I'm sorry is one of her favorite signs. The closed fist making circles over the heart is so simple and yet apparent in the way it indicates sympathy for the other's heartache.
So in a way, magic has cost them both family. Hana sighs and leans back, typing rapidly on her phone, hating that such a stilted method is the only way for them to have this conversation. Long minutes sitting and waiting as her mind translates this conversation from ASL's grammar into that of English. English still comes secondary to her.
None of my family know sign language. They made our cook interpret because she learned. Or they used cell phones and notepads and wondered why I stopped having anything to say.
Sometimes, it feels like the whole world is a cake. When you're hearing or able-bodied or whatever, you have access to the whole cake. I only have access to the slice of the cake that's made of people who are willing to learn my language. Then the slice of cake of people who understand my language and my powers is even smaller. By the time you get to witches who speak my language that like me...I'm down to a petit-four.
And it seems to me that the people who talk about the superiority of magic are always the ones who don't bother with me. They want to have their cake and eat it too. But I only get a nibble.
It's a weirdly appropriate metaphor, she finds. After he reads, she holds up a hand to pause him so that she can clear her note and write anew.
So the witches...the arrogant ones. I don't like them. They turn this town into their personal plaything and it's supposed to be on behalf of our kind but I end up with nonconsensual amnesia, sewing nettles until my hands ache.
And when I felt your emotions at the station, it felt like you were one of the people who'd take part in that kind of thing, proudly. I got angry.
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Date: 2015-06-24 05:15 am (UTC)So in a way, magic has cost them both family. Hana sighs and leans back, typing rapidly on her phone, hating that such a stilted method is the only way for them to have this conversation. Long minutes sitting and waiting as her mind translates this conversation from ASL's grammar into that of English. English still comes secondary to her.
None of my family know sign language. They made our cook interpret because she learned. Or they used cell phones and notepads and wondered why I stopped having anything to say.
Sometimes, it feels like the whole world is a cake. When you're hearing or able-bodied or whatever, you have access to the whole cake. I only have access to the slice of the cake that's made of people who are willing to learn my language. Then the slice of cake of people who understand my language and my powers is even smaller. By the time you get to witches who speak my language that like me...I'm down to a petit-four.
And it seems to me that the people who talk about the superiority of magic are always the ones who don't bother with me. They want to have their cake and eat it too. But I only get a nibble.
It's a weirdly appropriate metaphor, she finds. After he reads, she holds up a hand to pause him so that she can clear her note and write anew.
So the witches...the arrogant ones. I don't like them. They turn this town into their personal plaything and it's supposed to be on behalf of our kind but I end up with nonconsensual amnesia, sewing nettles until my hands ache.
And when I felt your emotions at the station, it felt like you were one of the people who'd take part in that kind of thing, proudly. I got angry.