Hold Your Tongue

I wish I had yelled at those men. I wish I had slapped them across their pretty faces and told them my name. And my mother’s name. The number of my apartment. I wish I had tore holes in their silk jackets and made them look through the cracks and see the world through my eyes. I wish I had ripped out their Burish tongues and nailed them to the wall and said “This is what it means to free.”

+ + +

It was Friday. The fluorescent light above the check out counter flickered. Two young men, one in a blue silk suit and the other in a grey silk suit, laughed as they threw a case of beer on conveyor belt.

“Is that all, sir?” I asked.

“Oh yeah baby,” the man in the blue silk suit said, his Tary accent brusque and unpracticed. He winked.

“That ugly bitch thinks you like her,” his friend said, laughing. I scanned the beer and handed it to the bagger, Marc, my face reddening.

“What’s wrong?” Marc whispered. The man in the grey suit noticed us talking and trotted over to Marc, smiling.

“Hey fatass. I bet your dad was a whale who fucked an elephant who farted out you piece of shit.” The man smiled at Marc and handed me a ten dollar bill. I handed the man in the blue suit his receipt and his change, carefully hiding my anger.

“I hope you have a nice day sir!” Marc said cheerily. The men laughed and left the store, the door jingling as they left. “I don’t see what your problem was Mae. Of course, I didn’t know what they were saying, but I’m sure it was all in good spirits. They wouldn’t have been talking about us. Young Burish men like them have much more interesting things to laugh about than a cashier and a grocery bagger.” I nodded.

And held my tongue.

+ + +

“Are you getting off here?” I shook my head. “Well, I guess I’ll you see you tomorrow then.” Marc shuffled out of the subway car, quickly lost in a sea of polo shirts and khakis.

I turned back to the window, and watched the underground walls. There was graffiti everywhere, mostly in Tary, though occasionally brightly painted phrases in Burish. When I was in school, I knew kids who snuck into these tunnels and smoked and painted and said all the things they couldn’t say. I wondered what would have happened if they had met a Burish kid. I wondered why that Burish kid had anything to say that he could only share with the darkness.

I got off at the end of the line. The station was empty, except for one old vending machine. “No one down here is free” was sloppily graffitied in big Tary letters across the machine’s frosted glass front. As I got closer, I noticed someone had written a response to the Tary graffiti in neat blue Burish letters underneath. I waited in front of the vending machine until the subway had left. When the tunnel was silent, I pulled my pen out of my ponytail and wrote the Burish phrase on my forearm, careful to get every letter correct.

It was 9 o’clock, and outside the crumbling Tary neighborhood was falling asleep. It had once been one of the most lively and diverse areas in the city. But those days were long gone. Now, depressing and dilapidated, it was the perfect place for rebel groups to hide. Revolutionaries hid amongst the abandoned art galleries and empty cafés. The police never bothered to make rounds this far out, and the street lights had stopped working years back. Under the cover of darkness, rebel organizations built their strength and intelligence, preparing for the day when they will restore equality.

I walked the five blocks quickly and quietly, blending in with the shadows. I stopped in front of a narrow gated alley way. I slipped inside, closing the gate quietly behind me. It was even darker there, but I was used to it now. Eight steps forward, first door on the right. Knock. They will see you, and if they know you, they will let you in.

“Ah, Mae, late as usual,” Evelyn smiled and greeted me with a hug. Her Tary was perfect. Evelyn’s husband, Philip, greeted me with a nod. Philip and Evelyn had been young, rebellious fools. Philip had suffered the consequences, and no longer had a tongue. Now, they were old, cautious rebels. And they were teaching us Burish.

The classroom was in an old bakery that used to sell gourmet cupcakes. There was a circle of old pink metal chairs in the center of the room. In each seat there was a familiar face; a tired face. Each one of us had stumbled upon Evelyn and Philip one way or another, and now each of us was as invested as the next in being a part of the revolution.

I sat in the last empty seat next to Evelyn, and the class began.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” Evelyn said in Burish. We echoed. “In today’s meeting,” she continued in Burish, “we will learn how to talk to police officers and federal officials, especially in an issue of arrest.”

We immersed ourselves in the language. We took on Burish names, like Elizabeth and Maxwell and Isabella and Anthony. We wore stolen neckties and moldy faux-fur coats. Our Tary and our Burish intertwined together. Our exhaustion turned to excitement. It felt like we were building something. It felt right. We found security in our own fantasies. We shared our dreams with one another like graffitied rebels shared their words with the walls. We thought, unlike the underground artists, that one day we would be something.

+ + +

There was a knock. And the door was in splinters on the floor.

“Put the books down fuckheads. You are all under arrest. You must remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you. Come to think of it, it already has.” Both policemen chuckled.

The classroom was silent. The man next to me, Jack, looked one policeman straight in the eye and said, in perfect Burish, “What seems to be the problem sir?”

The room turned to chaos. The blood of Burish officers and Tary rebels intertwined. I attempted to punch the officer closest to me, but he deftly grabbed my wrist and twisted it until he heard a crack. Pain shot down my arm. I screamed.

“Ugly bitch!” I yelled in Burish.

“So that’s what they’ve been teaching you, huh?” He slapped me across the face, hard, and dragged me out the door by my limp wrist. My jacket sleeve fell down to my elbow.

“What does that say on your arm girl?” He stopped in front of a small chrome cop car. The damp night air shimmered around me. “Freedom is overrated, it says. Damn straight girl. Damn straight.”