and look around the room for Lucie. “I think it’s Passover,” I mumble.
“Right! We got invited to the Perlman’s and there was this thing they did with the wine, making little drops on their plates, I can’t remember what that was for,” she scrunches up her face. “And the candles and that lovely plate with the sacred foods.” She looks at me earnestly. “The whole thing was beautiful.”
I’ve heard American friends admire the lyrical quality of the French language. Some have described the Québécois culture as warm, open, passionate. “Their theatre is phenomenal,” said a friend. “There’s a huge film culture and the style has this quirky imaginative quality.”
Yeah.
And yet, here I am, still, with my thing for the bison. How do we replace the type of attraction that objectifies the other with the kind of careful listening that leads to deep understanding, a key element of good translation?
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