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We all recall the World War I story of the Christmas Truce of 1914, when German and British troops united first in song, then in friendly competition for a brief respite from the brutal futility of trench warfare. The soldiers’ foray into no man’s land entered the well-traveled, but never settled home territory of the long-forgotten translator. Without the companion texts of common carols, there could have been no polyglot chorus across the muddy, frozen front.

A quarter century earlier, the compiler of the American Bishop John Freeman Young’s posthumously-published Anglican hymnal retained an unusual editorial choice. Prefiguring the moment when aggressions would be schläft and all would be calm, the original German lyrics to the Christmas lullaby “Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!” were printed alongside the first English translation for “Silent Night” on the same sheet of music: 

The cover image chosen for Young’s collection depicts the intersectionality of translation with “Alleluia,” a unifying Hebrew word of praise adopted into the music of all four languages included in the book. The words themselves are arranged to share initial and terminal letters, blending the ends with the beginnings, marked by the first lesson of their common alphabet—the hardworking A.

Pym (2012) similarly celebrates the unique position of translators, hybrid creatures situated between worlds, and constantly transacting language, culture, and power, yet truly possessing none of the rewards.

But what of interpreters working in signed languages? At a time when many race to decry every injustice, shout down opposing views, and make everyone’s war their own, John Freeman Young sets a virtuous example:

 

Keep your smart and contrastive smock buttoned, a stiff and whisker-free upper lip, and your mouth defaulted to the closed position. If you are competent, humble, and resist mudslinging, your work could imperceptibly move history along, and you might even be remembered as a peacemaker.

 

 

References

Pym, A. (2012). On translator ethics: Principles for mediation between cultures. Amsterdam: John Benjamins.
Young, J. F. (1887). Great hymns of the church (J. H. Hopkins, Comp.). New York: James Pott.

Occasionally, the descriptors “Deaf” or “Mute” appear on tombstones, to mark the identity or occupation of the individual. This family represents a remarkable pattern asserting a permanent reminder of Deaf affiliation. Whether analyzed from a Deaf space, psycho-social, or Christian perspective, it is a compelling consideration of membership, embodiment, and self-concept.

Variously known as “William B.” and “Berry” on the U.S. Census, when setting his own name in stone, he preferred to be remembered as “W. B.” These records below were transcribed by a volunteer who walked the County Line Cemetery in Lutz, Florida, and the inscriptions are not entirely visible in the images.

The first was in 1877, on his younger sister’s headstone:

Julia A. Ellis

Placed in memory by her mute brother and sister, W. B. and Annie E. Ellis.

 

 

 

Then, in 1890, on his mother’s grave:

Jane Ellis

Placed in memory by her mute son and
daughter, W. B., and Annie E. Ellis

 

 

 

So, why is this post not dedicated to Annie as well, and what does this have to do with historical interpreting? Mainly for what is revealed in the final epitaph for his younger deaf sister in 1892:

Annie E. Ellis

She was a deaf mute. She died in perfect mind realizing the change from earth to Heaven. A blessing. Placed to memory by W. B. Ellis, her
deaf mute brother

 

 

Census enumerators routinely listed W. B. as illiterate, yet a distinct ASL-infused message is carved in stone here. The words record Annie’s passing, but they also translate W. B.’s relationship to his sister, and his theology. It is a compact sermon on mental and physical being, transcendence, mourning, and family bonds. It reads as though transliterated into accented English for the sign-conversant visitor to imagine how he might have told us in person.

After he was listed as a boarder on his brother’s farm in 1910, the trail runs cold. However, a simple grave marker laid between Julia and Jane reads, “B. E.” The photo has never been uploaded, and the transcription does not indicate any additional detail. If I had the time, sources to confirm whether this is W. B., and the date of his death or burial are likely attainable in a straightforward search.

If you live near Tampa, FL, or if you are a Deaf genealogist interested in updating the story of W. B. Ellis, please comment below or contact me directly.