#but she translates her native tongue to whatever language she needs in order to communicate with humans

[corcnaiism]

;-- just to think that this is how pandora ACTUALLY sounds like

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 9

Newest chapter is up!  We finally encounter other people on the ship, and I have a chance to show that Sophia is not perfect. Also, this is a fluffy chapter, no warnings.

Please feel free to send me any constructive feedback or questions you have regarding any chapters of this story.  I love to answer questions.  All I ask is, if you identify a problem with something, please also suggest a solution to said problem. I am always willing to correct myself provided I know how.

I spent the next several weeks getting used to the routines on the ship. For the first few days, I was still getting a substantial amount of my mobility back; just because I had been given new body parts in perfect condition did not mean they held the same flexibility and endurance as the muscles I had lost.  The Miys had insisted that the muscles should be in correct working order, and struggled to understand that some traits of human motion are not held in genetics, but rather in how we use the muscles to strengthen them and stretch the connective tissues.  In the end, I had to demonstrate my lack of range of motion by trying to do yoga with Tyche.  The fact that I could barely even do half of the poses hurt my ego more than it hurt my body.

“Enhancer,” the Miys buzzed in a questioning tone. “You and Tyche genetically possess both ligamentous laxity and hypermobile joints, causing a greater base range of motion than the Terran average.  Please explain why you wish to be more flexible beyond what you are already capable of?”

I rubbed my stiff spine before answering. “Humans are like that. If there is something unique about us, sometimes it feels good physically to cultivate that.  For example, I had a friend growing up who was able to both perceive and vocally produce sounds with perfect accuracy.  In English, we call this perfect pitch. Rather than just be happy with that, he learned to play every Terran instrument he possibly could, so that he could make music not just by singing, but by playing instruments. He found it challenging: he could already make perfect music through singing, and had a substantial range. But that did not extend to instruments, so he had to actually teach himself to play these instruments with very high precision.”

“I would have very much liked to find someone with perfect pitch,” it hummed wistfully. “However, of those who survived the condition of your planet, none with perfect pitch were found.  I certainly tried. The concept was very exciting, both for me and for my home world. What would they look like?”

Now, I was kind of bummed about it, too. What would Ronnie have looked like to a species who saw through sound? Despite the fact that his face had blurred in my memories after so many years, I do remember how kind he was, and that alone always compelled me to remember him as beautiful and vibrant.  Maybe he would have been beautiful and vibrant to the Miys, too, in their equivalent of crystal clarity and surround sound.  The idea lifted my heart a bit.

In addition to working on returning to my previous peak physical condition (pre-End, before malnutrition was as common as breathing), I focused on familiarizing myself with the ship. After a rowing argument with my food console when I tried to order Shepherd’s Pie, I stomped to one of the communal eating areas and decided to socialize.  I had struggled with the console from the first time I tried it on my own. Most international food worked okay, but comfort food was just not cooperating.  The Miys already confirmed that there was no restriction on my console, as I had no dietary restrictions from a medical standpoint.  It was unable to explain why the console had difficulty with certain dishes, however, as the consoles were specially installed for the Terran cargo. The Miys just ate its standard rations to sustain its several bodies, and apparently that was all they ate, even on their home planet. I was curious enough to tag that for further interrogation later. Right now, I wanted one thing and one thing only.

As I navigated into more populated areas, I paused to compose myself: Stand tall, head up, shoulders back, smile on my face. After all, the Miys expected me to help lead in some capacity; I knew from previous experience on Earth that humans generally prefer to be led by someone who seem confident, but approachable and somewhat likable.  Essentially, this was my public debut to the rest of the ship, so I needed it to be a good impression, whether the rest of the ship knew that or not. Being frustrated and hangry was no excuse.

Once I entered the common area, I immediately saw that it was roughly the size of an Ikea food court: large enough to be left alone, but small enough to be social if you chose to be. Very considerate.  A quick scan of the room showed several freshly prepared options to one side, and a bank of food consoles on the other.  My brows furrowed at the consoles before I made my way over to scan the freshly prepared food. To my chagrin, the fresh food was rather boring but hearty fare.  It looked good, but it wasn’t what I had a craving for.  Miys did not understand the concept of cravings, so this was another struggle I would have to explain at a later date.

In defeat, I shuffled over to the food synthesizers, praying to whatever deity would listen that one of the damned things would produce what I wanted. Three synthesized (and subsequently recycled) meals later, I still could not get my meal.  While considering defeat, I held my arms at my side, fingers splayed, tipped my head back, and took a deep breath to calm myself so that I would not start screaming like a madwoman in the middle of a crowd.  After a slow count of twenty – ten had stopped working at the previous synthesizer – I was about to just order something else when someone walked up behind me.  With survival instincts required by someone who survived nearly a decade in an apocalypse, I whirled to confront what my lizard-brain had dubbed ‘attacker’.

A dark-skinned woman backed up at my aggressive stance, hands in the air, showing they were empty. “I just want to assist you. I know the look of someone who is trying to find food from home and cannot obtain it from the console.”

I shriveled on the inside as I relaxed on the outside. “Is it that obvious?”

She chuckled before extending her hand. “Only because we have all experienced it. I am Arantxa. For me, it was bacalao al pil pil. The console continued to give me battered and fried cod! So angering!  Finally, the console was reprogrammed when I was able to find someone who knew how to make it.”

I took her hand as I melted in relief. “I will gladly try that tomorrow if you can find me someone who can get this thing to give me Shepherd’s Pie. I love trying new food, but right now….” I trailed off.

She gave me a curious look, “Yes, nothing else will do. I see the problem, however. When you name that dish, I only hear ‘language conflict’ in my translator. Do you know what nation the dish comes from?”

“Wait,” I held up a hand in front of me. “What do you mean ‘language conflict’?”

Arantxa tilted her head before responding, “The implants translate any language you are hearing into your native language. Did they not explain that?”

“Not like that, no,” I confessed. “I thought it just translated their language into English.”

She immediately seemed to understand, because she gave a short nod before continuing. “We have people from many nations here, and we would never be able to establish a colony if we did not understand each other. So, the implant does not just translate their language, it translates any language spoken by a person with such an implant into your native tongue.” Arantxa gestured to herself, “I am Basque. My language is a dying one, so I am particularly glad of this. But I do not speak even a little English, as I was so young when Terra died.  So, my implant and your implant are trying to find a common name for the food you are asking for, but there is no exact reference in my language and several references in other languages. This causes a conflict until the database is updated to include your term and its reference.”

I nodded before responding to her previous question. “It’s Irish as far as I know, but anyone from the former UK or Ireland can probably recognize it.”

She looked satisfied as she nodded. She turned and walked over to a particular person before bringing him to me. “Conor,” she said decisively, “this is…?”

“Sophia,” I supplied.

“Sophia,” Arantxa continued. “She is struggling to get the dish she would like, and I think you can help her.” With that, Arantxa waved at us both before returning to her meal.

As I turned to Conor, I held out my hand. “Sophia, from America.”

“Conor, from Ireland,” he shook my hand with a slight smile. “What is it you’re craving?”

I blew out a breath of relief. “Shepherd’s Pie. Please. I’ve tried several different synthesizers, and I....nothing comes out right.”

Conor simply nodded before addressing the console. “Two servings of Shepherd’s Pie, please. And to drink…” he glanced at me.

“Sauvignon Blanc?” I asked hopefully.

He dutifully ordered my drink.  Surprisingly, the synthesizer produced two beautiful, mouth-watering portions of my heart’s desire, along with a glass of wine.  To my surprise, Conor picked up my tray and gestured with his head for me to follow him back to his table.  He had previously been sitting alone, so I was confused as to why he wanted me to join him.

After setting my tray down and chuckling at the groan of satisfaction I made when I took the first bite, the reason became apparent. “The replicators are finicky,” he chuckled. “And they particularly don’t like English. Between the Queen’s English and that hodge-podge you speak, it gets confused a lot.”

“So,” I asked around a forkful before swallowing. “How do I get it to make this for me?”

He grinned and shrugged, “the Miys update the database fairly frequently, so they can simply add ‘Shepherd’s Pie’ to the terms for the dish.”

“And how did you convince the synthesizer to give up the goods?”

“I asked nicely?”

I arched a brow at that, gazing silently.

“I asked in Irish,” he relented with a laugh. Either I was very funny, or Conor was very cheerful.

“So what is the Irish term for this?” I gestured at the serving left after I shoveled the first serving down.

Rather than replying verbally, Conor pulled a tablet out of his pocket and started typing. When he turned the tablet to me, I realized the dilemma.

Pióg an aoire

I nearly choked on my wine. “I don’t think I can pronounce that, honestly,” I admitted. “And I’m willing to bet that you can’t teach me either, can you?”

Conor confirmed my suspicions with a shake of his head. “Nope. It will just translate into American if I try.”

“And how long does it take the database to update.”

“Oh, just a week.”

I could live with a week. However, I thought of another dish that I enjoyed that may need to be added. “Conor, do they already have coney pie in the database?” Despite living on the stuff for several years, I really did enjoy it.

“Rabbit pie is, yes,” he confirmed before leaning forward with furrowed brows. “How likely are you to know the term for something in a different language?”

Slightly confused, I answered, “Well, I really loved to cook and eat before the world went to shit, so there is a lot of food I know the correct term for, or the term in another language. Why?”

He flashed another grin before sitting back and stretching. “You and I,” he ticked an index finger between us, “are going to get along great. I’ve been dying for what Americans call French toast, and all I can get is toasted baguette. None of the French speakers seem to hear the right term for it, all they hear is ‘toast’ apparently. I’ve managed eggie in a basket, but if you can get me that, we are square, and you may be my favorite person.”

I suppressed a chuckle before I asked, “You haven’t happened to have met a much smaller person who looks like me, named Tyche, have you?” I knew for a fact my sister spoke nearly flawless French and could have accomplished this for him before I ever woke up.

Conor simply shook his head. “Only been on board a few weeks. Why?”

“No reason,” I smirked. “When do you want your French toast?”

His eyebrows flew up at that. “Now, preferably. I’ve had a craving ever since I woke up. It’s my favorite breakfast.”

I finished my wine and dropped the glass in a recycler before walking to the console.

“Pain perdu and a glass of sauvignon blanc, please,” I announced triumphantly.

Leading had to start somewhere.  Breakfast is a good place, I thought in amusement.

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[imgilmoregirl]

Rumbelle prompt: Belle is Mr. Gold's interpreter. She has been working for him for years. Her mother tongue is very difficult to learn and pronounce, but she finds that he is secretly studying it in order to say he loves her.

Thank you so much for your lovely prompt, anon, I loved working on it, so I really hope you enjoy it.

This work can also be found on AO3.

RobertGold had no restrictions about working on Germany, although he couldn’t speak asingle world in that language. He went there anyway, his plane landing inMunich on a Sunday night, in which everything seemed very easy and right, thethin rain falling from the sky, bringing him the sensation of a fresh start.However, it all was washed out in the next morning, when Robert presentedhimself at the enterprise and could only smile and nod at his new colleagues,unable to distinguish a thing they were saying as they walked him through thelarge corridors of the building.

Hefelt rather lost, not knowing what to do or how to communicate, wondering ifsomeone would be able to understanding him if he screamed “help” in the middleof the hallway. Never before Robert had felt so nervous and he was seriouslyconsidering turning his back to those people and rush back to Scotland when hesaw her. She came from one of the meeting rooms, holding a black folder in herarms, dressed in an elegant emerald shirk and white blouse, hair pulled up in aponytail, a large brilliant smile filling her lips.

Fora whole moment, he couldn’t say anything. He had never seen such a stunningwoman before and, when she walked towards him and started to speak in Englishwith her beautiful German accent, he thought he could hug her. That woman’sname was Isabelle French and she had been working for that company as aninterpreter for two years now, but most the people she attended there came tobe only temporary.

Andhe thought that would be his case too. Robert had done attorney services forvarious companies and enterprises before, but he had never stayed in one placefor too long, as of course, all court fights had an ending and then he wasn’tneeded anymore. But for his own surprise, this one company had lots of work tobe done and, as Belle translated formularies and documents for him, alsobecoming his personal agent when people gave him a phone call and he was unableto answer for himself, Gold found himself there for three long years.

Mostof the time – both his free time and his working time – he was with Belle. Shewas a very interesting person, with a fine humour and a very good taste forexpensive restaurants. They spent hours talking about literature or politics,shared good glasses of wine and came over to the other’s apartment to watch amovie or marathon some show, but their relationship had always been like this:a friendship. And as much as Robert loved spending time with Belle like this,he felt deep in his heart that he needed more, because, almost involuntarily,he fell in love with her.

Ifthere was a thing he enjoyed doing was watching when Belle spoke in German. Hethought the language never sounded more beautiful than when spoke by her, itdidn’t matter if she was angrily arguing with someone on the phone or thankinga barista for their coffee with that sweet, educated tone she used in mostoccasions. It always sounded so beautiful that it made him want to learn how tospeak too, so he could talk to her in her own language. That was when hestarted to study.

Atfirst he considered joining a course, but he didn’t really have the time forit, so he went to a bookshop and bought the largest German-English dictionaryhe could find, alongside with some exercise books and started to listen to musicor watch movies in that language, so he could get used to some words.

“You’vebeen studying,” Belle pointed out one night, when she entered his bedroomto pick the phone charger for him and saw his books opened on the desk.“If you continue training like this, soon you won’t need me anymore.”

Therewas a slightly sadness in her words and when she joined him on the couch again,she appeared to be a little uncomfortable and maybe anxious, which was weird,because he had never seen Belle anxious before. They finished watching themovie they had started earlier and then she left, going to her own home andleaving him to his wonders.

Asmall part of Gold, had hopes that their feeling might be mutual and she mightlove him as much as he loved her, but he didn’t dare allowing himself tobelieve it for long. She was a young woman, more than ten years younger thanhim and would certainly want nothing to do with a lonely Scottish attorney likehim. But even so, he couldn’t help himself when he wrote the same phrase on hisnotebook about thirty times that night: ichliebe dich.

Hemet her at a coffeeshop in the next morning, knowing she wasn’t much of a enthusiasticof the weekends and hoping he could in fact pronounce the words right and notmake a fool of himself. Robert found her in her usual table, eating a croissantand drinking latte, he slid to the chair in front of her and Belle promptlybrought him an expresso alongside with a piece of cake. Taking her, he took along sip of his coffee, trying to decide the best way of starting a conversationand feeling really weird to be so nervous in her presence when they had beengood friend for such a long time.

“I’vebeen thinking,” it was Belle who started, “I think I should take aPhD.”

Heswallowed hard at her words. Robert had been trying to find the right way totell her how he felt and now she was saying she basically wouldn’t have timefor him anymore. Maybe the books she saw at his house had influenced thedecision, or maybe he was right all along and she didn’t really care for him asmore than a friend. Or worse, as a working partner.

“Yeah?I mean, yeah, it would be good for you. You’re smart, and kind and… Have Isaid smart?”

“Whathas come of you?” Belle laughed. “You look about to lose yournerve.”

Inhalingdeeply, he tried to form a concrete idea of how to start this, because he knewif he let her go now, without saying what he should, then Gold would regret itforever.

“I’msorry,” he breathed and nervously added: “Da ist etwas wichtiges wasich dir sagen muss.”

Belleraised one single eyebrow to him, impressed with the fact he hadn’t just beenstudying her language but also training his pronunciation. Of course, he wasvery far away from a native speaker, but still he was trying and soundedwonderful to her.

“Somethingimportant, huh? Then tell me whatever important thing you have to say.”

Sheleaned against the table, pressing her chin against her palm with a defiantlook on her shinning blue eyes. He hesitantly reached for her free hand whichmade a little smile take her lips, and he player with her fingers for a coupleof seconds, tracing her dark-blue polished nails. Robert took a deep breath,then fixed his gaze on hers and spoke all at once, before his courage couldfade.

“Ichliebe dich.”

Gigglingshe covered his hand with her other, bringing it up so she could press a kissto his knuckles. Belle had to keep the loud squeal she wanted to reliese insideherself, because after all that time she was wondering when he would finallygive up to his feelings and do something, he was now there, telling her heloved her.

“Ichliebe dich dauch,” she replied. “Mehr als ich jemals sagenkönnte.”

Thenshe reclined herself and pressed her lips against his in the sweetest of thekisses he had ever shared in his life.

Thatday was spent between love confessions and plans for the future. Belle, asadventurous as she was, wanted to know his hometown, back in Scotland andseemed pretty sure they should not slow down what they had, because after allthey spent three years getting to know each other and now what she wanted themost was to be his wife. It caught Robert by surprise, of course, but hepromised her that as soon as they were able to arrange things, they would getmarried.

Thenight ended with them sat on the floor of his apartment, like many othersbefore, however, this time, the show they were watching was forgotten as allthey could to was kiss and love each other.

[collecting-stories]

Spain | Alfie Solomons

Request: can i ask for a fic where you spent some time in spain and speak fluent spanish but nobody would guess it and the shelbys find out and use it for business? Or with alfie or whatever you feel like (: maybe like alfie/tommy/john/arthur think its sexy when you speak spanish?

Spain | Alfie Solomons

You stood by the corner of the street, far enough away from the bakery that no one would pay attention to you loitering there. Though it was an unusual business endeavor you had been sent to London to speak to an Alfred Solomons about the export of his whiskey to Spain. You had grown up in Spain to a Spanish mother and an English father. With new export laws your father hoped to capitalize on a business that other Spaniards had not tapped into yet. English whiskey.  

"I thought the Scots made the best whiskey?" You had asked while packing your bag for London. You were single and in your late 20's and your father hoped that might help spur the deal forward.  

"They do, usually." He replied, "Except in this case the best whiskey in England is made in Camden Town by a Mister Alfred Solomons, according to my sources."

Your father's sources were technically just old men that drank too much and were distantly related through his father's side. He kept in touch because they had money and someday they would die and that money would then be your father's.  

"Ten cuidado, no demes que tu padre the meta en problemas." Your mother kissed you, already beginning to cry at the thought of you being far away.

"Estare bien mamá, no habra ningún problema lo prometo."  

So you boarded a ship and sailed to London. This was your father's home and, while you had been in London once as a young girl, it all felt foreign to you. The bakery was more of a warehouse and the overwhelming smell of yeast and London smog filled your lungs as you made your way up the stairs. You had rung the bakery yesterday from the hotel, hoping that they remembered they were expecting you. Despite them telling you they were prepared the young man who greeted you at the top of the stairs looked rather anxious.  

"Hello," he shook your hand and then gestured for you to follow him through the bakery.  

"So why's this called a bakery?" You asked, looking around at the bags of what appeared to be flour.

"We make bread, or rather, we say we make bread."  

"That's...odd."  

"Well, some of the time we do make bread. Passover is soon so we've been making matzo, it's unleavened bread. On other holidays, Hanukkah or Rosh Hashanah we make challah." He replied, going over a few of the breads they actually did make. "But it's not exactly for sale, mostly it's for the community."

You only nodded. You had no idea what he was talking about but you didn’t want to seem stupid, especially not when you were about to meet his boss. He led you to a small box of an office with windows all the way around. All the curtains were pulled shut so that you couldn’t see inside.  

The man who was with you knocked on the door, "Mr. Solomons I've got the person here about," he turned to look at you, "what are you here about?"  

"Exportation of whiskey to Spain."

"The exporting of your whiskey." He called through the door.

When no reply came from the other side he went ahead and opened the door. Inside a man sat behind a desk, going over papers. He had reading glasses on a chain propped on his nose as he read. As you and your guide stepped through the door he looked up, dropping the glasses down around his neck. The first thought running through your head was how attractive he was.  

"Oi, Ollie what the fuck is the matter with you, I told you to fucking knock when you need something." He commented, a frown hiding beneath his full beard and mustache.

"Sorry sir."

"He did knock." You spoke at the exact same time as Ollie, who turned to look at you with wide eyes. He shook his head a bit as if to indicate that you needn't say anything.  

Alfie looked passed his right hand man to get a good look at you, his frown deepening. "Who's this?"  

You stepped forward, not paying attention to Ollie, introducing yourself and holding your hand out. "I'm here about the exportation of your whiskey to Spain."

"The exportation of my...Ollie," he didn’t shake your hand, or even look at you. Instead he focused on Ollie again, "she says she's here about the exportation of my whiskey to Spain."  

"I am, I believe my boss wrote to you about negotiating a price."  

"That's quite the vocabulary you've got. Where's that accent from?" He asked, leaning forward and finally paying attention to you.

"Are we going to discuss whiskey or not?"

"She's upset Ollie."  

"I'm also right here. I can hear you bantering with him so could you spare us all and can we move on to actually discussing business." You snapped.  

"I don't know how they do things in Spain but here, in London, in my fucking office, we talk business when I decide we talk business." Alfie  stated, leaning forward on his elbows.  

"Bueno, podrias decidir pronto." You muttered, annoyed with this man already.  

"What was that sweetheart?" He asked. He looked a bit surprised.  

"Nothing." You took a seat, figuring you might as well sit down as this was clearly going to take a while.  

Ollie was still standing you the door, not saying anything. He offered the obligatory laugh or smile at a joke that Alfie thought was funny but otherwise he remained quiet. Alfie wasn’t saying anything, just staring at you with a slightly confused look on his face. It was the first time since you walked in the office that he wasn't being a dick and you could re-appreciate just how handsome he was.  

"Was that the mother tongue?" Alfie teased, "say something else?"

"Eres un idiota."  

"What's that that you said then?" He asked.

"I said you're an ass."

"Oi, Ollie, she's got jokes, this one. If they didn’t sound so fucking arousing coming out of your mouth I'd shoot you in the face." He replied, leaning back in his chair casually.  

"We're here to discuss business Mr. Solomons, not your supposed arousal over my native language. It's just words, they mean the same thing in English as they do in Spanish." You replied, annoyed that he wouldn’t just get to business.

"That may be true sweetheart but as a man of two languages myself I can attest that speaking to a girl in Yiddish has never gotten her excited in the slightest. Usually she's just reminded of her ailing grandfather."  

"I've never heard Yiddish spoken."

"And you're not about to because-"

"It's your fucking bakery and you don’t take orders from anyone?"

"She's caught on Ollie, faster than you even!" He laughed. "Alright, we'll do business. Before we start though-"

"There can't possibly be anything else."  

"If you fucking stopped cutting me off we'd be finished." Alfie replied, glaring at you.

"It's not me that’s stalling, you're taking forever bantering with Ollie then having me speak Spanish like you've gone to some side show for a laugh and now there's something else?" You wanted to write home and tell your father this trip had been useless. While you enjoyed looking at Alfie his general attitude was driving you mad.

"First, I would like to reiterate that I will shoot you in the mouth. Second, Ollie, fuck off. And third, where are you staying?"

"I'm staying at the Strand." You replied, rather confused that he would ask.

"Good, I'll pick you up this evening." He answered, "now about this whiskey business."

"I'm sorry, why are you picking me up?" You asked.  

"You've got to stop cutting a man off when he's speaking love." Alfie commented, "I'm taking you out tonight."

"I think you're supposed to ask someone out, not simply tell them."

"Alright, I'll humor you, would you like to accompany me to a club this evening?" He asked, his smile rather mischievous.

"I suppose."  

"Will you say it in Spanish?"  

"Eres un estúpido."

"You've insulted me again haven't you?" He asked.

"I have."

Alfie's grin didn't fade as he pulled a few papers out of the drawer under his desk. He was going to enjoy working with you on this whiskey export.

I do not speak Spanish...however the super amazing @theaqueenakaspeedy has lent me help because she speaks spanish. (I assume the dialect is different and I should point out that this is Spanish by someone who lives in South America as opposed to Spanish by someone who lives in Spain.)

Translations: 

Ten cuidado, no demes que tu padre the meta en problemas. (Be careful, don’t let your father get you into any trouble.)

Estare bien mamá, no habra ningún problema lo prometo. (I’ll be fine mom, there will be no trouble at all I promise.)

Bueno, podrías decidir pronto. (Well could you decide a little bit sooner.)

Eres un idiota. (You’re an idiot/You’re an ass)

Eres un estúpido. (You’re stupid/You’re a dick)

tagged: @weirdnewbie @photograiphy-00 @ducks-are-kwl @crowleyismybabycakes @clairyfaiiry @ifoundmyhappythought @yourenotmytype @smashablepieces @sceawere @baygabb 

[dasakuryo]

If you live somewhere where everyone speaks Spanish why are you so worried about people with thick accents when they speak English if you live somewhere where you aren't required to speak English?

Translation: I amentitled gringx who can’t wrap their head around how English imperialismfunctions.

Sorry for not coming back to you sooner,

I live in a country wherepeople are required to learn English since childhood, I live in a country whereEnglish is a mandatory subject in schools since primary school (that’selementary school, in some provinces as early as first grade). I live in acountry where even kids in kindergarten have to learn English.

You know, unlike yougringxs who learn a language in high school to add it to your credits orwhatever, we actually HAVE TO learn English since we’re children. Parents knowthat their kids learning English is extremely important because as ourcollective unconscious dictate “if you want to go far in life and besomeone, you’ve to learn English, you need to know English,” this is whyparents will go out of their way to send their kids to English institutes orfind a teacher who can give them private lessons since an early age, evenparents who struggle with income and are not in an advantageous economicsituation will save money so their kids can learn English and “aspire togreater horizons”.

Our collectiveunconscious, regardless of the efforts and reassurance of teachers of tellingus the exact opposite, immediately connects accuracy and fluency withnative-like accents. Since we’re children we feel our thick, clearly non-nativeEnglish accents, are inadequate, we feel inadequate. And that’s why? Becausenative-speakers have consistently looked down on people who have a non-nativeEnglish accents, and in the USA and Europe, Latinxs accents have always beenfrowned upon and considered as a sign of our backwardness, ignorance andinferiority.

Media reflectssociety, and also has the power to pose discussions and change it. When peoplemake fun of thick accents, of non-native English accents, of Latinxs speakingSpanish, they’re making fun of Latinxs. So the fact that USA media making funof accents and using them as the punchline of a joke, or a joke in and ofthemselves, it’s problematic, is wrong, it adds to Latinxs (particularly KIDS)self-loathing of their own accents and, what’s even worse, it teaches them thatin order not to be mocked by native English speakers they have to sound likenative speakers. So kids will struggle, refuse to speak, try to mask theiraccent, try to become this carbon-copy of the native English speaker they’veseen on TV… because, nobody is mocking them.

It takes a toll onyoung people and adults learning English as a second language, the very firstthing anyone says is “I don’t speak right”, why? Because the ‘speakingright’ is synonym with native accents, because our accents are ugly, laughableand a sign of our backwardness. You know, what we get from what English nativespeaker say and perpetuate about us with their representations and mockery.

What’s that? Youthink learning English in Latin American countries ends in high school? Thinkagain, it goes on in universities, it goes on all throughout your studies ifyou want to get any higher education degree, and in many fields keeps on beingpresent when you’ve already acquired your degree. Over 90% of reference andtext books used in Universities are only available in English, there’re notranslations unless some students does it, which means that you’ve to knowEnglish in order to study. Want to get your degree? Yeah, you’ll have todemonstrate you can read and translate a whole text in English. Want to applyfor a scholarship? If you know English your chances are better? Oh, you’repursuing a career in STEMs, for example, oh well… all publications and papersare available in English, so you have to know, understand and have some degreeof proficiency in English if you want to keep up with new discoveries andtheories. You have made a breakthrough and discovered something important andwould like to present it to the scientific international community? Oh, well,guess you can only do that in English.

Which prompts thefollowing in more than a handful of people: Oh but… you don’t know English, notquite… and your accent is thick and clearly non-native, are you sure you can dothis? Remember what we all know about them, they don’t like our accents, ourskills, knowledge and qualities will be questioned as soon as we open ourmouths… are you really sure you can do this?

That’s why one of mybest friends, with one of the best GPAs has downright been telling me for yearsthat she won’t even bother to apply for a scholarship abroad. She’s brilliant,but she’s taking her accent as an obstacle instead of as an asset. You know, adirect consequence of what ill-intended, biased representations and mockery ofnon-native English accents from native English-speakers can do EVEN TO PEOPLEWHO DON’T LIVE IN AN ENGLISH SPEAKING COUNTRY.

Oh, and please, I amnot even talking about all the multinational companies which operate in LatinAmerican countries and which demand their employees with a university/collegedegree to give their job interviews in English.

We’re constantlybombarded with the message from native speakers that our English is not goodenough, that we have to pass as natives if we want to aspire to something,particularly if we come even remotely close to study and/or work with USAmericans,Europeans, and the like –if we want to better our chances and not being mockedthat’s.

Non-white Latinxsalso experience this in a whole new level, because not only does theirappearance will grant them suffering discrimination and racism, but on top ofthat they have to add their discrimination towards their accent because it isyet another sign of their otherness. Non-white Latinxs have it even harder.

Furthermore, in caseyou think I am making shit up, linguists have talked about English as animperialistic language, like Phillipson expresses:

Linguicism: the ideologies and structures which are usedto legitimate, effectuate and reproduce an unequal division of power andresources (both material and non-material) between groups which are defined onthe basis of their language (i.e., of their mother tongue). This condition isbest seen within the broader context of linguistic imperialism - an essentialconstituent of imperialism as a global phenomenon involving structuralrelations between rich and poor countries in a world characterized byinequality and injustice.

Language expansion isconsidered an essential part of a core country’s policy of extending its powerand influence in order to achieve its imperialistic strategies. Phillipson holdsthat the legitimization of English linguistic expansion has been based on twonotions: ethnocentricity and educational policy, with‘ethnocentricity’ being the “practice of judging other cultures by standards ofit own.” These two practices have been used to impose a distinction betweenlanguages. It has also been a way topromote the notion of the assumed inferiority of secondary languages withrespect to the norms determined by the dominant culture.

Phillipson takes thisnotion one step further with ethnocentricity transformed into that of ‘anglocentricity’ with the consequencethat the dominance of English isjustified in terms of such oppositions as superiority/inferiority,civilization/backwardness, progress/regress, the first element of which isconstantly attributed to the dominant English language.

According toPhillipson education serves the imperialcenter by having three functions: ideological, economic and repressive. Theideological function serves as a channel for transmitting social and culturalvalues. In this role English is regardedas a “gateway for better communication, better education and higher standardsof living.” The second function – economic – legitimizes English as a means of qualifying people to contribute totheir nation and operate technology that the language provides access to.The third function – repression –serves to dominate languages.

Linguisticimperialism calls attention to the potential consequences of English teachingworldwide when center country ideologies are embedded in instruction, having the effect of legitimizing colonialor establishment power and resources, and of “reconstituting culturalinequalities between English and other languages.”

[Cited and paraphrased from

Phillipson, R. 1992.Linguistic Imperialism. Oxford. Oxford University Press.

-Phillipson, R. 1988.Linguicism: structures and ideologies in linguistic imperialism. In J. Cumminsand T. Skutnabb-Kangas (eds.), Minority Education: From Shame to Struggle.Avon: Multilingual Matters.]

So when someoneperpetuates the idea that thick accents and non-native English accents are tobe mocked of, which ties directly to the First-World perception of Latinxs (inthis case) as ignorant, backward, unqualified people, I have every right to bemad as hell about it. Because as a non-native English speaker and Latina I amdirectly affected by its consequences, even though living in a non-English speakingcountry.

Unlike USAmericanswho actually get to choose whether to learn Spanish or not (who cares thatthere’re more Spanish speakers in the American continent than English speakers,right?? Why should you ever have to be forced to learn that backwardlanguage??), Latin Americans don’t have a choice, we have never had a choice.That’s how linguistic imperialism functions, besides forcing us to learn aforeign language, is telling us that we won’t be taken seriously if we don’tadjust to the GoodEnglish™.

By the way, I have a non-native English accent,and I am extremely proud of it.

And finally,