An Excerpt from “Into and Through the Belly of Night: A Translator’s Note”
By this century’s end, more than half of the languages currently spoken on our planet will fall silent. I remember distinctly the moment I first learned of that prognosis. Rain drummed the sheet-metal roof of my cinderblock house in rural Mexico, nine hundred miles south of Houston, Texas, in a region called the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. The century had just dawned. I had been living in the southern state of Oaxaca for a year, delighting in the rich tones of the languages that surrounded me: Chinantec, Chontal, Mixe, Ombeayiüts, Zoque, and Isthmus Zapotec. Until that moment, late in 2001, I had no idea how imperiled their existence was. Now, nearly two decades later, it is even more perilous: the world of 2100 might know only one-tenth of the languages spoken today. One in ten. Our collective human ability to convey emotion and experience, name our worlds, and locate ourselves in the universe might be decimated, with the deaths of the languages containing that knowledge. Imagine: the vast majority of the world’s cosmologies, literatures, and history: gone. No, I thought, this can’t be.
I began reading all the indigenous Mexican literature I could find, discovering that within one hundred miles of my cinderblock house, writers were publishing stories and poetry in at least ten languages—ten distinct literary traditions. Knowing nothing of Mexican languages beyond a few words for greetings and foods, I relied on bilingual writers who rendered their work in Spanish, as well as their home languages. Eventually, I dared to translate some of that literature into English—yes, the lingua franca whose rise correlates directly to global language extinction. Unavoidable irony aside, I translate filled with gratitude that these literatures exist in our world, and filled with hope that a wider audience might enjoy my English-language versions of them.
Irma Pineda writes in Isthmus Zapotec, a collection of variant dialects that is itself part of the much larger Zapotec language family. Nearly half a million people in the state of Oaxaca—and many thousands who have immigrated to Mexico City, Los Angeles, and elsewhere—are Zapotec speakers. “Isthmus Zapotec” includes languages that are as different as Catalán and Spanish. What we call “Zapotec” contains more than sixty distinct languages—as wide-ranging as the entire family of Romance languages.
I didn’t encounter Irma Pineda’s poetry while I was living in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, only forty miles north of her hometown of Juchitán, Oaxaca. Instead, I read her poems for the first time in a Mexico City literary journal in 2005—the year that she published her first book of poetry. That book, Ndaani’ Gueela’ / En el Vientre de la Noche, gives this trilingual anthology its title: In the Belly of Night.
Irma Pineda was born in Juchitán in 1974, the older of two children. Her parents were teachers and Indigenous rights activists. In 1982, Juchitán became the first city in all of Mexico to elect an opposition party to municipal government, after more than a half a century of single-party rule in Mexico. That historic election was the result of a social movement in Juchitán that was brutally repressed by the federal government. That repression cost Irma Pineda’s father, Victor “Yodo” Pineda, his life. She was four years old when her father was disappeared. Throughout Pineda’s life, her mother, Cándida Santiago Pineda, has continued her activism. Like her mother, Pineda and her brother are both educators who engage deeply with their communities. Pineda moved to central Mexico in 1988 to attend high school and then university. She earned an undergraduate degree in communications. She later worked as a journalist and legislative aide in Mexico City, for the federal senator from Juchitán. Pineda returned to her home city in 2004, the year before her first book of poetry was published. She completed master’s studies in multicultural education. She is a long-time faculty member at the Universidad Pedagógica Nacional (National Teachers’ University) in Ixtepec, not far from Juchitán. Currently, Pineda works as a senior policy advisor in the Mexican federal congress and serves as one of two representatives of Latin American indigenous peoples in the United Nations Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues.
Pineda has always been immersed in the work of language, or guunda—a Zapotec word that means to sing, to read, or to study. Since Ndaani’ Gueela’ / En el Vientre de la Noche appeared in 2005, she has published nine more books of poetry, one translated collection (by an early 20th century poet who worked only in Isthmus Zapotec), and an anthology for children.
Wendy Call
Four Trilingual Poems from In the Belly of Night and Other Poems / En el vientre de la noche y otros poemas / Ndaani’ Gueela’ ne xhupa diidxaguie’
I Was Given This Day
I was given this day
with songs of silent birds
with the smell of wet earth in the balconies’ flowerpots
with an iguana drawn on my son’s shirt
with sweet words of zapoteco
pulled from my sister’s tongue
I was given this day
with the hummingbird’s absence from my window
without cool earth nor stars nor jazmín del istmo
without armadillos, whose bones we spurn
without my grandfather’s stories embroidered
on the wide skirt of the afternoon
I was given this day
in the heart of the city.
Me llegó este día
Me llegó este día
con cantos de aves silenciosas
con olor a tierra mojada en las macetas de los balcones
con una iguana dibujada en la playera de mi hijo
con la dulce palabra diidxazá
arrancada de la lengua de mi hermana
Me llegó este día
con la ausencia del colibrí en mi ventana
sin tierra fresca ni estrellas ni guie’ xhuuba’
Sin armadillos para despreciar sus huesos
sin historias de mi abuelo dibujadas
en la enagua de la tarde
Me llegó este día
en el corazón de la ciudad.
Bedandá dxi di’ naa
Bedandá dxi di’ naa
ne riuunda’ manihuiini’ bisigánicabe laa
ne xho’ yu dxe’ ndaani’ guisu guiiba’
ne ti guchachi’ die’ lu xhaba xhiiñe
ne diidxa’ naxhi diidxazá
ni biaxha lu ludxi benda’
Bedandá dxi di’ naa
cadi suhuaa biulú ruaa guiru biaani’ lidxe’
gasti’ yu ga’nda’ gasti’ beleguí gasti’ guie’xhuuba’
Qui guini ti ngupi ni guiree lá dxita ladi
gasti’ xtiidxa’ bixhozegola’ nidiee
lu suudi huadxi’ di’
Bedandá dxi di’ naa
Ndaani’ ladxidó’ ti guidxi zitu’.
Guest
For Sebastián, when he bloomed in my heart
The galloping of horses
is your heart’s flight in my belly,
traveler coming down the path,
I save a shard of moonbeam to give you
and a large shell with the sea inside.
My hands weave a frangipani garland
to thread my heart on and place around your neck
like our people place around the necks
of our town’s important guests.
Before you arrive, I’ll tuck heads of garlic
into doorways and windows, to scare away the nagual
who would drink your new blood.
I’ll look for an earthen pot
whose belly will guard your lifeline
and I’ll bury it under a large shade tree
so you will never forget the land
that holds your soul
so that no demon will torment you.
Don’t forget
the power of our blood
because we come from the clouds
the tigers, trees, and boulders are our parents.
You will be blessed on this earth,
traveler who has not yet arrived!
El huésped
A Sebastián, cuando floreció en mi corazón
Un galopar de caballos
es el vuelo de tu corazón en mi vientre,
viajero que vienes en el camino,
guardo un rayito de luna para darte
y un caracol grande en donde habita la mar.
Mis manos tejen un collar de cacaloxúchitl
para ensartar mi corazón y colgarlo de tu cuello
como nuestra gente cuelga al cuello de los importantes
que visitan nuestro pueblo.
Mientras llegas, colocaré cabezas de ajo
en puertas y ventanas, para espantar al nagual
que quiera beber tu sangre nueva.
Buscaré una olla de barro
cuyo vientre guardará la casa de tu ombligo
y la enterraremos bajo un árbol grande y fresco
para que nunca olvides a la tierra
que guarda el alma de tu ser
y no haya demonio que la moleste.
Tampoco olvides
la fuerza de tu sangre
porque de las nubes venimos
los tigres, árboles y peñascos son nuestros padres
bendito serás sobre esta tierra
viajero que aún no llegas!
Biuuza’
Ni bisiga’de’ Sebastián dxi biele’ ndaani’ ladxidua’
Rului’ cuxooñe’ mani’
ora ripapa ladxido’lo’ ndaane’,
biuuza’ zeedu neza,
cayápa’ ti biaanihuiini’ beeu’ gusiga’de’ lii
ne ti bichu’ naro’ba’ ra ga’chi’ nisadó’.
Naya’ cuzá’ ti bigá’ guie’ chaachi’
ra ganda ladxidua’ ne chu’ yannilu’
sica rugaanda binni yoo yanni binni risaca
rigánna laanu.
Laga gueedandou’ chi ugaanda’ ique aju
rua yoo ne guiiru biaani’, ti guchibi bidxaa
gacaladxi’ gueda gué’ rini cubi.
Zuyube ti pumpu yu
ndaani’ guiapa doo yoo ne xquipilu’
ne guca’chinu laa xha’na’ ti yaga ro’ naga’nda
ti qui chu’ dxi gusiaandu layú
ni cayapa xquendalu’
ne qui chu’ binnidxaba’ guchiiña laa.
Zaqueca qui gusiaandu’
nadipa’ rini bia’neu’
ti binnizá nga laanu,
beedxe, yaga ne guié nga bixhozenu ne jñaanu
¡nandxó nga lii lu guidxilayú di’
biuuza’ ca’ru’ guedandalu
In the Belly of Night
In the belly of night I move
I seek
a wise sea turtle porter of one thousand years
a sea turtle devourer of earth
deep drinker of days
guardian of all nostalgia
to heal this soul that pains me so
to drink the tears these shadows pour on me
to pour sunlight on this sadness of mine
I seek
a sea turtle who will give me
her sharpened teeth
her iron house
her gait stripped of rage and haste
and her footprint of light on the earth.
En el vientre de la noche
En el vientre de la noche avanzo
busco
una tortuga sabia cargadora de mil años
una tortuga comedora de tierra
bebedora profunda de los días
curadora de nostalgias
para sanar un alma que me duele tanto
para beber las lágrimas que me derraman las sombras
para asolear esta tristeza mía
Busco
una tortuga que me regale
sus afilados dientes
su casa de hierro
su andar despojado de ira y prisa
y su huella de luz sobre la tierra.
Ndaani’ gueela’
Ndaani’ gueela’ canazaya’
cuyube’
ti bigu’ nuu xpiaani’ nua’ stale iza
ti bigu ni ro yu
ni re’ diti dxi
ni rusianda xilase
ti gusianda ladxidua’ nabé naná
ti gué nisa ruuna bandá’ luguiaya’
ti cué lu gubidxa yuuba’ xtine’
Cuyube’
ti bigu gusiga’de’ naa
laya naduxhu’
lidxi guiiba’
xquendarizá dxi
ne xtuuba biaani’ ndaani’ guidxilayú di’.
I Embrace Your Naked Coolness
I embrace your naked coolness
dress your body’s stiffness
prepare your forever bed
your suitcase:
I pack a gourd so you won’t forget
to drink pozol wherever you go.
I pack your new sandals
since they say the path is long
the river is wide
the landscape only half lit.
I put in your beautiful
dress clothes
your flower-embroidered huipil
your pleated lace skirt
because the angel of death
might ask you for a dance.
Abrazo tu fría desnudez
Abrazo tu fría desnudez
arropo la rigidez de tu cuerpo
preparo tu cama eternal
tu equipaje:
Pongo una jícara para que no olvides
beber pozol por donde vayas.
Pongo tus huaraches nuevos
pues dicen que es largo el camino
que es ancho el río
de penumbra es el paisaje.
Pongo tu ropa hermosa,
la de fiesta
tu huipil bordado de flores
tu enagua de olán
no sea que la muerte
quiera contigo bailar un son.
Caguiidxe’ xieladilu’ naga’nda’
Caguiidxe’ xieladilu’ naga’nda’
rucuaque’ lari ladichongalu’
cabaquechahue’ ra gatalu’
ni chineú’:
cuguaa ti xiga ti qui gusiaandu’
guelu’ cuba neza zeu’.
Cuguaa xquelaguidilu’ nacubi
ti nácabe xhirooba neza ca
nalága guiigu’
nacahuidó’ nga checá.
Cuguaa xhabalu’ ni jma’ sicarú,
lari saa,
xtaanilu’ di’ba’ guie’ lu
ne bisuudi’ olán
cadi mala si ná guendaguti
guyaa ne lii ti son yaa.
Poems in Spanish and Isthmus Zapotec by Irma Pineda
English translations and excerpt from Translator’s Note by Wendy Call
The English translations of these poems originally appeared in these U.S. literary journals: “I Embrace Your Naked Coolness” in The Cincinnati Review (University of Cincinnati, Winter 2015); “I Was Given This Day” and “In the Belly of Night” in Sow’s Ear Poetry Review (Virginia, Fall 2012); and “Guest” in Eleven-Eleven (California College of the Arts, San Francisco, Winter 2013). Both poet and translator are grateful to them for early support of this work.
