What to read: The Voice dystopia about a world where women are allowed to speak no more than 100 words a day

2024 Author: Malcolm Clapton | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-17 03:44

An excerpt from the feminist novel by Christina Dalcher about how the weak half of humanity was deprived of the right to communicate and work freely.

If someone told me that in just a week I would be able to overthrow our president, put an end to the True Ones Movement, and destroy such a mediocrity and insignificance as Morgan LeBron, I would never believe. But I wouldn't argue. I wouldn't say anything at all.

Because for some time now I, a woman, have been allowed to say only a few words.

So tonight at dinner, before I can use the last of the words released to me for the day, Patrick, with an expressive gesture, knocks on that damned silver device that flaunts on my left wrist. With this gesture, he seems to say that he completely shares my misfortune, or maybe he just wants to remind me to be more careful and keep quiet until exactly at midnight the counter zeroes the indicators and starts a new countdown of words. Usually I’m already asleep when this magical act takes place, so this time I will start Tuesday with a virgin blank slate. The same will happen with my daughter Sonya's counter.

But my sons do not carry word counters.

And at dinner they usually chat incessantly, discussing all sorts of school matters.

Sonya also goes to school, but she never spends precious words talking about the events of the past day. Over dinner, devouring some primitive stew I have prepared from memory, Patrick asks Sonya about her progress in home economics, physical education and a new school subject called Fundamentals of Home Bookkeeping. Does she listen to teachers? Will she have high marks in this quarter? Patrick knows exactly what questions should be asked to the girl: very understandable and requiring an unambiguous answer - either a nod or a negative head shake.

I watch them, listen and involuntarily bite my nails into my palms so that red crescent moons remain there. Sonya nods or shakes her head depending on the question and wrinkles her nose in displeasure when her brothers, our young twins, not understanding how important it is to ask questions that require only "yes / no" or the shortest possible answer of one or two words, stick to her with questions about whether she has good teachers, whether her lessons are interesting and what school subject she likes best. That is, they bring down an avalanche of open-ended questions on her. I don't want to think that the twins are deliberately tempting little sister, or teasing her, or trying to hook her, forcing her to say unnecessary words. But, on the other hand, they are already eleven years old, and they should have understood everything, since they saw what happens to us if we go beyond the limits of the word limit set aside for us.

Sonya's lips begin to tremble, she looks first at one twin, then at the other, and her pink tongue, involuntarily sticking out, begins to nervously lick her plump lower lip - after all, the tongue seems to have its own mind, which does not want to obey the law. And then Stephen, my eldest son, extending his hand across the table, gently touches his sister's lips with his index finger.

I could articulate to the twins what they don't understand: all men now have a united front when it comes to schooling. Unidirectional system. Teachers speak. The students are listening. It would cost me eighteen words.

And I only have five left.

- How is she doing with her vocabulary? Patrick asks, jerking his chin in my direction. And then he rearranges his question: - Does she expand it?

I just shrug my shoulders. By the time she was six, Sonya would have to have an entire army of ten thousand tokens under her command, and this small individual army would instantly build up and stand at attention, obeying the orders of her still very flexible and receptive brain. It should have been if the notorious school "three R's" In American school slang, "three R's" (reading, ‘riting,’ rithmetic) mean “reading, writing, counting”, that is, the basis of school knowledge. "Now have not been reduced to one thing: the most primitive arithmetic. After all, as expected, in the future my grown daughter is destined only to go to the shops and run the household, that is, to play the role of a devoted, obedient wife. This, of course, requires some kind of the most primitive mathematics, but by no means the ability to read and write. Not knowledge of literature. Not your own voice.

“You're a cognitive linguist,” Patrick tells me, collecting dirty dishes and forcing Stephen to help him.

- Was.

- And there is.

It seems that in a whole year I should have gotten used to it, but sometimes the words still seem to break out by themselves, before I have time to stop them:

- No! No more.

Patrick frowns as he listens intently as my meter ticks off four more words out of the last five. The ticking echoes like the ominous sound of a military drum in my ears, and the counter on my wrist begins to throb unpleasantly.

“Enough, Gene, stop,” Patrick warns me.

The boys exchange anxious glances; their concern is understandable: they know very well WHAT happens when we women go beyond the allowed number of words, denoted by three numbers. One, zero, zero. 100.

And it will inevitably happen again when I say my last words this Monday - and I will certainly say them to my little daughter, at least in a whisper. But even these unfortunate two words - "good night" - do not have time to escape from my lips, for I meet Patrick's pleading look. Pleading …

I silently grab Sonya in my arms and carry her into the bedroom. It is now quite heavy and, perhaps, too big to carry in my arms, but I still carry it, holding it tightly to me with both hands.

Sonya smiles at me when I put her to bed, cover her with a blanket and tuck it from all sides. But, as always now, no bedtime stories, no Dora the explorer, no Pooh bear, no Piglet, no Peter Rabbit and his unsuccessful adventures in Mr. McGregor's garden with a lettuce. I get scared at the thought that Sonya has already learned to take all this as normal.

Without words, I hum a lullaby melody to her, which actually speaks of mocking birds and goats, although I remember the words of this song very well, I still have before my eyes lovely pictures from a book that Sonya and I in the old days more than once read.

Patrick froze in the doorway, looking at us. His shoulders, once so broad and strong, wearily droop and resemble an inverted V; and on the forehead the same deep wrinkles drooping down from top to bottom. It felt like everything in him had sagged, rushed down.

Once in the bedroom, as on all previous nights, I immediately wrap myself in some kind of invisible blanket of words, imagining that I am reading a book, allowing my eyes to dance as much as they like over the familiar pages of Shakespeare that appear before my eyes. But sometimes, obeying a whim that came into my head, I choose Dante, and in the original, enjoying his static Italian. Dante's language has changed little over the past centuries, but today I am amazed to discover that sometimes I can hardly make my way through a familiar, but half-forgotten text - it seems that I have forgotten my native language a little. And I wonder what it will be like for the Italians if our new order ever becomes international?

Perhaps Italians will become even more active in using gestures.

However, the chances that our disease will spread to overseas territories are not so great. While our television had not yet become a state monopoly, and our women had not yet had time to put these damn counters on their wrists, I always tried to watch various news programs. Al Jazeera, BBC and even three channels of the Italian public broadcaster RAI; and on other channels from time to time there were various interesting talk shows. Patrick, Stephen and I watched these shows when the younger ones were already asleep.

- Are we obliged to watch this? - moaned Stephen, lounging in his favorite chair and holding a bowl of popcorn in one hand and a phone in the other.

And I only added the sound.

- No. Don't have to. But we can still. - After all, no one knew how long these programs would be available. Patrick had already talked about the benefits of cable TV, even though these TV companies were literally hanging by a thread. - By the way, Stephen, not everyone has such an opportunity. - I did not add: So be glad that you still have it.

Although there was not much to be happy about.

Almost all of these talk shows were like two peas in a pod. And day after day, their members laughed at us. Al-Jazeera, for example, called the prevailing order in our country "new extremism." This could, perhaps, bring a smile to me, but I myself understood how much truth there is in this title. And the British political pandits just shook their heads and thought, obviously not wanting to say it out loud: “Oh, those crazy Yankees! And now what are they doing? "Italian experts, answering the questions of sexy interviewers - all these girls looked half-dressed and overly painted, - immediately began to shout, twirl their fingers at their temples and laugh. Yes, they laughed at us. They said that we need to relax, otherwise we will eventually come to the conclusion that our women will be forced to wear headscarves and long shapeless skirts. Was life in the United States really what they saw?

Do not know. The last time I went to Italy was before Sonya was born, and now I have absolutely no opportunity to go there.

Our passports were canceled even before we were forbidden to speak.

Here, perhaps, it should be clarified: not all of them had their passports canceled.

I found this out in connection with the most pressing circumstances. In December, I discovered that Stephen and the twins had expired their passports, and went online to download applications for three new passports. Sonya, who did not yet have any documents at all, except for a birth certificate and a booklet with marks of vaccinations received, needed a different form.

It was easy for the boys to renew their passports; everything was exactly the same as always with the documents for Patrick and for me. When I clicked on the application for a new passport for myself and for Sonya, I was sent to a page that I had never seen before, and there was only one single question asked: "Is the applicant a man or a woman?"

In America of the near future, all women are forced to wear a special bracelet on their wrist. He controls the number of words spoken: they are allowed to pronounce no more than a hundred per day. If you exceed the limit, you will receive a current discharge.

This has not always been the case. Everything changed when the new government came to power. Women were banned from speaking and working, deprived of the right to vote, and girls were no longer taught to read and write. However, Jean McClellan does not intend to agree with such a future for herself, her daughter and all the women around her. She will fight to be heard again.