Recently over social media, there has been controversy as the Oxford English Dictionary has defined ‘Essex Girl’ as “a type of young woman… variously characterised as unintelligent, promiscuous, and materialistic.” To add to this complementary description, just some of the example sentences of usage online include “An Essex girl goes to the council to register for child benefit”. As an ‘Essex Girl’ myself, born and bred, you can imagine my initial response. To have such an important, world-renowned publication define you in such a way for future generations is startling to say the least. However, as an English Language and Literature student, I am forced to reflect on the reasons why this definition has become recorded.

The OED defines itself as a “historical dictionary” which is “very different from dictionaries of current English where the focus is on present-day meanings.” Words and phrases need to be used over a length of time in various situations to be recorded. However, the issue arises when the OED’s idealised view of how their dictionary is used meets reality. Much of the public look towards the dictionary to prescribe the ‘correct’ usage of a word or phrase, which is what caused such an uproar from the general public. Some may argue that the definition does state it is a ‘derogatory’ term, but many still view the dictionary as a prescriptive rather than descriptive text.

Linguists may only be implementing their belief of reporting the use of language that surrounds them, but this surely should make us question why this phrase is being used widely enough to be recorded by the OED. Our society too often divulges in and encourages stereotypes of regions, with reality television programmes such as The Only Way is Essex and Made In Chelsea only adding fuel to the fire. Clearly, these shows do not truly represent the variety and complexity of areas in the United Kingdom. If you took TOWIE to be a true depiction of women in Essex, you would believe that we were all beauticians, hairdressers and generally concerned with our appearances rather than pushing our intellectual capabilities.

A video of TV personality Gemma Collins being interviewed on Sky news does not aid the situation as it spreads across the internet. In the interview, she makes incredibly valid points on how hard-working Essex girls do feel that the line has been crossed with such a derogatory definition. She also defends her position as a TOWIE cast-member, highlighting her business endeavours and school qualifications. Unfortunately, the only part of the video that went viral was when she described herself as a “massive fan” of the dictionary and became quite tongue-tied. This convinces the public that the definition is true and usable, as sadly many, myself included, only fixated on a few seconds of the video rather than listening to her whole argument on the matter.

9,239 people have signed a petition, set up by Natasha Sawkins and Juliet Thomas, for the definition to be removed, but there were many similar battles recently over ‘slang’ and ‘improper’ words making their way into the dictionary. The only way we can fight these new derogatory definitions is to change the way we use the word, taking back ownership of what intends to put us down. The trend #IAmAnEssexGirl has taken a brilliant approach to the issue, and I have loved reading posts on social media about the incredible achievements of supposedly “unintelligent” Essex girls.

I am in an odd position. On the one hand, I understand that the OED is only reporting the real, lexical changes in our language. If we opposed every entry that causes offence, then we would lose track of real developments in our vocabulary. However, I believe that events like this should force us all to look at the stereotypes we enforce on areas in the United Kingdom and throughout the globe. I am an Essex girl working hard towards achieving a degree from the University of Oxford, and know that the OED does not define me.

“The more personal the metabolism, the deeper the satisfaction…it is not a question of borrowing only, or of imitation, but of bringing forth in one’s own language what has been experienced in another.” Barbara Reynolds’ definition evokes something intangible: a feeling of reassuring illogicality that nevertheless makes perfect sense. But trying to conflate two different expressions of an experience generates resistance. One version of Federico Garcia Lorca’s poem ‘Night’ visualises the boundaries of translation that suggest ultimately irreconcilable meanings—the reader’s eye immediately catches on the word “saeta” dappling the English. “La constelación de la saeta” becomes “the saeta’s constellation”. The simplicity of this phrase only makes the untranslatable element more apparent.

“Saeta” (“dart”) reappears in many others of this edition’s English versions of the poems, along with other non-translated words that create gaps which delay any sense of a complete understanding of a poem. Stopping to Google-translate “saeta” mid-Lorca doesn’t lend itself well to discovering a poem for the first time. In his translator’s note, Sorrell explains how “Lorca’s poetry poses the recognised problems of translation in an intense way. His Spanish is highly charged, culturally specific, strongly rhythmic, always musical.” So much so that sometimes, there simply isn’t a word that can replace and reconfigure.

The English “arrow” only reaches for what the Spanish encompasses. For a non-Spanish speaker, the accompanying Spanish text in Sorrell’s edition only increases an awareness of a gap between the original and the translation, a gap into which words and meanings fall. Most frustrating of all is not being able to know precisely what has been lost. But the translation gap is also productive. Though reading something in translation is to read it at a remove from an original, it is still an experience that is singular, not superficial or lacking.

Sorrell’s translations are echoing and elegant and the result will still produce personal responses that belong outside the realm of comparison or loss. The English translations are their own work of literature, by no means superior to the original, just a new dimension unfolding from the edges. And Lorca’s poetry itself conveys a way of thinking about writing which touches on an important aspect of translation: its minimalist, sparse style “reminds us that poems work on the basis of what comes out of them rather than what allegedly goes into them.” It would seem that translation only literalises what all reading is, a process of the reader’s private articulation of a writer’s expression.

Though reminding us of the privacy of reading, translation’s purposes look outward too. Indeed, it is often used as a marker of a poet or novelist’s commercial success, presented as a requirement generated by the text itself. Harry Potter has been translated into over seventy different languages and dialects—information usually included in the introductory note or the blurb for example. But it is of course a testament to the imaginative element of Rowling’s story too. In the Ancient Greek version of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (incidentally, the first children’s book to have been translated into that language) the translator decided to keep the unique vocabulary of the fantasy world, such as technical Quidditch terms. Rather than show up as an irritating limitation, this amusingly reaffirms the inventiveness of language, and captures the way in which different contexts and vocabularies can be patched together.

Translation reminds us of the countless possibilities for interpretation of a text, though some might remain inaccessible to us. New meanings are generated by a Shakespeare play reworked in modern contexts, the realisation of an individual director’s vision; listening to the cover of a favourite song produces new emotions via an appreciation of choices and changes. The incompleteness of reading is worth celebrating too.