Lost in Translation: Language and Health Barriers in Portugal
On a recent gloomy August morning, I walked to a public Portuguese clinic carrying my expired EU residency card, a letter from Immigration saying my card was still valid because of COVID, and another letter confirming my third address change that year. My purse held prescriptions for several antibiotics. Because I had lived and worked in Portugal for nearly two years, I was headed to the clinic to get a public health number, which would reduce the costs of the antibiotics. My plan was to get the number, take it to the nearest pharmacy, and fill my prescriptions.
My boyfriend, E, a Brazilian and thus native Portuguese speaker, had offered to go to the clinic with me, but I declined. Since we’d started dating a year ago, I felt like I depended upon him as a translator too much: he spoke to doctors for me, waiters, Immigration officials, two greedy landlords, and a myriad of other people. While I appreciated (and needed) the help, I worried about relying on him too much and gradually losing my staunch independence. Before we started dating, I’d lived on my own for 12 yrs. I moved to Chicago, Thailand, and Portugal all on my own. I was used to fending for myself. Besides, how was I ever going to improve my Portuguese if someone was always there to rescue my stammering and stuttering?
As I marched to the clinic, I repeated the phrase E had taught me beneath my mask. Or, I repeated the phrase I thought he taught me. What I was supposed to say was, “Eu preciso um numero saúde utente.” (Basically: I need a public health number.) What I repeated beneath my mask was, “Eu preciso um numero saudade o tens.” (I need the number missing you have.) I sounded like a Portuguese Yoda having a stroke.
I entered the clinic, said my Yoda phrase to a security guard, and was pointed upstairs. Red arrows on the ground indicated where I could walk and still maintain social distance. On the second floor, an older woman stood in front of a door, waiting to be called by a nurse. I spun in circles for a bit, looking for the incorrect word I had burned in my brain. The older woman asked me a question in rapid Portuguese. I had no idea what she said, so I repeated my Yoda phrase to her: I need the number missing you have. She looked at me like I had two heads.
Eventually, between the woman and a nearby nurse, I was sent to the third floor. As I walked, I texted E and figured out my error with at least one of the words: utente instead of o tens.
“You sure you don’t want me to come?” E texted.
“I’ll be fine!” I said.
Unfortunately, I was still saying saudade instead of saúde. Saúde means ‘health,’ and had I been even remotely observant, I would have seen the word written all around me since the clinic was called Centro de Saúde de Rio Tinto. The word I was saying, saudade, is a word rooted deep in Portuguese culture to mean something dearly beloved is gone forever. It’s the type of missing you feel when someone dies. In Portugal, I often think it could be used to describe my deep missing for my dignity.
On the third floor, armed with at least one correct word, another nurse and I went back and forth until finally she took the papers in my hand and gave me a thumbs up. I pulled up a note I had saved on my phone, which listed the other important information she needed: my address, phone and tax number. She frowned while looking at it. I imagined her inner dialogue: “Why is this foreigner here if she can’t even speak the language?”
Living in Portugal, I am constantly ashamed at my struggles with Portuguese. I know enough to have a basic conversation, but I usually pretend like I barely know hello. Part of my insecurity comes from having had a few locals correct my pronunciation too harshly, and the other part comes from being a writer and the embarrassment of not being able to string words together perfectly.
My biggest shame, however, is more complex. I’m embarrassed because I’m American.
The US has an unfortunate reputation for angry people yelling at foreigners, “SPEAK ENGLISH!” We’ve all seen or heard about those viral videos of a white person with a superiority complex yelling at some poor, innocent person in a Walmart or in a park: “This is America dammit! Speak English!” I look like the antagonists in these videos. Pale, blond-haired, and blue-eyed, I am the billboard photo of a “Karen.”
When I can’t speak Portuguese in Portugal, I imagine people rolling their eyes and thinking, Yet this is the Karen who would probably yell at a child for speaking Spanish in a grocery aisle. I am not this type of person, but I understand if people assume that. The image coming out of the US is increasingly more anger and hate filled. Since leaving the US 3 years ago, I have been asked more than once if I hate black people. If I could speak perfect Portuguese in Portugal, I feel like it would immediately separate me from the Walmart Karens and maybe even show that not every corner of the US is full of narrow-minded ignorance. But then I’m too shy to practice Portuguese, so the vicious cycle is my fault.
When the nurse finished entering my information, she motioned for me to take a seat. I hadn’t meant to make a doctor’s appointment, but I also didn’t have the words to correct the error, so I waited until my name was called and I went into an exam room. Mercifully, the doctor spoke English. I explained everything to her. She also took my papers, frowned at the note on my phone, and soon I was finally off with my new public health number in hand. I filled my prescriptions, returned home, and collapsed on the couch. I felt relieved, accomplished, and a bit exhausted.
I pulled out my phone to enter my health number into my notepad of “Important Information.” This was the screen I had shown to three healthcare professionals today, all of whom had frowned when looking at it. It’s the screen I typically show to bank tellers, IKEA clerks, hairstylists, and anyone else who needs my information. I show the notepad instead of speaking because I’m worried about saying the wrong number in Portuguese.
The moment I looked at the screen my heart stopped. On occasion, I’ve pulled up this list quickly to jot down a new word or phrase I learn in Portuguese. I put it on the list long enough to either memorize it or write it somewhere else and then delete it from the notepad.
There, at the top of all my important information, in a large, bold font, was a Portuguese phrase I’d learned recently and had saved to surprise E one day: meu com tesão. I’m horny.
