Radojcic Justine 2022-2023

Master 2 ECMA

Édition, traduction et traductologie

HLAC03B – S. Greaves
 December 31st, 2052

My name is Jane Wilson. Today, I just turned 18. I was born in 2034 in Houston, Texas, on the
same day as President Trump Jr. Maybe you can call that a coincidence, or, if you’re like me,
a fucking bad omen. I know I shouldn’t say things like that, it could be bad for me. Really bad.
We are not supposed to talk ill of the President. To be honest, we are not supposed to think on
our own or to say shit at all. I’m a girl. No one asks for my opinion. Because I was born with a
uterus, I’m supposed to shut up and follow what men tell me to do. As if. Do you know what
it’s like these days? Do you know the pressure I get? I can’t dress the way I want, I can’t speak
if I’m not being asked, I can’t go to college like boys because I’m supposed to become a mother
by the time I reach the end of high school. It’s even a miracle they let us go this far in the school
system. I should be grateful. That’s what they say.
I guess I got my rebellious side from my parents. They died when I was 12. They said they were
terrorists, disrupting the order. They said they attacked the government and died in the attack.
Something about bombs. I can’t believe it. My parents were activists in a secret organization
that supported women’s rights. I remember government agents showing up at our door,
unannounced and heavily armed to cuff my parents and take them away to interrogate them.
Those times, my grandma would come and pick me up and I’d stay at her place until my parents
were released from jail. The government never had anything on them, they were cautious as
shit! They outfoxed them every time.
You have to know what it was like back then and what it is still. Most books about history were
burnt because the government thought they were too dangerous, that they could lead us to get
the wrong ideas. Fucking lies, if you ask me. But I was lucky enough to get the truth from my
parents, even as a little girl.
We used to be the country of freedom, a long time ago. But things took a dark turn when the
President’s father became President himself in 2016. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. It was
back when we still had a real political system and the right to vote. Well, we can still vote. And
when I say “we”, I mean “men”. Little by little, women’s rights have been taken away. I
remember mom told me it really began in 2022 when Roe vs. Wade was overturned by the
Supreme Court. That federal law protected women and gave them control over their bodies.
After that event happened, numerous states were allowed to forbid abortions to women. Of
course, at the time, waves of protests all across the country rose up. Mom, who was 26, was
among them. It was during one of those protests that she met my father.
In 2022, there were speculations about what would be the next step for the Republican party.
What could they do worse than this? The answer was: much, much worse.
Later that year, I can’t remember exactly when, it’s all fuzzy in my head now that mom is not
around to repeat it to me, the Congress decided that contraception for women would be
forbidden and that the taxes for feminine sanitary products would be increased by 15%. It meant
that few people would be able to afford them. That was when the riots started. Those riots turned
into a civil war which left many casualties. As in every war, secret groups of people began to
gather to take actions against the government and help out women in need. My parents were
part of a group called The Uncaged Birds, a reference to one of Maya Angelou’s peom. In the
Presidential elections that followed in 2024, President Donald Trump Jr. was elected. It signed
women’s capital sentence. Within a few years during his mandate, our rights were revoked one
by one. He used his power to control the army and the military severely repressed people, until
one day, there was no one left to protest or fight. In the new history books we were given in
schools, President Trump Jr.’s election is described as the day the order had been restored.
Mom kept memories of that time in a secret wooden box. It was hidden under a carpet, under a
floorboard in our old house. When my parents (allegedly) died –our government was known
for secretly torturing and imprisoning anyone who as against them– our house was searched for
a long time. I don’t believe in God, although I have to play by the government’s rules and say
I do, but they never found my mom’s box. I call that a fucking miracle. When my parents died,
I got to live with my grandma for a while. One night, I escaped to go back to my parents’ house
and fetched the box. I remember how terrified I was that night and the following days, for if
somebody would catch me with it, I would be sent to a juvenile boot camp and under constant
governmental surveillance for the rest of my life as a person of interest. I didn’t know what was
in the box, but I knew it couldn’t be a good thing. I have never opened it. I couldn’t, it was too
painful. Especially because I was the daughter of two terrorists, I had mandatory sessions with
a psychologist for a year, supposedly to help me get through the death of my parents. In fact, I
knew it was to watch me closely. To get information on what I knew from my parents, what
they had told me, if they were really involved in some crimes. They thought I could help them
to uncover their secret resistance group. They thought I was stupid because I was a child. But
mostly, because I was a girl. I didn’t give them what they wanted, I played dumb and innocent.
At the age of 15, my grandmother died too, of a broken heart because of my mom’s death. She
had held on as much as she could, but she was old and tired and sad all the time. Then, one day,
her heart stopped beating and her lungs couldn’t find enough air to breathe.
So, I became an orphan, just like many other girls in the United States. The problem was that
because of the laws and the way girls or women are seen and treated here, nobody wanted to
have baby girls. It was a liability few people wanted or could handle. The problem was that
abortions and contraception were illegal now. So, women would get very dangerous abortions
at the peril of their lives. People started to abandon their baby soon after they were born on
churches steps or at fire stations. The Department of Health and Social Security, or what was
left of it, was swamped and the orphanages overcrowded.
As you can see, being a girl here sucks.

After my grandmother’s death, I was placed in foster care, but I could never fit in and so, one
by one, every house I had been to, evicted me. Every time I was moving out, I was in danger
because I kept my mom’s box with me. After a while, I escaped the system and ended up living
in the streets. It’s a tough world, the streets. Even more when you’re a girl. You’re more likely
to get raped or assaulted.

So, here I am, on my birthday. All alone in a dark old train station. I don’t really give a fuck
about being on my own. I just got used to it. Besides, I rather live like this than in their hideous
world. At least, this one is real, hard but real, not like their fucking fantasy.
A little bit earlier, I had been chased by some dangerous men with knives. Homeless, just like
me. They were probably looking for food or some jewelry to sell. I ran as fast as I could, as far
as I could, and I ended up here: in this old damp train station, where the only living souls are
rats. I had a flashlight in my backpack that I took out. I looked around to see if the place was
safe for me to crash. As far as I could tell, if was the case. I sat against a wall and as I took my
throw out of my bag, I caught a glimpse of my mother’s box at the bottom. For a moment,
maybe because it was my birthday or maybe because I missed her and needed her presence with
me, I felt worn out. Without me noticing it, I had tears running down my face. As I managed to
get the box out, I looked both ways to check that I was alone. Now, sitting cross-legged on the
dirty floor, I took a deep breath. Slowly, with great care, I opened the box.

***

As I finished my reading, the school bell rang but nobody moved. My classmates were staring
at me as if I was some alien from another planet. They seemed speechless, holding their breath,
captivated even. Suddenly feeling a little bit uncomfortable, I clumsily concluded out loud:
“So… this was one of the surviving pages of my great-great-mother’s journal, back when she
lived in what we call the Dark Ages. The rest of that story got lost. I don’t know what was
exactly in the box. But since her, every woman in my family keeps a diary on their own. Few
things remained intact over the years from what was inside my ancestor’s box. Only some
photos, an edition of The Handmaid’s Tale from Margaret Atwood, which was forbidden back
then, a book of English phonetic pronunciation and that poster, here, with the coat-hanger.
Hmm… Any question?”. As I watched their dazzled facial expressions and big round eyes, my
history teacher, Ms. Stone, interrupted the class because the bell had rung a long time ago now
and she was going to be later for her next course. She said that if anyone had a question, we
could discuss it next time in class. Ms. Stone, then, proceeded to thank me for my presentation
and let us go. As I was putting away my things in my backpack, I watched my teacher erased
the board on which both the date and the subject were written:

“November 19th, 2141.

Memories, families and collective history.”

I got out of the classroom and walked toward the bathroom. I really needed to pee before the
next period. When I came out of the toilets to wash my hands, I looked at my reflection and
smiled. Not out of vanity, but because, just like my great-great-great grandmother I had a secret
too. I didn’t tell my classmates nor my teacher, but I knew something. A well-kept secret that
goes back to my parents’ secret organization. I couldn’t say anything because some things are
better left unsaid, but the poster had a hidden message on it. The truth is that I do have the
remaining pages of the diary. Just like Jane, when my mother gave me the box at the age of 18,
I found it odd that a book of modern English phonetic pronunciation was in there. Along with
it, a black pen with a little light in the lid, like a flashlight combined with a pen. For days, I
forbad myself from reading the next chapter of Jane’s diary as it, I was sure of it, would give
me the answer. Once day, I was playing with my cat, Mister Moustache (Double M.), using the
light of the pen to play with Double M. I remember I was on my bed, and I had hanged the
black poster with the hanger on my wall, in front of me. As I was playing with my cat, the light
of the pen caught something on the poster. Something invisible to the naked eye. That was when
it hit me! Of course! Invisible ink. I stopped playing with Double M, who left my room sulking,
and I got to work. I used the pen to discover the hidden message left on the poster but to my
great disappointment, the symbols I was seeing didn’t make sense to me. Nevertheless, I wrote
them down on paper. For a long time, I searched and searched and sought, until one day, I
thought about the English phonetic pronunciation book. Unfortunately, not a single one symbol
was a match in the dictionary. Frustrated, I decided to give up. That was it. I was pissed. What
was the point anyway? My great-great-grandmother had been dead for a long time! At that
moment I felt very angry at my mother for having handed me over that damn box. I was sure
she didn’t even know whatever secret message was written on the poster. I was so sure I was
cleverer than her.
So, I decided to leave the poster on a corner of my desk, leaving it for later. Maybe.
It was about three weeks after that, that I finally cracked the riddle. Well, I had some help. You
see, I was getting ready for a movie night at the theatre with my best friend Elise. As I was
doing my make up in front of the big cheval mirror in my room, Elise picked up the poster on
my desk and held it in front of the mirror asking what it was. Not even looking at it, I replied
that it was a poster that was found in my ancestor’s wooden box and that it had a secret message
in a language I couldn’t understand. But as I was finishing to apply my mascara, I couldn’t help
but looking at the poster through the mirror. Suddenly, I dropped my mascara, which fell on the
white carpet, leaving a dark stain on it. My mouth was shaped in a big “o” as I finally understood
and connected all the dots together. Of course! That was the reason for the English phonetic
book in the box. How couldn’t I see that before?! It was, indeed, phonetic transcriptions of
modern English but backwards! How clever it was! I was shocked and at the time, I got a very
satisfying feeling. The kind of feeling you get when you finally understand something you’ve
been struggling with for some time and you feel proud of yourself, excited too. I looked at Elise
and I grinned. I proceeded to explain to her my discovery and as the best friend that she is, she
said: “I guess we’re not going to the cinema anymore, are we?”. And so, that was how we spent
our night. I was thankful for the help because it took us a very long time to decipher the text.
We felt like old English royalty receiving coded letters during a war. And somehow, that was
the case, back when Jane was alive, and her mom before her. It was around three in the morning
when we finished to transcript the message. It said:

“You may write me down in history

With your hateful, twisted laws
You may drown me in oceans
But still, before I crash, like waves on shores
I’ll rise
Does my femininity upset you?
Why are you disgust with my body?
‘Cause I remind you of your oedipal complex
And still you are attracted to my breasts

Just like flowers that bloom in adversity

With the certainty of spring
Just like the mountain that don’t bow
No matter how much the wind howls
I’ll rise

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Silenced, reduced to be a walking womb
As my future painfully dies

Does my inner fire scare you?

Do you take it awfully hard?
That I embrace every part of me
And celebrate each ounce of my body

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise

Does my gender offend you?

Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs

Out of the shadows of history’s shame

I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m the descendent of the witches you couldn’t erase
I’m the sister, the mother, the daughter that wasn’t burnt by the flames

Walking into a storm of terrors and fears

Into the darkness ahead
I rise
With the hopes that I carry for my peers
When it’s getting hard to breathe
And it feels like dying
I will shout loud and clear
Bringing into battle the courage my ancestors gave
I am they, they are me
As high as the waves
I rise”

I thought it was a beautiful and powerful text. It reminded me of an old poem called Still, I rise
from a 20th century black feminist poet, Maya Angelou, that mom taught me when I was a little
girl. I remember I had to knew it by heart and every time I asked her why, she simply replied:
“You will understand some day.”. So, mom knew… I couldn’t wait to question her in the
morning!
The next day, as soon as I heard mom waking up, I ran down the stairs. I had not been able to
fall asleep, too excited by my finding. Elise was still sleeping and I managed to get out of the
room quietly. I promised myself I would tell her everything later. So, I found my mother in the
kitchen downstairs, in her fluffy white robe, making coffee and buttered toasts. She was facing
the window in front of her, not quiet awaken, still half-asleep. I caught her by surprise because
she jumped and put her right hand on her fast-beating heart. She asked me what I was doing up
so early in the morning (not exactly in my habits, I reckon) and I told her I needed to know
what the poem was about. I didn’t really have to say anything, she understood right away.
“Ah.”, she said. Then, she poured herself a big cup of black coffee and we sat down. That was
when she started to tell me about our family secret.
Jane’s mom was indeed an activist who participated in an attack against the government when
Jane was 12. Unfortunately the attack went wrong and a lot of people were taken away by the
government to get tortured and interrogated, including Jane’s parents. The government had to
cover up their actions. That was why Jane was sent to this psychologist. They tried to get
information out of her, but she resisted, just like her parents. At one point, Jane’s parents really
died because of the mistreatments they received in prison. She never saw them again; they were
buried in a common grave and the secret location got lost over time. Her entire life, she thought
they died during the attack. It was only when the dictature was overthrown many years later
and that the current government at that time apologized to the victims and their families, and
released off-the-record documents that my family got the full story.
Mom explained to me that the poster that was found in Jane’s mom’s box was, in fact, an
example of the many posters made at that time. They all contained secret feminist poems that
the secret organizations, like the one Jane’s parents were part of, partially rewrote in modern
English phonetics, backwards, with invisible ink. Those people carried a pen (just like the one
that was in the box) and a little mirror on them all the time. Then, as a sign of protest, in secret,
they put up those posters on walls all over the country. They also had a kind of secret operation
underground railroad where they helped women, in need for safe abortions. They even taught
the new language they created to people so they could pass on their messages without being
caught, whether it was letters or posters. Mom told me that, back then, the government made
old English compulsory, changed the United States motto into “Make America great again” and
they had cut off the internet, so they were secluded, separated from the rest of the world.
Television was only used to broadcast breaking news from the government. In other words,
propaganda. Those organizations, then, used modern English to protest against the huge set
back they were experiencing. Of course, they had to cover their tracks and find a way to
communicate with the rebellion. Writing backwards the phonetic writing was what they came
up with. It was actually Jane’s parents who thought about that, one night when they were
whispering in their living room, horrified by the situation and wanting to do something about
it. They introduced the idea to the group the following day and they all worked together to make
it happen. They even decided to mix British and American phonetics to make it harder for the
government to read it, in case it would fall into the wrong hands.
When my mom finally finished her story, we both stayed silent for a while. Her buttered toasts
and her coffee had long gone cold. I just couldn’t believe it. That story felt almost like a fiction,
but I knew mom wouldn’t dare making up stuff like that, not on such a grave topic. The Dark
Ages was not something people would make fun of. That was how traumatized the country was.
We were still recovering. I finally said “thank you” to my mom and as I was standing up to get
to my room and process all I had learned, mom gently grasped my arm, looking straight into
my eyes and said: “You cannot say a word to anyone about this story, Juliet. Not even to Elise.”.
Surprised, I asked why, and she replied something I will remember my entire life. She said:
“Because women’s rights are never guaranteed, especially when times are hard in history. You
never know if you will have to make posters again. If you are lucky, you will only have to pass
down this story to your children. If you are not, then you might want to keep this language a
secret. Every member of the past organizations did the same, you know. We have the names,
and we keep each other in the loop. I will give you the family names one day, when you finish
reading the family journals.”.
As I promised her not to tell a soul, even if it meant lying to Elise, I went back upstairs and
buried my nose in my great-great-grandmother’s diary. So, of course when our history teacher
asked us to present to the class a story about memories, families and collective history, I thought
about Jane straight away. I was feeling more than ever proud of being her descendant, of being
part of something big, of a community that I didn’t know yet. Somehow, I felt it was my
responsibility to carry on what Jane, her mother and every woman in my family after them
started. I knew, for some mysterious reasons that I was right where I belonged.