On Translating Rigoberto González

I’ve been reading Rigoberto González for over twenty five years. Every now and then he sends me texts to translate, but this is the first time he’s entrusted me with a poem of his own. I was grateful he asked me to leave the first line untranslated. Por mi, I’d leave the whole poem untranslated and run far away before I caused any damage.  

I read the title. Dios mío. Dare I turn ”bolillo” into ”bread roll”?  Both plump, both filling.  But bolillo can be morning with café. Bolillo can be night with té. Bolillo is versatile and gives hope and sustenance like the poems of Francisco Alarcón. Both González and Alarcón hold bolillo power: absorbing the tragedies spilling around them like so much enchilada sauce, and converting injustice and pain into new paths of strength for their communities. They pave the way pa’ su gente who find comfort and inspiration in their life-loving words.

Would González forgive me for turning his oda sabrosa into English words that trace meanings but leave so much unsaid? My non-poet hands weighed each combination of words carefully, attempting to bring the translation as close as possible to each finger-licking letter. I would not obsess on replicating rhythm, but would do my best to leave intact the selfless love, honesty, and generosity that González exudes in these lines—the same way he lives his life. Big-hearted. Solidaria. Forgiving of life’s shortcomings. Like a Sufi master, he reminds us that life is fleeting and it’s futile to claim anything or anyone forever. Hopefully, he will also forgive the shortcomings of my translation. “Con él, otro u otra” became “with him or them or her,” not quite the same, just más o menos. “Goldo,” a sweet intonation of “gordo,” might have morphed into “plump” or “chubby,” but thankfully “goldo” remains unscathed, like “papacito” and “chaparrito.” Otherwise, these terms of endearment just wouldn’t feel the same.