"Or cultural expansion. Evolution. Growth." I lean forward, warming to the topic. "Your family thinks you're rejecting orcish culture, but you're actually becoming a bridge. Someone who can carry orcish perspectives into human academic spaces and bring human knowledge back to orcish communities."
"You believe academic integration serves cultural preservation?"
"I believe adaptation is survival. And survival isn't betrayal. It's courage."
The silence stretches between us, but it doesn't feel uncomfortable. More like he's processing something significant, turning my words over in his mind.
"Your blog post about maintaining cultural identity while assimilating into new communities," he says finally. "Personal experience?"
"My family immigrated from Colombia when I was eight. Spent my teenage years trying to understand out how to be Colombian enough for my grandparents and American enough for my classmates."
"And now?"
"Now I write about city living and pretend I have my shit figured out." I take a sip of coffee, surprised by how easy it is to talk to him. "Most days I feel like I'm translating between different versions of myself."
"Translation as identity navigation."
"Exactly. Except you're doing it with six languages and probably dealing with way more complicated cultural expectations."
"Orcish family structures can be intense."
"Intense how?"
"Hierarchical. Traditional. Resistant to change." He sets down the coffee mug and runs a hand through his hair, disturbing the neat knot. "My exile was... official."
Exile.The word hits like cold water.
"They kicked you out?"
"Formally severed familial ties due to incompatible life choices."
"Jesus, Ursak. I'm sorry."
"It was necessary for academic advancement. University programs require geographic flexibility."
He says it like it's a simple calculation, but I catch the way his voice goes carefully neutral. The same tone I use when explaining to my mother why I don't have a "real job" yet.
"Necessary doesn't make it easy."
"No. It does not."
We sit with that for a moment, pondering the families who don't understand choices that feel essential to survival. The quiet in his apartment feels different now—not just peaceful, but carefully constructed. Like he's built this orderly space as a bulwark against chaos.
"Is that why you practice so much? The linguistic exercises?"
"Partially. Visa requirements demand demonstrated proficiency. But also..." He pauses, considering his words. "Maintaining linguistic precision provides structure. Control over variables that can be mastered through effort."
"Unlike visa renewals and family acceptance."
"Indeed."
I understand that impulse completely. The need to excel at something measurable when everything else feels unpredictable. It's why I obsess over blog post research and deadline management. Control the controllable, survive the chaos.
"For what it's worth, your English is better than most native speakers I know."
"That is kind of you to say."
"It's not kindness, it's observation. You use words like 'geographical flexibility' and 'acoustic phenomena' in casual conversation. Most people can barely string together a coherent sentence at midnight."
