forbidden to some,
and embraced by others.
Language is not just for
communicating, but also for protection. Protection of the culture, protection
of the family, protection of the Quurzod traditions, whatever they might be.
And whatever they might be, they
are precious to the Quurzod.
In my excitement to learn, I
forgot about strictures and structures and barriers. I forgot that language
conceals as well as reveals. I forgot that protections exist for a reason.
And I forgot what it is like to
be young and curious and different from everyone else.
I forgot.
I grew up in a culture that
embraces difference, celebrate diversity, and loves outsiders. A culture that
believes itself superior to all others, yes, but in an open-minded way, a way
that allows curiosity, a way that states the more we learn, the better we are.
I forgot that not everyone sees
the universe as broadly as we do.
I forgot that not everyone has
seen the universe.
I forgot that not everyone is allowed to see the universe.
When we finally get to our
private conference room, I tell Leona that she no longer has to defend me. I
caused the crisis with the Quurzod. I should have been left behind.
I should have been left to die.
She wants me to explain that, and
I do, because I owe her that much. I explain, but haltingly. I do not want to
slip into the memories again. But someone has to understand.
Someone has to know.
Besides me.
~ * ~
Children
absorb language. They are born without it, but with the capacity to learn it.
Some lose that capacity as they age, or let it atrophy or never really had a
great capacity for it at all. But others never lose the ability to absorb
language, and consequently, they crave more and more of it.
They want to learn—or maybe they
need to learn.
I have always needed to learn.
Sounds and syntax are like symphonies to me, and as much as I love the old
symphonies, I am always searching for new ones.
Klaaynch needed to learn too. And
if all I had done was teach her Standard, we would have been fine. But she
wanted to teach me the glories of Quurzid—all of Quurzid—and I wanted to learn.
She might have gotten away with
teaching me some familial Quurzid. She was right; no one could choose her
friends for her.
But street Quurzid—it was
beautiful and complex and revealing, a culture in and of itself, one that
revered violence and anger as a way of life. Each word had degrees of meaning
depending on how it fell in a sentence, as well as what tone the speaker used
(High, low? Soft, loud? Quick, slow?), and each meaning had nuances as well.
Street Quurzid was one of those languages that would take weeks to learn and a
lifetime to understand.
I was thinking that after I
completed my mission as the linguistic diplomat at the peace conference between
the Xenth and Quurzod, I would stay on Ukhanda and study street Quurzid. I
would spend the rest of my life immersed in the most complex language I had
ever heard.
Maybe I mentioned that to
someone. Maybe I had merely thought it. Maybe my intentions were clear to
people whose language was so complex that my language must have seemed like a
child’s first halting sentences.
I don’t know.
What I do know is this. I
convinced Klaaynch to take me to one of the violence pools—a gathering site
where the Quurzod train. They live in those places, not in their homes, not in
their streets, not in their restaurants or their places of business, but in
their violence pools.
Violence pools are little mobile
communities. They exist as long as they need to. If they get discovered by
outsiders, they move.
Small buildings, assembled out of
sticks and cloth, appear, then disappear as needed. They form a circle around a
flattened area, and in that flattened area, lessons happen.
Most of the lessons are in things
we consider illegal. How to kill someone with a wide variety of
and embraced by others.
Language is not just for
communicating, but also for protection. Protection of the culture, protection
of the family, protection of the Quurzod traditions, whatever they might be.
And whatever they might be, they
are precious to the Quurzod.
In my excitement to learn, I
forgot about strictures and structures and barriers. I forgot that language
conceals as well as reveals. I forgot that protections exist for a reason.
And I forgot what it is like to
be young and curious and different from everyone else.
I forgot.
I grew up in a culture that
embraces difference, celebrate diversity, and loves outsiders. A culture that
believes itself superior to all others, yes, but in an open-minded way, a way
that allows curiosity, a way that states the more we learn, the better we are.
I forgot that not everyone sees
the universe as broadly as we do.
I forgot that not everyone has
seen the universe.
I forgot that not everyone is allowed to see the universe.
When we finally get to our
private conference room, I tell Leona that she no longer has to defend me. I
caused the crisis with the Quurzod. I should have been left behind.
I should have been left to die.
She wants me to explain that, and
I do, because I owe her that much. I explain, but haltingly. I do not want to
slip into the memories again. But someone has to understand.
Someone has to know.
Besides me.
~ * ~
Children
absorb language. They are born without it, but with the capacity to learn it.
Some lose that capacity as they age, or let it atrophy or never really had a
great capacity for it at all. But others never lose the ability to absorb
language, and consequently, they crave more and more of it.
They want to learn—or maybe they
need to learn.
I have always needed to learn.
Sounds and syntax are like symphonies to me, and as much as I love the old
symphonies, I am always searching for new ones.
Klaaynch needed to learn too. And
if all I had done was teach her Standard, we would have been fine. But she
wanted to teach me the glories of Quurzid—all of Quurzid—and I wanted to learn.
She might have gotten away with
teaching me some familial Quurzid. She was right; no one could choose her
friends for her.
But street Quurzid—it was
beautiful and complex and revealing, a culture in and of itself, one that
revered violence and anger as a way of life. Each word had degrees of meaning
depending on how it fell in a sentence, as well as what tone the speaker used
(High, low? Soft, loud? Quick, slow?), and each meaning had nuances as well.
Street Quurzid was one of those languages that would take weeks to learn and a
lifetime to understand.
I was thinking that after I
completed my mission as the linguistic diplomat at the peace conference between
the Xenth and Quurzod, I would stay on Ukhanda and study street Quurzid. I
would spend the rest of my life immersed in the most complex language I had
ever heard.
Maybe I mentioned that to
someone. Maybe I had merely thought it. Maybe my intentions were clear to
people whose language was so complex that my language must have seemed like a
child’s first halting sentences.
I don’t know.
What I do know is this. I
convinced Klaaynch to take me to one of the violence pools—a gathering site
where the Quurzod train. They live in those places, not in their homes, not in
their streets, not in their restaurants or their places of business, but in
their violence pools.
Violence pools are little mobile
communities. They exist as long as they need to. If they get discovered by
outsiders, they move.
Small buildings, assembled out of
sticks and cloth, appear, then disappear as needed. They form a circle around a
flattened area, and in that flattened area, lessons happen.
Most of the lessons are in things
we consider illegal. How to kill someone with a wide variety of
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