One afternoon in Japan, I went to a small neighborhood rice shop and asked if they had rice that didnāt require rinsing. āWe donāt rinse rice,ā the owner said, āwe sharpen it.ā In Japanese, to sharpen rice is an idiom for rinsing rice, a phrase that once referred to rubbing the grains together to polish away the bran. The verb togu (āto sharpen,ā āto honeā) still carries that trace of abrasion, long after modern rice no longer needs it. Iād never thought about this etymology before: after years of speaking, reading, and writing in English, the phrase reached me as if for the first time. My unwitting mistranslation made me aware of what Iād forgotten, āto sharpenā sleeping inside āto rinse.ā That mistake was accidental, but it taught me something Iāve since tried to do on purpose, in both my poems and my translations: to keep shifting between my native language and my adopted language until they become defamiliarized. While my slip at the rice shop revealed the semantic possibilities of togu, my later translations would explore how choosing the āwrongā word might reveal what the ārightā one canāt.
āYuki Tanaka, Huffing Like a Horse


















