A lexical misunderstanding leads to a hilariously awkward exchange in Cidinha da Silva’s “Marigô,” our selection for this week’s Translation Tuesday. “Marigô” is an exemplar of the crônica form, a uniquely Brazilian genre of journalistic writing that combines slice-of-life anecdotes with (often ironic) social commentary. Cidinha da Silva, one of Brazil’s most dynamic and prolific contemporary writers and cronistas, utilizes the third-person present tense to capture the conversational nature of the form, mimicking the complex rhythm and set-up of a joke. Here the punchline not only provides laughs, but also a wry statement on Afro-Brazilian identities and the cultural importance of language.
Samantha worships her friend Dandara—for her beauty, her culture, her intelligence, her knowledge of the world, and, above all, her integrity of purpose. Samantha views Dandara as an activist even when talking with her mother on the phone. Every time Dandara calls—which isn’t just once a day—she greets her mother with an “Oi oi oi, Marigô, calling just to say hello!”
Samantha’s face lights up every time. Somehow she got it in her head that Marigô meant “mother” in Yoruba. At home, she wrote down the word in her small dictionary-diary, where she’s been recording the African words that circulate daily in Brazil. She has a ton already—it’s just a matter of finding the right time to start using them in her stories. Dandara thinks her co-worker is an Afro-nut, the kind of person who wants to transform anything and everything into an episode of African rebirth.
On Dandara’s birthday, her mother decides to surprise her and shows up at her work to take them to Rhinosaurus’s, her daughter’s favorite fast food joint. While waiting for her daughter in the parking lot, she amusingly reads Barack Obama’s biography. Samantha ends up leaving work before Dandara; when she sees two black hands behind a steering wheel holding a copy of the biography of the president of the United States, she goes Afro-nuts. Only a fascinating person would read such a book, she thinks. She has to introduce herself, has to get to know that woman so she can soak up all of her knowledge.
Samantha starts to circle around the car, not realizing that the woman, who is Dandara’s mother—a fact still unknown to her—is watching in the rear and side view mirrors. In observing the suspect behavior of that (apparently) harmless girl, Dandara’s mother immediately recalls the friend who her daughter was always talking about at home. Fixing her eyes more narrowly, she is certain that it is the famous Samantha: the girl’s image is a perfect match to the photos she had seen before.
She decides to open the car door and greet her:
“Good afternoon! Are you a friend of Dandara’s, by chance?”
“Yes, yes, why yes I am, a very close friend of hers! A sister.”
“Ah yes, well, I’m just waiting to take her out for a small birthday celebration.”
“No way, I can’t believe it! You’re Dandara’s marigô?” The mother found that a bit strange, “Dandara’s marigô.”
“Well, I’m her mother, nice to meet you . . .”
“Ahhhhh!” shouts Samantha. “I knew it! I knew it! Only a special person like Dandara’s marigô would read Barack’s biography while waiting for her daughter to get out of work. You’re a role model, ma’am, a true inspiration. Just like Dandara! Thank you so, so much! I want to be a marigô like you one day . . .”
With that, Dandara comes walking over: “Oi oi oi, Marigô! Have you been here long? I see you’ve met Samantha.”
“Yes, honey! I was just trying to introduce myself to her.”
“Ah, no introduction needed,” interrupts Samantha. “Can I call you marigô, too?”
“Well yes, of course, everyone does.”
“Look at that, Dandara, your mother truly is an African matriarch! Everyone calls her mother, like in the ancient villages.” Daughter and mother glance at one another, taking advantage of the moment to say goodbye. They needed to meet the rest of the family at Rhinosaurus’s.
“Honey, when you told me that girl had a screw loose, I thought you were exaggerating. But she was walking in circles around my car just because I was reading Obama’s biography.”
“I warned you, mom, she’s an Afro-nut.”
“She didn’t even let me say my name.”
“Hmmm . . . didn’t let you, or me. She thinks that marigô and mother are the same thing.”
“What do you mean the same thing?”
“She’s determined that marigô is the Yoruba word for mother.”
“What!? You’re kidding, honey. She doesn’t know that my name is Maria Goreth?”
Translated from the Portuguese by Daniel Persia and Ana Luiza de Oliveira e Silva
Cidinha da Silva was born in Belo Horizonte (Minas Gerais, Brazil) and is the author of seventeen published works, spanning a variety of genres, including crônicas, short stories, essays, children’s and young adult’s literature. Among her most notable works are Sobre-viventes! (second edition, 2020), #Parem de nos matar! (second edition, 2019), and O teatro negro de Cidinha da Silva (2019). Her first collection of short stories, Um Exu em Nova York (2018), won Brazil’s National Library Award in 2019.
Daniel Persia has divided his time between Boston and Brazil, serving as Regional Leader for the US-Brazil Fulbright Commission and Editor-at-Large for Asymptote Journal. His most recent translation, Writings, by Basque sculptor Eduardo Chillida, was published in April 2019 for the re-opening of the Chillida-Leku museum in Hernani, Gipuzkoa, Spain. Working primarily from Spanish and Portuguese, his research explores collaborative and inclusive frameworks for translating Afro-Brazilian/Black Brazilian literature. He will begin his PhD in Spanish and Portuguese at Princeton University in Fall 2020.
Ana Luiza de Oliveira e Silva is a historian and translator based in Ottawa, Canada. She holds a PhD in Social History and her doctoral dissertation received Honorable Mention for the 2015-2016 University of São Paulo Social History Award. Currently, she works with text translation, editing and proofreading in English, French, Spanish, and Portuguese.
*****
Read more on the Asymptote blog:
Translation Tuesday: “Marigô” by Cidinha da Silva
“Can I call you marigô, too?”
A lexical misunderstanding leads to a hilariously awkward exchange in Cidinha da Silva’s “Marigô,” our selection for this week’s Translation Tuesday. “Marigô” is an exemplar of the crônica form, a uniquely Brazilian genre of journalistic writing that combines slice-of-life anecdotes with (often ironic) social commentary. Cidinha da Silva, one of Brazil’s most dynamic and prolific contemporary writers and cronistas, utilizes the third-person present tense to capture the conversational nature of the form, mimicking the complex rhythm and set-up of a joke. Here the punchline not only provides laughs, but also a wry statement on Afro-Brazilian identities and the cultural importance of language.
Samantha worships her friend Dandara—for her beauty, her culture, her intelligence, her knowledge of the world, and, above all, her integrity of purpose. Samantha views Dandara as an activist even when talking with her mother on the phone. Every time Dandara calls—which isn’t just once a day—she greets her mother with an “Oi oi oi, Marigô, calling just to say hello!”
Samantha’s face lights up every time. Somehow she got it in her head that Marigô meant “mother” in Yoruba. At home, she wrote down the word in her small dictionary-diary, where she’s been recording the African words that circulate daily in Brazil. She has a ton already—it’s just a matter of finding the right time to start using them in her stories. Dandara thinks her co-worker is an Afro-nut, the kind of person who wants to transform anything and everything into an episode of African rebirth.
On Dandara’s birthday, her mother decides to surprise her and shows up at her work to take them to Rhinosaurus’s, her daughter’s favorite fast food joint. While waiting for her daughter in the parking lot, she amusingly reads Barack Obama’s biography. Samantha ends up leaving work before Dandara; when she sees two black hands behind a steering wheel holding a copy of the biography of the president of the United States, she goes Afro-nuts. Only a fascinating person would read such a book, she thinks. She has to introduce herself, has to get to know that woman so she can soak up all of her knowledge.
Samantha starts to circle around the car, not realizing that the woman, who is Dandara’s mother—a fact still unknown to her—is watching in the rear and side view mirrors. In observing the suspect behavior of that (apparently) harmless girl, Dandara’s mother immediately recalls the friend who her daughter was always talking about at home. Fixing her eyes more narrowly, she is certain that it is the famous Samantha: the girl’s image is a perfect match to the photos she had seen before.
She decides to open the car door and greet her:
“Good afternoon! Are you a friend of Dandara’s, by chance?”
“Yes, yes, why yes I am, a very close friend of hers! A sister.”
“Ah yes, well, I’m just waiting to take her out for a small birthday celebration.”
“No way, I can’t believe it! You’re Dandara’s marigô?” The mother found that a bit strange, “Dandara’s marigô.”
“Well, I’m her mother, nice to meet you . . .”
“Ahhhhh!” shouts Samantha. “I knew it! I knew it! Only a special person like Dandara’s marigô would read Barack’s biography while waiting for her daughter to get out of work. You’re a role model, ma’am, a true inspiration. Just like Dandara! Thank you so, so much! I want to be a marigô like you one day . . .”
With that, Dandara comes walking over: “Oi oi oi, Marigô! Have you been here long? I see you’ve met Samantha.”
“Yes, honey! I was just trying to introduce myself to her.”
“Ah, no introduction needed,” interrupts Samantha. “Can I call you marigô, too?”
“Well yes, of course, everyone does.”
“Look at that, Dandara, your mother truly is an African matriarch! Everyone calls her mother, like in the ancient villages.” Daughter and mother glance at one another, taking advantage of the moment to say goodbye. They needed to meet the rest of the family at Rhinosaurus’s.
“Honey, when you told me that girl had a screw loose, I thought you were exaggerating. But she was walking in circles around my car just because I was reading Obama’s biography.”
“I warned you, mom, she’s an Afro-nut.”
“She didn’t even let me say my name.”
“Hmmm . . . didn’t let you, or me. She thinks that marigô and mother are the same thing.”
“What do you mean the same thing?”
“She’s determined that marigô is the Yoruba word for mother.”
“What!? You’re kidding, honey. She doesn’t know that my name is Maria Goreth?”
Translated from the Portuguese by Daniel Persia and Ana Luiza de Oliveira e Silva
Cidinha da Silva was born in Belo Horizonte (Minas Gerais, Brazil) and is the author of seventeen published works, spanning a variety of genres, including crônicas, short stories, essays, children’s and young adult’s literature. Among her most notable works are Sobre-viventes! (second edition, 2020), #Parem de nos matar! (second edition, 2019), and O teatro negro de Cidinha da Silva (2019). Her first collection of short stories, Um Exu em Nova York (2018), won Brazil’s National Library Award in 2019.
Daniel Persia has divided his time between Boston and Brazil, serving as Regional Leader for the US-Brazil Fulbright Commission and Editor-at-Large for Asymptote Journal. His most recent translation, Writings, by Basque sculptor Eduardo Chillida, was published in April 2019 for the re-opening of the Chillida-Leku museum in Hernani, Gipuzkoa, Spain. Working primarily from Spanish and Portuguese, his research explores collaborative and inclusive frameworks for translating Afro-Brazilian/Black Brazilian literature. He will begin his PhD in Spanish and Portuguese at Princeton University in Fall 2020.
Ana Luiza de Oliveira e Silva is a historian and translator based in Ottawa, Canada. She holds a PhD in Social History and her doctoral dissertation received Honorable Mention for the 2015-2016 University of São Paulo Social History Award. Currently, she works with text translation, editing and proofreading in English, French, Spanish, and Portuguese.
*****
Read more on the Asymptote blog:
Contributors:- Ana Luiza de Oliveira e Silva
, - Daniel Persia
; Language: - Portuguese
; Place: - Brazil
; Writer: - Cidinha da Silva
; Tags: - anecdotes
, - Brazilian literature
, - Journalism
, - social commentary