Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts

Monday, January 14, 2013

Writer Stones' last waltz


Maybe you guessed it already, but I haven't written in a while because my travels have since ceased. For now anyway. We've settled in Pittsburgh, a place close to home, to work, live, and save up money for the next big move in our lives. Where that'll be, I can't say.

I would be lying, though, if I said we weren't going to travel anymore. For money and convenience's sake, this will be the year of America...or maybe just the year of the rust belt. Either way, I won't be using my passport for a while, I won't be away from home for months at a time, and I'll be using English 99% of the time. Thus, Writer Stones comes to an end, as it represented transience in my life that no longer exists.

I would also be lying, however, if I said I was going to stop writing. I'm going to try to get a Pittsburgh blog going pretty soon. Maybe do some creative writing and/or publishing now that I have a solid home base to work out of. I am working full time, so these projects may come slowly, but I have ideas and all it takes is a lazy weekend to make some headway.

Ciao, y'all. It's been fun.

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Thoughts on gender in language

In Spanish, there are masculine and feminine nouns. This does not mean that some people, places, and things are more masculine or more feminine than others. This dichotomy involves nouns preceded by the masculine article "el" (definitive) or "un" (non-definitive) and those preceded by the feminine "la"(definitive) or "una" (non-definitive).

For you jerks that think I'm a jerk for using words like definitive and non-definitive, here's a rundown: "el" and "la" translate to "the" most of the time, while "un" and "una" translate to "a" ("an" before a vowel sound!) most of the time. 

Anyway, this can be complicated for non-native Spanish learners, because it involves a lot of memorization. Usually, you can assume that a Spanish noun ending in "a" is feminine, and one ending in "o" or "e" is masculine. But there are exceptions, making it difficult to get it right every time. Plus, if your native language does not have gendered nouns, you're not used to making that distinction in the first place.

Here's where language can become a feminist issue, at least in places where gendered nouns are used (i.e. places with a romance language as its primary language). Take the example of a group of students: 3 ladies and a guy. A fifth friend strolls up, and says, "Hola, chicos." This friend uses the masculine form of the noun because there is at least one male present, even though the group is dominated by women. This is standard for plural nouns in Spanish.

In American English (can't really speak for anyone else, here), if I were that fifth friend, I would have said "Hey, guys" or "Hey, y'all" or literally "Hey, girls and boy." While the first option could be characterized as problematic in the same way that the Spanish salutation was problematic (remember, we're working with a feminist lens), it's not quite the same, is it? In fact, we often use the noun "guys" when addressing a group of girls in English. Still, I prefer "y'all" because, while it may be grammatically incorrect to some, at least it's gender-neutral. Yet, I'll admit that many would consider "guys" to be gender-neutral. See where this gets tricky?

Take another example of a group of 3 feminine-looking girls and an androgynous boy. An adult walks by, and says, "Hola, niñas" because she assumes they're all girls. Maybe these examples seem pointless, but I'm trying to compare how the Spanish and English languages handle these situations differently.

In this second example, a possible English translation would be "Hello, children." This would avoid misrepresenting any of the children, as "children" is a gender-neutral noun. The lack of gendered nouns, in this situation, seems favorable.

While it's difficult to overcome these issues in speaking, Spanish-speakers attempt to do so in writing. For example, a flyer might have "Bienvenid@s tod@s" (Welcome All), which simultaneously addresses both genders with the same noun. I've also seen "Bienvenidxs todxs."

English may not use gendered nouns, but language can still be a feminist issue. For example, in hypothetical or generic situations, where we use a situation or person as an example, we often use the masculine pronoun (his) when referring to this generic subject: When writing a resume, one should always list his most recent position first. 

Granted, this bias is more often seen in writing. Some writers try to overcome this issue by substituting "his" for "her," but some would argue that's not solving the problem at all. Others might just use the plural pronoun (their), but it's still awkward.

This is an example where Spanish is preferred because, for some reason, the pronouns are not gender specific. His, her, and their all translate to "su". Whadayaknow! Thus, in my translation work, I'm constantly faced with the decision of using "his" or "her" in my English translation because I don't have the author's original decision as a basis.

Another issue that's often associated with feminism is the use of different pejorative terms. Without diving too much into the concept of reclamation, I would like to compare some gender-specific curse words in Spanish and English.

It should also be noted that swearing is taken much more lightly here. Of course, you don't want to call your teacher or mother a bad word, but saying the equivalent of "gahd dammit" is not necessarily in bad taste.

Words like "bitch" or "cunt" are generally considered to be offensive. Sometimes, however, they are taken to be very hostile terms when perceived with a feminist lens. The argument? There's no equivalent for a guy. 

I would say "bitch" is used more often, and with less discretion. I think this is because we're conditioned to use "bitch" for girls that are out of line and "asshole" or "dick" for dudes that are out of line. We need a comparable term for each sex. 

However, "bitch" can also be used when someone just doesn't like what kind of girl you are (be that high-maintenance, tight with money, unwilling to fuck, etc.). In other words, I would say that "bitch" is thrown around more as a label than an insult, compared to "asshole" or "dick" anyway (there's that feminist lens, again). This can also be said for the word "slut".

In Spanish, the word "puta" (literally meaning prostitute) might be translated as one of the few female-specific insults I've mentioned. I would say that it can also have the same sting. For dudes, "hijo de puta" would be one of the worst insults, translating to "son of a bitch/whore." Keeping in mind that, like I said, Spanish-speakers use curse words more freely, these two words still raise eyebrows in conversation.

One Spanish insult I like is "cabrón" (meaning asshole, dick, etc.) because it has a feminine equivalent "cabrona." I think this is cool, because English-speakers might give you a weird look if you call a girl an asshole. But maybe she is. And maybe that's as insulting as I want to be.

Like the late great George Carlin once said, "These are the kind of things I think about when I'm sitting home alone and the power goes out." 

Well, this has been fun and all, but I'd really like to hear what y'all have to say. Even if all you want to do is call me a cunt.

Friday, July 13, 2012

Detoxing in more ways than one

In short, the past 5 weeks have been very busy.

In long, I made a lot of money (and spent a lot of money) in the past 5 weeks. The first part can be attributed to working 10-hour days of non-stop lesson-planning, document-translating, and bike-commuting. The second part can be attributed to Spain-traveling, beer-drinking, and rent-paying.

In the past 2 weeks. I climbed a mountain, reached two different bodies of salt water, and had wine poured on my head repeatedly. We had friends visiting, with as many as 6 sleeping in one room at any given time. We made food together, slept together, got drunk together (and thus had our hangover together). This can all be attributed to San Fermín (i.e. the Running of the Bulls).

Thus, my blog went on the backburner.

In many ways San Fermín was like...

a party, where there are endless friends, shenanigans, alcohol (well, not really endless alcohol), and shit on the floor.

a war, where every time you leave your house you have to be prepared for battle.

an apocalypse, where all the stores are shut down and the only ones that remain open are taking anything you have, and no one really cares what day or time it is.

a commune, where 13 people can peacefully share approximately 50 square meters and only one bathroom, even if they only just met each other.

a break, where I didn't have to think about work or checking my goddamn email.

Now, I'm on a different kind of vacation. There's no one in the house except the two of us, and a dog. And I will have very few classes this month. So I'll be at home, writing as much as I can.

At the Txupinazo in the Plaza del Ayuntamiento. See those blue signs in the back of the crowd? 
That's our building. We came downstairs about an hour before the rocket, and we still didn't get 
much further than 5 meters from our front door. (via eleconomista.es)

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Skiing down the mountain of my emotions

I've tried a lot of new things since my arrival in Spain.

Rabbit, horse, octopus, lamb.
Patxaran, ratafía, Jagermeister.
Haggling, apologizing, joking [in Spanish].

So when our friends invited us to a weekend in Hernani and a Saturday skiing on the slopes of Gourette, France, I didn't think twice. I just said yes.




It wasn't until I was on my ass at the bottom of a practice hill after having shoved off for the first time that I realized I might not be so great at it.

I'm not sure why, but before even trying, I was in the mindset that skiing was pretty simple. After seeing the "Aspen" episode of South Park a dozen times, I figured I would french-fry when I wanted to pick up speed, and pizza when I wanted to stop. So there I was, at the top of the same slope where all the French toddlers were taking lessons. I used my poles to thrust forward and found myself accelerating a bit too fast. I turned my knees inward, trying to pizza as much as possible, but I continued to hurl toward a line of people at the bottom. I let my ski poles drag on the snow and squatted down eventually coming to a stop. I got up laughing, gloves already soaked, but I was a bit shaken. Skiing wasn't something I was just going to pick up. It wasn't like riding a bike. It took a lot more focus and balance, which are not my strong points.

Later, though, I started having fun. I was still falling on every run, but we had progressed to an actual slope with turns and banks. They called it "Happy Place". I was feeling pretty good. We even got some action shots of me on two feet. I was french-frying a bit more, only pizza-ing when necessary, and I was excited to go again each time we got to the bottom.



We all decided to move onto something different, but on the same level. Like I said, I was in a good mood so I was game. I should've just stayed on the ground when I missed the opportunity to sit with my friends on the ski lift. I was swaying in the air by myself, watching the skiers underneath me. I was searching for a second Happy Place, but all I could see were wide, steep slopes. I had a bad feeling and we weren't even halfway up the lift; but I ignored it. What good was it going to do me then?

I stared out over the slope -- it was level blue, not level green as we thought -- and continued to force a smile even though my heart was racing. I lightly pushed forward to follow the others who had already shoved off. Suddenly, it was like that first practice run. I was going too fast, and pizza-ing wasn't slowing me down enough. I twisted my body and dragged my poles, making myself fall. Putting my skis in a perpendicular position, I lifted myself back up on wobbly legs. Elliot and the others had stopped a bit further down the hill, waiting for me.

"Come on, Sarah! It's okay!" And then some instructions in Spanish on how to zig-zag down the hill, rather than diving straight down. It didn't matter. The mere thought of twisting my body even slightly flooded my brain with thoughts of picking up momentum, going too fast, not being able to stop, flying off a hillside and busting my skull on ice and rocks. I was absolutely paralyzed. And I started to sob a little.

Suddenly, I was 16 and I was in Mexico. I was trying to make a deal with this vendor selling ceramic Aztec calendars at the pyramids in Teotihuacan. He handed me the piece so I could examine it, but I let it drop and shatter on the desert ground. I was mortified; and even more so when this man, who was obviously worse off than me, apologized and offered to give it to me for nothing. I tried to say, in broken Spanish, that I could not possibly accept, that I would pay double what he was asking. I walked away humiliated, and when the first person asked me what was wrong, I burst into tears and buried my face in Elliot's shirt.

Elliot inched his way back up the hill to help me. I apologized, not only because I didn't mean to get so upset; but also because I had a feeling the rest of my day wouldn't get any better. I had reached my peak of anxiety and fear, and I ended up walking or falling down what was left of the run. The muscles in my butt and legs had also grown tired, and so maneuvering haphazardly down the hills was even more difficult.

I was shaken up and exhausted. I felt like a wet blanket, but I didn't want to be. I felt unable to express myself in any language, unable to cheer myself up. I wanted to disappear so my friends could have fun.

Traveling has always seemed sort of against my personality. I consider myself very much an introvert, but at the same time I truly enjoy meeting new people and seeing new places. I also like being with Elliot, who is widely known as the most social of all butterflies. So I'm often in situations that make me anxious or on edge. Normally, it doesn't phase me. I may not be outgoing or flamboyant, but I remain interested and eager. But there have been a handful of moments in my life where this anxiousness has caught up with me, where I feel like imploding.

I suppose I'm telling you this, not only because it involves travel, exploration, and a bit of culture shock -- but also because, like my writing, my feelings (bad or good) are not something I put on display very often.

Monday, February 27, 2012

The way it's always been...


I chose to embed this song for two very good reasons:

1. Diana Ross, a babe and a legend, is beltin' out a classic.
2. I'm comin' out to y'all...as a writer.

Maybe you already figured it out. Many of you know me for journal-keeping, news-reporting, note-scribbling, and blog-posting. But chances are, I've never said to your face: "I'm a writer." To be honest, I never say it out loud.

In the same way I've been afraid to call myself fluent in Spanish, I've been hesitant to call myself a writer. Just like I constantly make mistakes in my second language, I often find myself in situations where the words don't come out right. And sometimes, they don't even come out at all.

But this trip has opened up more than one door for me. I came here, primarily, to perfect a language -- to discover new words, new expressions, new accents. An opportunity I did not foresee, was a shit ton of free time to perfect my writing.

Perfect seems like such a stronger word when I see it before writing as opposed to before language. I've learned to abandon all inhibitions when using Spanish. It's a must when it comes to learning, and later practicing, a foreign language. I'm much more inhibitive about my writing (better read: much more sensitive to criticism).

When I was younger, I went through the typical "what-I-wanna-be-when-I-grow-up" phases. First, I wanted to be a paleontologist. Then a tornado chaser. Finally, in 8th grade, I remember promising myself to be the youngest published author in history. Unfortunately, 13-year-old me didn't realize the world of competition for child authors.

Anyway, as I got older, I became more cynical about...you know...dreams. Duh, they don't happen. At least not before a long streak of disappointments. I continued to keep a journal, even through college. I continued to get paid very little for journalistic ventures, which were, for the most part, easy and fun. But attempting anything more creative, more autonomous, was pretty intimidating.

Now, seeking employment, or even feedback, for my writing -- outside of a less competitive, more laid-back university publication -- is downright terrifying. Because the worst that could happen is that I get rejected. Yeah, it's the absolute worst.

To make a long story short, I ain't gonna be a coward no more. I'm still cynical, but I'm going to stop hesitating, and start trying. Many life plans have come and gone, just as easily as a cheese pizza, but writing has always been at the back of my mind. It's always been something I knew I wanted to do. Now, it's just about letting more people see what I write.

So here I am...

Name: Sarah Sanders
Profession: Writer
Interests: Gender, travel, language, cities, psychology
Inspiration: The two Georges (Carlin & Orwell)


This is what it's all about.