How I Became A Russian To English Translator

The following article is from the Spring 1997 issue of SlavFile.

CALLED TO TRANSLATE

Would it be too much to say that the Lord called me to translate? If so, maybe I should just say that it’s a miracle that I became a translator. That way you can interpret “miracle” according to your own inclination, religious or otherwise. You be the judge.

In the summer of 1968, I visited Russia on a student program from Indiana University, and in 1970 I worked at the USIA “Народное образование” exhibit in Baku and Tashkent. But back then the times they were a-changing, and I was hip. Someone said, “Turn on, tune in, and drop out,” and I did. For the next 15 years, I never heard or spoke a word of Russian and read very little.

My wife and I were fruit tramps for nine years, picking apples and pears in Hood River valley each fall. For one or two of those years, that was the only job we had all year. We bought some land in the mountains of north Georgia and built a log cabin. Living was easy off the fat of the land.

But gradually my непутевая жизнь began to catch up with me. Two children imposed certain financial needs, and the opportunities for decent-paying work in Southern Appalachia were limited to say the least, particularly for someone like me with no obvious skills. I worked off and on by the hour on state parks building trails, rock walls, steps, and such. It was great fun, but after starting at a rate that was 10 cents an hour below the minimum wage (which did not apply to state employees) I progressed to an hourly rate that was barely sufficient if I worked 40 hours every week. But that was not possible, especially in the winter, so as the song says, “another day older and deeper in debt.” In desperation, I even began to consider returning to the big city (Atlanta), where the money is.

Here comes the miracle part. My wife and I are Catholic, and at that time the Catholic mission in town consisted of six families. Just before Christmas 1984, a new couple showed up at church. The man, Jack, did not look old enough to be retired, so I asked what he did. “I translate scientific journals from Russian to English,” he replied.

“That’s interesting,” I said. “I used to know Russian.”

That winter was particularly harsh. At the park where I was working, the temperature got down to -30°C (in north Georgia, believe it or not!), and snow lay on the ground for weeks. In January and February, I worked only two days. At home, I got out my old Russian grammar book (Pulkina) and read it from cover to cover. I went to see Jack; he gave me a few old dictionaries and the address of a publisher. The test translation arrived in April; I passed it with Jack’s help and became a translator, however unqualified.

Miracle, good luck, or random chance? Here’s how I figure it. The odds of any one American taken at random being a Russian scientific translator are approximately a million to one. The odds of a person moving to a specific small town in north Georgia, 100,000 to one. The odds of my meeting this translator who has arrived in town, five hundred to one. So I figure the overall odds of this particular event are roughly 5×1060 to one. Call it what you will; for me it was an answer to prayer.

Why would Jack think that some stranger he met at church could translate? Why would I think that I could? I certainly had serious doubts, but was driven by desperation. At first, I worked in a tiny camping trailer away from the house, writing out the translation by hand for my wife to type. Soon I learned to type, bought a computer, and built an office. Every Friday evening for a couple of years, I would go to see Jack with a list of questions. I was constantly afraid that some editor would discover my ignorance – ignorance of Russian and, especially, ignorance of the scientific material. I felt like I was taking a final exam every day without ever seeing the results. The only indication I had that my work was satisfactory was that checks kept coming in the mail.

It took at least five years for me to gain the slightest confidence in my ability to translate. Of course, I was aware of ATA, but afraid to spend the money to take the accreditation exam and fail. Last year, after ten years of full-time nonstop translating (a million words a year, no joke!), I finally considered myself a professional. And thanks to ATA accreditation [since 2005, known as ATA Certification], my income is now at a much more professional level.
That’s my story. It is not meant to be inspirational or instructive; it’s just my way of saying hello.