Tierra adentro, sonaban tambores; temblaban flautas de caña. Y mis abuelos, abuelo de allá, abuela de acullá, arriba de esto, abajo de lo otro, no dijeron nada.
Guillén once wrote: "El negro en Cuba… tiene un apellido español. Eso es violento. Esa es una herida abierta." ("The Black person in Cuba… has a Spanish last name. That is violent. That is an open wound.") This poem is the suturing of that wound through language. Q1: Is there a standard published English translation of "El apellido"? Yes. Several anthologies include translations. The most respected is by Robert Márquez in Man-Making Words: Selected Poems of Nicolás Guillén (University of Massachusetts Press, 2003). The translation provided in this article synthesizes Márquez’s academic rigor with a more contemporary poetic flow. Q2: What is the literal meaning of "apellido"? Apellido means "surname" or "last name." The translation choice between "The Last Name" vs. "The Surname" is stylistic. "The Last Name" feels more visceral in English. Q3: Why does the speaker say "¿Eh, ¿usted?" (Hey, you?)? The poem opens as a dialogue. The speaker is confronting you —the reader, the white establishment, or the Spanish descendant who takes surnames for granted. By the end, the question turns inward. Q4: Can I use this translation for academic citation? While this translation is accurate for study and comprehension, for formal academic citation, you should reference the published translation by Robert Márquez or Roberto Márquez (depending on the edition). Use this article as a guide for interpretation. Part 7: Conclusion – The Universal Cry of "El Apellido" The search for el apellido nicolas guillen english translation is not just a linguistic query—it is a search for identity. Guillén’s poem transcends Cuba. It speaks to every descendant of the African diaspora who carries a colonizer’s name in Brazil, the United States, Jamaica, or Haiti. el apellido nicolas guillen english translation
While Guillén is famous for Motivos de son (1930) and Sóngoro cosongo (1931), which celebrate Afro-Cuban rhythm, marks a darker, more political turn. Here, the celebration is gone. In its place is grief. Tierra adentro, sonaban tambores; temblaban flautas de caña
Inland, drums were sounding; reed flutes trembled. And my grandparents, grandfather from over there, grandmother from over yonder, above this, below that, they said nothing. Eso es violento