The tongue tells of an accent when it struggles to learn a new language and our sense of self, our confidence is tied to this acrobatic feat and so pleasures in the tongues' ability to grip tight the new language, of a new home can be punishing. In exile or as a refugee or immigrant there is no place left behind, no where to look back upon that delivers comfort easily, pleasures in welcoming platitudes and prickly notes of distress are manifested whispers from below ground as we embrace home on foreign ground. Why do we measure our identity by the distance from our home, a final origin? You and I have counted those steps away when traveling and measured our reach back to divide our humanity to small bits by skin, by tongue by hair by height by no other currency can do this as human currency can. When I have strayed these steps away I can not tell any more with weathered age, why we grow to be more the same and less interested in difference that steps away once made. What then do we have to gain or loose in knowing ourselves better, upon knowing those strangers who pass shoulders with difficult tongues. You may find journey in a more sinus path but they all lead back to ourselves asking, are we at home with ourselves? Even in visible difference like playing cards are we different enough in the global to feel the somewhere else that is not our origin to be also denying parts of land on earth as a genuine home"