Learning the New Language
In a small, bustling community centre, a group of young artists and researchers grapple with the disruptive potential of AI, seeking to define how it can be a tool for self-determination rather than a threat to their unique narratives. The conversation is sharp, the stakes high.
TITLE: LEARNING THE NEW LANGUAGE
INT. COMMUNITY HALL - DAY
SOUND of a low, persistent FLUORESCENT HUM
A cavernous room, institutional beige. Worn linoleum floors. A few folding tables are stacked against one wall.
At the center, four people sit around a long, scarred wooden table. The silence is heavy, uncomfortable.
TANIA (20s), bright but anxious, fights the urge to smooth a stray curl from her eye. Her fingers twitch in her lap.
ED (30s), pragmatic, furrows his brow, tracing patterns in the condensation on his water glass.
DAVID (60s), a respected elder, is still, his gaze fixed on a point beyond the hall's dusty windows.
LUCY (50s), sharp and protective, breaks the quiet. Her voice is flat, final.
LUCY
> It's appropriation. Pure and simple. A machine doesn't *understand* a story. It just… mimics. Steals patterns. And then we're supposed to feed it our own. Our grandmother's stories? The language we fought to keep alive?
Tania shifts on her hard plastic chair. The words to argue feel clumsy in her mouth.
Outside, a weak spring sun struggles through patchy clouds. Melted snow drips from the eaves.
Ed finally speaks, his voice quiet, measured. He looks at the table, not at Lucy.
ED
> It’s not just about mimicry. It's a tool. A complicated one. A hammer can build a house or smash a window. The intent… that's us.
Lucy lets out a short, dismissive SNORT.
LUCY
> A hammer doesn’t learn. A hammer doesn’t… predict. Don't simplify it, Ed. This is different.
TANIA
>>(blurting out)
> Of course it's different.
Tania blushes as all eyes turn to her. David offers a small, encouraging nod.
TANIA
>>(CONT'D)
> It’s… a new kind of literacy, maybe? Like when the printing press came. Or photography. People worried then too, right? That it would change everything, dilute things.
Her voice wavers on the word "right." Lucy’s eyes narrow.
LUCY
> Photography captured reality. It didn't invent it. These programs… they invent.
>>(tapping a finger on the table)
> They create stories that aren't ours. Or they take pieces of ours and spit them back, rearranged.
Tania leans forward, a tremor in her hands she tries to ignore.
TANIA
> But what if we train it? What if the 'brain' it has… we build it? We feed it *our* reality. Our language. Our specific way of seeing the world. So it doesn't just mimic. It helps us find patterns we might miss. Helps us translate, maybe? To share with people who couldn't otherwise understand.
A spark in Ed's eyes. He looks up from the table.
ED
> Exactly. It's about data sovereignty, isn't it? About owning the algorithm. Not just being subject to it.
He glances at David.
The SCRAPE of David's chair is loud on the linoleum. He pushes himself back and walks to the window, his back to them.
ANGLE ON the window. Bare branches show the first fragile green buds against a grey sky.
DAVID
> Lucy's right to be cautious. The power imbalance is immense. Most of these tools… they're built by corporations, far away. By people who don't know our stories, our history, our land. They don't care about the nuances. Or the sacredness.
He pauses, then turns. His expression is serious.
DAVID
>>(CONT'D)
> But what if we could build our own loom? To weave our own narratives. Not just be weavers on someone else's factory floor.
The metaphor hangs in the air. The energy in the room shifts. Tania feels a jolt. *Our own loom.*
LUCY
> A loom costs money. It takes skill. Expertise we don't have. And time. These big companies… they're already miles ahead. By the time we catch up, what will be left?
Her voice is laced with a frustration that is really fear.
ED
>>(sketching on the table)
> We start small. Prototype. Open source. Collaborate. We learn the language, the code itself. We train our own models with our own data. Curated data. Not just the internet's firehose of noise.
He looks at Tania.
TANIA
> Like… we could teach it the patterns of our traditional beadwork. Not to make new designs, but to understand the significance of existing ones. Or to help archive. To cross-reference stories, identify motifs. Not to *write* them, but to *preserve* them in a new way.
In her mind's eye: lines of code weave together like intricate digital beadwork.
ED
> Or even to translate. To preserve oral histories. To make sure that when a new story is told, it's not distorted by an algorithm that only knows mainstream narratives.
LUCY
>>(shaking her head)
> Distortion is the risk. Always the risk. Who controls the filters? Who decides what's 'appropriate' data? And if the machine makes a mistake… a cultural misstep… the damage could be immense.
David walks back to the table. He picks up a pen, fiddling with its clicker. CLICK. CLICK.
DAVID
> Lucy's questions are essential. They're the fire in the forge. We don't want to recreate colonial structures, just with silicon instead of paper. The point is not just using AI, it's about *sovereignty* over AI. Who builds it? Who owns it? Who benefits?
TANIA
>>(murmuring, to herself)
> So it's not about stopping it. It's about redirecting it. Reclaiming it.
ED
> Exactly. We can't put the genie back in the bottle. It's here. So how do we train the genie to serve *our* community, *our* stories? To listen to *our* voice?
LUCY
>>(whispering)
> It sounds… impossible. The scale of it. The resources.
DAVID
>>(soft but firm)
> Is it any more impossible than keeping our language alive against generations of suppression? We've faced bigger odds. This is just… a different kind of fight. A new frontier.
SOUND of wind RATTLES the windows. The faint PATTER of rain begins.
Tania looks at a generic tablet computer sitting on the table. It feels alien, yet full of promise. A conviction burns in her chest.
TANIA
> We need to start now. Before the currents get too strong. Before someone else decides what our stories are worth, or how they should be told.
Ed nods, a shared understanding passing between them. He pulls a fresh sheet of paper towards him, poised to write.
Lucy watches them, her doubt warring with a flicker of nascent hope.
Suddenly--
BANG!
The door at the far end of the hall SLAMS open against the wall.
WIDE ON THE ROOM as a harsh gust of wind sweeps through, scattering papers from the table. The sharp, damp scent of wet earth and melting snow fills the air.
They all freeze, staring at the open doorway.
UNSEEN VOICE (O.S.)
>>(panicked)
> We need help! Now
INT. COMMUNITY HALL - DAY
SOUND of a low, persistent FLUORESCENT HUM
A cavernous room, institutional beige. Worn linoleum floors. A few folding tables are stacked against one wall.
At the center, four people sit around a long, scarred wooden table. The silence is heavy, uncomfortable.
TANIA (20s), bright but anxious, fights the urge to smooth a stray curl from her eye. Her fingers twitch in her lap.
ED (30s), pragmatic, furrows his brow, tracing patterns in the condensation on his water glass.
DAVID (60s), a respected elder, is still, his gaze fixed on a point beyond the hall's dusty windows.
LUCY (50s), sharp and protective, breaks the quiet. Her voice is flat, final.
LUCY
> It's appropriation. Pure and simple. A machine doesn't *understand* a story. It just… mimics. Steals patterns. And then we're supposed to feed it our own. Our grandmother's stories? The language we fought to keep alive?
Tania shifts on her hard plastic chair. The words to argue feel clumsy in her mouth.
Outside, a weak spring sun struggles through patchy clouds. Melted snow drips from the eaves.
Ed finally speaks, his voice quiet, measured. He looks at the table, not at Lucy.
ED
> It’s not just about mimicry. It's a tool. A complicated one. A hammer can build a house or smash a window. The intent… that's us.
Lucy lets out a short, dismissive SNORT.
LUCY
> A hammer doesn’t learn. A hammer doesn’t… predict. Don't simplify it, Ed. This is different.
TANIA
>>(blurting out)
> Of course it's different.
Tania blushes as all eyes turn to her. David offers a small, encouraging nod.
TANIA
>>(CONT'D)
> It’s… a new kind of literacy, maybe? Like when the printing press came. Or photography. People worried then too, right? That it would change everything, dilute things.
Her voice wavers on the word "right." Lucy’s eyes narrow.
LUCY
> Photography captured reality. It didn't invent it. These programs… they invent.
>>(tapping a finger on the table)
> They create stories that aren't ours. Or they take pieces of ours and spit them back, rearranged.
Tania leans forward, a tremor in her hands she tries to ignore.
TANIA
> But what if we train it? What if the 'brain' it has… we build it? We feed it *our* reality. Our language. Our specific way of seeing the world. So it doesn't just mimic. It helps us find patterns we might miss. Helps us translate, maybe? To share with people who couldn't otherwise understand.
A spark in Ed's eyes. He looks up from the table.
ED
> Exactly. It's about data sovereignty, isn't it? About owning the algorithm. Not just being subject to it.
He glances at David.
The SCRAPE of David's chair is loud on the linoleum. He pushes himself back and walks to the window, his back to them.
ANGLE ON the window. Bare branches show the first fragile green buds against a grey sky.
DAVID
> Lucy's right to be cautious. The power imbalance is immense. Most of these tools… they're built by corporations, far away. By people who don't know our stories, our history, our land. They don't care about the nuances. Or the sacredness.
He pauses, then turns. His expression is serious.
DAVID
>>(CONT'D)
> But what if we could build our own loom? To weave our own narratives. Not just be weavers on someone else's factory floor.
The metaphor hangs in the air. The energy in the room shifts. Tania feels a jolt. *Our own loom.*
LUCY
> A loom costs money. It takes skill. Expertise we don't have. And time. These big companies… they're already miles ahead. By the time we catch up, what will be left?
Her voice is laced with a frustration that is really fear.
ED
>>(sketching on the table)
> We start small. Prototype. Open source. Collaborate. We learn the language, the code itself. We train our own models with our own data. Curated data. Not just the internet's firehose of noise.
He looks at Tania.
TANIA
> Like… we could teach it the patterns of our traditional beadwork. Not to make new designs, but to understand the significance of existing ones. Or to help archive. To cross-reference stories, identify motifs. Not to *write* them, but to *preserve* them in a new way.
In her mind's eye: lines of code weave together like intricate digital beadwork.
ED
> Or even to translate. To preserve oral histories. To make sure that when a new story is told, it's not distorted by an algorithm that only knows mainstream narratives.
LUCY
>>(shaking her head)
> Distortion is the risk. Always the risk. Who controls the filters? Who decides what's 'appropriate' data? And if the machine makes a mistake… a cultural misstep… the damage could be immense.
David walks back to the table. He picks up a pen, fiddling with its clicker. CLICK. CLICK.
DAVID
> Lucy's questions are essential. They're the fire in the forge. We don't want to recreate colonial structures, just with silicon instead of paper. The point is not just using AI, it's about *sovereignty* over AI. Who builds it? Who owns it? Who benefits?
TANIA
>>(murmuring, to herself)
> So it's not about stopping it. It's about redirecting it. Reclaiming it.
ED
> Exactly. We can't put the genie back in the bottle. It's here. So how do we train the genie to serve *our* community, *our* stories? To listen to *our* voice?
LUCY
>>(whispering)
> It sounds… impossible. The scale of it. The resources.
DAVID
>>(soft but firm)
> Is it any more impossible than keeping our language alive against generations of suppression? We've faced bigger odds. This is just… a different kind of fight. A new frontier.
SOUND of wind RATTLES the windows. The faint PATTER of rain begins.
Tania looks at a generic tablet computer sitting on the table. It feels alien, yet full of promise. A conviction burns in her chest.
TANIA
> We need to start now. Before the currents get too strong. Before someone else decides what our stories are worth, or how they should be told.
Ed nods, a shared understanding passing between them. He pulls a fresh sheet of paper towards him, poised to write.
Lucy watches them, her doubt warring with a flicker of nascent hope.
Suddenly--
BANG!
The door at the far end of the hall SLAMS open against the wall.
WIDE ON THE ROOM as a harsh gust of wind sweeps through, scattering papers from the table. The sharp, damp scent of wet earth and melting snow fills the air.
They all freeze, staring at the open doorway.
UNSEEN VOICE (O.S.)
>>(panicked)
> We need help! Now