Ecohumanist Lab

HomoTranslensis

It seems that this simple but allegorical story requires some explanations.

    The subtitle is Homo translensis (human that translates), with pseudo-Latin adjective I invented as distinctive from other names we called ourselves: “sapiens” (wise), “faber” (working), “ludens” (that plays), and “historicus” (the one with a sense of history), etc.

     I think that acquiring the symbolic shared language was a magic trick that made modern humanity, and saved it from extinction. And, as this essay digs deeply into the process related to talking, we will see that some of the events are very close to what we know as “translating”.

To translate you have for a moment to see or understand something in the old way and, at the same time, see or understand the same thing or concept in the new way (or “your way” and “my way”).

      This essay is also a double take. It describes Danka with the burden of the Promethean knowledge –humanity getting the language. Astonishingly in 3 generations, nobody can even imagine “not talking”. ( compare this with the famous Nicaraguan deaf orphans and their sign language,) As Danka struggles to preserve this story, I, the author, am struggling hopelessly with explaining the same thing.

      How can we imagine ourselves as smart, hominids, with huge brains, culture, social structure, cooperation, empathy, love, and planning, but without symbolic language ( they are on the brink of getting it)?

Neanderthals did not have it and they went extinct at only 40,000 years ago. It makes it likely that all of at least 30 branches of hominids died away without talking.

     How can we imagine? Well, modern ethology might help. In the kind of reverse thinking, we are learning so much about animals, our not-talking fellow creatures, who feel, think, are sad and glad, relate to us and we to them. But the smartest parrot or bonobo can not be trained to pass the

level of communication of an average toddler. I hope this essay will help us

imagine how close we are to them. Also, how symbolic language, by ushering us into shared reality creates an unbreachable abyss between our worlds.

Danka is an old woman. 

Many years ago, when she was a curious toddler, she asked her older sister, The Beautiful, “What’s that?” and pointed to an apple. Her sister answered: “Apple”. It is a part of the story “The Last Neanderthal”.

Then, she grew up to be a dancer and a visionary — griot (“Danka’s Self”).

Now she is an old woman. The children, grandchildren, and husbands are all done.

The dances and singing are all done too. Except for the last one.

She has had a great life, five children with Andy, her first husband, her beloved with freckles. The trickster and cave painter. He gave her rings and necklaces and beautiful gowns. He built the biggest hut in the village, the envy of every woman. He was a shaman, and the people gave him presents and jewels to buy luck and protection from evil spirits.

Andy and the second husband are dead and some children are dead and some grown up, gone. She feels in her bones that her time is up and plans for the last dance. Before that, she has to make some visits. 

Her first visit is to her oldest daughter, Ada. Ada is the village teacher. 

“Do you like being a teacher?” Danka asks. They sit at the glowing evening fire, Ada’s children asleep.

“Yes, mother, I do. Sometimes it is tiring, but there is nothing in this world I would rather do. Every day I am learning new things and I am getting to know my pupils better. I teach them about herbs, the weather, and the stars. Also, about our people, I tell them the ancient stories about our ancestors and everything I learned from my travels”. 

“Good,” says Danka. “I am glad to hear it and I am proud of you. I have a lot of jewels, but you are my brightest jewel. When I walk next to the school and hear the kids, I smile. I know they are well taken care of by you.”

Danka pauses a moment, her face turns toward the fire. “Ada, my dearest, I am going to die soon. I came here to remind you: that in daily life, full of struggle, one forgets where the happiness comes from. There are your students and friends’ smiles and your curiosity and awe in front of the unknown. And, trust in the village.” 

Danka continues as if she is about to reveal the real reason she came. 

“Before she died, my older sister, The Beautiful, told me these words, and I need to pass them on to you. You need to know the story of talking. This is what she told me:

     After Adam recovered from the fight with the tiger, he tried hard to understand us. You, Danka, were 2 years old, very curious, into everything, a very bright toddler. You wanted to know everything.  One day you picked up an apple and asked me: What’s this? I said “Apple”. Adam wanted to know: You said “apple”? And I said, “Yes, Adam, I called it apple!” The three of us knew it had a name. Then the three of us started to play the naming game.* You, Danka, kept pointing and asking and I kept naming other things. Very soon other children joined, then my older teenage cousins. In a few years, when Adam and I had three children, they learned talking from us right away. When you, Danka, were a teenager, the village was divided, I know, you don’t remember. The older people communicated in the old way. and our family and the young people talked more and more the new way. Ak’s clan, the village chief’s people, were the last to start a new way of talking. Now, after Ak died and his son Max died, everybody knows how to talk and the story is forgotten. “ 

*Foot note: In this new game: the objects, by “naming” them, appear to exist separately from tasks or instinctual knowing. In every “name” sits the original, but quickly forgotten, the naming action of agent or “namer”. To have a thing you need its name, to have a name you need a namer. 

Then, the names become objects and the game becomes reality.

      “What is the difference? Why does it matter if we remember as long as we are talking?” asked Ada.

      “You are a teacher, Ada. You know how babies are learning how to do things, crawling and grabbing and putting things to mouth to learn the taste, like little monkeys do. They learn about fears and wishes but no “I” or “you”, the same but so, so different. What is out there is part of them. I do not remember well, but it seems in the old days everything was part of the way they functioned, had a… a way to do it. Now our babies “bathe” in our talk. Everything around has a name! Watch them, they are so alert! They live in a world of objects. They manipulate toys and food, better than feelings and relationships. And yet, children grow as in the old days. They do not know anymore that they live in a different shared world. Will they love their Mother the same way they love their toys? Can the desire for a relationship be switched for the desire for play-things, and then for grown-up things?

“But Mom,” Ada was trying to understand this crazy old woman she loved so much. “Of course, they will love us the same. They will learn how to talk well and about the shared world of things, but their parents, their friends are the most important. And for kids- the laughter- they need to play and laugh and laugh”.

“And sing and dance and tell old, old stories like mine,“ said Danka. 

But she thought: Ada cannot even imagine. She doesn’t remember. My eyes are almost blind, but I see the future. In my mind I see kids loving their dolls and toys, and grown-ups loving their houses and jewels.

The two women hugged and cried. They loved each other, it was a sweet farewell.

     The second visit was much more difficult. It was with Ar, from Ak clan, the village chief. He was sitting stiffly on his tiger’s fur.

“What do you want, old griot?” he barked.

“I will dance last time tomorrow and I need to talk to you before that”.

“Talk then and be brief!”

From her pocket, she pulled a gold chain.

“This is for you.”

She observed Ar, his eyes bulging as he grabbed it.

“Hrrr”, he groaned,” big gold”.

“Ar, son of Great Max, I want you to know the story of talking”

“What???”

      “Your grandfather Ak wanted to kill the Beast,( it is how Aks called Adam) and my sister, The Beautiful, to marry your father Max.  But Adam survived, and he saved me from the tiger- this is the scar on my neck. Adam and my sister figured out how to talk to each other and then taught us, kids, how to talk. Your people, Aks, hated this, it is why they were late to learn talking…”

“Shut up, woman, it’s a lie!”

She looked gravely, Ar was getting mad, jumped up, he will be violent…. She gathered her strength and will, stepped forward, stretched her arm like an eagle, and absorbed anger. Ar, the big heavy man was frozen. She knew she had only a moment while the surprise lasted.

“You will not understand it. This golden chain should remind you. This golden chain exists because you are… we are… talking*. Without talking there is no golden chain, no silver chain, no tiger fur, just your anger.

This is the story of talking- for you.“

And she ran out.

“One and two and three “she counted and jumped sideways. A heavy, deadly axe missed her by inches.

“It’s a lie, stupid whore” roared Ar, but he did not chase her.

    She cried all the way home. People do not understand and do not want this story.

She felt like a failure, she’d die and the story would die with her.

The whole night she prayed for wisdom, luck, and fate.

When the sun rose, she knew it was her last sunrise here. She walked out and looked at the village still asleep. The magical place, her love, her life.

Somewhat she found herself at the end of the village.

The last shabby dwelling, and the noise. What is it? Ah… yes.

 Lin was the first potter in the village and he was trying to use the wheel. He came many years ago from far, far away, from beyond the Dawn Mountains. He married Danka’s cousin Emma, a big, strong woman. Emma gave him two children and she made him stay. So, he stayed, learned the local language, and tried to make friends. People did not like him and called him Strange. Danka tried to like him, to know him, but it was not easy. He made a lot of ugly pots and some not-so-ugly. They were poor.

Danka stops.

She is dead tired and dead sad. “Why I am here?” She thinks “Nobody will understand my story”.

Lin comes out from the hut and he smiles “Danka?”

She is still all in her head-” nobody will understand the transition, about learning and naming things. And if she does not tell this to anybody, the story will disappear. Humans will never know that three generations ago they were …animals.“

“Listen, Lin, good morning, I really do not know why I am here, I am sorry…”

“I know why you are here, Danka. I was waiting.”

“What?”

“You came to tell me the story, the incredible secret of talking. Sit down. You look awful, have some tea”.

As he prepares to pour some tea into one of his clay cups, he begins, “My people did not talk.”  He hands her the cup. He is thinking hard, as if trying to understand what he wants to say. “The father was a father, the son was a son, and the wife was a wife, but, “– Lin paused as she took the cup from him in astonishment. “They couldn’t tell about being a father or son or wife, they just lived that.”

“ Alone, each one alone ?” Danka follows Lin’s thoughts.

“Yes… No, not alone, alone was bad, very bad, it was normal, like always, but . . .”

Lin is at a loss for words. 

Danka tries to help: “Without talking you have to understand others… without talking”

Lin tries again: “Not alone, you are with people, but how? You cannot say, I don’t know”

“I remember now,” adds Danka with a sigh, like pushing, dislodging some heavy burden that has been in her way. “When I was young, we were just learning to talk. Adam and Beautiful talked some and they taught children and young friends wanted to learn, especially when they built a dam across the stream to get fish. Old people laughed, making fun of them, saying, “You are babbling like children, squeaking and pointing all the time”

Danka suddenly realizes: “And when my children were born, they lived differently, like, like in a different world.” Danka is looking at Lin surprised, like she’s seeing him for the first time. *

“In my old home, behind Dawn Mountain, I recall some sounds we made, to warn about the danger or to go somewhere. But now, if I go back, I would call my brother: “Brother!”, or “Hey, you!”, or “I missed you!”. Would he understand?”

“No, you’d have to teach, little by little, kids first. They might not like it, like Ak’s and Max’s clan here. They did not want to talk at first, but what could they do if their children talked?”

Danka’s breathing easier, maybe there is some hope, she thinks.

“I want you to tell this story to your girl, Ann, she is the brightest.” 

 “Danka, I will, but she might not understand. I understood because my people did not talk, I was here with Emma and I had to learn myself, like a baby. I am still learning words from my children… and from your singing, Danka. I remember the story of the freckled, is it the right word? Yes, the freckled boy who was killed pretending to be a monster!”

“He was my husband, my love, I told this story when I was 16 years old!” she whispers.

“I am sorry, I did not know,” says Lin.

“It’s fine. I still love him after 60 years.” she smiles, holding Lin’s hands, “Thank you. I did not expect this…I have to go.”

Exhausted, she slept. When she woke up the sun was low. 

“Why am I doing that? For whom? The only way for my grandchildren, the other grandchildren, and their grandchildren to know it is to get it from me.

 And the only way to do it is to sing and dance and then disappear, to die.

Will they remember?  And if not, so what?” she sobs.

Then she knows it has to be done, even without clear answers.

When evening came, she was ready. She gave away all her possessions, jewelry, clothes, and the house. At the fire, she danced and she sang the story of talking. 

But Ar told people not to go and they were afraid and did not go. Only a few old folks and some orphan kids she taught. And they did not understand the talking story. There were no right words, no images. She ran from the place ashamed and devastated.

At home, she prepared the drink that would kill her. She did not want to die. Then she heard footsteps. It was Lin. 

“I talked to Emma and talked to Ann, my daughter,” he said to Danka.

 “I was thinking about that for a long time. Let’s go to my people behind Dawn Mountains and teach them to talk.”

And they went.

*******