Notes on Translation

“agricolae servōs labōrāre in agīs iubent.”₁

In silence, the words rose monumentally on the page, bearing the weight of centuries. Sixteen sentences stood in formation as if awaiting understanding. My cursor wandered as my finger moved it to the top right corner of the screen, revealing the hour: 1:00 AM. Blended dialogues and translations pounded my ears and the glow of the screen contracted my pupils. I abandoned the Latin, defying reason, to an elusive muse, nameless. 

“Servi in ​​agros ierunt.”₂

A lone bench beckoned me and the leaves cracked under my shoes, retaliating against the rough embrace of my soles. As I sat, nature’s whispers graced my ears – the scampering of a lone bunny, the distant wails of an ambulance rushing through the streets, the laughter of two friends under the impression that they were alone. They could’ve been childhood friends catching up or maybe they bonded over the shared struggles of keeping up with the relentless demands of existence. Maybe they weren’t friends at all and just happened to bump into each other. I could hardly find ‘silence’ in its true form. 

“Cum laborabant, formicae viderunt.”₃

On the handle of my chair I spotted an ant. Miniscule and insignificant. Traveling to the very edge of my armrest. A particular evil I have carried within me is my almost natural instinct to kill. To kill ants. Usually “ants,” but this one seemed lonely. I can’t quite pinpoint when this habit developed, but it now feels weird. 

Ants are a family of insects belonging to “Formicidae,” and ants are further categorized into  groups that each serve a function within the family. Latin is commonly used to classify organisms, mostly because it is a dead language, so it cannot change. Stillness. The ultimate human desire. And this desire to never change may have been my greatest source of agony.

Their tiny legs scurry them along, looking for food. They lay little eggs, and smaller ants emerge. They dig and dig and dig little holes that only they can fit into. They pace, armed, in front of their colony. 

Entitlement. A legal right or just claim to do, receive, or possess something. Is a person ever entitled to another? Was I ever entitled to killing those ants? I’m not so sure anymore.

They knew they weren’t entitled to me, harbored no claim, but sometimes I wonder if they didn’t. Belief is too ambiguous, I knew they didn’t.  

Yet as the ant made its way across the armrest, I started contemplating not killing it. The automated act of murder was replaced by something that resembled sympathy. At that moment, sitting alone on that bench with my legs raised to my chest, I felt the weight of being small. Maybe the ant didn’t realize its vulnerability. It didn’t realize that all it took was a single flick, a whisper of pressure. It didn’t realize its fragility. No one does. 

Fragilitas. The quality of being fragile or easily broken; hence, liability to be damaged or destroyed, weakness, delicacy. 

I believe I am not fragile until I catch a whiff of the vanilla scented reed diffuser. 

I was small. I was lost. I was just a girl. I could not survive on my own. I was a girl with opinions. Opinions were wrong. I was a girl who pursued too much. Also wrong. I was a girl who didn’t understand. I was a girl who was naive. I was a girl who knew nothing about anything. I was stubborn. I was complicating my life for no good reason. I was a girl. And I remember realizing that things were going to be different.

“Formicas quidem miserae erant.”₄

Different. In the way they spoke to me, as though we were no longer bound by the definition of “Filia,” “Mater,” “Pater,” the words fading into obscurity. Different. In the way I felt the judgemental eyes that watched over me my whole life, almost protectively, start to shut. The eyes that were not mine before, that were theirs, that depicted me as weird, strange, helpless, disobedient, unnatural, unlovable, inappropriate. Those eyes that one day became mine through which I watched myself.

 “Servi formicae in agro necaverunt.”₅

As the wind intensifies, and the night grows colder, I start to accept the ant. It was never waiting for me, yet I imposed so much on it. It might die soon enough, and I’ll forget about it. Its family has probably already forgotten about it. And although its classification might never change, and neither will the human desire to kill ants, I feel like I can mold out of myself.

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¹The farmers order the slaves to work in the fields.

²The slaves went into the fields.

³When they were working, they saw the ants.

⁴The ants were indeed miserable.

⁵The slaves killed the ants in the field.

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