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| Lovely daikon, a lovely winter root vegetable. |
As we are in the throes of moving, I'm running some oldies but goodies. This post first appeared at Intralingo, a website dedicated to all things translation and run by the fantastic Lisa Carter, in 2011. I also met Lisa via the Blogathon, and I'm so glad I did. She's an amazing writer not to mention a terrific person. It was her encouragement that got me to put down in words some of the thoughts I'd had about language, translation and food. Enjoy!
Japanese people often ask me how to say
daikon – usually appearing as a large white torpedo-shaped radish –
in English, and my answer is simply 'daikon'. Really, there is no
other name for one of the most unique and ubiquitous Japanese
vegetables present in dishes throughout the year in myriad forms.
Grated with soba noodles, thinly sliced for tsukemono (Japanese
pickles), or cut into thick pieces for nabe or oden,
the plant is savored from seedling
to maturity. While not the most nutritious of vegetables, the
daikon's versatility
over the centuries has made it an indispensable part of Japanese
cuisine. Just as a croissant is not a crescent roll, daikon is not
just a big radish. It is daikon.
One of my challenges as a writer living
in Japan is to translate Japanese words and names for things into
English. The longer I live here the more difficult it it becomes to
see the English words or to find a good translation. The Japanese
word sounds so perfect to me now that I see no point in finding a
substitute that can only conveys a shade of the concept,
the flower, the dish, the vegetable or fruit.
Yet, part of that challenge is to convey to my readers what this
foreign term symbolizes. My desire is to share what I see and
discover, and make this new and sometimes strange object or idea
accessible and approachable. And as a writer with a slowly growing
proficiency in the Japanese language, all I have at my disposal to do
so is my intimate knowledge of a set of letters sitting at the
opposite end of the language spectrum: English.
Sharing the Japanese word for something
then becomes pivotal to my work even if the item has a well-known
English counterpart. Language, like food, is a means to explore
culture and place at a deeper level. Persimmons, for example, are
soon to be in season. They signal autumn's gold and blue days, cooler
temperatures, along with the planting of daikon and komatsuna and
other winter crops. Hung in great strings to dry under eaves and
sweeten into hoshigaki(dried persimmon) is a centuries old tradition that creates a sweet
to be savored all winter long. As these images, feelings, and flavors
move through my mind 'persimmon' becomes a clunky word that fails to
offer even a glimpse of the warm orange glow of this hard fruit's
skin. The Japanese word – kaki
(pronounced ka-key) – though, conveys all of those things and more.
Another hurdle then is to convey the
correct pronunciation. Romanji, an English version of Japanese
developed to assist speakers of other languages unable to read the
other alphabets, is a great help, but runs with its own set of
rules. For example, 'ki' is always pronounced 'key', and 're' is
always pronounced 'ray'. Put an 'n' sound on the end as in 'ramen'
and the sound changes slightly. Place an 'u' after one of the
syllabaries (Japanese 'letters' stand for paired consonant and vowel
sounds), and the vowel sound becomes slightly longer. A word such as
riyoushi (ree-oh-shi) meaning fisherman without the 'u' becomes
riyoshi (ree-o-shi) meaning barber.
It is this 'alphabet' I use when
writing the names of things on my blog or in articles, but I still
often find myself listing a pronunciation guide of my own making (as
I did above) to help readers. It could be argued that sound is
irrelevant to a reader, but I see it as key to communication and
understanding. If my reader heads to a farmer's
market in Tokyo or Osaka
or even an Asian grocery in search of a particular food item but
can't pronounce it, then I've, in part, defeated my own purpose.
Immigrants may well know the common English term, but it is the word
in their own language that rings true. Its use can, if even for a
moment, establish a positive connection between two strangers. It
will, perhaps again only for just a moment, ground them both in that
other place and culture.
The practice of renaming is nothing
new. Istanbul was once Constantinople, and Ellis Island's immigration
officials changed surnames in an instant in order to make them more
understandable and accessible for citizens of the new country. While
the new name or word may be more convenient or helpful
(other immigrants changed their names in an effort to assimilate to
their new land), something is lost in the translation. Wasabina, aleafy green with the bite of wasabi (a sort of Japanese horseradish),
is often called Japanese mustard greens. An accurate description, but
the new name conveys little of the taste of its homeland. Similarly,
the Japanese name for the uniquely flavored umeboshi
(pronounced oo-may-bo-shee) or pickled plum, somehow captures a hint
of the salty tartness of one of Japan's more unique food items.
Words magically convey us to new places
for new experiences and new vantage points. Asking a reader to
grapple with a foreign word while sharing a recipe, idea or
experience places them next to me in the field or at the market
stall. While my work doesn't share great works of literature, I do
try to show readers traditions and ways that while different in
material or habit are similar in sentiment. Sharing the fruits of the
season, cooking together, or preserving the harvest are very human
activities. Broadening horizons via the plate, glass, or seed is
perhaps one of my goals and developing an effective means of
translation is integral to that.
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