No Subtitles
On staying connected to our culture
A few weeks ago I went to see a Dutch theatre adaptation of Prophet Song, Paul Lynch’s Booker Prize winner. The actors were good, I think. I could tell by their voices, their timing. But I spent the whole play reading the English surtitles, which were more like sidetitles: instead of projecting them above the stage, they were shown in a small screen hanging from a side balcony. You could read them and miss the acting, or watch the play and miss the words.
So I sat there, in a beautiful Amsterdam theatre, watching a Dutch version of an Irish novel through English sidetitles. Too many languages in one room, and none of them mine. When the play ended, I clapped politely. It was such an intense topic, and yet I held no feelings for what I had just seen.
It was in this same theatre where I saw Angélica Liddell perform Una Costilla Sobre la Mesa: Madre. I remember the rawness, how I felt every word, every visceral cry, and how I stood up, filled with tears, when the lights went off.
I’ve been listening to a lot of Spanish music lately. The books on my nightstand are all in Spanish, too. Maybe it’s because I’ve been researching obsessively about family relationships (please leave a comment if you have any recommendations!), and it doesn’t seem natural to read about it in any other language than the one I was raised in.
This Spanish reconnection is not a conscious plan, but I feel a silent coup happening inside me: for instance, I saw an ad for a MUBI subscription half price and my brain immediately thought: brilliant, let’s subscribe to FILMIN. Indie films are my drug, but there’s no way I’m watching them with dutch subtitles (plus nothing beats a Spanish drama). I will always love Scandinavian films (I even write about them), and I’m happy to watch them with subtitles in my mother tongue.
A privilege of living abroad is rediscovering your own culture with the eyes of someone who left. I feel the best Spanish anything always finds me. That bullfighting film that just won the Feroz or the series everyone will talk about next month, they all seem to arrive like letters from a country I never fully left. Curated through the newspaper I read every morning, the radio I listen to on Sundays, the WhatsApps from my amazing friends.
If I were a secret agent (a lifelong dream of mine), this would be my classified mission: you must stay secretly connected to your country. Something I share with nobody, enjoy with nobody. A secret pact with myself.
Vivir fuera no nos aleja de nuestra cultura. Nos obliga a elegir con lo que quedarnos.
Cuando vivía en Madrid todo llegaba sin mover un dedo. También el ruido.
Entre la música y los libros se colaba mucha política, mucha tele basura. Ahora, cada puente tendido es un acto deliberado. Hay una intimidad enorme en eso. Leer una novela española un domingo por la tarde en Ámsterdam, con la lluvia perenne de fondo, y que una frase te devuelva a un lugar que ahora existe sin ti. Quedarte solo media hora y cantar una canción con la que nadie te podría acompañar. Una planta que riegas sólo para ti.
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Jhumpa Lahiri abandonó el inglés para escribir en italiano, buscando una distancia nueva que le ayudara a acercarse a sí misma. Murakami hizo algo parecido al escribir su primera novela en inglés, intentando alejarse del estilo recargado de su idioma.
A mí me pasa lo contrario. Después de años buscando distancia y libertad (otras culturas, otra forma de ver las cosas) estoy volviendo. Puede que no a Madrid, ni a muchas de sus decisiones. Pero sí a mi lengua. Empezando por la novela que escribo y que nunca podría escribirse en inglés.
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He vuelto a soñar en español. Siento esta revuelta interior luchando para que no me pierda. Dejando garbanzos en el camino para que pueda volver siempre al origen.
Mi misión está más viva que nunca. Si alguien colocara un micrófono espía en mi casa, cualquier domingo por la mañana, se asustaría al escuchar una docena de voces gritonas y alegres hablando español, el silbido de una cafetera Bialetti y al fondo, Nacho Vegas cantando La Gran Broma Final.
Mexico City has an incredible theater (Cineteca Nacional) that plays independent films. I go to watch the films and practice my Spanish. I’ve found that if I go to Spanish films I can’t perfectly follow the language, so I go to French films with Spanish subtitles that I can keep up with. (I have this on my list of topics I want to write about.)
You do miss so much when it’s not in your native language. I’m thinking of the time I went to see a movie in Spanish and felt I did pretty good. But I missed every joke.
Also, I didn’t know Lahiri writes in Italian. I used to teach Namesake. She’s such a master with details.
Great read!
I love this: "A privilege of living abroad is rediscovering your own culture with the eyes of someone who left."
Y la verdad creo que me ha servido mucho la distancia que tengo de la cultura de mis padres.
(Me doy cuenta que tú eres español y yo estoy en México así que mejor me comunico contigo en tu idioma. Pero tienes que imaginar que te habla El Chavo del Ocho para que escuches mi acento 😂)