Semantic Satiation

In the dark auditorium a spotlight illuminates a mahogany podium. Dust particles dance in the rays of the golden beam. Some settle on the modest ridges of the lectern; others vanish in its silhouette. The light hits at a low angle that elongates the shadow far upstage. There in the upstage shadows stands a young woman behind thick curtains. She steps forward, high heels shaking the floating dust with every click. As the valedictorian enters, the sharp corners of her square hat permeate the bubble of light, leaving a crisp shadow behind her. The moment her hand touches the lectern time starts. Her heart rate quickens.

"I am here to humbly represent the class of 2210, and in doing so, the future of humanity. Many in our community came here expecting an underground research firm. You signed the non-disclosure agreements thinking little of the implications — only of your heightened salaries. You had no idea the blessings that were to come... for we are more than a research facility. We are a community that proudly maintains secrecy from the outside and absolute equality among our people."

The prescribed words lost their flavor after weeks of repetitive practice. Semantic satiation, in which phrases too often repeated decay into their constituent sounds, nullifies the otherwise charming graduation speech. Perhaps, in going through the motions time and time again she accepted the monotonous statements. Perhaps her brain juxtaposes each word with its antithesis until all that remains is silent void. Put simply, the speech is meaningless.

In the same way the perfection of her words causes her not to hear them, the precise symmetry of her face cancels out her features. Large brown eyes tell of neither innocence or guilt. Tassels from a strange hat resting on blonde hair brush against her cheek, which is blushed with pink. The corners of her mouth draw towards circular earrings of brilliant gold in an artificial smile.

However, beneath her articulate and eloquent demeanor, no one suspects she is urgently stalling... that her life depends on the continuity of this speech.

"Generations ago, the elders fought for this lectern, or rather for the human right to speak the truth about the Gods; the Gods that gave us this good fortune; the Gods that protect us. Take a moment to think about how incredible it is that the Gods are taking us to the stars. Collectively we work to master cryogenic freezing and reanimation in humans. We are ever grateful to our test subjects from Libya, the Middle East, China, Mexico, and wherever else we may find them. Their sacrifice as individuals makes the collective thrive."

A sharp buzz in her right ear makes her wince. With the characteristic scratchiness of the crude system, her hidden earpiece orders her. "Valedictorian, we need two more minutes. Just keep speaking for two more minutes. That's all we need."

She continues, "Project Interstellar is just one example of the triumphs of collectivism in our community. Today I must give credit where credit is due. To my classmates: you are the next generation to undertake tremendous research. You will take charge of the completion of the first 200 year trial. This is a feat never achieved in history. Your impact on the future is tumultuous. We will become an interplanetary species, leaving for Alpha Centauri by the end of the millennium."

People stand and cheer enthusiastically. Mothers burst into tears. The elders are beside themselves.

"I must therefore ask for your forgiveness. As highest achieving student I overshadowed the collective greatness of my classmates. We must not stand for individualism here."

Again she hears the cultish applause. It causes the microphone to reverberate in repeating loops of feedback. The feedback grows louder and louder in a storm of cyclical noise. It is the feedback of hundreds of cries, of people held captive their entire lives, of generations of falsehood. Her earpiece too is screaming.

For a long moment, the exponential increase in volume and pitch consumes her. It brings her back to the coldest day of the year, when she was selected as valedictorian. Her community is near Orlando, Florida. Yet on that day she opened her door to long since frozen gift baskets strewn across her front step. The tunnels were coldest at this time of year. The humidity only made it worse. In her measly white gown she sat there for a long moment, ruminating on her impending responsibilities. However before she could think for long her parents rushed to her.

Her mother did not seem to know what to say. "Of all the days they could have chosen you, and they had to put the cryogenic chambers on blast! A pity. Those flowers were delightful."

Her father chimed in, as if to halfheartedly put his foot down. "Now, now... the elders selected our daughter for a very prestigious opportunity. We are grateful to the Gods."

"Yes, yes... grateful to the Gods," her mother sighed.

Emilia gave her parents a sort of mortified hug and ran inside. For the rest of the morning, she opened packages, scanned through letters, and placed dead bouquets in vases. At one point she set aside a basket that was empty save for some straw, thinking nothing of it. In the afternoon and evening annual tradition ensued, bringing with it celebration in anticipation for the big day. She ate dinner with childhood friends, reminiscing on old memories. At around nine o'clock, the elders stopped by to congratulate her.

At ten o'clock, she felt overwhelmed, and asked for a moment alone. Her family obliged. As she sat in her living room, she heard a small beep emanating from the empty basket she had set aside earlier. In a measly white gown, she snuck it outside, digging through the straw to unveil a satellite phone and a simple earpiece. The phone rang. The ringing in her head grows louder and louder until she is brought back to the auditorium. After an infinite moment of echo, it finally stops, and she realizes she must answer her calling.

"The reason I have the great honor of being valedictorian tonight is that my sacrifice will render me worthy. Every year, as is customary upon graduation, one student is chosen to be sacrificed to the Gods. When this speech is over, Elder Smith will put a gun to my head to commemorate and pay tribute to the sacrifices him and his generation made here and to show that excellence is collective, not individual. It is my honor to enter the afterlife before my peers, and to represent them and this community before the Gods. Now, let us bow our heads in prayer."

As she shuts her eyes, she is left with the image of Elder Smith bowing his head obediently. Instead of praying, she begins to shiver feverishly, despite the warmth under the many layers of her costume. As her teeth chatter and her arms move toward her chest, she becomes obsessed with the idea of retaining... retaining body heat, sanity, and consciousness... clinging to anything she can hold.

It has to have been two minutes! Finally, her earpiece screams, "Commencing in three... two...", she ducks down and clings to the podium. "One."

Heavily armed soldiers infiltrate the long hall from every entrance. As the lights in the theater turn on, most of the crowd cries out or drops to their knees. Elder Smith pulls out the hand gun.

In an adrenaline-induced frenzy, she stands back up and grabs the microphone. "Everyone stay still and no one gets hurt! Do as I say!"

"Disarm yourself, or we open fire!", commands an American military voice.

The elder exclaims, "Never! You're disturbing a religious ceremony."

"Shut the hell up! Drop the gun!"

Before she knows what is happening, bullets from his handgun fly through the fourth wall, whizzing through the podium. Suddenly, in her left ear, she is bombarded with the overwhelming roar of machine guns. In her right ear, the earpiece rings deafeningly. As the spray of bullets shreds the crowd, she shrinks lower and lower into nothingness with the knowledge that her loved ones are being massacred so that she can survive. Part of her dies today, with the absolute conviction, founded on nothing, that she will overcome.

Perhaps everyone maintains the illogical subconscious belief that he or she will survive. It is the persistent feeling of persistence — the nagging emotion of hope. Pervading our instincts, the hope for longevity is an irrefutable prediction; no one in this universe can be wrong in making it because everyone who is wrong is gone. In thirty seconds, everyone in this godforsaken room who somehow believes they will be spared will be proven right. Emilia Velazquez will be proven right. It must be so! But the question remains: if she knows she will survive, why is she cowering behind the podium?