Xenothon Emeritus: Third Language
Jun. 28th, 2013 12:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeThis story was an orphan from Xenothon, prompted by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ysabetwordsmith, who wanted a "character lost where they don't speak the language, forced to learn a new one," and sponsored by Argenti Aertheri. This is an Infinity Smashed story. Happy... uh... belated Xenothon!
Third Language
When Thomas Rodriguez was little, he'd hated English. It had felt less like he was learning something new and more like he was knuckling under to those racists who constantly demanded to see his father's green card and refused to serve his mother until she recited her order in perfect English. For a brief period, he'd even hated his name (Anglicized from his father's Tomas) and insisted on being called Junior.
He'd grown out of it after a while. Like it or not, English was king in Texas, and if you wanted a good job, you learned it. However, if you wanted a better job, you spoke both, and that made Thomas feel better. And at least, he thought to himself, he would never have to learn another language again for as long as he lived. He was covered, bro.
Then he blundered through a dimensional rift, landed in a place where nobody spoke English or Spanish and oh, come on, God was just messing with him now. Not only that, but he was the only human in town. A bunch of the various giant insectoids, reptiles, and googly-eyed whatchamahoos were deaf as posts, and even the ones that weren't just couldn't make the sounds he could. So they used sign language—and a bunch of different dialects, depending on how many and what kind of limbs you had.
Oh lord. It was going to be, “Whar's yore green card, Mexican?” all over again, only worse, because there were no moment/momento or gato/cat cheats here. Thomas was positive it'd suck donkey balls.
Except... well... it didn't.
Oh, it was hard, no doubt about that. But everyone knew it was hard, and they were okay with that. They weren't deeply offended by him walking around, not speaking their language perfectly. No mocking him for pronouncing Guadalupe Street with five syllables. They tried to help him find the right sign, or make reasonable guesses at what he was trying to do, and thank God, even giant bugs understood some miming. Even when they didn't (waving, for instance, was a new one on them), they usually just got a kick out of cultural differences. At least three horrorbeasts had taken to waving their forelimbs at him like Miss America.
And as Thomas's Pidgin Sign improved, he realized something: a lot of people sucked at Pidgin Sign. It was inevitable when you had so many foreigners in town, with so many different signing limbs. Everyone took it for granted. Thomas was the only human, but he was still nothing unusual, and apparently that made things less stressful.
Soon, Thomas had progressed from pointing and, “That!” (Well, literally, “Thing!” but Pidgin Sign used it the same way) to, “Three of that, please, with the yellow stuff on top.” He celebrated by ordering some of exactly that.
The vendor fried, poured white liquid and tossed spices, and dunked the whole thing in a vat, and as it fried, it leaned towards him conspiratorially. “Your Pidgin Sign has gotten very good. Here,” it passed him a honey nut treat. “For your learning.”
And Thomas laughed, and he'd hit up this vendor enough that it knew what laughing meant. It twitched its antennae and signed, “If your stomach can't take honey...”
“No, no, your honey's best, give me. Just...” he gave a sign that translated roughly to 'local social more' or 'cultural differences.' It was handy for not needing to give long explanations, which he wasn't quite fluent enough for. He wasn't sure he could explain the difference in his first language, never mind his third.
As the vendor took the food off the fire and buffeted it with its wings to cool it, it added, “Oh, I saw newcomers in town. They looked like you.”
Thomas's head jerked up. He tried not to get too excited; the last person who'd 'looked like him' had resembled the love-child of a lemur and an elf. “Really?”
The vendor wrapped the fried whatever in a leafy green and handed it over, taking the scrip. “Yes. Probably with the record-keepers now, or hunting a translator--”
Thomas was already gone.
The record-keepers' tower was closed for business. Thomas checked the work hub, but the crier claimed not to have seen anything that looked like him. Then again, resemblance was a very subjective thing. Thomas started working through the local polyglots, and he was trying to hammer down the exact boundaries of 'looks like me' with a land jellyfish when, for the first time in a year and a half--
“--Are we?”
“After all we've been through, I'm shocked you can care.”
English! American English, even! Not Southern, not Spanish, but who cared, who cared, Thomas hadn't used his mouth for communicating in a year and a half. He wasn't the only human in town anymore! He could talk.
He hadn't thought in anything but Spanish for a year and a half, but he dug around, pulled out the big dusty box in his head labeled 'Ingles' and chased after the voices, shouting, “Hey! Welcome to town!”
It wasn't as good as Spanish, but it'd do.
ysabetwordsmith, who wanted a "character lost where they don't speak the language, forced to learn a new one," and sponsored by Argenti Aertheri. This is an Infinity Smashed story. Happy... uh... belated Xenothon!Third Language
When Thomas Rodriguez was little, he'd hated English. It had felt less like he was learning something new and more like he was knuckling under to those racists who constantly demanded to see his father's green card and refused to serve his mother until she recited her order in perfect English. For a brief period, he'd even hated his name (Anglicized from his father's Tomas) and insisted on being called Junior.
He'd grown out of it after a while. Like it or not, English was king in Texas, and if you wanted a good job, you learned it. However, if you wanted a better job, you spoke both, and that made Thomas feel better. And at least, he thought to himself, he would never have to learn another language again for as long as he lived. He was covered, bro.
Then he blundered through a dimensional rift, landed in a place where nobody spoke English or Spanish and oh, come on, God was just messing with him now. Not only that, but he was the only human in town. A bunch of the various giant insectoids, reptiles, and googly-eyed whatchamahoos were deaf as posts, and even the ones that weren't just couldn't make the sounds he could. So they used sign language—and a bunch of different dialects, depending on how many and what kind of limbs you had.
Oh lord. It was going to be, “Whar's yore green card, Mexican?” all over again, only worse, because there were no moment/momento or gato/cat cheats here. Thomas was positive it'd suck donkey balls.
Except... well... it didn't.
Oh, it was hard, no doubt about that. But everyone knew it was hard, and they were okay with that. They weren't deeply offended by him walking around, not speaking their language perfectly. No mocking him for pronouncing Guadalupe Street with five syllables. They tried to help him find the right sign, or make reasonable guesses at what he was trying to do, and thank God, even giant bugs understood some miming. Even when they didn't (waving, for instance, was a new one on them), they usually just got a kick out of cultural differences. At least three horrorbeasts had taken to waving their forelimbs at him like Miss America.
And as Thomas's Pidgin Sign improved, he realized something: a lot of people sucked at Pidgin Sign. It was inevitable when you had so many foreigners in town, with so many different signing limbs. Everyone took it for granted. Thomas was the only human, but he was still nothing unusual, and apparently that made things less stressful.
Soon, Thomas had progressed from pointing and, “That!” (Well, literally, “Thing!” but Pidgin Sign used it the same way) to, “Three of that, please, with the yellow stuff on top.” He celebrated by ordering some of exactly that.
The vendor fried, poured white liquid and tossed spices, and dunked the whole thing in a vat, and as it fried, it leaned towards him conspiratorially. “Your Pidgin Sign has gotten very good. Here,” it passed him a honey nut treat. “For your learning.”
And Thomas laughed, and he'd hit up this vendor enough that it knew what laughing meant. It twitched its antennae and signed, “If your stomach can't take honey...”
“No, no, your honey's best, give me. Just...” he gave a sign that translated roughly to 'local social more' or 'cultural differences.' It was handy for not needing to give long explanations, which he wasn't quite fluent enough for. He wasn't sure he could explain the difference in his first language, never mind his third.
As the vendor took the food off the fire and buffeted it with its wings to cool it, it added, “Oh, I saw newcomers in town. They looked like you.”
Thomas's head jerked up. He tried not to get too excited; the last person who'd 'looked like him' had resembled the love-child of a lemur and an elf. “Really?”
The vendor wrapped the fried whatever in a leafy green and handed it over, taking the scrip. “Yes. Probably with the record-keepers now, or hunting a translator--”
Thomas was already gone.
The record-keepers' tower was closed for business. Thomas checked the work hub, but the crier claimed not to have seen anything that looked like him. Then again, resemblance was a very subjective thing. Thomas started working through the local polyglots, and he was trying to hammer down the exact boundaries of 'looks like me' with a land jellyfish when, for the first time in a year and a half--
“--Are we?”
“After all we've been through, I'm shocked you can care.”
English! American English, even! Not Southern, not Spanish, but who cared, who cared, Thomas hadn't used his mouth for communicating in a year and a half. He wasn't the only human in town anymore! He could talk.
He hadn't thought in anything but Spanish for a year and a half, but he dug around, pulled out the big dusty box in his head labeled 'Ingles' and chased after the voices, shouting, “Hey! Welcome to town!”
It wasn't as good as Spanish, but it'd do.
Re: SQUEE!!
Date: 2013-06-29 01:22 am (UTC)Should I be highlighting typos in your work or not? I forget sometimes who's in favor of that and who's not, but it's pretty much automatic because I do so much of it for
Re: SQUEE!!
Date: 2013-06-29 01:42 am (UTC)I'd like to have them pointed out to me, just because unfortunately, I don't have a beta, and I'm always quite embarrassed to find typos months or years after the fact. The quicker they're caught, the better!
Re: SQUEE!!
Date: 2013-06-29 01:44 am (UTC)Re: SQUEE!!
Date: 2014-03-09 06:14 am (UTC)Re: SQUEE!!
Date: 2014-03-09 11:14 pm (UTC)--Rogan