Today, I looked up the word "seizure" in a battered, pocket-sized, Burmese-English dictionary. When I found it, I marked it with my index finger and slid it across the grubby table to the young woman sitting next to me.
"Here," I said, softly. "Look. Tell me if this makes sense to you."
She leaned forward and examined the page carefully, my finger still in place in the margin. She took her time. I watched her profile, waiting for the moment of understanding, some eye twitch or mouth movement to give her away.
"To grab," she said, looking up at me, expression neutral. "To catch." She made a gesture in the air, as if ensnaring a mosquito.
I smiled, slow, exhausted. "That's all it says?" I asked. I already knew the answer.
"Yes," she said. "Like the police."
If I weren't so tired, if the day hadn't been so long, if the almost-gone sun funneling into the almost-empty classroom were somehow less sad, I think I could have done better. I believe that. Instead, I tried to explain about brain signals, messages to the body, mis-firings. Did I get anywhere with all those words?
"Hey," I said finally, grabbing onto something tangible. "Did you tell your mother?"
"Yes," she said. "She scolded me for not telling her before."
I felt myself let go of a breath I didn't know I was holding. "That's really good," I said. "I'm glad."
"Yes," she said. We sat smiling at each other, half-smiles but without awkwardness. She's the rare kind of person you can sit and smile with and it's enough.
What I didn't say: to seize, to grab, like the police, to catch and hold you somewhere beyond your own control... it's a bad translation--completely incomplete--but also not so bad. Your mother might not know how to translate this either. But she has a rare daughter who is comfortable with silence and whatever she says, it will be enough.
"Here," I said, softly. "Look. Tell me if this makes sense to you."
She leaned forward and examined the page carefully, my finger still in place in the margin. She took her time. I watched her profile, waiting for the moment of understanding, some eye twitch or mouth movement to give her away.
"To grab," she said, looking up at me, expression neutral. "To catch." She made a gesture in the air, as if ensnaring a mosquito.
I smiled, slow, exhausted. "That's all it says?" I asked. I already knew the answer.
"Yes," she said. "Like the police."
If I weren't so tired, if the day hadn't been so long, if the almost-gone sun funneling into the almost-empty classroom were somehow less sad, I think I could have done better. I believe that. Instead, I tried to explain about brain signals, messages to the body, mis-firings. Did I get anywhere with all those words?
"Hey," I said finally, grabbing onto something tangible. "Did you tell your mother?"
"Yes," she said. "She scolded me for not telling her before."
I felt myself let go of a breath I didn't know I was holding. "That's really good," I said. "I'm glad."
"Yes," she said. We sat smiling at each other, half-smiles but without awkwardness. She's the rare kind of person you can sit and smile with and it's enough.
What I didn't say: to seize, to grab, like the police, to catch and hold you somewhere beyond your own control... it's a bad translation--completely incomplete--but also not so bad. Your mother might not know how to translate this either. But she has a rare daughter who is comfortable with silence and whatever she says, it will be enough.
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