Recently, I had a blast from the past when my former Iranian English teacher, Mitti, kindly sent me a few of my English writings from about 17 years ago. It was both eye-opening and quite hilarious reading a very young me trying to express myself in English.
First of all, let me tell you about Mitti. She had this magical quality where she encouraged us to speak English in class but never gave us the side-eye if we threw in a Persian word here and there. Looking at the youthful writing Mitti sent me, written in an era where speaking Persian in an English class was (and still is) treated like committing a sin against the language gods, I realise how special that experience was. I vividly remember one teacher at our Iranian institute who came to class with a money box, ready to fine anyone who uttered a Persian word (my poor wallet!).
Maybe that sounds very extreme, but it would have angered many teachers back then if I used Persian while speaking/writing in English. But Mitti? She saw it as perfectly normal. She’d say, "Oh, you don’t know the English word? Just use Persian, darling, and keep going." And I did! She saw our use of languages as a resource, not a problem— something like a stepping stone. This woman was ahead of her time. She didn’t make me feel like I was doing something wrong—and that was the key.
Let me walk you through one of the masterpieces she sent me (you can see it in the image below).
I started with, “I want to speak about,” but Mitti, changed it to “write about” since it was a writing task, after all. I was proud to see I had structured it with a topic sentence, something not typically done in Persian writing, at least not in my Persian. And then, in a moment of brilliance, I ended my writing with, “Are you agree with me?”—an odd way to conclude, as though I needed my reader's approval for my description of the English class. Also, “Are you agree” is framed by Persian grammar, as in Persian, we say [آیا با من موافق هستید؟], we use modals like "are" to express being in a state of agreement, which is why this construction carried over into my English writing. You see, my mind was framing English sentences with Persian structure— a pattern that made complete sense to me!
Also, in the writing, I used a Persian word to describe my teacher as someone strict who gave us a lot of homework. Since I didn’t know the English equivalent, I simply threw the Persian word [سختگیر] in there. And when I looked it up in the dictionary, I found the word “industrious” to describe her, which wasn’t really a good fit. But Mitti still gave me a glowing Excellent! She saw the effort, and that’s what counted.
Honestly, I don’t care about the grade I got, but what I do clearly remember is the safe space Mitti created. I could do my best with English, and if I needed to use other language knowledge such as Persian, I wasn’t afraid. That safe space enabled me to trans/language so that I could express myself. It’s a lesson I’ve carried with me ever since.
I think about this in Australia now, which means thinking about my language knowledge and experiences in concepts that I’ve read and discussed in English. I sometimes wonder if there’s even an equivalent in Persian to explain what translanguaging really is, as this is how my mind works in terms of making sense of the world.
Recently, I turned to the wisdom of Molana (Rumi). In his Masnavi Manavi, there’s a beautiful poem where he talks about the concept of tarjoman [Literally translated as interpreter/interpreting]:
ای بسا هندو و ترک همزبان
ای بسا دو ترک چون بیگانگان
[…]
غیر نطق و غیر ایما و سجل
صد هزاران ترجمان خیزد ز دل
Molana uses tarjoman to describe any tool or means used to express oneself, whether through gestures, language, or even something that comes from the heart (emotion). I think, just like Molana’s tarjoman, translanguaging allows us to draw on our repertoire—gestures, words, feelings—to express ourselves and connect with others. The idea is there across languages and traditions.
In conclusion, a major part of my fond feelings for translanguaging and language learning goes back to Mitti. And honestly, it was excellent—just like she said.