Tablet Magazine: Working Between Worlds
Rendering Voice Across Language
I translated a short story for Tablet Magazine, preserving its tone, rhythm, and emotional charge. The original moved through surreal logic and submerged grief. In English, I made deliberate decisions around syntax, pacing, and structure to carry that sensibility across without flattening its voice.
This project drew on the same approach I developed at the Iowa Translation Workshop, where I worked closely with international writers to shape translations through live collaboration and editorial precision.
Selected Copy
The question that will always linger: Am I to blame? I don’t know who’s asking this question—the dog that passes by me in the street, looking at me, his gaze heavy with suggestion: You could have stopped it, had you been a little less selfish. I confront his gaze, insisting, “That’s not true! It’s not as straightforward as that. How was I supposed to know?” But then I realize the dog isn’t the one asking the question.
There’s a voice in my head. It hurts. It reminds me of every disappointment I’ve dealt my boy. On his eighth birthday, I showed up, even though I wasn’t supposed to. We had agreed on separate celebrations, but she had invited all of our friends, and I couldn’t stand the idea of being excluded, of having everyone there without me. So I showed up. And he said “Dad, you’re not supposed to be here.” Still, I sang out, too cheerful, “Happy birthday! …”
Years later, he said it was his worst memory of me. The one day he’d like to forget. I just said, “Sorry.” By that time, we’d sort of found a way to talk. He was 15, headstrong, never listened–but in a way it let me be more open with him. I went on to say that I really shouldn’t have come. That I was a mess back then, and my pride got the better of me.
The dog scuffs back dirt with his hind legs, maybe after doing his business, maybe just out of reflex. I didn’t actually see him go. It’s just the two of us in the street. He’s wandering without his owner, we’re both walking aimlessly down the same side street in this small pointless town. When he scuffs back the dirt with his hind legs, I feel dismissed. Left to the whims of the wind. Of the dust. Of what’s past.
That’s where I am now. What’s left behind. No purpose. Still stubbornly persisting, for no clear reason. My kid, he’s calling out to me. He never really wanted me around. Always brushed me off like I was a pest. But now he’s dead, and he calls out to me all the time: “Dad, where are you?” Now, he needs me. But how do I reach him? If I were to drive my car to the desert and then off some ravine, would I find my boy?
I doubt it. I think all that will remain of me is my son’s call. I won’t even have eyes to see a dog on a side street. No peace. Just the howling echo of my son’s desperate cry: “Come!” That’s all that will remain, if I heed his call. So, I cling to existence. Yet, I feel like such a coward. Still too much of a coward to save him. Not now, not then.
I’m here. That’s a fact. I’m here in a place where dogs do their business. Or just pretend to, out of habit. I’m still here, where this dog is now sniffing the plastic trash can. Maybe chasing the scent of leftover food. He lifts his head toward me for a moment, checking me out. […]
