Native Tongue Read online

  Published by the Feminist Press at the City University of New York

  The Graduate Center, 365 Fifth Avenue, Suite 5406, New York, NY 10016

  feministpress.org

  Copyright © 1984 by Suzette Haden Elgin

  Afterword copyright © 2000 by Susan M. Squier and Julie Vedder

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or used, stored in any information retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the Feminist Press at the City University of New York except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Elgin, Suzette Haden.

  Native tongue / Suzette Haden Elgin; afterword by Susan Squier

  and Julie Vedder.—1st Feminist Press ed.

  p. cm.

  Originally published: New York: DAW, 1984

  eISBN 9781558617766

  1. Language and languages—Fiction. 2. Languages, Secret—Fiction.

  3. Women—Fiction. I. Title

  PS3555.L42 N38 2000

  813'.54—dc21

  00-42958

  The Feminist Press would like to thank Joanne Markell and Genevieve Vaughan for their generosity in supporting this book.

  CONTENTS

  1.Front Cover

  2.Title Page

  3.Copyright Page

  4.Preface/Forward

  5.Chapter 1

  6.Chapter 2

  7.Chapter 3

  8.Chapter 4

  9.Chapter 5

  10. Chapter 6

  11. Chapter 7

  12. Chapter 8

  13. Chapter 9

  14. Chapter 10

  15. Chapter 11

  16. Chapter 12

  17. Chapter 13

  18. Chapter 14

  19. Chapter 15

  20. Chapter 16

  21. Chapter 17

  22. Chapter 18

  23. Chapter 19

  24. Chapter 20

  25. Chapter 21

  26. Chapter 22

  27. Chapter 23

  28. Chapter 24

  29. Chapter 25

  30. Appendix

  31. Afterword

  32. Notes

  33. Works Cited

  34. About the Author

  35. About the Feminist Press

  36. Also Available from the Feminist Press

  PREFACE

  There is a sense in which no book can be said to be “ordinary” today; we are well aware of that. When the publication of as many as ten books in a single year is unusual, even the most undistinguished volume would not be ordinary. But when we say that this is no ordinary book, we mean a good deal more than just that its format is rare.

  First, we believe this book to be the only work of fiction ever written by a member of the Lines. The men of the linguist families have given the world a vast body of scholarly work and other nonfiction. Their women have made substantial contributions to that work, duly acknowledged by the authors in their introductory notes and prefaces. But Native Tongue is not a work of scholarship, or a teaching grammar, or a book of science for the general public; it is a NOVEL. And it gives us a sense of participation in the linguists’ lives during the first quarter of the 23rd century that we cannot gain from any history of the time, no matter how detailed, no matter how abundantly documented. Very little fiction on that subject exists, even from the pens of nonlinguists; this book is the unique example from a linguist, and as such it is beyond price. We owe a major debt to the scholar who found the manuscript and who saw to it that it reached our hands; we deeply regret that our ignorance of that scholar’s identity prevents us from expressing our appreciation more effectively. It is a miracle that this document was not lost; we are grateful for the miracle.

  Second, although we would have had no difficulty making the material available in the traditional publishing media of computer-disc or microfiche, that was not what we wanted. From the very first reading, we felt strongly that this should be a printed book, printed and bound in the ancient manner. It is very special; it seemed to us that it deserved an equally special form. It took almost ten years, and the efforts of hundreds of persons, to secure the necessary monies and to find craftsmen with the necessary skills who were willing to provide them for what we could afford to pay—even for this limited edition.

  We cannot tell you who actually wrote Native Tongue. It was signed simply “the women of Chornyak Barren House.” It must have been written in scraps of time, at odd stolen moments, at the cost of sacrificing much-needed sleep, for the women of the Lines had no leisure. If anyone has evidence that might shed light on the mystery of its authorship, no matter how fragmentary, we ask that you share it with us; we promise you that it will be treated with the utmost discretion and respect.

  It is with great pride, then, and with a sense of profound accomplishment, that we urge you to read on, and to keep this volume among your treasures and in a place of honor.

  —Patricia Ann Wilkins, Executive Editor

  (Native Tongue is a joint publication

  of the following organizations:

  The Historical Society of Earth;

  WOMANTALK, Earth Section;

  The Metaguild of Lay Linguists, Earth Section;

  The Láadan Group.)

  Chapter One

  ARTICLE XXIV

  Section 1. The nineteenth article of amendment to the Constitution of the United States is hereby repealed.

  Section 2. This article shall be inoperative unless it shall have been ratified as an amendment to the Constitution by the legislatures of three-fourths of the several states within seven years from the date of its submission.

  (Declared in force March 11, 1991.)

  ARTICLE XXV

  Section 1. No female citizen of the United States shall be allowed to serve in any elected or appointed office, to participate in any capacity (official or unofficial) in the scholarly or scientific professions, to hold employment outside the home without the written permission of her husband or (should she be unmarried) a responsible male related by blood or appointed her guardian by law, or to exercise control over money or other property or assets without such written permission.

  Section 2. The natural limitations of women being a clear and present danger to the national welfare when not constrained by the careful and constant supervision of a responsible male citizen, all citizens of the United States of the female gender shall be deemed legally minors, regardless of their chronological age; except that they shall be tried as adults in courts of law if they are eighteen years of age or older.

  Section 3. Inasmuch as the aforementioned natural limitations of women are inherent, such that no blame accrues to them thereby, nothing in this article shall be construed to allow the mistreatment or abuse of women.

  Section 4. The Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.

  Section 5. This article shall be inoperative unless it shall have been ratified as an amendment to the Constitution by the legislatures of three-fourths of the several states within seven years from the date of its submission.

  (Declared in force March 11, 1991.)

  SUMMER 2205....

  There were only eight of them at the meeting; not the best of numbers. Not only was eight a very small number to accomplish business efficiently, it was an even number—which meant that in case of a tie they’d have to give Thomas Blair Chornyak an extra vote, and he always hated that. It smacked of an elitism that was completely contrary to the philosophy of the Lines.

  Paul John Chornyak was t
here, still putting in his oar at 94, when Thomas ought to have been able to proceed without the old man’s interference. Aaron was there—he had to be, given the final item on their agenda, which concerned him directly. They’d managed to scare up two of the senior men by comset, so that the faces of James Nathan Chornyak and of Thomas’ brother-in-law Giles were with them in blurry irritation, after a fashion. Adam was there, only two years younger than Thomas and quite properly part of the group; Thomas relied on his brother for many things, not the least of them being his skill at deflecting their father’s digressions and convincing Paul John that his words had been attended to. Kenneth was there because, not being a linguist, he could always get away from whatever he was doing to come to meetings; Jason was there because the negotiation he was involved in was hopelessly stalled on a technicality about which he could do nothing, leaving him marking time until the State Department could straighten it out.

  Either of the last two could have solved the problem of the even number by courteously excusing himself—but neither one would do it. It was Jason’s opinion that since Kenneth was only a son-in-law, and not even a member of the Lines by birth, it was his place to take himself off to whatever it was he ought to be doing instead of butting in here. And it was Kenneth’s opinion that he had as much right in the meeting as Jason had—he hadn’t given up his birth name and taken Mary Sarah Chornyak’s name for his own for nothing. He was Chornyak now, as much as any of them, and he knew very well that one of the things he had to do was underline that fact firmly at every opportunity, or the other junior men would bury him at the bottom of the pecking order. He wasn’t about to leave.

  It was awkward, and Thomas briefly considered asking James Nathan to drop out; but they’d waked him up for this, and he hadn’t been happy about it. He’d been up all the previous night and well past breakfast time interpreting in one of the Third Colony crises of which there seemed to be an inexhaustible supply, and he’d been obviously exhausted. Now they had him awake, it would be less than tactful to suggest that he go back to bed, sorry to bother you but we thought we needed you at the time. . . . No. It wouldn’t do, and he let it pass. If he had to vote double, so be it; they’d all survive. And their meetings were always small at Chornyak Household lately, except for the Semi-Annuals that were on permanent schedule and for which everyone kept a free day on his calendar. The way the government was pushing into space these days, and every inch of the push to be negotiated with the whole apparatus of treaties and purchase agreements and establishment of formal relations, it was hard to find any linguist under the age of 60 with an hour to spare for household affairs.

  He would settle for what he had, Thomas decided, and be grateful it wasn’t just himself and old Paul John and Aaron. They would have made a pitiful quorum, just the three of them at the table all by themselves. The table’s shape, the standard blunt-tipped A without a crossbar, was ideal for the Semi-Annuals; you could really pack the men in around it, and still have ample space for threedies and holograms in the solid area at the top of the A. But when you had only half a dozen, you either rattled around with each of you established at some arbitrary point to fill out the geometry or you huddled in a little knot at one end and felt dwarfed. Today they had opted for the rattling around. His father at his right hand, the comsets clear across the room out of the way of people’s heads, and the other four men laid out like the points of a compass. Silly ass procedure.

  He got them through the first seven agenda items with dispatch, and no need for any tie-breaking. The one thing he’d been a little uncertain about, the contract for REM80-4-801, ran into no opposition at all. Sometimes there were advantages to a meeting with a substantial percentage of inexperienced junior participants. He’d had his arguments ready, just in case; but either none of the others saw the dangerous opening in subparagraph eleven or none of them cared enough about it to spend time arguing over it. The other items were routine . . . they went through the whole list in just over twelve minutes flat.

  And now there was this last matter to be taken up. Cautiously. Thomas read it out for them, keeping his voice casual and adding no elaborations, and then he waited. As he’d expected, Aaron made a point of looking bored past all bearing; he had the Adiness Line’s skill with facial expression, plus the ease of long practice, and he managed to look excruciatingly uninterested.

  “This matter is open for discussion,” Thomas said. “Comments?”

  “Frankly, I don’t see any need for discussion,” observed Aaron at once. “We could have settled this whole thing by memo, to my way of thinking, and god knows I’ve better things to do with my time. As do we all, Thomas—I’m sure I’m not the only one strangling in federal deadlines.”

  Thomas wasn’t ready to say anything yet; he raised his eyebrows just the precise fraction indicated, rubbed his chin gently with one hand, and waited some more—and Aaron spoke again.

  “I’m willing to accept the fact that you had to add this to a formal agenda; you’ve convinced me of that,” he said. “And we’ve done it. It’s on there, a matter of record. For all the curious world to see and applaud. And that’s quite enough time wasted. I move we vote, and be done with it.”

  “With no discussion at all?” Thomas asked mildly.

  Aaron shrugged.

  “What’s to discuss?”

  That brought Paul John into it; he was old enough to find the arrogance of this particular son-in-law less than amusing, and too old to be impressed by either his brilliance with language or his astonishing good looks.

  “You might find out, if you’d let somebody else talk,” said the old man. “Why don’t you try it and see?”

  Thomas moved quickly, not interested in seeing Aaron and Paul John started on one of the sparring sessions they both took such delight in. That would be a waste of time. “Aaron,” he said, “this meeting is not entirely window-dressing.”

  “No. We had to discuss those contracts. And vote on them.”

  “Nor is this last item window-dressing,” Thomas insisted. “There is a reason, a very good reason that has nothing to do with just putting it on record, for us to give it our consideration. Because we do feel—and, I might add, we are obligated to feel—more than just a ceremonial regard for the woman in question.”

  “And I would remind you that in purely economic terms the woman is fully entitled to that regard,” Kenneth put in from the far end of the table, right leg of the A. He was nervous, and he hadn’t the skill to hide it in either voice or body-parl, but he was determined. “Nazareth Chornyak has borne nine healthy infants to this Line,” he said. “That’s nine Alien languages added to the assets of this Household. It’s not as if she were an untried girl.”

  Thomas saw Aaron allow the barest sign of contempt, the most carefully measured flicker of disdain, to move over his face; then it was replaced with a false and cloying kindness that would also be attached to whatever he was about to say. It wasn’t a fair contest in any way; poor Kenneth, straight from the public and brought into Chornyak Household with the public’s bottomless ignorance of all linguistic skills . . . and Aaron William Adiness, son of Adiness Household, second only to the Chornyak Line in the linguist dynasties. Kenneth was a duck in a barrel, and Aaron enjoyed duck-shooting too much to let it pass.

  “At times, Kenneth,” he said sympathetically, “it is overpoweringly obvious that you were not born a linguist. . . . You don’t learn, do you?”

  Kenneth flushed, and Thomas felt sorry for him, but he didn’t interfere. In some ways Aaron was right—Kenneth didn’t learn. For example, he hadn’t yet learned that time spent playing Aaron’s little games was time spent feeding Aaron’s giant ego, and therefore time wasted. Kenneth fell for it, every time.

  “It isn’t the woman,” Aaron said pleasantly, “who adds the Alien languages to the Household assets. It is the MAN. The man goes to the trouble of impregnating the woman—who is then coddled and waited upon and indulged sickeningly, to ensure the welfare of his ch
ild. To attribute any credit to the woman who plays the role of a receptacle is primitive romanticism, Kenneth, and entirely unscientific. Re-read your biology texts.”

  RE-read. Presupposed, Kenneth had read them already and learned nothing from the experience. Neat. And typical of Aaron Adiness.

  Kenneth sputtered, and flushed darker.

  “Damn it, Aaron—”

  Aaron went sailing on in the conversational stream; Kenneth was scarcely there at all, except as the recipient of his compassionate instruction. “And you would do well to remember that if it weren’t for the intervention of men only females could ever be born. The human race would degenerate into a species composed entirely of genetically inferior organisms. You might want to think that over, Kenneth. It might be well to keep those very basic facts in mind, as an antidote to . . . sentimental tendencies.”

  And then he leaned back and blew a superb row of smoke rings toward the ceiling, and he smiled and said, “Let us not confuse the pot with the potter, dear brother.”

  At the other leg of the table, Jason chuckled in appreciation of the tired joke. Thomas was disappointed. Later he might have a few words to say to his son about cheering on the one who held the gun when the target was a duck sitting in a barrel. He was a good deal more satisfied with what happened next, when the reproof came from the comset screen where James Nathan’s face was wavering and flickering against the fluctuations of the household power mains.

  “Damn all, Adiness,” said this other, more capable son, “the only reason we aren’t through with this and able to get to those deadlines you were so worried about five minutes ago—and the only reason I am not back in my bed, where I certainly ought to be—is because of your love affair with your mouth. None of us, and that includes Kenneth, who has my apology for your bad manners, needs an idiot recitation of information known to every normal human being by the age of three. Now I’m going to take it for granted that you’re through, Aaron . . . and I suggest you be through.”

  Aaron nodded, all courtesy and aplomb, smiling easily, and Thomas knew he considered the rebuke well worth the pleasure he’d had toying with Kenneth, né Williams. Aaron had never considered Kenneth’s input of fresh genes sufficient justification for his presence. He’d opposed taking the fellow into the house as husband for Mary Sarah in the first place, and he’d made no secret of the fact that his opinion was unchanged, even after seven years. Kenneth, he was fond of remarking, was “positively girlish.” Not in Kenneth’s hearing, of course, but always where the insult would be sure to get back to his brother-in-law rather promptly.