Writing about the self, Nate Bargatze, and translation

I've come to understand myself as a translator between worlds.

I’ve come to understand myself as a translator between worlds, and I often use my personal stories as the context. I’m especially interested in translation of the inner world. There can be push-back against writers who do this: their work gets framed as self-absorbed, or lacking forward-momentum, or uninteresting to an audience. It’s navel-gazing. I know this because I also tend to think whooooo cares when I read many personal essays that take too long to get to the point. So, I want to outline a case for my intent and why it might matter to you.

First a story. My mom manages the art department in a nonprofit thrift store run by a bunch of old ladies. Over breakfast a few weeks ago, she and I were talking about this, and art in general, and how it’s a thing to print your personal photos on canvas to hang on your walls. “Just don’t donate those,” my mom said. “What, your family photos?” I asked. “Do people do that? Who would buy them … other than serial killers needing to create backstories about their lives.” (I saw that in a procedural once.) She took a bite of her peanut butter toast. “You’d be surprised.”

I don’t want my writing to be the equivalent of donating old photos, as if to say “here, throw these away for me.” But stories do illuminate points and bridge gaps in understanding. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, so hang with me as I lay this foundation: everyone has a complex, rich inner life that is theirs alone. It’s an amalgam of factory settings, plus how they’ve been hurt and healed, how they’ve learned to survive, and thrive, whatever else they may learn in school (or, horror, online), then layered with feelings and beliefs. We’re mash-ups that pull from all genres of music. Given this, I’m curious about the intersection of our inner worlds with power and agency, because that is what we’ve come to label as “leadership.” (Let’s not neglect that our inner worlds are also desperate for attention right now, too. This is what we’ve come to label “loneliness.”)

In a saturated and over-stimulated world, it can be hard to listen for our inner truth or find our compass. I rarely suggest something as a universal truth, but I suspect this may one: the quiet voice of the self will not get louder before we settle down and get quiet. Even then, no matter how much time as I spend in contemplation, reading, and writing, or in conversation about the self and others, my introspection still switches off, like a text that whisks away before I meant to hit “send,” when my hungry, competitive nature zeroes in on something it wants. I love competition; I love strategy and challenge too. I’m not making that wrong. What I’ve come to accept is that a person cannot inhabit both mindsets at once, anymore than we can physically be in two places simultaneously. So the practice is to bring our competitive and reflective natures more closely into alignment: the conscious use of power can be medicine.

Given that I am not an academic or researcher, my craft is to weave together stories and language that outline a compelling case for personal and organizational growth, self-awareness, and fulfillment. My unpacking is the point, not a strategy to draw you in.

I heard Nate Bargatze speak about this recently in The Interview.¹ The comedian, an everyman if there ever was one, said this when asked about using his life as material:

Help me understand the distinction you’re making when you say, I don’t want it to be about me. Because your material is largely about you. Yes, I’m talking about myself, and I’m making fun of myself, but the material’s written for you. I’m not doing it to make myself look good. I’m doing it to make you laugh. You can laugh with me or at me. You relate to it, or you think I’m an idiot. Either way, I’m here to entertain you.

Bargatze is an entertainer; I’ve come to think of myself as a translator, as I mentioned early on. I like that metaphor. A good translator isn’t only working with language, but also with culture and humanity. Translators are on a hunt for the essence of what is said—what lurks beneath the words. A translator is precise, flexible, and humble, and great translators also thrive in ambiguity. The work can be slow. It’s collaborative. It is to learn to embrace slippage and imperfections, and to plant a flag in the land of revision.

I’ve also come to use myself as material because it’s ethical. Confidentiality is a mandate of the coaching profession; I would never tell a client’s story without their permission, and even then, I rarely would ask for it because I want to protect the sanctity in the relationship. There’s an oft-cited quote by the Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz: “When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.” Writers write, but people may feel betrayed and exposed as a result. The nature of relationships can shift from security to anxiety when there’s fear that the messiest parts might be exposed. (I’ve come to believe you can betray yourself in the same way.) If your material is the nature of the self, it takes time and, sorry, missteps and mistakes to learn how to tell stories that are disruptive, interesting, and truthful while also honoring the dignity of others, if that is important to you. I am certain that Bargatze, who has been a performer for decades, would concur. And even with experience, we all still make mistakes.

If Bargatze’s goal is to make you laugh, mine is to revel in awe. You could say I am interested in the work of the soul (to continue in the realm of metaphor.) I’m invested in the personal experience beyond what we organize through collective ritual and religious orthodoxy, and alongside our mental health taxonomies. We’ve turned the inner world into such a rigid, clinical one in our pursuit of diagnosis and control, and I don’t like that. I am more curious about how we live-with and make best use of our lives: our entire lives, including our responsibility to each other. As I’m defining it, the work of translation isn’t to come up with answers that are “right” or “wrong.” Its fidelity is to a spectrum of resonance, clarity, and multitudes of meaning. Its obsession is beauty and dignity. Its loyalty is to life as a work of art.

“I am what time, circumstance, history, have made of me, certainly, but I am also, much more than that. So are we all.” — James Baldwin

Let me know if you’d like a copy of this photo on canvas for your walls.

1. Putting on record that I don’t endorse all of Bargatze’s perspectives in his conversation with New York Times journalist David Marchese: I’m taking a stand against the wishy-washiness of his politics, even as I appreciate that he appeals to a politically-diverse audience. I want him to evolve in this regard, and it doesn’t need to be a big departure from his aesthetic and content, either. He is talented enough (and intelligent enough, despite his persona) to be funny while also challenging narratives that perpetuate cruelty and stigma. I have seen him take small steps in this direction, specifically in a bit about the harshness of spiked dog collars, so I believe he can do it. He works clean, but that is not to say he is apolitical. (Politics are on the table as soon as you speak of growing up in an evangelical Christian household, in my opinion.) Clearly, I am a fan of his work thus far. I saw him live during the pandemic, all of us masked and crammed into the Encore Theatre at the Wynn, laughing because he is hilarious and also because we were anxious about sitting that close to strangers. I want to continue to be a fan.