Field Notes from a Native Speaker (Whatever That Means)
I once met a gringo in São Paulo who handed me his business card. It had his name in the center, and under it his title in Portuguese: Americano.
My expression was apparently enough to cause him some embarrassment. He asked: Too weird? I didn’t know where to look.
The same kind of estranged feeling comes over me whenever I see that familiar request: “We need a native English translator.” Well, from where?
I’m Australian, will that do? Or is there a preference for someone British? Or American, Canadian, Irish, New Zealander, or South African?
They all fit the bill. Yet none of them are identical.
Do clients have the image of some universally accepted, geographically unburdened, perfectly neutral form of “native” English floating serenely above all this messy language usage? It would appear so.
If that is the case, then somewhere between New York, London, Sydney and nowhere in particular lives the mythical speaker of (drum roll please) … “international English.”
The terms “native English” and “international English” have interwoven their way into the world of translation and, it would seem that we have simply taken them on without so much as blinking. They have always irked me a little. It’s not the nuances between them, but rather the lack of discernment we have shown as to what they truly mean.
This is not a rant (although at times it suspiciously seems so); it is a collection of field notes, musings, if you will, from a certified translator regarding one of the world’s most gloriously disobedient languages… and my personal irks.
I would hate to burst a client’s bubble, but “native English speakers” are not a single species. If we were, we would all have business cards with that as our job title. Just for the crack (Irish lingo there), I might get one made up.
English is not a single species
If I ever do get those business cards printed, I may need a subtitle explaining precisely which flavour of native speaker I am. Australian English? Broad Australian? Educated Australian? Some hybrid, mystical creature forged by years living in Brazil and reading British publishers while editing American clients? Not enough space on those cards, methinks.
The topic has been the focus of many linguists classifying our deviations, dialects, varieties, and a slew of other sub-categories for decades. I am not here to get into some nomenclatural bar fight, so I shall leave the finer distinctions to the academics.
My point is much more practical.
English is not a singular, central concept with a few charming regional deviations. I believe it is more like a semi-dysfunctional family (which family isn’t, am I right?) with a bunch of overlapping yet contradictory norms. At the end of the day, which family does not need subtitles at Christmas dinner?
I have a practical example: In the early 80s, an Australian TV commercial aired in the US to promote travel “Down Under”. A well-known comedian, Paul Hogan, was filmed having a barbecue near the Sydney Opera House. The original text was: “Come on Down Under, we’ll throw another ‘prawn’ on the ‘barbie’.”
Apparently, the American test audiences were lost in translation. They had no idea what a prawn was, and had all sorts of questions as to what Barbie was doing with that rugged, sunburned fellow in Sydney Harbour?
The commercial was re-recorded, replacing the word “prawn” with “shrimp”. But the staunch Aussies dug their heels in when it came to the icon of antipodean cuisine: “barbie” had to stay. Context can bridge some divides, but not all of them. However, if you’re still lost: barbie is the diminutive for barbecue.
Australians do love a diminutive. They throw them around with alarming confidence, and everyone just seems to understand: sunnies (sunglasses), bikkies (biscuits), arvo (afternoon), piccies (pictures), defo (definitely), and so forth, and so on. The list is truly impressive… and a nightmare for “native English” speakers who do not have a kangaroo or a kiwi on their passport.
If your passport has three lions, elephant tusks, a bald eagle, a harp, or a unicorn (I am not kidding), subtitles may still be required. So, which “native English” does a client want?
The problem with international English
When it comes to translation, “native English” translators have more than likely already made a bunch of linguistic choices long before any terminology databases enter the picture.
The short table below shows just how differently English-speaking communities describe the world around them. Obviously, I chose the most varied, and there are often overlaps, especially in former British colonies. Still, my point stands:
| Australia | UK | US | Ireland | Scotland | New Zealand | South African |
| bush / outback | countryside | wilderness | the country | the glens / countryside | bush | veld |
| whinge | moan / whine | complain | give out | greet | moan | complain |
| no worries | no problem | no problem | grand | nae bother | sweet as | sharp |
| ute | pick up | pick-up truck | bakkie | pick up | ute | bakkie |
| reckon | reckon | think | reckon | reckon / ken | reckon | reckon |
| rigmarole | rigmarole | hassle | shenanigans | haver | missions | story |
| mate | mate | buddy | mate | pal | mate | bru |
Given such an array of thoroughly native expressions, any notion of linguistic neutrality in the form of international English is, essentially, out the window. However, the term is flung enthusiastically around the four corners of the globe. So, is there possibly any stock in it?
In practical terms, international English could be construed as one that is devoid of any regional idiomatic baggage. It exists by diluting any heavy cultural markers, opting for either UK or American spelling, and calibrating the language for maximum readability.
That could be offered as a necessary compromise. Others, however, might see it as a way to suck the life out of the language. Literally, vanilla no toppings, please.
My own unforeseen rendezvous came about while translating a document for an international development bank. Originally written in Portuguese by academics, the text was to be shared with counterparts across Latin America. The option to translate it to English was, as far as I understood, aimed at broadening access and facilitating discussion.
My translation, however, was rejected for being “too English”.
The academics (mostly speakers of Spanish and Portuguese) were unable to read it because I had included too much “natural” language in it. I was asked to edit my text keeping a more literal sense; that is, to remove any idiomaticness from the text, and to leave the text closer to the original even if it read “clunky”.
So much for needing a “native English” translator.
On other occasions, with no orientation on “which English” to use, clients have raised an eyebrow when I opted for British spelling. It was considered too pretentious. Australian English, of course, has had its fair share of the cold-shoulder – very colorful, but not appropriate.
I would never argue that “arvo” is acceptable in an annual report. But “organisation” is pretty unoffensive, isn’t it? Heaven forbid, I ask if everything’s going alright, mate.
The more I hear these expectations, the more I get the feeling that international English is expected to be like hotel art: pleasant, recognizable, professionally executed, and carefully designed so that nobody baulks, nor do they remember it five minutes later.
Some Englishes are more equal than others
The hotel-art or vanilla-flavored version of English is most definitely bland, but it does have one undeniable advantage: everybody knows roughly what they are getting.
The crux is that not all varieties of English on the menu are given the same prestige. English, in general, is pretty accommodating, but some versions skip the line and are given front row seats.
I love the American twang as much as the next guy, but one must admit there is an invisible hierarchy when it comes to “global” English.
Most translators already float between British and American English, and in my case, Australian English. American English dominates much of the technology world. British English retains a certain gravitas in European academia. Australian English is warmly welcomed whenever immigration forms need filling out, but perhaps a little less enthusiastically when drafting policy papers or sustainability reports.
And then there are international organisations, which often inhabit a curious middle ground; a kind of linguistic duty-free zone where everybody recognizes the products, but nobody is entirely sure where they came from.
None of this is particularly sinister. Languages, like people, accumulate prestige through history, economics, politics, and a fair amount of cultural luck.
Still, translators notice when a client says they want neutral English but really mean American spelling. We notice when British forms are considered elegant, while Australian expressions are treated as colorful local curiosities.
Apparently, organisation is respectable enough, but arvo is where civilization finally draws the line.
Fair enough.
I too would look down my nose at seeing a government white paper beginning with, “The committee met on Tuesday arvo and reckoned things were looking pretty crook.”
Yet one cannot ignore the invisible hierarchy at work.
Some varieties have stronger passports. Some are granted immediate legitimacy or immunity. Others arrive at the party carrying perfectly valid tickets but are nevertheless grilled at the door.
The irony, of course, is that most professional translators move between these worlds without giving it much conscious thought. We instinctively adjust our spelling, vocabulary, rhythm, and register according to audience and purpose.
The rest of the English-speaking world may still be debating which English counts as international. Translators, meanwhile, have quietly been getting on with the job.
We are linguistic diplomats
As I have said, professional translators code-switch instinctively. We consult our internal style guides opting for NGO English, Academic English, Legal English, Government English, Migration English, or the ever-famous global Business English.
This is, I suspect, what international English truly is.
It is knowing what register, what style, what tenor, what sociolect, and what domain to use in any given situation, not whether color should have a “u”.
It is knowing which linguistic choices allow readers from different backgrounds to meet in the same textual space without anybody feeling entirely lost.
International English, then, is not really a language variety at all. It is a professional practice. It comes down to a series of negotiated compromises: enough familiarity to feel natural, enough restraint to remain broadly accessible, and just enough personality to remind us that a human being still wrote the thing.
Most days, translators are as much writers as they are diplomats carrying multiple linguistic passports. Had Scotland not already claimed it (they really did), the unicorn would be the perfect mascot for translators (put it on a business card?).
For now, the international English that I call “vanilla” is rampant in UN reports, airline magazines, multinational websites, conference brochures and annual reports. In these texts, slang is forbidden, colorful turns of phrase cast aside, and nobody is prompted to throw a prawn on (or at) a barbie.
So be it.
Spelling will continue to fluctuate between “organise” or “organize”. The Oxford comma will remain simultaneously indispensable and entirely unnecessary. Queues and lines will coexist peacefully enough, and weekends will occur both “at” and “on” exactly the same two days.
Despite all this observation, and decades of academic research on the phenomenon, I venture to say that no verified “native” speaker of “international English” has ever been identified.
So, where is this international English? Nowhere… and everywhere.
Who can lay claim to it? Nobody… and everybody.
After years translating between Brazil and the English-speaking world, I have given up the quest for the one true version of English. Instead, I have learned to surf the ever-changing waves, dropping in and cutting out as the situation requires.
The language nobody speaks, it turns out, is less a place of origin than a fluid meeting point. And translators are among its most experienced navigators.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR – Anthony Rosenberg
Anthony Rosenberg is a NAATI Certified Translator (Portuguese–English and English–Portuguese) with more than twenty years of professional experience working across legal, academic, institutional, and development settings. Based in São Paulo, Brazil, he specializes in translation, editing, and multilingual communications, with extensive experience producing and managing English- and Portuguese-language content for international organizations, government agencies, and corporate clients. His broader work encompasses communications strategy, copywriting, and editorial consulting.
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