Do you speak Starbucksian? I am not simply referring to the ubiquitous, upscale coffee chain’s now famous, and much-written-and talked-about words for their small, medium, and large cups (– i.e. tall, grande, and (trademarked) venti – words that many people find pretentious to use, but actually have some basis for being: for example, a “tall” is 12 oz., two ounces more than the usual New York coffee cup. (See “grande” and “venti” explanation further below).
What I’m concerned about today is word order -- the word order necessary to get the drink the way you want it: take what my daughter, Alice, ordered the other day: a tall, sugar-free, skim, 2-Splenda, no-whip, cinnamon Dolce Latte. Alice is 17 and has been drinking coffee for about a year – when did she acquire such verbal, “barista-speak” sophistication?
In 2005 Starbucks put out a free guide to their beverages called, “Make It Your Drink” – a tiny treasure I happen to own. Some of my foreign students back then would go to their nearest Starbucks but felt their English, and especially Starbucksian English, was too weak to order much beyond plain coffee or tea. (And as a Spanish-speaking student once explained – and marketing students, please take note: “I always order the ‘grande’ size because it makes me feel at home.” “Grande,” as you probably know, means “big” in Spanish and Italian and at 16 oz. is quite big; but the biggest size, “venti,” is 20 oz. and means “twenty” in Italian.)
The little booklet, however, offered a ray of linguistic light: first came the glossary that defined the various terms – doppio, shaken, Americano, macchiato, etc. It then explained the order in which it was best to say them: what type of cup (must specify for “iced”); what type of coffee (caf or decaf) and/or how many shots of espresso; what size cup; what kind of syrup (maple, hazelnut, vanilla, etc.); what type of artificial sweetener; what type of milk (whole, 2 percent, skim, soy, etc.) and what kind of drink itself – cappuccino, frappuccino, latte, etc. (Italian drink names add that panache that English just can’t match.)
So for one who prefers a simple and relatively inexpensive “tall Earl Grey,” I am always amused by others’ ability to rattle off such word-order-perfect drinks like “an iced, decaf, triple, grande, sugar-free vanilla, soy, 1 Equal, extra-hot mocha,” for roughly 75 cents per adjective.
Word order in general is interesting, because it is so unconscious. For instance, in my first sentence I called Starbucks the “ubiquitous, upscale” coffee chain. Why didn’t I call it the “upscale, ubiquitous” coffee chain? Do I hear, “Because it SOUNDS better?” Yes, but WHY does it sound better? Why does “one, big, red balloon” sound better than “red, big, one balloon?” It’s what your English teacher might have at one time (when they taught grammar) called “syntax.” It’s the set of internal grammatical rules that are rarely taught and mostly just absorbed through listening and speaking a language.
Still, linguists and grammarians have taken some pains to analyze English word order and, though they are not in total agreement, they have come up with some basic structural guidelines. Take adjectives: “One giant, fresh cup of steaming-hot, black, shade-grown South African coffee” is following the rule of “number, size, age, appearance, color, origin, material.”
Outside of places like Starbucks, we normally keep our adjectives limited to three, tops, to describe something: “the fabulous, new, Scorcese movie;” “a sleek, antique, red Jaguar;” “comfortable, worn-out, leather shoes;” these are examples of a general word order placement that goes: opinion, dimension, age, shape, color, origin, material. Sort of like the old Burger King ad: two, all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.
Now let’s try word order of a different sort. Which (below) sounds better?
a) I take the train every day to work;
b) I take every day the train to work; or
c) I take the train to work every day.
If English is your first language, you probably, unhesitatingly picked c). If you picked b), you’ve got Germanic ancestors calling you; and likewise, if you picked a) you’ve got some Latin blood. Those languages have different word orders from English, which is what adds to the “foreign-ness” sound when we try speaking their languages, or vice-versa.
The subtle choices in those sentences above boil down to Place and Time. Although in English we generally say, “time and place” as an expression, when it comes to word order, we put “Place” over “Time.” That is, “I go to the movies (place) every Wednesday (time).” Try adding more detail, and the order remains: “I go to the movies in the city, down in the Village, at 13th and Broadway, at the Loew’s 4-story multiplex every first Wednesday of the month at 6 p.m.” Place-place-place-place before time, time, time, time, with each phrase getting more and more specific.
Anyone who has studied French, Spanish, or Italian knows soon after cracking open the textbook that adjectives normally go after the noun – as in “sweater red,” instead of our “red sweater.” They also put prepositions like “from” or “at” at the beginning of sentences where we have switched to putting them at the end, if at all: “Where do you come from?” and “What time is the train?” in Spanish come out, “From where do you come?” and “At what time is the train?”
Some of my young, elementary school students who have now been in this country long enough to master English word order have begun to unconsciously occasionally slip in English word order while speaking their native language – much to the amusement, shock, or horror of their parents.
So whether or not you speak proper Starbucksian, you now know basic Starbucksian word order – and probably even some Italian names for coffee drinks. And just knowing that should help you, if you’re ever in doubt, sidle up to the counter, give a venti-sized grin and ask for any big-beige-frothy-artificially sweetened-or-calorie-laden drink you want. Cheers.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
English as a Spelling NITEmare
A response last week from Dan from Los Angeles on the relative difficulty of learning Spanish vs. English:
There's a good case to be made that from the Martian perspective (someone equally unfamiliar with both languages), English is far more irregular and hence harder to learn. Look at our spelling: tough, bough, cough . . . lotion, ocean . . . lazy, daisy . . . Try explaining that to the Spanish.
Thanks for your insights, Dan. And Language Lady agrees with you and your Martians that, on the whole, Spanish is easier to learn as a foreign language than English, due to the regularity of Spanish spelling and pronunciation. The point I wanted to make last week was specifically about English GRAMMAR, and the verb declensions, which were simplified to accommodate all the various cultures living, conquering, or trying to do business in England hundreds of years ago; beyond that, the spelling, pronunciation, numerous verb tenses, and staggering amount of words alone all make me happy that English is my first language.
Dan’s comment (re tough, bough, cough, etc.) reminds me of a little ditty on the idiosyncrasies of English spelling and pronunciation written by an English author, T.S. Wyatt, in 1954 and often found in linguistics textbooks:
RECOVERING SOUNDS FROM ORTHOGRAPHY
BRUSH UP YOUR ENGLISH
I take it you already know
Of tough and bough and cough and dough.
Others may stumble but not you,
On hiccough, though, lough (loch) and through.
Well done! And now you wish, perhaps,
To learn of less familiar traps.
Beware of heard, a dreadful word
That looks like beard and sounds like bird,
And dead--it's said like bed, not bead.
For goodness's sake, don't call it deed!
Watch out for meat and great and threat:
They rhyme with suite and straight and debt.
A moth is not a moth in mother,
Nor both in bother, broth in brother,
And here is not a match for there,
Nor dear and fear for bear and pear,
And then there's dose and rose and lose--
Just look them up--and goose and choose,
And cork and work and card and ward,
And font and front and word and sword,
And do and go and thwart and cart.
Come, come, I've hardly made a start.
A dreadful language? Man alive,
I'd mastered it when I was five.
Yes, English spelling is a notorious nightmare (though, as Wyatt pointed out, we do seem to learn it fairly quickly) – with most of our everyday words the orthographic results of some loose decisions made some 600 years ago. It started with a hodge-podge of West Saxon spellings and pronunciations; then post-Norman Conquest medieval monks changed certain spellings to look more like the new prestige language, Anglo-Norman French: for example, “cwen” became “queen;” then, around the 1400s people started pronouncing words differently: “great,” which was originally said, “gray-aht” became “great” as we know it, while “bread” changed from the Old English “bray-at” to Middle English “breed” and then to our current short-e’d “bread.” And those nasty “gh” spellings were trying to convey the gutteral Germanic “ch” sound, as in “Achtung!” But trying to understand the reasons for all English’s spelling conundrums doesn’t make it easier. We just have to accept that English spelling is what happens when conquest happens and no one is really in charge …
George Bernard Shaw, the famous English playwright, once wrote a plea for spelling reform by demonstrating that the way our language stood now, you could spell “fish” as “ghoti:”
“gh” as in “rough”
“o” as in “women”
“ti” as in “nation.”
Spelling reform has been tried at various times, but it just doesn’t work – at this point, there are too many English speakers with different accents and pronunciations. What if they standardized a phonetic spelling so we all pronounced words like Texans? And do you think the British could stand a phonetic alphabet that sounded like standard American? Or vice versa? It’s one thing for American spelling to remove the “u” in the British “honour;” another thing all together to try to force the Brits to say “On-er” instead of “on-ah.”
Which is not to say we won’t ever see any simplification -- advertising and commerce will see to that. The main spelling shifts I’ve seen in my lifetime have come about through just such routes. Take: donut, lite, nite. Triboro and thru. I credit Dunkin’ Donuts (born in the 1950s, part of mass culture by the 1970s) with the popularization of “donut” from the original “doughnut” – a variant sanctioned by the dictionary for over 25 years. “Nite” and “lite” are also listed in the dictionary as informal, simplified spellings of “night” and “light;” even so, the dictionary only recognizes “nite” as a noun -- as in TV’s “Nick at Nite” -- and not as an adjective -- as in Nite Lite, though there are now dozens of products, company names, catalogues, and TV shows with the name, “Nite Lite.” Meanwhile, the dictionary specifies that “lite” is mainly used in advertising to describe something with less substance or fewer calories – as in lite music and lite beer.
The words, “Triboro” and “thru” are also now commonplace, informal substitutes for “Triborough” (as in the bridge spanning three boroughs of New York City) and “through.” “Boro” is not in the dictionary but it may be soon: as part of a name, “boro” can be found in a bike tour group, a bar and grill, a bookstore, and so on; but “borough” is still the more standard --nor are we close to being thru with “through.” Still, perhaps with the speed that technology changes things, it will not be too many years from now that all “gh” words will be obsolete, and the variant forms the new standard ones. Perhaps in the future linguists will refer to the early 21st century as a period of The Great Silent GH Exodus.
For now, the word to watch is “you” (and “yours” and “your”): as text messaging and email are on their way to making this Y-O-U spelling look archaic to anyone under the age of 25; we can start watching to see when the dictionary accepts this second person pronoun’s variant -- the simple, lowercase “u”.
So keep ur eyes peeled! And good nite.
There's a good case to be made that from the Martian perspective (someone equally unfamiliar with both languages), English is far more irregular and hence harder to learn. Look at our spelling: tough, bough, cough . . . lotion, ocean . . . lazy, daisy . . . Try explaining that to the Spanish.
Thanks for your insights, Dan. And Language Lady agrees with you and your Martians that, on the whole, Spanish is easier to learn as a foreign language than English, due to the regularity of Spanish spelling and pronunciation. The point I wanted to make last week was specifically about English GRAMMAR, and the verb declensions, which were simplified to accommodate all the various cultures living, conquering, or trying to do business in England hundreds of years ago; beyond that, the spelling, pronunciation, numerous verb tenses, and staggering amount of words alone all make me happy that English is my first language.
Dan’s comment (re tough, bough, cough, etc.) reminds me of a little ditty on the idiosyncrasies of English spelling and pronunciation written by an English author, T.S. Wyatt, in 1954 and often found in linguistics textbooks:
RECOVERING SOUNDS FROM ORTHOGRAPHY
BRUSH UP YOUR ENGLISH
I take it you already know
Of tough and bough and cough and dough.
Others may stumble but not you,
On hiccough, though, lough (loch) and through.
Well done! And now you wish, perhaps,
To learn of less familiar traps.
Beware of heard, a dreadful word
That looks like beard and sounds like bird,
And dead--it's said like bed, not bead.
For goodness's sake, don't call it deed!
Watch out for meat and great and threat:
They rhyme with suite and straight and debt.
A moth is not a moth in mother,
Nor both in bother, broth in brother,
And here is not a match for there,
Nor dear and fear for bear and pear,
And then there's dose and rose and lose--
Just look them up--and goose and choose,
And cork and work and card and ward,
And font and front and word and sword,
And do and go and thwart and cart.
Come, come, I've hardly made a start.
A dreadful language? Man alive,
I'd mastered it when I was five.
Yes, English spelling is a notorious nightmare (though, as Wyatt pointed out, we do seem to learn it fairly quickly) – with most of our everyday words the orthographic results of some loose decisions made some 600 years ago. It started with a hodge-podge of West Saxon spellings and pronunciations; then post-Norman Conquest medieval monks changed certain spellings to look more like the new prestige language, Anglo-Norman French: for example, “cwen” became “queen;” then, around the 1400s people started pronouncing words differently: “great,” which was originally said, “gray-aht” became “great” as we know it, while “bread” changed from the Old English “bray-at” to Middle English “breed” and then to our current short-e’d “bread.” And those nasty “gh” spellings were trying to convey the gutteral Germanic “ch” sound, as in “Achtung!” But trying to understand the reasons for all English’s spelling conundrums doesn’t make it easier. We just have to accept that English spelling is what happens when conquest happens and no one is really in charge …
George Bernard Shaw, the famous English playwright, once wrote a plea for spelling reform by demonstrating that the way our language stood now, you could spell “fish” as “ghoti:”
“gh” as in “rough”
“o” as in “women”
“ti” as in “nation.”
Spelling reform has been tried at various times, but it just doesn’t work – at this point, there are too many English speakers with different accents and pronunciations. What if they standardized a phonetic spelling so we all pronounced words like Texans? And do you think the British could stand a phonetic alphabet that sounded like standard American? Or vice versa? It’s one thing for American spelling to remove the “u” in the British “honour;” another thing all together to try to force the Brits to say “On-er” instead of “on-ah.”
Which is not to say we won’t ever see any simplification -- advertising and commerce will see to that. The main spelling shifts I’ve seen in my lifetime have come about through just such routes. Take: donut, lite, nite. Triboro and thru. I credit Dunkin’ Donuts (born in the 1950s, part of mass culture by the 1970s) with the popularization of “donut” from the original “doughnut” – a variant sanctioned by the dictionary for over 25 years. “Nite” and “lite” are also listed in the dictionary as informal, simplified spellings of “night” and “light;” even so, the dictionary only recognizes “nite” as a noun -- as in TV’s “Nick at Nite” -- and not as an adjective -- as in Nite Lite, though there are now dozens of products, company names, catalogues, and TV shows with the name, “Nite Lite.” Meanwhile, the dictionary specifies that “lite” is mainly used in advertising to describe something with less substance or fewer calories – as in lite music and lite beer.
The words, “Triboro” and “thru” are also now commonplace, informal substitutes for “Triborough” (as in the bridge spanning three boroughs of New York City) and “through.” “Boro” is not in the dictionary but it may be soon: as part of a name, “boro” can be found in a bike tour group, a bar and grill, a bookstore, and so on; but “borough” is still the more standard --nor are we close to being thru with “through.” Still, perhaps with the speed that technology changes things, it will not be too many years from now that all “gh” words will be obsolete, and the variant forms the new standard ones. Perhaps in the future linguists will refer to the early 21st century as a period of The Great Silent GH Exodus.
For now, the word to watch is “you” (and “yours” and “your”): as text messaging and email are on their way to making this Y-O-U spelling look archaic to anyone under the age of 25; we can start watching to see when the dictionary accepts this second person pronoun’s variant -- the simple, lowercase “u”.
So keep ur eyes peeled! And good nite.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
“Why Can’t Spanish Be More Like English?”
It was Sunday night, that notorious time when a student realizes that certain homework requirements have not been met. Thus, my disgruntled teenager, Nick, plopped himself down on the couch so I could quiz him on the Spanish past tense verbs. At that moment, Nick was pretty much “disgusted” (his word) with the whole language: “There’s like 25 ways to say one word,” he complained. Spanish verb forms, like the Latin ones they grew from, give each “person” (I, you, he, etc.) a different ending. English, on the other hand, simplified the whole thing long ago.
Compare:
To Speak (past tense)
I spoke
You spoke
He/she/it spoke
We spoke
They spoke
Not bad! As long as a person remembers that the past tense is “spoke” and not, say, “speaked,” getting it right is a sure thing. In Spanish, it’s a different case:
Hablar (To Speak, past tense)
(I) Yo hable
(You – familiar) Tu hablaste
(You – formal) Usted hablo
(He/she – there is no “it”) El/ella hablo
(We) Nosotros hablamos
(You, familiar & plural) Vosotros hablasteis
(You, formal & plural) Ustedes hablaron
(They, masculine & feminine) Ellos/ellas hablaron
Even if your eyes just skim over that last part, it’s clear at a glance that English takes home the Simplicity Prize.
Not that this simplicity came overnight: it took every bit of 300 years, and then some, to change the mind-boggling complexities of Old English grammar into the comparatively streamlined Modern English grammar. Old English was a West Germanic dialect spoken from roughly 400-1100 A.D. and had all the personal pronouns that Spanish still has, masculine and feminine nouns, and – most difficult of all -- five fully inflected grammatical cases; (if you don’t know what that means, you probably don’t want to know, at least right now.)
Suffice it to say, without the benefit of Old English as Second Language lessons, it was a hard language for foreigners to master. And for a good long while, England was a veritable polyglot nation. Norman French (native tongue of William the Conqueror, who sailed from Normandy, France and conquered England in 1066) was the language of the nobility, government and literature, and later science and commerce; meanwhile, Latin was the language of the Church. At the same time, there were parts of England where commoners still spoke the Danish or Norwegian from their Viking forbears. And each of the 25 English counties, from Berkshire to Yorkshire, had its own local Old English dialect as well.
All this multiculturalism took a toll on good ol’ Old English and got what I call the big Linguistic Shakedown. Basically, people crossing boundaries and language borders to raid, trade, marry or otherwise communicate started speaking the most basic English in order to be understood. Sort of like tourists do when they go to another country and can’t speak the local language. In time, the simplifications simply became standard. Just one “you”; no more case endings, no more adjectives that have to modify their nouns, and really easy declensions (I do, you do, etc), and adding “s” to make nouns plural – though some Old English irregular plurals have hung on – like men, women and children.
Of course, understanding why English grammar is comparatively easy compared to Spanish does not do Nick any good. Even if I tell him that Spanish is a dialect of Latin and took out some of the harder parts of that Mother Tongue, he is not going to feel any better. Spanish never got the Linguistic Shakedown that English did because it was adopted by the King of Castile, in Spain, and then established as the principal language of government and trade; later, explorers and conquistadors took Spanish overseas – to Latin America and other places, without any problem. It’s now one of the most widely spoken (close to 400 million native speakers worldwide) and widely studied languages in the world.
So … statistically, the chances that Nick will eventually master those past tense verbs are pretty good. But for now, Nick sees little future with the past.
Compare:
To Speak (past tense)
I spoke
You spoke
He/she/it spoke
We spoke
They spoke
Not bad! As long as a person remembers that the past tense is “spoke” and not, say, “speaked,” getting it right is a sure thing. In Spanish, it’s a different case:
Hablar (To Speak, past tense)
(I) Yo hable
(You – familiar) Tu hablaste
(You – formal) Usted hablo
(He/she – there is no “it”) El/ella hablo
(We) Nosotros hablamos
(You, familiar & plural) Vosotros hablasteis
(You, formal & plural) Ustedes hablaron
(They, masculine & feminine) Ellos/ellas hablaron
Even if your eyes just skim over that last part, it’s clear at a glance that English takes home the Simplicity Prize.
Not that this simplicity came overnight: it took every bit of 300 years, and then some, to change the mind-boggling complexities of Old English grammar into the comparatively streamlined Modern English grammar. Old English was a West Germanic dialect spoken from roughly 400-1100 A.D. and had all the personal pronouns that Spanish still has, masculine and feminine nouns, and – most difficult of all -- five fully inflected grammatical cases; (if you don’t know what that means, you probably don’t want to know, at least right now.)
Suffice it to say, without the benefit of Old English as Second Language lessons, it was a hard language for foreigners to master. And for a good long while, England was a veritable polyglot nation. Norman French (native tongue of William the Conqueror, who sailed from Normandy, France and conquered England in 1066) was the language of the nobility, government and literature, and later science and commerce; meanwhile, Latin was the language of the Church. At the same time, there were parts of England where commoners still spoke the Danish or Norwegian from their Viking forbears. And each of the 25 English counties, from Berkshire to Yorkshire, had its own local Old English dialect as well.
All this multiculturalism took a toll on good ol’ Old English and got what I call the big Linguistic Shakedown. Basically, people crossing boundaries and language borders to raid, trade, marry or otherwise communicate started speaking the most basic English in order to be understood. Sort of like tourists do when they go to another country and can’t speak the local language. In time, the simplifications simply became standard. Just one “you”; no more case endings, no more adjectives that have to modify their nouns, and really easy declensions (I do, you do, etc), and adding “s” to make nouns plural – though some Old English irregular plurals have hung on – like men, women and children.
Of course, understanding why English grammar is comparatively easy compared to Spanish does not do Nick any good. Even if I tell him that Spanish is a dialect of Latin and took out some of the harder parts of that Mother Tongue, he is not going to feel any better. Spanish never got the Linguistic Shakedown that English did because it was adopted by the King of Castile, in Spain, and then established as the principal language of government and trade; later, explorers and conquistadors took Spanish overseas – to Latin America and other places, without any problem. It’s now one of the most widely spoken (close to 400 million native speakers worldwide) and widely studied languages in the world.
So … statistically, the chances that Nick will eventually master those past tense verbs are pretty good. But for now, Nick sees little future with the past.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Auld Lang … Hogmanay?
“Hog-ma-nay?”
“How do you spell that?”
“What is it again?”
“Hogmanay. H-O-G-M-A-N-A-Y.”
This past Friday, December 29, was my sister’s birthday and I had driven up to her home in the wireless wilds of the northwest woods of Massachusetts to celebrate with her, her family, and assorted friends. As a way of extending the evening into what became the early morning, we played “Dictionary,” the game in which one person searches the dictionary for a word that no one else knows; while everyone else writes their own anonymous definitions for the word on separate pieces of paper, the word selector writes the real meaning on his own; then the word selector collects and reads aloud all definitions, sneaking in the official one too. People then vote on the definition most likely to be the word’s real meaning. That evening, the randomly chosen – and amazingly fitting -- word was “Hogmanay.”
None of us supposedly well-traveled, well-educated individuals had ever heard of this weird word, which was spelled with a capital H. It naturally lent itself to such porcine-associated definitions as:
“Asking a pig for permission (see: hog/may);
*A large swine-breeding facility;
*The relationship between man and hog; farmed pigs.
Others thought the hog relationship was perhaps a little too obvious and went other, more random meanings:
*A threatening declaration as a result of an irrational, negative emotion;
*A large purple sweater, loosely knit; orig: Kenya;
*The debris that falls out from between the treads of shoes or boots.
In trying to guess the real definition, no one gave the slightest consideration to the seemingly random: “The eve of New Year’s Day. Scottish. Origin: obscure.” All the other definitions seemed to hint at some truth or other, but not that one.
And yet that was exactly the definition given by my sister’s 40-year-old Miriam- Webster’s dictionary. We laughed off the Scots’ odd name for “New Year’s Eve” and went to bed.
Meanwhile, little did we know that on that same evening over in Scotland the thousand-year-old, originally pagan Hogmanay celebration was already under way: in Edinburgh, the annual torchlight parade had kicked off the three-day event with a horde of men dressed as Vikings and carrying torches through the town, while a crowd of some 15,000 strong from Scotland and all over the world followed behind to see the ceremonial burning of the Viking long-boat on the top of the city’s Calton Hill.
Wikipedia’s suggested etymology of Hogmanay (pronounced Hug-M’nay, according to a friend’s Scottish husband) may have come from Old French(via the Normans who settled in England in the 11th century who trickled up to Scotland, perhaps?), from the phrase, “au gui mener,” meaning “to lead to the mistletoe.” (Well, it’s possible, considering the pagan reverence for the evergreen plant that they believed held health and fertility powers.) Wikipedia also said that
Hogmanay could be from Scottish Gaelic for “Og Mhadaninn,” meaning, “new morning.”
One of the main customs of Hogmanay is for children to go from house to house asking for presents; it is also traditional for adult Scots to go visiting from house to house (without asking for presents). Some Scottish-American friends of ours keep up the Hogmanay “foot first,” luck-bringing tradition that requires a (preferably) dark-haired (blond-haired would imply Viking – enemy – descent) and (preferably) tall and handsome man (yes, only men -- go ahead and boo, ladies) to be the first person over the threshold each New Year’s Day, and for the man (or teenager or little boy) to bring with him something to eat, something to drink, and some fuel -- traditionally, a lump of coal.
The http://www.hogmanay.net/ site lists all the goings-on in Edinburgh over the New Year holiday: concerts, a “Night Afore” party, revels, fireworks, runs, a bike triathlon, and even a “dogmanay” – a dog sled race with Alaskan huskies. And there are the fires -- big-big bonfires – originally to ward off those evil spirits that started haunting the pagans back around Halloween. So, together with bonfires and fireworks, imagine helmeted Vikings and long torchlights; bagpipers, drummers, fireworks, effigies … THAT is Hogmanay! And up until about twenty years ago in Scotland this event outranked Christmas, which was still a regular working day even in the 1970s. Nowadays, Christmas and Hogmanay are both national holidays, though Hogmanay no doubt draws in more tourists.
My question is, why didn’t Hogmanay make it to the United States? Why, given the amount of Americans with Scottish ancestry, is this word and festival so little known? If the Scottish could bring us plaid skirts and bagpipe parades, why not Homanay? To me, the only off-putting part of it is the sound of the word – so awkward and giving no clue to its real meaning; but could that have been enough to keep the Scots from transplanting this tradition when they started coming to America some two hundred years ago? (Their arrival began before Christmas was firmly established here.) Perhaps if the holiday had had a better name or marketing campaign, we’d be saying, “Happy Hogmanay” today.
Still, if the United States has lost out on Hogmanay – and perhaps small towns and cities are better off without the Viking hordes and torches setting fire to longboats on the edges of town – at least we have one other Scottish New Year’s tradition to salute: “Auld Lang Syne.”
This 18th century Scottish song is heard, played and sung (sometimes drunkenly) at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve all across the U.S. – on TV, at fancy balls, at family firesides. Credit for this American New Year’s anthem -- as unifying a force as noisemakers and confetti – must first go to Scotland’s Robert Burns (1759-1796), who breathed new life into the otherwise dead and buried words and tune, written anonymously long before; more recent credit must go as well as to the Canadian bandleader, Guy Lombardo (1902-1977), whose rendition of this song marked midnight on New Years Eve, first on American radio and later on TV, from roughly 1930-1970. By now, it’s the song that everyone sort of mumbles along to until getting to the words, “auld lang syne.”
Perhaps the song has survived because the tune is slow, you can drape your arm around friend or stranger for one brief, bonding moment while you sing; and no matter how much champagne you’ve had, few will notice if you skip or hum the words, because so few people know them all anyway.
Here, for the record, are the words – so you can resolve (and no doubt break the resolution) to learn them for next year’s celebration … Although Americans are happy enough to get through the first verse and chorus, this being a language column, I’ve given you the song in its old Scots entirety – with my own rough translations – thanks to Hogmanay.net
Auld Lang Syne (resurrected from an old Scottish poem and traditional melody) by Robert (aka Rabbie) Burns, 1759-1796
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days of auld lang syne?
(Should old friends be forgotten and never thought of? Should old friends be forgotten and days (literally: “of old long since.”)
CHORUS: For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup of kindness yet, For auld lang syne!
(For old times gone, my ear; for old time’s gone, we’ll drink a cup of ale, for (approx) old times gone.)
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine, And we'll tak a cup o kindness yet, For auld lang syne!
(And surely you’ll pay for your tankard of ale, and surely I’ll pay for mine; and we’ll take a cup of kindness/ale, for old times gone.)
We twa hae run about the braes, And pou'd the gowans fine, But we've wander'd monie a weary fit, Sin auld lang syne.
(We two have run about the hills, and pulled the daisies fine; but we’ve wandered many a weary foot, since the days so long ago.)
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn Frae morning sun till dine, But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin auld lang syne.
(We two have paddled in the stream from noon til dinner, but seas between us wide have roared since days of long ago.)
And there's a hand my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o thine, And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, For auld lang syne
(And there’s a hand my trusty friend, and you give your hand to me;
And we’ll take a right good drink … for old times gone.)
And from the Westchester highlands of Larchmont, the Language Lady wishes you all “a right-good willie-waught” (“waught” a great expression!) and a cup o’ kindness in any form, for 2007!
“How do you spell that?”
“What is it again?”
“Hogmanay. H-O-G-M-A-N-A-Y.”
This past Friday, December 29, was my sister’s birthday and I had driven up to her home in the wireless wilds of the northwest woods of Massachusetts to celebrate with her, her family, and assorted friends. As a way of extending the evening into what became the early morning, we played “Dictionary,” the game in which one person searches the dictionary for a word that no one else knows; while everyone else writes their own anonymous definitions for the word on separate pieces of paper, the word selector writes the real meaning on his own; then the word selector collects and reads aloud all definitions, sneaking in the official one too. People then vote on the definition most likely to be the word’s real meaning. That evening, the randomly chosen – and amazingly fitting -- word was “Hogmanay.”
None of us supposedly well-traveled, well-educated individuals had ever heard of this weird word, which was spelled with a capital H. It naturally lent itself to such porcine-associated definitions as:
“Asking a pig for permission (see: hog/may);
*A large swine-breeding facility;
*The relationship between man and hog; farmed pigs.
Others thought the hog relationship was perhaps a little too obvious and went other, more random meanings:
*A threatening declaration as a result of an irrational, negative emotion;
*A large purple sweater, loosely knit; orig: Kenya;
*The debris that falls out from between the treads of shoes or boots.
In trying to guess the real definition, no one gave the slightest consideration to the seemingly random: “The eve of New Year’s Day. Scottish. Origin: obscure.” All the other definitions seemed to hint at some truth or other, but not that one.
And yet that was exactly the definition given by my sister’s 40-year-old Miriam- Webster’s dictionary. We laughed off the Scots’ odd name for “New Year’s Eve” and went to bed.
Meanwhile, little did we know that on that same evening over in Scotland the thousand-year-old, originally pagan Hogmanay celebration was already under way: in Edinburgh, the annual torchlight parade had kicked off the three-day event with a horde of men dressed as Vikings and carrying torches through the town, while a crowd of some 15,000 strong from Scotland and all over the world followed behind to see the ceremonial burning of the Viking long-boat on the top of the city’s Calton Hill.
Wikipedia’s suggested etymology of Hogmanay (pronounced Hug-M’nay, according to a friend’s Scottish husband) may have come from Old French(via the Normans who settled in England in the 11th century who trickled up to Scotland, perhaps?), from the phrase, “au gui mener,” meaning “to lead to the mistletoe.” (Well, it’s possible, considering the pagan reverence for the evergreen plant that they believed held health and fertility powers.) Wikipedia also said that
Hogmanay could be from Scottish Gaelic for “Og Mhadaninn,” meaning, “new morning.”
One of the main customs of Hogmanay is for children to go from house to house asking for presents; it is also traditional for adult Scots to go visiting from house to house (without asking for presents). Some Scottish-American friends of ours keep up the Hogmanay “foot first,” luck-bringing tradition that requires a (preferably) dark-haired (blond-haired would imply Viking – enemy – descent) and (preferably) tall and handsome man (yes, only men -- go ahead and boo, ladies) to be the first person over the threshold each New Year’s Day, and for the man (or teenager or little boy) to bring with him something to eat, something to drink, and some fuel -- traditionally, a lump of coal.
The http://www.hogmanay.net/ site lists all the goings-on in Edinburgh over the New Year holiday: concerts, a “Night Afore” party, revels, fireworks, runs, a bike triathlon, and even a “dogmanay” – a dog sled race with Alaskan huskies. And there are the fires -- big-big bonfires – originally to ward off those evil spirits that started haunting the pagans back around Halloween. So, together with bonfires and fireworks, imagine helmeted Vikings and long torchlights; bagpipers, drummers, fireworks, effigies … THAT is Hogmanay! And up until about twenty years ago in Scotland this event outranked Christmas, which was still a regular working day even in the 1970s. Nowadays, Christmas and Hogmanay are both national holidays, though Hogmanay no doubt draws in more tourists.
My question is, why didn’t Hogmanay make it to the United States? Why, given the amount of Americans with Scottish ancestry, is this word and festival so little known? If the Scottish could bring us plaid skirts and bagpipe parades, why not Homanay? To me, the only off-putting part of it is the sound of the word – so awkward and giving no clue to its real meaning; but could that have been enough to keep the Scots from transplanting this tradition when they started coming to America some two hundred years ago? (Their arrival began before Christmas was firmly established here.) Perhaps if the holiday had had a better name or marketing campaign, we’d be saying, “Happy Hogmanay” today.
Still, if the United States has lost out on Hogmanay – and perhaps small towns and cities are better off without the Viking hordes and torches setting fire to longboats on the edges of town – at least we have one other Scottish New Year’s tradition to salute: “Auld Lang Syne.”
This 18th century Scottish song is heard, played and sung (sometimes drunkenly) at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve all across the U.S. – on TV, at fancy balls, at family firesides. Credit for this American New Year’s anthem -- as unifying a force as noisemakers and confetti – must first go to Scotland’s Robert Burns (1759-1796), who breathed new life into the otherwise dead and buried words and tune, written anonymously long before; more recent credit must go as well as to the Canadian bandleader, Guy Lombardo (1902-1977), whose rendition of this song marked midnight on New Years Eve, first on American radio and later on TV, from roughly 1930-1970. By now, it’s the song that everyone sort of mumbles along to until getting to the words, “auld lang syne.”
Perhaps the song has survived because the tune is slow, you can drape your arm around friend or stranger for one brief, bonding moment while you sing; and no matter how much champagne you’ve had, few will notice if you skip or hum the words, because so few people know them all anyway.
Here, for the record, are the words – so you can resolve (and no doubt break the resolution) to learn them for next year’s celebration … Although Americans are happy enough to get through the first verse and chorus, this being a language column, I’ve given you the song in its old Scots entirety – with my own rough translations – thanks to Hogmanay.net
Auld Lang Syne (resurrected from an old Scottish poem and traditional melody) by Robert (aka Rabbie) Burns, 1759-1796
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days of auld lang syne?
(Should old friends be forgotten and never thought of? Should old friends be forgotten and days (literally: “of old long since.”)
CHORUS: For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup of kindness yet, For auld lang syne!
(For old times gone, my ear; for old time’s gone, we’ll drink a cup of ale, for (approx) old times gone.)
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine, And we'll tak a cup o kindness yet, For auld lang syne!
(And surely you’ll pay for your tankard of ale, and surely I’ll pay for mine; and we’ll take a cup of kindness/ale, for old times gone.)
We twa hae run about the braes, And pou'd the gowans fine, But we've wander'd monie a weary fit, Sin auld lang syne.
(We two have run about the hills, and pulled the daisies fine; but we’ve wandered many a weary foot, since the days so long ago.)
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn Frae morning sun till dine, But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin auld lang syne.
(We two have paddled in the stream from noon til dinner, but seas between us wide have roared since days of long ago.)
And there's a hand my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o thine, And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, For auld lang syne
(And there’s a hand my trusty friend, and you give your hand to me;
And we’ll take a right good drink … for old times gone.)
And from the Westchester highlands of Larchmont, the Language Lady wishes you all “a right-good willie-waught” (“waught” a great expression!) and a cup o’ kindness in any form, for 2007!
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Before You Can Say, “Bah Humbug!”
Feeling shopped-out?
I’m surprised to find that “shopped-out” is not included in the dictionary, even though we all know exactly what it means: the sensation (or actual state) of having completely and thoroughly (the redundancy is necessary for emphasis) exhausted oneself and one’s wallet in shopping for multiple gifts for multiple people for a certain occasion.
How do you know when you’re “shopped-out?” I compare it to the moment at a feast or big dinner when you realize you absolutely cannot take another bite. You know you’re shopped-out when the thought of buying one more thing – another mug, picture frame or tube of hand lotion -- becomes a mere physical impossibility; like an injured racehorse at the starting gate, you simply cannot enter another store or stand in another line (or “on” another line, if you’re from New York) or open your wallet for anyone but, ahem, yourself. (By that time, a grande eggnog soy latte might hit the spot.)
The key is to stop shopping before the words, “Bah humbug!” start tripping from your lips. Now, anyone who grew up with “Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol” knows full well that “Bah humbug” comes from Charles Dickens’s immortal Ebenezer Scrooge, the miser transformed by the Christmas spirits Past, Present and Future in his book, A Christmas Carol. That book, so memorably transformed to a TV cartoon special in the 1960s, is one of the three literary mainstays of the Christmas season, the other two being the Nativity story itself, and then “The Night Before Christmas,” the 1822 poem that gave us flying reindeer, a chimney-hopping St. Nicholas, and stockings for Santa to fill.
But Scrooge himself has made such an impression on English and American culture that his name is now used as a proper or common noun, and is defined in the dictionary as a person who is miserly and mean, just as Dickens created him.
Dickens, however, was a little more descriptive than my American Heritage, and if you haven’t read A Christmas Carol lately, it’s worth reading his description:
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his think lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice.
Such an amazing collection of words and images! Granted, I think Dickens got paid by the word, but he chose words that have transcended time and entered our culture. Will our new words, like website or panini or barista do the same?
And how to describe today’s corporate, money-grubbing bigwigs. Invisible, for the most part – unless they’ve gotten caught for some felony or other. But what bothers me most about these invisible heads of food and service corporations is the language they force into the mouths of their service people working the counters on the frontlines:
No longer is it simply enough for a customer to make a purchase or order something to eat or drink. The clerks and baristas are now supposed to ask, oh so gently but firmly, if you wouldn’t like to buy something ELSE.
Take the cafes at Barnes & Noble, for instance; this is not one Barnes & Noble Café, but all over. If you ask for a small tea, which comes to about $2 and is at least 10 times the cost of the bag, water and cup it’s served in, it still gives a patron the right to sit and enjoy the moment at a table while reading any amount of unpaid- for items. Considering all that, a $2 tea is quite a bargain. What I can’t stand, however (and at the risk of sounding like Andy Rooney) are the questions that follow the simple order:
Would you like to try our new, larger size cup for just 20 cents extra?
Would you like a biscotti with that?
Would you like a panini with that?
Are you a Barnes & Noble Club member (for a cost of $25)?
This offensive type of language is something so pervasive in our culture that I have coined it, “Hucksterish,” a huckster being a particularly aggressive sales person. Modern Hucketerish seems to have started with the “Some fries with that?” automatic question at McDonald’s – a question that often even followed orders including fries. Similar questions abound at the Gap, Pier One, and Abercrombie & Fitch and practically every other type of store, save the grocery store. (Also, Starbucks seems to be above this language, though their non-verbal tip jars apparently bother some.)
While shopping at Pier One the other day, I was in line next to a woman purchasing a sofa for the sale price of $1,047 including tax and delivery fee. Not bad for a couch but still no small sum. And yet what did the young, personable sales woman have to say: “Would you like some throw pillows to go with that?”
A friend of mine’s daughter works at the preppy porn palace of Abercrombie & Fitch and is required to ask all holiday shoppers as they walk in, “Have you seen our sexy new fleece?”
It’s all simply ” fries with that?”
Perhaps that is the American way, along with Santa and Superman, but it’s as offensive and brazen as anything P. Diddy ever rapped. If I asked for tea but neglected to ask for a $7 panini because I “forgot,” then let me go hungry. The poor Hucksterish-speaking barista will not benefit either way – the profits simply go into the mill, and the server keeps earning minimum wage. Bah humbug!
So who are these scrooges who force this verbiage upon us unarmed consumers? We read articles about what “sophisticated” and “savvy” shoppers we have become, but that’s a small order of fries compared to the people selling them to us. And yet these Masters in Command are nowhere to be seen to the average customer. Sure, I can visit the website, but where on Barnes & Noble’s, can I complain about The Four Questions? Who invented the line, “sexy new fleece” and forced it into the mouth of a young and hard-working sales clerk? And why didn’t the Pier One sales woman simply throw in some throw pillows as a courtesy? Now, that’s the spirit of Christmas!
It’s never too late to change, as Scrooge himself discovered:
(Scrooge) became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them … His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.
So perhaps it’s a good thing to feel shopped-out: All you can do then is to stop, relax, enjoy! Make some pumpkin bread for yourself and family, sit down for a moment and pick up a book, not a catalogue; or finish wrapping presents with a little “White Christmas.” Do anything that’s corny, sentimental and full of love and laughter – and kiss “bah humbug” goodbye.
I’m surprised to find that “shopped-out” is not included in the dictionary, even though we all know exactly what it means: the sensation (or actual state) of having completely and thoroughly (the redundancy is necessary for emphasis) exhausted oneself and one’s wallet in shopping for multiple gifts for multiple people for a certain occasion.
How do you know when you’re “shopped-out?” I compare it to the moment at a feast or big dinner when you realize you absolutely cannot take another bite. You know you’re shopped-out when the thought of buying one more thing – another mug, picture frame or tube of hand lotion -- becomes a mere physical impossibility; like an injured racehorse at the starting gate, you simply cannot enter another store or stand in another line (or “on” another line, if you’re from New York) or open your wallet for anyone but, ahem, yourself. (By that time, a grande eggnog soy latte might hit the spot.)
The key is to stop shopping before the words, “Bah humbug!” start tripping from your lips. Now, anyone who grew up with “Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol” knows full well that “Bah humbug” comes from Charles Dickens’s immortal Ebenezer Scrooge, the miser transformed by the Christmas spirits Past, Present and Future in his book, A Christmas Carol. That book, so memorably transformed to a TV cartoon special in the 1960s, is one of the three literary mainstays of the Christmas season, the other two being the Nativity story itself, and then “The Night Before Christmas,” the 1822 poem that gave us flying reindeer, a chimney-hopping St. Nicholas, and stockings for Santa to fill.
But Scrooge himself has made such an impression on English and American culture that his name is now used as a proper or common noun, and is defined in the dictionary as a person who is miserly and mean, just as Dickens created him.
Dickens, however, was a little more descriptive than my American Heritage, and if you haven’t read A Christmas Carol lately, it’s worth reading his description:
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his think lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice.
Such an amazing collection of words and images! Granted, I think Dickens got paid by the word, but he chose words that have transcended time and entered our culture. Will our new words, like website or panini or barista do the same?
And how to describe today’s corporate, money-grubbing bigwigs. Invisible, for the most part – unless they’ve gotten caught for some felony or other. But what bothers me most about these invisible heads of food and service corporations is the language they force into the mouths of their service people working the counters on the frontlines:
No longer is it simply enough for a customer to make a purchase or order something to eat or drink. The clerks and baristas are now supposed to ask, oh so gently but firmly, if you wouldn’t like to buy something ELSE.
Take the cafes at Barnes & Noble, for instance; this is not one Barnes & Noble Café, but all over. If you ask for a small tea, which comes to about $2 and is at least 10 times the cost of the bag, water and cup it’s served in, it still gives a patron the right to sit and enjoy the moment at a table while reading any amount of unpaid- for items. Considering all that, a $2 tea is quite a bargain. What I can’t stand, however (and at the risk of sounding like Andy Rooney) are the questions that follow the simple order:
Would you like to try our new, larger size cup for just 20 cents extra?
Would you like a biscotti with that?
Would you like a panini with that?
Are you a Barnes & Noble Club member (for a cost of $25)?
This offensive type of language is something so pervasive in our culture that I have coined it, “Hucksterish,” a huckster being a particularly aggressive sales person. Modern Hucketerish seems to have started with the “Some fries with that?” automatic question at McDonald’s – a question that often even followed orders including fries. Similar questions abound at the Gap, Pier One, and Abercrombie & Fitch and practically every other type of store, save the grocery store. (Also, Starbucks seems to be above this language, though their non-verbal tip jars apparently bother some.)
While shopping at Pier One the other day, I was in line next to a woman purchasing a sofa for the sale price of $1,047 including tax and delivery fee. Not bad for a couch but still no small sum. And yet what did the young, personable sales woman have to say: “Would you like some throw pillows to go with that?”
A friend of mine’s daughter works at the preppy porn palace of Abercrombie & Fitch and is required to ask all holiday shoppers as they walk in, “Have you seen our sexy new fleece?”
It’s all simply ” fries with that?”
Perhaps that is the American way, along with Santa and Superman, but it’s as offensive and brazen as anything P. Diddy ever rapped. If I asked for tea but neglected to ask for a $7 panini because I “forgot,” then let me go hungry. The poor Hucksterish-speaking barista will not benefit either way – the profits simply go into the mill, and the server keeps earning minimum wage. Bah humbug!
So who are these scrooges who force this verbiage upon us unarmed consumers? We read articles about what “sophisticated” and “savvy” shoppers we have become, but that’s a small order of fries compared to the people selling them to us. And yet these Masters in Command are nowhere to be seen to the average customer. Sure, I can visit the website, but where on Barnes & Noble’s, can I complain about The Four Questions? Who invented the line, “sexy new fleece” and forced it into the mouth of a young and hard-working sales clerk? And why didn’t the Pier One sales woman simply throw in some throw pillows as a courtesy? Now, that’s the spirit of Christmas!
It’s never too late to change, as Scrooge himself discovered:
(Scrooge) became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them … His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.
So perhaps it’s a good thing to feel shopped-out: All you can do then is to stop, relax, enjoy! Make some pumpkin bread for yourself and family, sit down for a moment and pick up a book, not a catalogue; or finish wrapping presents with a little “White Christmas.” Do anything that’s corny, sentimental and full of love and laughter – and kiss “bah humbug” goodbye.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Gifts You Never Knew You Wanted
Our house is now certainly decked* out for Christmas, from the kitschy* to the elegant* (I can hear some of you readers* who know us adding, “But mostly kitsch.”) No matter what, the effect is warm and cheery* and I hope the season so far is a happy one for you all.
Now, this week’s “gift” (i.e. posting) includes bringing alive some of the fairly ordinary words that I have asterixed above -- (yes, “asterix” – Latin for “star” -- is also a verb, according to the computer’s dictionary). Those starred words span more than 1,000 years of history. And if you read to the end to the end of the blog, you’ll find another unique holiday gift – this one a rare translation of the chorus to a well-known American seasonal song into a Western European dialect so regional that it has no official written language.
Whether you’re as excited as children checking their stockings, or feeling like Aunt Margaret just delivered her annual box of dried prunes and fruitcake, here are this week’s offerings:
* Deck – from the 15th century Middle English word, “to cover.” Today, the German word for “blanket” is “Decke.” I always thought that “deck” was some anglicized variation of “decorate,” which comes from the Latin word for “ornament.” Even though both words go back to the Indo-European root, “dek” you can see that they both went their separate ways.
* Kitschy – From the 20th century Germanic word, “kitschen” meaning “to throw together sloppily;” and no -- “kitsch” and “kitchen” are not linguistically related: “Kitchen” is a variant of the Latin “coquere,” meaning, “to cook” -- though in my case the dual connection might apply. Anyway, “kitschy” itself grew out of the word “kitsch,” which sprang into use in Germany in the 1860’s –70s, when the newly moneyed middle class started trying to show off their status by buying art work – with the market supplying all kinds of cheap imitation art, meant to convey affluence and good taste, but in fact, did the opposite. By the 1930’s, however, “kitsch” was so popular that art theorist Theodor Odomo called kitsch a “threat to culture.” Today, for many, kitsch just implies retro, or ironic humor.
* Elegant – This comes from the 15th century Middle English, by way of Middle French, by way of the Latin, “elegere” for “elect,” or “select,” with the “ant” part just being an adjective ending. Since the words “deck” and “elegant” originated at about the same time, it seems likely that they needed elegant to describe the decking, which was apparently not “kitschy,” which, as stated above, is a relatively new word. (Though I imagine bad taste existed before the 20th century, it seems to have taken an extra 500 years to come up with a precise word for it. Now that’s progress!)
* Readers – Wo! It’s now time for a trip in the “Way-Back Machine” (remember Mr. Peabody and Sherman?) Our word “read” dates back to before 900, when the middle vowels were reversed in “raeden,” meaning “to counsel, advise or explain.” In German today “reden” still means “to advise,” but their word for “to read” is “lesen,” (lay-zen); in fact, all the other Western European languages – except English -- eventually turned to Latin derivatives for their words for “read” and “write:” (Swedish: lasa, skriva ; French: lire, ecrire; Spanish: leer, escribir)
Our word “write” goes back to Old English for “to tear or scratch,” which does for the current definition what “kitschen” does for “kitchen.”
* Cheery – How cute: “cheery” comes to us from 12th century Middle English by way of Old French, “chiere,” which is from the street Latin word “cara” meaning, “face.” There are some synonyms for “cheer” -- joy, mirth, merriment, gladness, and glee – words we all know but are more special occasion words; whereas cheer, as well as cheery and cheer up, are all-year-round sorts of nouns, verbs and adjectives, which is nice because just saying those words makes me smile.
And speaking of smiling, I now give you the words to “Jingle Bells” in Swiss German -- a dialect of German that Germans themselves cannot understand. Swiss German has simplified and scaled down standard German – to the point where there’s not even a past tense! (They use the present tense, and context, to distinguish.) The language is spoken locally, among all social strata, but not spoken in school, where it is all German. Still, Swiss German is the “linguistic home” to about 4 million people. So should you ever venture to the environs of Zurich, you will perhaps be praised to Matterhorn heights with this rendition – well known even in English over there -- of this 1857 classic, here written down and translated by 11-year-old Dominik from near the Alpine city of St. Gallen:
JINGLE BELLS (in Swiss German)
Jingle bells, jingle bells, alli stigat i! (Pron: all-ee stee-goat ee)
(Everyone gets in!)
Hut gots uf a schlittafahrt und alli si da bi! (Pron: hoot goats ooff oh shlittah-fart,
oond all-ee see da-bee)
(Here we go on a sleigh ride and everyone is there)
Jingle bells, jingle bells, gal du nimsch oos mit; (Pron: guel doo nimsh oos mit)
(Be sure to take us with you)
So na wildi schlittafahrt isch schonsti wo es git! (Pron: so no vil-dee shlittah-fart ish shoon-stee vo es git!)
(Such a wild sleigh ride is the greatest thing there is!)
Catchy – without being kitschy – isn’t it?! I hope this leaves you feeling cheery, dear readers, while you continue to deck your elegant halls and otherwise enjoy the season.
Now, this week’s “gift” (i.e. posting) includes bringing alive some of the fairly ordinary words that I have asterixed above -- (yes, “asterix” – Latin for “star” -- is also a verb, according to the computer’s dictionary). Those starred words span more than 1,000 years of history. And if you read to the end to the end of the blog, you’ll find another unique holiday gift – this one a rare translation of the chorus to a well-known American seasonal song into a Western European dialect so regional that it has no official written language.
Whether you’re as excited as children checking their stockings, or feeling like Aunt Margaret just delivered her annual box of dried prunes and fruitcake, here are this week’s offerings:
* Deck – from the 15th century Middle English word, “to cover.” Today, the German word for “blanket” is “Decke.” I always thought that “deck” was some anglicized variation of “decorate,” which comes from the Latin word for “ornament.” Even though both words go back to the Indo-European root, “dek” you can see that they both went their separate ways.
* Kitschy – From the 20th century Germanic word, “kitschen” meaning “to throw together sloppily;” and no -- “kitsch” and “kitchen” are not linguistically related: “Kitchen” is a variant of the Latin “coquere,” meaning, “to cook” -- though in my case the dual connection might apply. Anyway, “kitschy” itself grew out of the word “kitsch,” which sprang into use in Germany in the 1860’s –70s, when the newly moneyed middle class started trying to show off their status by buying art work – with the market supplying all kinds of cheap imitation art, meant to convey affluence and good taste, but in fact, did the opposite. By the 1930’s, however, “kitsch” was so popular that art theorist Theodor Odomo called kitsch a “threat to culture.” Today, for many, kitsch just implies retro, or ironic humor.
* Elegant – This comes from the 15th century Middle English, by way of Middle French, by way of the Latin, “elegere” for “elect,” or “select,” with the “ant” part just being an adjective ending. Since the words “deck” and “elegant” originated at about the same time, it seems likely that they needed elegant to describe the decking, which was apparently not “kitschy,” which, as stated above, is a relatively new word. (Though I imagine bad taste existed before the 20th century, it seems to have taken an extra 500 years to come up with a precise word for it. Now that’s progress!)
* Readers – Wo! It’s now time for a trip in the “Way-Back Machine” (remember Mr. Peabody and Sherman?) Our word “read” dates back to before 900, when the middle vowels were reversed in “raeden,” meaning “to counsel, advise or explain.” In German today “reden” still means “to advise,” but their word for “to read” is “lesen,” (lay-zen); in fact, all the other Western European languages – except English -- eventually turned to Latin derivatives for their words for “read” and “write:” (Swedish: lasa, skriva ; French: lire, ecrire; Spanish: leer, escribir)
Our word “write” goes back to Old English for “to tear or scratch,” which does for the current definition what “kitschen” does for “kitchen.”
* Cheery – How cute: “cheery” comes to us from 12th century Middle English by way of Old French, “chiere,” which is from the street Latin word “cara” meaning, “face.” There are some synonyms for “cheer” -- joy, mirth, merriment, gladness, and glee – words we all know but are more special occasion words; whereas cheer, as well as cheery and cheer up, are all-year-round sorts of nouns, verbs and adjectives, which is nice because just saying those words makes me smile.
And speaking of smiling, I now give you the words to “Jingle Bells” in Swiss German -- a dialect of German that Germans themselves cannot understand. Swiss German has simplified and scaled down standard German – to the point where there’s not even a past tense! (They use the present tense, and context, to distinguish.) The language is spoken locally, among all social strata, but not spoken in school, where it is all German. Still, Swiss German is the “linguistic home” to about 4 million people. So should you ever venture to the environs of Zurich, you will perhaps be praised to Matterhorn heights with this rendition – well known even in English over there -- of this 1857 classic, here written down and translated by 11-year-old Dominik from near the Alpine city of St. Gallen:
JINGLE BELLS (in Swiss German)
Jingle bells, jingle bells, alli stigat i! (Pron: all-ee stee-goat ee)
(Everyone gets in!)
Hut gots uf a schlittafahrt und alli si da bi! (Pron: hoot goats ooff oh shlittah-fart,
oond all-ee see da-bee)
(Here we go on a sleigh ride and everyone is there)
Jingle bells, jingle bells, gal du nimsch oos mit; (Pron: guel doo nimsh oos mit)
(Be sure to take us with you)
So na wildi schlittafahrt isch schonsti wo es git! (Pron: so no vil-dee shlittah-fart ish shoon-stee vo es git!)
(Such a wild sleigh ride is the greatest thing there is!)
Catchy – without being kitschy – isn’t it?! I hope this leaves you feeling cheery, dear readers, while you continue to deck your elegant halls and otherwise enjoy the season.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
A Merry Little Yuletide, Now (Presently)
Despite a globally warmish December air in New York, it’s still very much the Christmas season, with Christmas songs playing as a backdrop to our days and gift-shopping quests. Those songs have a way of connecting one year to the next and most of them are as familiar as old friends. And yet within the familiar words and tunes, language change is all over the place.
Take the song lodged in my head right now: it’s the Judy Garland/Frank Sinatra/James Taylor/Alvin and the Chipmunks (they all sang it) favorite, “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas;” there is a line in that song that says “Make the yuletide gay”: now, most of us can guess from context that “Yule” (heard in other songs) means Christmas, and then extrapolate that “yuletide” probably means Christmas time -- but where do those words come from? And why do we sing them?
In fact, Yule is the old Germanic name for the winter solstice celebration, a big bonfire-oriented festival that traditionally fell on the December solstice. In those pagan days, and in those northern European climes, the cold, snowy land looked fairly bleak and days were short and dark. By December 21, the shortest day of the year, the theme of those solstice parties was “light” – as in Bring It Back. Building bonfires and dancing around them was no doubt a big morale booster for those worried that the sun was dying; other bright or light-themed decorations and festivities were a major feature – then as now.
Even the word for our color, “yellow,” or Old English “geolu” (give the “g” a “y” sound) is rooted in the ancient word for “bright.” And the Anglo-Saxons’ word for the month of December was “geola.”
Although “Yule” predated Christianity in northern Europe, once the people were converted, Yule came to be another word for Christmas. Even today, Scandinavians wish each other “God Jul” (Good Yule) “Tide” is the Germanic word for “time,” with “yuletide” traditionally stretching from December 24-January 6.
As for making the yuletide “gay,” well, it’s clear in 2006 that that word has also undergone some meaningful change since the song was written in 1944, when the word still meant "happy." Even then, though, in some circles, “gay,” had an extended meaning of “carefree – including "living outside the norm.” For a while, straight men who were bachelors could be considered “gay,” if their lives were unconventional enough, as in the Fred Astaire movie, "The Gay Divorcee." But by the late 1960s the word had come to mean being homosexual or lesbian. Still, James Taylor, in his 2001 version of "Have Yourself", sings the word the way it was originally intended and it sounds just right. Sometimes, context is everything.
Speaking of word change, this week’s posting includes a question from a Language Lady reader, who asks:
Q. Can you teach me the difference between "presently" and "currently”? I avoid these words because I'm confused.
-- Bev, from Virginia
A. No wonder you’re confused, Bev: “Presently” means both “now” and “later.” You’ve caught a word that seems to be in transition from one meaning to another. It usually takes decades or longer for a word to fully realize the change, so we are not used to noticing the changes going on in our own lifetime. However unwittingly, you have found one! In the Encarta World English Dictionary, the first meaning of “presently” is “in a short while;” the second meaning is “now,” with synonyms listed as “at the moment,” “at present,” and – last but not least – “currently.”
It is the second meaning of “presently” – as “now,” or “currently” – that is the Definition Upstart. In my 1978 American Heritage Dictionary, the Usage Panel said that although the word was increasingly used that way, it was acceptable to only 47% of the Usage Panel. Twenty years later, my Oxford Essential English Dictionary says that both meanings – “soon” as well as “now” are widely used.
But if you ask me, “presently” meaning “now” – as in, “We are presently undergoing technical difficulties,” is the more popular understanding of the word; however, “presently” is not the kind of word we say when speaking. For example, we would never think to say, in answer to a question, “Oh, he’s presently out of the office.” Even if that were a written response, it would be on the formal and stilted side. But using “presently” to mean “shortly” sounds even more stilted -- to my ears like nature shows with some English (British) narrator speaking in low tones: “And presently we’ll see the hungry python devour the curious rat …”
Nonetheless, saying, “We are presently not accepting any more applications” is absolutely correct and clear, and fine for form-letter types of writing. However, I prefer the word, “currently” – as much for the acoustic strength of the “hard-C” as for the lack of confusion; as in, “We are not currently accepting …” Plug in “now” and you get: “We are not now accepting …” which is all right but sounds a bit hard – “now” is just too short, and not fluid enough for my taste in that context; still, it is certainly clear and concise. The only thing you should not do is substitute any of the “now” synonyms for “at the present time,” or “at this point in time,” those being way too wordy and bland.
In today’s New York Times Magazine William Safire discusses the transition of the words “rear” and “raise”: It used to be, he said, that people “reared” their children and “raised” their crops, and for years he used to politely correct friends who mentioned “raising kids.” But in today’s article, Safire conceded that the word for bringing up one’s children was now – as baby boomer and younger parents can attest from personal experience and usage -- definitely “raise.”
So you could say: In 1966, “raising children” would only PRESENTLY be the standard way to express “bringing up children;” whereas in 2006 “raising children” is PRESENTLY, or CURRENTLY, the only way to say it.
Well, presently, the presents will be presented; the Yule will be celebrated and we’ll once more recite “The Night Before Christmas” and still not really know what, exactly “visions of sugar plums” look like – but that’s okay. You can still have yourself a merry little yuletide, presently.
Take the song lodged in my head right now: it’s the Judy Garland/Frank Sinatra/James Taylor/Alvin and the Chipmunks (they all sang it) favorite, “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas;” there is a line in that song that says “Make the yuletide gay”: now, most of us can guess from context that “Yule” (heard in other songs) means Christmas, and then extrapolate that “yuletide” probably means Christmas time -- but where do those words come from? And why do we sing them?
In fact, Yule is the old Germanic name for the winter solstice celebration, a big bonfire-oriented festival that traditionally fell on the December solstice. In those pagan days, and in those northern European climes, the cold, snowy land looked fairly bleak and days were short and dark. By December 21, the shortest day of the year, the theme of those solstice parties was “light” – as in Bring It Back. Building bonfires and dancing around them was no doubt a big morale booster for those worried that the sun was dying; other bright or light-themed decorations and festivities were a major feature – then as now.
Even the word for our color, “yellow,” or Old English “geolu” (give the “g” a “y” sound) is rooted in the ancient word for “bright.” And the Anglo-Saxons’ word for the month of December was “geola.”
Although “Yule” predated Christianity in northern Europe, once the people were converted, Yule came to be another word for Christmas. Even today, Scandinavians wish each other “God Jul” (Good Yule) “Tide” is the Germanic word for “time,” with “yuletide” traditionally stretching from December 24-January 6.
As for making the yuletide “gay,” well, it’s clear in 2006 that that word has also undergone some meaningful change since the song was written in 1944, when the word still meant "happy." Even then, though, in some circles, “gay,” had an extended meaning of “carefree – including "living outside the norm.” For a while, straight men who were bachelors could be considered “gay,” if their lives were unconventional enough, as in the Fred Astaire movie, "The Gay Divorcee." But by the late 1960s the word had come to mean being homosexual or lesbian. Still, James Taylor, in his 2001 version of "Have Yourself", sings the word the way it was originally intended and it sounds just right. Sometimes, context is everything.
Speaking of word change, this week’s posting includes a question from a Language Lady reader, who asks:
Q. Can you teach me the difference between "presently" and "currently”? I avoid these words because I'm confused.
-- Bev, from Virginia
A. No wonder you’re confused, Bev: “Presently” means both “now” and “later.” You’ve caught a word that seems to be in transition from one meaning to another. It usually takes decades or longer for a word to fully realize the change, so we are not used to noticing the changes going on in our own lifetime. However unwittingly, you have found one! In the Encarta World English Dictionary, the first meaning of “presently” is “in a short while;” the second meaning is “now,” with synonyms listed as “at the moment,” “at present,” and – last but not least – “currently.”
It is the second meaning of “presently” – as “now,” or “currently” – that is the Definition Upstart. In my 1978 American Heritage Dictionary, the Usage Panel said that although the word was increasingly used that way, it was acceptable to only 47% of the Usage Panel. Twenty years later, my Oxford Essential English Dictionary says that both meanings – “soon” as well as “now” are widely used.
But if you ask me, “presently” meaning “now” – as in, “We are presently undergoing technical difficulties,” is the more popular understanding of the word; however, “presently” is not the kind of word we say when speaking. For example, we would never think to say, in answer to a question, “Oh, he’s presently out of the office.” Even if that were a written response, it would be on the formal and stilted side. But using “presently” to mean “shortly” sounds even more stilted -- to my ears like nature shows with some English (British) narrator speaking in low tones: “And presently we’ll see the hungry python devour the curious rat …”
Nonetheless, saying, “We are presently not accepting any more applications” is absolutely correct and clear, and fine for form-letter types of writing. However, I prefer the word, “currently” – as much for the acoustic strength of the “hard-C” as for the lack of confusion; as in, “We are not currently accepting …” Plug in “now” and you get: “We are not now accepting …” which is all right but sounds a bit hard – “now” is just too short, and not fluid enough for my taste in that context; still, it is certainly clear and concise. The only thing you should not do is substitute any of the “now” synonyms for “at the present time,” or “at this point in time,” those being way too wordy and bland.
In today’s New York Times Magazine William Safire discusses the transition of the words “rear” and “raise”: It used to be, he said, that people “reared” their children and “raised” their crops, and for years he used to politely correct friends who mentioned “raising kids.” But in today’s article, Safire conceded that the word for bringing up one’s children was now – as baby boomer and younger parents can attest from personal experience and usage -- definitely “raise.”
So you could say: In 1966, “raising children” would only PRESENTLY be the standard way to express “bringing up children;” whereas in 2006 “raising children” is PRESENTLY, or CURRENTLY, the only way to say it.
Well, presently, the presents will be presented; the Yule will be celebrated and we’ll once more recite “The Night Before Christmas” and still not really know what, exactly “visions of sugar plums” look like – but that’s okay. You can still have yourself a merry little yuletide, presently.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
An “I” for an “I” (and Thanks, Liz from Maryland)
Please consider the following recent quotations by two enormously successful men who have made their fortunes dealing with words, either their own or others’:
“I and senior management agree with the American public that this was an ill-considered project.”
- So said internationally renowned multimedia news and publishing mogul Rupert Murdoch, upon canceling a book that would have given us O.J. SImpson’s ghostwritten account of the infamous murder he was acquitted of ten years ago.
And:
“I was 12 … when I and two sisters were assembled for an hour of ’music appreciation’.”
- This is from today’s New York Times Book Review, in a review by the outspoken, conservative columnist, editor, author, etc., William F. Buckley, who is as famous for his strong opinions and biting intellect as for his command of the English language; in his review of “Johann Sebastian Bach: Life and Work” by Martin Geck.
Both Tabloid King and Renaissance Conservative broke a grammar rule so basic, so elementary, my dear Watson, so entrenched in English and other languages as to be difficult to find the rule for -- but here it is: “In a series of two (or more) subjects or objects, the pronoun, “I” (LL adds: or object pronoun, “me”) comes last, for the sake of politeness.” This is from “Modern English: A Practical Reference Guide,” by Marcella Frank,1972, a grammar guide I bought secondhand right out of college: It’s not cute, witty or fun like so many guides today, but it dishes the stuff straight.
Of course, teenagers love to break this “others first” rule by saying, “Me and her are going to town,” and other dialectical variations; but Rupert and Bill are senior statesmen of words and media and grew up in the days when students were thoroughly schooled in grammar – especially these two students who, respectively, went on to Oxford and Yale universities.
When I mentioned Mr. Murdoch’s grammar gaff to a newspaper editor, he replied glibly (granted, it was on the early morning train) that the CEO of Fox News was so rich and powerful, he could say whatever he liked. Well, Mike Tyson was once rich and powerful but that didn’t mean he could bite off Evander Holyfield’s ear without repercussions.
The question is why these two astute, worldly and word-wise men both broke normal phrasing and basic grammatical etiquette to put themselves first. In Mr. Murdoch’s case, why couldn’t he have started off: “Senior management and I …” Was he thinking, “I should be the first to blame for initially greenlighting O.J.’s book, not senior management …” or was he just putting himself first because he’s so rich and powerful?
As for Mr. Buckley – shame on him! For a wordsmith of his caliber, “I and two sisters” should have triggered a Klieg-sized light in his head. I cannot imagine why “my sisters and I” did not slip unhesitatingly off his tongue. And who was the Times editor that let that one slip past?
Let’s hope these two titans are not sparking a trend in “I” speak. Think how different the world would be with the musical, “I and the King;” or a Downeast humor duo called, “I and Bert;” or Linda Ronstadt singing, “I and you travel to the beat of a different drum.” You get the picture.
I can accept language change in general, but in this case, well, what’s the harm in holding onto a little verbal nicety in putting others first – senior management and sisters included -- and ourselves last. At least, so think I.
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Thanks, Liz from Maryland!
A Christmas-colored package arrived in the mail yesterday, addressed to the Language Lady, and with the explicit instructions to open ASAP and not wait until Christmas. Inside was a paperback titled, “Woe Is I: The Grammarphobe’s Guide to Better English in Plain English,” by Patricia T. O’Conner, the revised edition, 2003. So thoughtful, Liz! Thank you!! Being at home with a nasty cold, I got back into bed, fluffed up the pillows and proceeded to read this fun, funny, clever, helpful, and bestselling book that any of you faithful readers would also enjoy – or at least might want handy when The Language Lady is not clear enough for you. Patricia T. O’ Conner has apparently written loads of successful language books that are out on the market, some co-written with her husband, Stewart Kellerman, who, a zillion years ago when we both worked at United Press International, was the first to teach me the difference between “which” and “that.”
“I and senior management agree with the American public that this was an ill-considered project.”
- So said internationally renowned multimedia news and publishing mogul Rupert Murdoch, upon canceling a book that would have given us O.J. SImpson’s ghostwritten account of the infamous murder he was acquitted of ten years ago.
And:
“I was 12 … when I and two sisters were assembled for an hour of ’music appreciation’.”
- This is from today’s New York Times Book Review, in a review by the outspoken, conservative columnist, editor, author, etc., William F. Buckley, who is as famous for his strong opinions and biting intellect as for his command of the English language; in his review of “Johann Sebastian Bach: Life and Work” by Martin Geck.
Both Tabloid King and Renaissance Conservative broke a grammar rule so basic, so elementary, my dear Watson, so entrenched in English and other languages as to be difficult to find the rule for -- but here it is: “In a series of two (or more) subjects or objects, the pronoun, “I” (LL adds: or object pronoun, “me”) comes last, for the sake of politeness.” This is from “Modern English: A Practical Reference Guide,” by Marcella Frank,1972, a grammar guide I bought secondhand right out of college: It’s not cute, witty or fun like so many guides today, but it dishes the stuff straight.
Of course, teenagers love to break this “others first” rule by saying, “Me and her are going to town,” and other dialectical variations; but Rupert and Bill are senior statesmen of words and media and grew up in the days when students were thoroughly schooled in grammar – especially these two students who, respectively, went on to Oxford and Yale universities.
When I mentioned Mr. Murdoch’s grammar gaff to a newspaper editor, he replied glibly (granted, it was on the early morning train) that the CEO of Fox News was so rich and powerful, he could say whatever he liked. Well, Mike Tyson was once rich and powerful but that didn’t mean he could bite off Evander Holyfield’s ear without repercussions.
The question is why these two astute, worldly and word-wise men both broke normal phrasing and basic grammatical etiquette to put themselves first. In Mr. Murdoch’s case, why couldn’t he have started off: “Senior management and I …” Was he thinking, “I should be the first to blame for initially greenlighting O.J.’s book, not senior management …” or was he just putting himself first because he’s so rich and powerful?
As for Mr. Buckley – shame on him! For a wordsmith of his caliber, “I and two sisters” should have triggered a Klieg-sized light in his head. I cannot imagine why “my sisters and I” did not slip unhesitatingly off his tongue. And who was the Times editor that let that one slip past?
Let’s hope these two titans are not sparking a trend in “I” speak. Think how different the world would be with the musical, “I and the King;” or a Downeast humor duo called, “I and Bert;” or Linda Ronstadt singing, “I and you travel to the beat of a different drum.” You get the picture.
I can accept language change in general, but in this case, well, what’s the harm in holding onto a little verbal nicety in putting others first – senior management and sisters included -- and ourselves last. At least, so think I.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Thanks, Liz from Maryland!
A Christmas-colored package arrived in the mail yesterday, addressed to the Language Lady, and with the explicit instructions to open ASAP and not wait until Christmas. Inside was a paperback titled, “Woe Is I: The Grammarphobe’s Guide to Better English in Plain English,” by Patricia T. O’Conner, the revised edition, 2003. So thoughtful, Liz! Thank you!! Being at home with a nasty cold, I got back into bed, fluffed up the pillows and proceeded to read this fun, funny, clever, helpful, and bestselling book that any of you faithful readers would also enjoy – or at least might want handy when The Language Lady is not clear enough for you. Patricia T. O’ Conner has apparently written loads of successful language books that are out on the market, some co-written with her husband, Stewart Kellerman, who, a zillion years ago when we both worked at United Press International, was the first to teach me the difference between “which” and “that.”
Guest Blogger: Smoke Gets in Your Brain
The Language Lady would like to present her first guest blogger, a transplanted New Yorker now living in the warm but smoggy Southern California coast, and writing under the name, “Gunish Helfen.” (Anyone know what her name means?)
Letter from Los Angeles:
Smoke Gets in Your Brain
One of the more startling aspects of living in Los Angeles for a New Yorker like me is the manner in which Los Angelenos choose their words. Being vague, it turns out, is not only essential for social interaction but something which, if you do not do, results in punishment in the form of social ostracization. That is, if you speak properly, people will, after looking at you weirdly, avoid you.
There is, of course, the over- and incorrect usage of “like,” used repeatedly in one sentence as in, “Like, we have, like a low-fat blueberry muffin or like an apple-cinnamon, like, fat one.” This has been written about many times before and has become quite ordinary usage for nearly everyone. But, out here, we like to add the word “umm” to “like,” as in “I’m going to, umm, like, get a green tea frappucino.” It is of particular note that “umm” is not a sign of hesitation on the speaker’s part or a bleep the speaker uses to create time in order to decide what he or she will be ordering. It’s more like an announcement to others to pay attention, similar to the Principal clearing his or her throat at a student assembly. When the speaker adds “you know,” well, then you have almost the full L.A. narcissistic experience in one sentence. As in, “Like, you know, you take the, umm, 10 East to LaBrea.” What the speaker means is, “Oh, it’s so boring that you have to take the freeway rather than using that time to listen to me. So I will take ten minutes to say what can be said in two.”
Almost. For we cannot forget “totally,” as in “I totally thought it was a banana muffin.” Unlike “like” or “umm,” totally is actually a meaningful word, which makes its usage more brain-addling than the others. How can one “totally” think something? Certainly, one can have an idea ingrained in one’s mind and then be mistaken. One can be consumed or obsessed, even when facts tell you differently. But to totally think something? It would be more proper, if, umm, awkward, to say, “I thought with all that thoughts’ totality that it was a banana muffin,” but then it would take even longer to get your muffin and get on the freeway.
Language is a tool of thought. When it is made imprecise, bland, repetitive, well, I find it disappointing at best and infuriating at worse. Then it takes even more effort to repress the thought of putting the offending speaker’s hand into the iced blended blender. That I could even think like that like, totally, umm, makes me want like a, umm, Cantaloupe Frozen. Totally.
Signed,
Gunish Helfen (That’s Yiddish for “Nothing Helps.”)
Letter from Los Angeles:
Smoke Gets in Your Brain
One of the more startling aspects of living in Los Angeles for a New Yorker like me is the manner in which Los Angelenos choose their words. Being vague, it turns out, is not only essential for social interaction but something which, if you do not do, results in punishment in the form of social ostracization. That is, if you speak properly, people will, after looking at you weirdly, avoid you.
There is, of course, the over- and incorrect usage of “like,” used repeatedly in one sentence as in, “Like, we have, like a low-fat blueberry muffin or like an apple-cinnamon, like, fat one.” This has been written about many times before and has become quite ordinary usage for nearly everyone. But, out here, we like to add the word “umm” to “like,” as in “I’m going to, umm, like, get a green tea frappucino.” It is of particular note that “umm” is not a sign of hesitation on the speaker’s part or a bleep the speaker uses to create time in order to decide what he or she will be ordering. It’s more like an announcement to others to pay attention, similar to the Principal clearing his or her throat at a student assembly. When the speaker adds “you know,” well, then you have almost the full L.A. narcissistic experience in one sentence. As in, “Like, you know, you take the, umm, 10 East to LaBrea.” What the speaker means is, “Oh, it’s so boring that you have to take the freeway rather than using that time to listen to me. So I will take ten minutes to say what can be said in two.”
Almost. For we cannot forget “totally,” as in “I totally thought it was a banana muffin.” Unlike “like” or “umm,” totally is actually a meaningful word, which makes its usage more brain-addling than the others. How can one “totally” think something? Certainly, one can have an idea ingrained in one’s mind and then be mistaken. One can be consumed or obsessed, even when facts tell you differently. But to totally think something? It would be more proper, if, umm, awkward, to say, “I thought with all that thoughts’ totality that it was a banana muffin,” but then it would take even longer to get your muffin and get on the freeway.
Language is a tool of thought. When it is made imprecise, bland, repetitive, well, I find it disappointing at best and infuriating at worse. Then it takes even more effort to repress the thought of putting the offending speaker’s hand into the iced blended blender. That I could even think like that like, totally, umm, makes me want like a, umm, Cantaloupe Frozen. Totally.
Signed,
Gunish Helfen (That’s Yiddish for “Nothing Helps.”)
Saturday, November 25, 2006
In the Know
A French student of mine, a banker but philosopher at heart, recently asked what the “k” and “w” were doing on either end of the word, “know.” C’est un bon question, I replied, stalling for time, though realizing fairly instantly, and admitting: I did not KNOW.
I followed up by asking him why French had two words for “know” – one (connaitre) for being acquainted with people and places, and another one (savoir) for facts, general ideas and basic experience. His reply was similar to mine, in that he didn’t know; but then, with a Gallic shrug, he added (supply your own French accent here) that maybe two words for “know” are necessary -- but maybe they are just tradition.
Hmm: necessary, or tradition -- Which is it? Perhaps not as thought-provoking as Clairol’s old ads, “Does she or doesn’t she? or “Is it true blondes have more fun?” but I decided to look into the whole “know” question anyway.
One thought I’ve come to is that there may have been a time when Old English, say, 1,500 years ago, also had two words for “know”; but back then the language also had genders and case endings for nouns, two forms for “you” and other complexities. English eventually (and thankfully!) shed those and other features and so, if there ever were two “knows,” we have gotten along just fine with our one “know” for literally ages:
“Do you know the way to San Jose?”
“Hey, whaddya know?!”
“Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye”
“What did he know and when did he know it?”
“It’s not what you know; it’s who you know.”
How easy with the one-word-fits-all kind of thing (except for in the biblical sense, which is now considered archaic). And not one of my foreign students has ever complained about the paucity of “knows” in English.
Oddly enough, many widely spoken languages agree with the French that two “knows” are better (or necessary, or tradition) than one. To see this globally, grab a map and color in all of Western Europe, Russia, China, Japan, South and Central America and any former French, Dutch or Portuguese colonies in Africa and elsewhere. (I admit, I’m not accounting for India’s languages, but that’s too confusing.) Still, at the very least the number of “two know” language speakers comes to more than 2 billion people, versus the clearly out-numbered half billion English speakers using one. So, in the spirit of, “50,000 Elvis Fans Can’t Be Wrong?” should we reconsider?
The sheer diversity and quantity of “two-know” speakers are what make me think that perhaps English used to have two “knows,” just as we once used two words for “you”: “you” for the formal, and “thou” (like “tu” in Spanish and French, and “du” in German) for the informal, as in, “But thou O Lord, have mercy upon us,” (from the King James Bible – which, I agree sound anything but informal). In any case, whatever English lost in dropping “thou” -- perhaps a touch of linguistic intimacy – we have gained as a culture by the simple, democratic nature of “you” and in not having to worry about offending an elder or recent acquaintance. But I digress: with a second “know,” I can’t think of anything that might have been lost.
One difference might be in introductions: The Frank Sinatra song, “Have You Met Miss Jones?” might be otherwise translated as, “Do You Know Miss Jones?” (Perhaps that lingering archaic biblical reference is another reason we phrase introductions the way we do.) Then there’s the phrase, “It’s not what you know, it’s who* you know:” Okay, it’s a cliché, but at least it’s got some symmetry. The French, on the other hand, must say, “Ce n’est pas ce qu’on sait, mais qui on connait,” which means, “It is not what one knows but whom one is acquainted with,” which completely loses the What-You-Know-Who-You-Know rhythm, and the phrase simply becomes a truism. (*Grammar hounds: let’s not choose this place to quibble over “who” vs. “whom,” okay? But I’m happy you spotted that.)
To find out why “know” is spelled with a silent “k” and “w” required a little search in the dictionary (I like the Random House American Heritage one):
The word began with the Indo-European root (and these roots are about 8,000 years old), “gno,” which meant “to know.” The early Germans (a barbarian people we call the Saxons) took that word and stretched it out a bit to “gnow” and later … to the word (and pronouncing the “k”) “know.” The Saxon tribes brought this word from northern Europe to the post-Roman Britain (450 A.D.), and there the word merged unchanged into Old English and, albeit with pronunciation changes, into today’s word.
The beauty of English is that it’s not a pure language – it’s a hybrid, with a Germanic core and Latin overlay, with a strong streak of practicality allowing for word and pronunciation changes, and a mind-boggling breadth of expression. And unlike pure languages (from Spanish to Icelandic to Basque), English speakers themselves can call the shots on what’s useful and what’s not. So if people decide to root out, or add on, it’s pretty much just done. No Ministry of Language to say if it’s okay or not. Just voce popular. (That’s not to say there aren’t standards to be upheld – hence, this blog.) Still, it’s got a flexibility I haven’t found in any other language.
But back to “know”: anyone who knows German today also knows that they no longer use “know.” Instead, being a “two-know” language, they use “kennen” for people and places, and “wissen” for facts and things, with “wissen” rooted in the ancient Sanskrit word, “veda,” meaning “knowledge.” Other Germanic languages (from Scandinavia, Holland, etc.) use similar words. And though our words “wise” and “wit” come from that, English still has the only “k-n-o-w” verb I know of.
And just so you k-n-o-w, French and other Latin languages also started out with “gno,” but ended up attaching the prefix, “co,” (meaning “with”) to the Romanized, “gnoscere,” creating, “cognoscere,” which is still Italian for knowing people and places. The French, Spanish and Portuguese formed their particular variations from that. The Latin (and again, still Italian) “sapere,” for knowing facts and ideas, and which became “savoir” in French and “saber” in Spanish and Portuguese, actually first meant, “to taste or perceive.” Would that mean that those cultures originally equated good taste with knowledge? I can’t help but think they would agree.
As for the “necessary vs. tradition” question: World languages other than English may find it hard to accept that they don’t need to distinguish one “know” from another – but it does seem a mere tradition at this point. Even Scottish English, which still uses the Germanic “kennen,” uses that word for people, places, facts and ideas, just as we use “know.”
Still, given how truly ancient the root words for all these “knows” are, it’s certainly possible to think that at one time it was necessary to distinguish between what a person knew from experience and memorization, and what the same person knew from visual recognition. But is the need for that distinction going the way of our little toe?
Evolutionarily speaking, English may have jumped the gun with our one “know” by millennia.
Just so you know.
I followed up by asking him why French had two words for “know” – one (connaitre) for being acquainted with people and places, and another one (savoir) for facts, general ideas and basic experience. His reply was similar to mine, in that he didn’t know; but then, with a Gallic shrug, he added (supply your own French accent here) that maybe two words for “know” are necessary -- but maybe they are just tradition.
Hmm: necessary, or tradition -- Which is it? Perhaps not as thought-provoking as Clairol’s old ads, “Does she or doesn’t she? or “Is it true blondes have more fun?” but I decided to look into the whole “know” question anyway.
One thought I’ve come to is that there may have been a time when Old English, say, 1,500 years ago, also had two words for “know”; but back then the language also had genders and case endings for nouns, two forms for “you” and other complexities. English eventually (and thankfully!) shed those and other features and so, if there ever were two “knows,” we have gotten along just fine with our one “know” for literally ages:
“Do you know the way to San Jose?”
“Hey, whaddya know?!”
“Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye”
“What did he know and when did he know it?”
“It’s not what you know; it’s who you know.”
How easy with the one-word-fits-all kind of thing (except for in the biblical sense, which is now considered archaic). And not one of my foreign students has ever complained about the paucity of “knows” in English.
Oddly enough, many widely spoken languages agree with the French that two “knows” are better (or necessary, or tradition) than one. To see this globally, grab a map and color in all of Western Europe, Russia, China, Japan, South and Central America and any former French, Dutch or Portuguese colonies in Africa and elsewhere. (I admit, I’m not accounting for India’s languages, but that’s too confusing.) Still, at the very least the number of “two know” language speakers comes to more than 2 billion people, versus the clearly out-numbered half billion English speakers using one. So, in the spirit of, “50,000 Elvis Fans Can’t Be Wrong?” should we reconsider?
The sheer diversity and quantity of “two-know” speakers are what make me think that perhaps English used to have two “knows,” just as we once used two words for “you”: “you” for the formal, and “thou” (like “tu” in Spanish and French, and “du” in German) for the informal, as in, “But thou O Lord, have mercy upon us,” (from the King James Bible – which, I agree sound anything but informal). In any case, whatever English lost in dropping “thou” -- perhaps a touch of linguistic intimacy – we have gained as a culture by the simple, democratic nature of “you” and in not having to worry about offending an elder or recent acquaintance. But I digress: with a second “know,” I can’t think of anything that might have been lost.
One difference might be in introductions: The Frank Sinatra song, “Have You Met Miss Jones?” might be otherwise translated as, “Do You Know Miss Jones?” (Perhaps that lingering archaic biblical reference is another reason we phrase introductions the way we do.) Then there’s the phrase, “It’s not what you know, it’s who* you know:” Okay, it’s a cliché, but at least it’s got some symmetry. The French, on the other hand, must say, “Ce n’est pas ce qu’on sait, mais qui on connait,” which means, “It is not what one knows but whom one is acquainted with,” which completely loses the What-You-Know-Who-You-Know rhythm, and the phrase simply becomes a truism. (*Grammar hounds: let’s not choose this place to quibble over “who” vs. “whom,” okay? But I’m happy you spotted that.)
To find out why “know” is spelled with a silent “k” and “w” required a little search in the dictionary (I like the Random House American Heritage one):
The word began with the Indo-European root (and these roots are about 8,000 years old), “gno,” which meant “to know.” The early Germans (a barbarian people we call the Saxons) took that word and stretched it out a bit to “gnow” and later … to the word (and pronouncing the “k”) “know.” The Saxon tribes brought this word from northern Europe to the post-Roman Britain (450 A.D.), and there the word merged unchanged into Old English and, albeit with pronunciation changes, into today’s word.
The beauty of English is that it’s not a pure language – it’s a hybrid, with a Germanic core and Latin overlay, with a strong streak of practicality allowing for word and pronunciation changes, and a mind-boggling breadth of expression. And unlike pure languages (from Spanish to Icelandic to Basque), English speakers themselves can call the shots on what’s useful and what’s not. So if people decide to root out, or add on, it’s pretty much just done. No Ministry of Language to say if it’s okay or not. Just voce popular. (That’s not to say there aren’t standards to be upheld – hence, this blog.) Still, it’s got a flexibility I haven’t found in any other language.
But back to “know”: anyone who knows German today also knows that they no longer use “know.” Instead, being a “two-know” language, they use “kennen” for people and places, and “wissen” for facts and things, with “wissen” rooted in the ancient Sanskrit word, “veda,” meaning “knowledge.” Other Germanic languages (from Scandinavia, Holland, etc.) use similar words. And though our words “wise” and “wit” come from that, English still has the only “k-n-o-w” verb I know of.
And just so you k-n-o-w, French and other Latin languages also started out with “gno,” but ended up attaching the prefix, “co,” (meaning “with”) to the Romanized, “gnoscere,” creating, “cognoscere,” which is still Italian for knowing people and places. The French, Spanish and Portuguese formed their particular variations from that. The Latin (and again, still Italian) “sapere,” for knowing facts and ideas, and which became “savoir” in French and “saber” in Spanish and Portuguese, actually first meant, “to taste or perceive.” Would that mean that those cultures originally equated good taste with knowledge? I can’t help but think they would agree.
As for the “necessary vs. tradition” question: World languages other than English may find it hard to accept that they don’t need to distinguish one “know” from another – but it does seem a mere tradition at this point. Even Scottish English, which still uses the Germanic “kennen,” uses that word for people, places, facts and ideas, just as we use “know.”
Still, given how truly ancient the root words for all these “knows” are, it’s certainly possible to think that at one time it was necessary to distinguish between what a person knew from experience and memorization, and what the same person knew from visual recognition. But is the need for that distinction going the way of our little toe?
Evolutionarily speaking, English may have jumped the gun with our one “know” by millennia.
Just so you know.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Lying (or Laying?) Around
My daughter emailed me yesterday:
“… btw*, yesterday mariana was like "whats the past tense of lay? is it lied or lay?? I told her that u lived for that stuff and she was like "yeah, right" and i said "seriously, my mom has a blog on the english language, lets look it up …… I remember that u did give us a lecture on the past tense of lay/lie but figures i didnt exactly keep it in my brain.”
(*btw: an Internet acronym for ‘by the way.’ FYI.)
Quickly, before I start musing on what writing emails and instant messages are doing to the next generation’s writing, spelling and punctuation (wow -- how fuddy-duddy does that sound!), or about how my children never keep my lectures in their brains; I want to say upfront that I’m happy that Mariana was even aware that she didn’t know the past tense of “lay.” Lots of people don’t know, but either they don’t know that they don’t know, or they don’t care, so they never ask or even wonder.
Sorry to say, I did not have a posting about LIE and LAY, so I’d like to remedy that situation right now – because what a difference it makes to get it right! One summer I was on the night train to Paris, something that still rings of black and white movies and romance. The reality, however, was bleak: I shared a compartment with some family from a southern U.S. state and the whole night the mother kept saying to her two-year-old, “Laaaaay doww-n, Susie! Laay down!” The experience might have been just that much less awful if the mother had said, “Lie down, Susie! LIE down!” (even with some expletives thrown in, as long as she got the grammar right).
So here’s the thing about LAY and LIE:
LAY takes an object, which makes it a “transitive” verb, so the dictionary will stick a little italicized, “tr.” next to “lay” in the dictionary. Basically, using “lay” means that you must lay SOMETHING down, as in, “Whenever I walk in the door, I lay the car keys on the table.” (I wish); or the exhausted parent who lays her baby down for a nap and then conks out herself. Or think of the prayer, “Now I lay me down to sleep.” (As you know from “Myself Misuse” – it should have said, “Now I lay myself down to sleep” but – whatever, or as my daughter would write: w/e.)
LIE does not take an object, so it is an “intransitive” verb and the dictionary will stick a little italicized “intr.” next to “lie” in the dictionary.** As in, “How do I train my dog to lie down?” or “The Atlantic Ocean lies between our two countries.” New York City lies a mere 26 miles from my home, but some days, it seems so far away, it may as well be the Atlantic Ocean.”
** To lie, meaning (among various related definitions) to rest, recline or be in a prostrate or recumbent position, comes from the Old English, “licgan.” The other meaning of “lie,” as in the intransitive verb, “to present false information with the intention of deceiving” comes from the Old English, “leogan.” (I don’t know how to pronounce those words, but I think it’s interesting that they both end up as “lie.”)
Of course, both LAY and LIE come in different verb tenses: a verb tense tells you when the action happened, and the three main ones to know are the present, the past, and the past participle. In case you’ve forgotten, the present tense describes general, routine kinds of things, like “I write my blog on Sunday;” the past tense describes and action that is over and done with, as in, “I watched an old movie yesterday;” and a participle (as verb form) usually goes with a “helping verb” like have/has/had. Think: “The Great Oz has spoken!”
So here’s LAY and LIE, present, past and participle:
TO LAY
Present: lay/lays … Who lays down the law in your house?
Past: laid … I laid my car keys down somewhere – where are they?
Past Participle: laid … That reminds me of a sign I once saw posted inside a Greenwich Village apartment building: “Walk carefully. The tiles have just been laid.” To which someone else had scrawled, “Lucky tiles!”
TO LIE (as in lie down)
Present: lie/lies … My Bonnie lies over the ocean.
Past: lay … Yesterday, my Bonnie lay down on the couch -- and on the job.
Past Participle: lain … My Bonnie has lain around for years, thinking about when to come home.
Now you begin to see where the confusion, ahem, lies. The past tense of LIE is the present tense of LAY. Even worse, saying “I lay down” sounds a lot like “I laid down” so it’s hard to hear the difference. Still, if you think of little Susie’s mom yelling in my ears all night in that train compartment, you’ll try to master this. And yes, people really do say, “lain.” Although I haven’t lain awake nights thinking about all this.
It’s interesting to note that on Google, dog training sites often stick both “lie” and “lay” in their web page titles, just to make sure no one – including Susie’s mom – misses “How to Train Your Dog to Lie Down, Lay Down;” thankfully, the instructions (in the two sites I read) only use “lie down” in the text. (Which reminds me that in Barnes & Noble’s early days in New York, they had to list the store in the phone book under both “Barnes” & Noble and “Bonds” & Noble to accommodate some of the locals’ pronunciation.)
BTW, there are two other pairs of transitive-intransitive verbs; that is, ones that are similar, except one takes an object and the other does not: RAISE -- tr. v. (raised, have/has raised) and RISE – intr. v. (rose, risen) and SET – tr. v. (set and set) and SIT – intr. v. (sat, sat). That’s why you raise a window when the thermometer rises, and not the other way around. That could also be why you set the table before you sit down to eat. Fortunately, there doesn’t seem to be too much confusion with these verbs. The real question now is, how are you going to ease your new words, “transitive” and “intransitive” into your next cocktail conversation?! Okay, okay, w/e.
“… btw*, yesterday mariana was like "whats the past tense of lay? is it lied or lay?? I told her that u lived for that stuff and she was like "yeah, right" and i said "seriously, my mom has a blog on the english language, lets look it up …… I remember that u did give us a lecture on the past tense of lay/lie but figures i didnt exactly keep it in my brain.”
(*btw: an Internet acronym for ‘by the way.’ FYI.)
Quickly, before I start musing on what writing emails and instant messages are doing to the next generation’s writing, spelling and punctuation (wow -- how fuddy-duddy does that sound!), or about how my children never keep my lectures in their brains; I want to say upfront that I’m happy that Mariana was even aware that she didn’t know the past tense of “lay.” Lots of people don’t know, but either they don’t know that they don’t know, or they don’t care, so they never ask or even wonder.
Sorry to say, I did not have a posting about LIE and LAY, so I’d like to remedy that situation right now – because what a difference it makes to get it right! One summer I was on the night train to Paris, something that still rings of black and white movies and romance. The reality, however, was bleak: I shared a compartment with some family from a southern U.S. state and the whole night the mother kept saying to her two-year-old, “Laaaaay doww-n, Susie! Laay down!” The experience might have been just that much less awful if the mother had said, “Lie down, Susie! LIE down!” (even with some expletives thrown in, as long as she got the grammar right).
So here’s the thing about LAY and LIE:
LAY takes an object, which makes it a “transitive” verb, so the dictionary will stick a little italicized, “tr.” next to “lay” in the dictionary. Basically, using “lay” means that you must lay SOMETHING down, as in, “Whenever I walk in the door, I lay the car keys on the table.” (I wish); or the exhausted parent who lays her baby down for a nap and then conks out herself. Or think of the prayer, “Now I lay me down to sleep.” (As you know from “Myself Misuse” – it should have said, “Now I lay myself down to sleep” but – whatever, or as my daughter would write: w/e.)
LIE does not take an object, so it is an “intransitive” verb and the dictionary will stick a little italicized “intr.” next to “lie” in the dictionary.** As in, “How do I train my dog to lie down?” or “The Atlantic Ocean lies between our two countries.” New York City lies a mere 26 miles from my home, but some days, it seems so far away, it may as well be the Atlantic Ocean.”
** To lie, meaning (among various related definitions) to rest, recline or be in a prostrate or recumbent position, comes from the Old English, “licgan.” The other meaning of “lie,” as in the intransitive verb, “to present false information with the intention of deceiving” comes from the Old English, “leogan.” (I don’t know how to pronounce those words, but I think it’s interesting that they both end up as “lie.”)
Of course, both LAY and LIE come in different verb tenses: a verb tense tells you when the action happened, and the three main ones to know are the present, the past, and the past participle. In case you’ve forgotten, the present tense describes general, routine kinds of things, like “I write my blog on Sunday;” the past tense describes and action that is over and done with, as in, “I watched an old movie yesterday;” and a participle (as verb form) usually goes with a “helping verb” like have/has/had. Think: “The Great Oz has spoken!”
So here’s LAY and LIE, present, past and participle:
TO LAY
Present: lay/lays … Who lays down the law in your house?
Past: laid … I laid my car keys down somewhere – where are they?
Past Participle: laid … That reminds me of a sign I once saw posted inside a Greenwich Village apartment building: “Walk carefully. The tiles have just been laid.” To which someone else had scrawled, “Lucky tiles!”
TO LIE (as in lie down)
Present: lie/lies … My Bonnie lies over the ocean.
Past: lay … Yesterday, my Bonnie lay down on the couch -- and on the job.
Past Participle: lain … My Bonnie has lain around for years, thinking about when to come home.
Now you begin to see where the confusion, ahem, lies. The past tense of LIE is the present tense of LAY. Even worse, saying “I lay down” sounds a lot like “I laid down” so it’s hard to hear the difference. Still, if you think of little Susie’s mom yelling in my ears all night in that train compartment, you’ll try to master this. And yes, people really do say, “lain.” Although I haven’t lain awake nights thinking about all this.
It’s interesting to note that on Google, dog training sites often stick both “lie” and “lay” in their web page titles, just to make sure no one – including Susie’s mom – misses “How to Train Your Dog to Lie Down, Lay Down;” thankfully, the instructions (in the two sites I read) only use “lie down” in the text. (Which reminds me that in Barnes & Noble’s early days in New York, they had to list the store in the phone book under both “Barnes” & Noble and “Bonds” & Noble to accommodate some of the locals’ pronunciation.)
BTW, there are two other pairs of transitive-intransitive verbs; that is, ones that are similar, except one takes an object and the other does not: RAISE -- tr. v. (raised, have/has raised) and RISE – intr. v. (rose, risen) and SET – tr. v. (set and set) and SIT – intr. v. (sat, sat). That’s why you raise a window when the thermometer rises, and not the other way around. That could also be why you set the table before you sit down to eat. Fortunately, there doesn’t seem to be too much confusion with these verbs. The real question now is, how are you going to ease your new words, “transitive” and “intransitive” into your next cocktail conversation?! Okay, okay, w/e.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
"No Problem"
Dear Language Lady,
Would you please consider writing a blog on the phrase "no problem?" As in my asking, "May I please have a receipt?" to which the cashier responds, "No problem!" Doesn't "no problem" presume that providing a receipt (or whatever else you may have requested, say a clean fork) might be problematic? Of course, everything is potentially problematic. But the "no problem" response often is evoked irregardless (From LL: Please see my “Leaf-Blower Awards”) of the probability of an actual problem.
-- Pissed Off in Ohio
Dear Pissed Off,
“No problem” seems to have become such an automatic reply in current English that it can mean anything from, “sure thing” (it’s approximate original meaning) to “you’re welcome,” to the ubiquitous and equally full of nuance, “whatever.” It’s so common that Internet users simply write NP instead of the whole phrase.
When your cashier tells you cheerily that giving you a receipt is “no problem,” you may translate that as meaning, “certainly,” or “of course” and not consider your request in any way problematic; however, if the cashier mutters the phrase while slapping a grease-stained receipt in your palm, you have every right to feel the way you do.
“No problem” meaning, “You’re welcome,” has long been a proper Australian response to “thank you,” because Aussies don’t even use the phrase, “You’re welcome,” which perhaps has too formal a ring about it, one that that defiantly informal culture has resisted. An Aussie’s usual response to “thanks” includes: “no worries” or “it’s nothing, mate.” Now perhaps our own Casual Friday (and often Casual Mon – Thurs, and weekends) Culture is also catching on to that meaning of the phrase. So, no worries, mate: it’s just language stretching its legs. However, that does not mean there’s not a problem with “no problem” (or multiple negatives!) Let’s go back to the coffee shop for a minute:
Let’s say you receive a dirty fork and then ask the waitress for a clean one, to which she replies, “No problem.” Well, in that case, “no problem” is the absolute wrong way to respond, because providing you with a clean fork to begin with was, actually, a “problem” (a difficulty not able to be overcome); her response should be more like: “I’m sorry! I’ll get you a clean one right away.”
It’s that type of instance -- when “no problem” allows its sayer to passively avoid admitting to making a mistake -- that inspired a whole sermon at Duke University Chapel a few years ago. In it, Rev. Dr. William Willimon, formerly of Duke and now Bishop of Northern Alabama, called “no problem” a phrase “spreading like kudzu throughout our speech …
“When I say to you, ‘Excuse me, but there is no banana in my banana split,’ it is not for you to say, ‘OK. No problem.’”
Exactly! What about, “Woops! You can’t have a banana split without a banana -- how could I have been so stupid?!” But instead, the waiter detaches himself from the mistake by uttering, “No problem.” Grrr. (And I’d check your spoon to see if it’s clean. That too could be “no problem.”)
The reverend went on to cite another instance: this time, at a garage where the mechanic had guaranteed his car would be ready by a set time:
“’Not ready?’” I repeated incredulously. “’Well, I’ll make do for another couple of days.’”
“No problem,” says the mechanic.
“And I think, ‘No problem?’ No problem for whom? For me, that you have no problem with keeping my car for another two days is, well, a problem.”
Again, a simple apology was called for but an unsatisfying “no problem” was served up instead. My question is, did the mechanic even know that he should have apologized? Did he think that “no problem” covered his mistakes, or did he think it was mighty generous of him to keep the reverend’s car parked for free in his garage another two days while he worked on it?
We live in a No-Problem culture – as anyone might surmise by noting the 27,400,000 sites listed under “no problem” on Google: “Bad Credit? No Problem!” “No Plot? No Problem!” “Terrorist Attack on the Internet? No Problem!” There are 20,000,000 more sites listed under the more festive-sounding, Spanish “No Problema” (yes, “problem” is feminine): “Lo-Carb Mexican Food -- No Problema!” “Language Barrier -- No Problema!” No one likes problems, least of all Americans, who will do just about anything to avoid them, or avoid admitting that there is one – unless they can go on Oprah or Sally Jessie Raphael or Jerry Springer to talk about it.
Not that I’m suggesting that the next time you ask your cashier for a receipt or a clean fork and she utters the NP phrase, you immediately call up one of the afternoon shows to request a chance to vent and throw some language around. It might be useful, though.
What “no problem” needs is an anti-publicity campaign to take it down a few notches and put some real meaning back into those words. So now that we’re aware of the problem, resisting the urge to say it should be no problem.
Would you please consider writing a blog on the phrase "no problem?" As in my asking, "May I please have a receipt?" to which the cashier responds, "No problem!" Doesn't "no problem" presume that providing a receipt (or whatever else you may have requested, say a clean fork) might be problematic? Of course, everything is potentially problematic. But the "no problem" response often is evoked irregardless (From LL: Please see my “Leaf-Blower Awards”) of the probability of an actual problem.
-- Pissed Off in Ohio
Dear Pissed Off,
“No problem” seems to have become such an automatic reply in current English that it can mean anything from, “sure thing” (it’s approximate original meaning) to “you’re welcome,” to the ubiquitous and equally full of nuance, “whatever.” It’s so common that Internet users simply write NP instead of the whole phrase.
When your cashier tells you cheerily that giving you a receipt is “no problem,” you may translate that as meaning, “certainly,” or “of course” and not consider your request in any way problematic; however, if the cashier mutters the phrase while slapping a grease-stained receipt in your palm, you have every right to feel the way you do.
“No problem” meaning, “You’re welcome,” has long been a proper Australian response to “thank you,” because Aussies don’t even use the phrase, “You’re welcome,” which perhaps has too formal a ring about it, one that that defiantly informal culture has resisted. An Aussie’s usual response to “thanks” includes: “no worries” or “it’s nothing, mate.” Now perhaps our own Casual Friday (and often Casual Mon – Thurs, and weekends) Culture is also catching on to that meaning of the phrase. So, no worries, mate: it’s just language stretching its legs. However, that does not mean there’s not a problem with “no problem” (or multiple negatives!) Let’s go back to the coffee shop for a minute:
Let’s say you receive a dirty fork and then ask the waitress for a clean one, to which she replies, “No problem.” Well, in that case, “no problem” is the absolute wrong way to respond, because providing you with a clean fork to begin with was, actually, a “problem” (a difficulty not able to be overcome); her response should be more like: “I’m sorry! I’ll get you a clean one right away.”
It’s that type of instance -- when “no problem” allows its sayer to passively avoid admitting to making a mistake -- that inspired a whole sermon at Duke University Chapel a few years ago. In it, Rev. Dr. William Willimon, formerly of Duke and now Bishop of Northern Alabama, called “no problem” a phrase “spreading like kudzu throughout our speech …
“When I say to you, ‘Excuse me, but there is no banana in my banana split,’ it is not for you to say, ‘OK. No problem.’”
Exactly! What about, “Woops! You can’t have a banana split without a banana -- how could I have been so stupid?!” But instead, the waiter detaches himself from the mistake by uttering, “No problem.” Grrr. (And I’d check your spoon to see if it’s clean. That too could be “no problem.”)
The reverend went on to cite another instance: this time, at a garage where the mechanic had guaranteed his car would be ready by a set time:
“’Not ready?’” I repeated incredulously. “’Well, I’ll make do for another couple of days.’”
“No problem,” says the mechanic.
“And I think, ‘No problem?’ No problem for whom? For me, that you have no problem with keeping my car for another two days is, well, a problem.”
Again, a simple apology was called for but an unsatisfying “no problem” was served up instead. My question is, did the mechanic even know that he should have apologized? Did he think that “no problem” covered his mistakes, or did he think it was mighty generous of him to keep the reverend’s car parked for free in his garage another two days while he worked on it?
We live in a No-Problem culture – as anyone might surmise by noting the 27,400,000 sites listed under “no problem” on Google: “Bad Credit? No Problem!” “No Plot? No Problem!” “Terrorist Attack on the Internet? No Problem!” There are 20,000,000 more sites listed under the more festive-sounding, Spanish “No Problema” (yes, “problem” is feminine): “Lo-Carb Mexican Food -- No Problema!” “Language Barrier -- No Problema!” No one likes problems, least of all Americans, who will do just about anything to avoid them, or avoid admitting that there is one – unless they can go on Oprah or Sally Jessie Raphael or Jerry Springer to talk about it.
Not that I’m suggesting that the next time you ask your cashier for a receipt or a clean fork and she utters the NP phrase, you immediately call up one of the afternoon shows to request a chance to vent and throw some language around. It might be useful, though.
What “no problem” needs is an anti-publicity campaign to take it down a few notches and put some real meaning back into those words. So now that we’re aware of the problem, resisting the urge to say it should be no problem.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Bush and "The Google"
The Great Decider has done it again. This past Monday (Oct. 23, 2006) President Bush was interviewed on CNBC and asked whether he ever googled anyone or used Google. His response: “Occasionally. One of the things I’ve used on the Google is to pull up maps.”
Does Bush do this on purpose? Did he know that saying, “One of the things I’ve used on the Google …” was going to be an instant email clip sent around the world for the next week, to be saved in special Internet files with his countless other gaffes? Typing in “bush ‘the google’” listed 2,130,000 site hits on Google and 1,840,000 on Yahoo. Does Bush really want that kind of publicity for himself? If Bush is of the belief that any publicity is good publicity, then it was another banner week for him. However, given his current standing, I think this latest gaffe was only great for Google.
Let’s just take a moment to analyze linguistically why the Googler-in-Chief’s statement caused such a reaction. Was it just the “the?” Not really. There were other things wrong with his sentence, so let’s take a look:
Bush says, “One of the things I’ve used on (Google)” is –
Now, right there, after “is,” we’re expecting to hear a NAME or type of NOUN (person, place, or thing) that Bush enjoys looking up. Instead, we get: “to pull up maps,” which is a verb phrase. Said all at once, (and leaving out “on the Google”), we get, “One of the things I’ve used is to pull up maps.” Do you see how the first half of the sentence does not complement the second? A carpenter in his workshop wouldn’t say, “One of the things I use is to hammer in nails.”
Semantically, it’s a mess; but that part is mostly unconscious to the listener. What is funny about the clip is hearing Bush say, “the Google.”
“The Google.” The last time “the” was so memorably attached to a proper noun was when Donald Trump’s first wife, the Czec-born, Ivana, called her hubby, “The Donald.” And by inserting the little “the” in front of Google, Bush set off a firestorm of blog responses -- mostly derogatory comments from the U.S. and around the world. One site I looked at, thinkprogress.org, had comments in Swedish, Polish, Spanish, German and Dutch, in addition to mostly English (from the U.S. and the U.K.) as well as a 10-second video clip leading up to and just past Bush’s saying, “the Google.”
The misuse of that one little, three-letter word seemed to act as a beacon, a come-on to anti-Bushers everywhere (who, granted, don’t need much prodding) as a justifiable chance to criticize everything from his intelligence and general character to the Iraqi war, and on down to his Texas accent. How could the word “the” be such a trigger? How could “the” mean so much?
In general, the comments on thinkprogress.org were not particularly insightful (“The Decider uses The Google to remind The Citizens he is The Dumbass.” Comment by MAN — October 27, 2006 @ 12:38 pm being one of the more concise). However, I thought this Comment by jon — October 24, 2006 @ 12:08 pm made a good point:
… I think it’s ironic that the dude leading our country during the coming of age of the on-line experience calls it the “internets” (Oct. 8, 2004) and refers to the largest search engine as “the google.” It reminds me of his father when he was campaigning for president and stopped in a grocery store to be dumbfounded by scanner checkouts. How can I put it more bluntly? OUT OF TOUCH.
No one calls Google, “the Google.” Or rather, no one ELSE does that except the leader of the free world, from whom we would all like to expect better. My husband thinks that Bush thinks computer-related things are unmanly, unsuitable for a dude who would rather be clearing brush on his ranch; whether on purpose or not, Bush uses the wrong terminology to put a distance between himself and the whole e-world. Perhaps. Still, as I have often said to my kids, “That may be a reason, but it’s no excuse.”
Does Bush do this on purpose? Did he know that saying, “One of the things I’ve used on the Google …” was going to be an instant email clip sent around the world for the next week, to be saved in special Internet files with his countless other gaffes? Typing in “bush ‘the google’” listed 2,130,000 site hits on Google and 1,840,000 on Yahoo. Does Bush really want that kind of publicity for himself? If Bush is of the belief that any publicity is good publicity, then it was another banner week for him. However, given his current standing, I think this latest gaffe was only great for Google.
Let’s just take a moment to analyze linguistically why the Googler-in-Chief’s statement caused such a reaction. Was it just the “the?” Not really. There were other things wrong with his sentence, so let’s take a look:
Bush says, “One of the things I’ve used on (Google)” is –
Now, right there, after “is,” we’re expecting to hear a NAME or type of NOUN (person, place, or thing) that Bush enjoys looking up. Instead, we get: “to pull up maps,” which is a verb phrase. Said all at once, (and leaving out “on the Google”), we get, “One of the things I’ve used is to pull up maps.” Do you see how the first half of the sentence does not complement the second? A carpenter in his workshop wouldn’t say, “One of the things I use is to hammer in nails.”
Semantically, it’s a mess; but that part is mostly unconscious to the listener. What is funny about the clip is hearing Bush say, “the Google.”
“The Google.” The last time “the” was so memorably attached to a proper noun was when Donald Trump’s first wife, the Czec-born, Ivana, called her hubby, “The Donald.” And by inserting the little “the” in front of Google, Bush set off a firestorm of blog responses -- mostly derogatory comments from the U.S. and around the world. One site I looked at, thinkprogress.org, had comments in Swedish, Polish, Spanish, German and Dutch, in addition to mostly English (from the U.S. and the U.K.) as well as a 10-second video clip leading up to and just past Bush’s saying, “the Google.”
The misuse of that one little, three-letter word seemed to act as a beacon, a come-on to anti-Bushers everywhere (who, granted, don’t need much prodding) as a justifiable chance to criticize everything from his intelligence and general character to the Iraqi war, and on down to his Texas accent. How could the word “the” be such a trigger? How could “the” mean so much?
In general, the comments on thinkprogress.org were not particularly insightful (“The Decider uses The Google to remind The Citizens he is The Dumbass.” Comment by MAN — October 27, 2006 @ 12:38 pm being one of the more concise). However, I thought this Comment by jon — October 24, 2006 @ 12:08 pm made a good point:
… I think it’s ironic that the dude leading our country during the coming of age of the on-line experience calls it the “internets” (Oct. 8, 2004) and refers to the largest search engine as “the google.” It reminds me of his father when he was campaigning for president and stopped in a grocery store to be dumbfounded by scanner checkouts. How can I put it more bluntly? OUT OF TOUCH.
No one calls Google, “the Google.” Or rather, no one ELSE does that except the leader of the free world, from whom we would all like to expect better. My husband thinks that Bush thinks computer-related things are unmanly, unsuitable for a dude who would rather be clearing brush on his ranch; whether on purpose or not, Bush uses the wrong terminology to put a distance between himself and the whole e-world. Perhaps. Still, as I have often said to my kids, “That may be a reason, but it’s no excuse.”
Sunday, October 22, 2006
The Leaf Blower Awards
Following are some words and expressions that generally sound awful -- the verbal equivalent of that seasonal suburban nightmare: the leaf blower. For that reason, I will be awarding “leaf blower” points on a scale of offensiveness, with 4 being the highest.
“Irregardless” (4 leaf blowers)
(Q) One reader, Bev from Virginia, writes, “My pet peeve is the use of the word ‘irregardless.’ I hear it daily. It drives me nuts. I'm counting on you to set people straight.”
(A) Well, Bev, a lot of people agree with you: when I googled that one little word, up sprang hundreds of sites, many with page-long articles about how offensive and illogical “irregardless” is; how it is nonstandard and “humorous” English to be avoided in formal writing; and that we should blame some western Indiana dialect for first using it back in 1912, probably meshing “irrespective” (meaning, without regard to something) and “regardless,” (meaning, in spite of something). “Regardless” is the correct word.
Some individual sites claim that “irregardless” is not a word, while others say that given how long the word has been around, and how often it is still used in speech and print, that sadly, yes, it IS a word – albeit a second- or even third-class verbal citizen among the better informed.
What makes “irregardless” wrong is that it’s a double negative: the prefix “ir” means “not” and the suffix “less” means “without.” So if “ir” and “less” cancel each other out, what you have is “regard,” which is roughly the opposite of what you meant to say. English, in general, doesn’t do double negatives the way they do in, say, Spanish or French; in those languages you MUST use a double-negative to be correct:
Where we say, “I don’t have anything,” a Spaniard says, “No tengo nada” and a Parisian says, “Je n’ai rien,” which are both literally, “I don’t have nothing.” Not only does this sound uneducated in English, English speakers would reason that if you don’t have “nothing,” then you must have “something.” However, a Yale professor pointed out that we still use dictionary-sanctioned, redundant words like “debone” and “unravel” without any problem.
Linguistically speaking, what may make “IRregardless” so tempting to use is that the syllable stress of that word falls on “IR,” emphasizing the “not” aspect, while in “reGARdless,” the stress falls on the fairly meaningless, “GAR.”
Regardless of such temptations, better go with the standard word until further notice.
Recommended sites re “irregardless” (in addtion to American Heritage and Merriam-Webster Dictionaries, and Wikipedia):
- British etymologist and writer Michael Quinion’s World Wide Words (I once wrote him and he actually responded):
http://www.worldwidewords.org/qa/qa-irr1.htm
- Get It Write
http://www.getitwriteonline.com/archive/081002.htm
- Plus, the amusingly named, The Irregardless Café, in Raleigh, NC, which has been serving down-home food and disregarding illogical verbal constructions since 1975.
http://www.irregardless.com/cafe.html
“Nothing If Not” (3 leaf blowers)
A particularly faithful reader, my editor and husband, Bob, finds the phrase, “nothing if not,” meaning, “above all” or, simply, “very” -- as in “Bjork is nothing if not quirky” -- to be extremely over-used in writing these days (though, thankfully, people tend not to say it, which spared it a 4-star rating). “Nothing if not” is an old phrase, first coined c. 1600 in Shakespeare’s “Othello:” "I am nothing if not critical," Iago says in Scene 1. As for its over-use, Google listed no less that 1,290,000 different sites for the phrase, among them:
“If The Brown Bunny feels weirdly indulgent, it’s nothing if not a fiercely personal film …”www.deep-focus.com/flicker/brownbun.html
“Guatemala is nothing if not colorful! Here even the ever so mundane American school bus comes dressed like a Las Vegas showgirl … http://www.transportguatemala.com/chicken.htm
“Faulkner was nothing if not confused, and here, alas, the confusion damages the work. Where was that inner editor?
www.amazon.ca/ Light-August-William-Faulkner/dp/1561005886
But what none of this answers to Bob’s satisfaction is why? Are people using that phrase because it’s Shakespeare? (Doubtful.) Why waste one’s breath on the three words, “nothing if not,” if you can easily say the same thing without them? And what, really, does “nothing if not” mean?
Let’s take the sentence, “I am nothing if not perplexed.” Likewise, if I am not perplexed, I am nothing. But if I AM perplexed, then I am NOT nothing -- so I must be SOMEthing. So, in other words, “I am perplexed.”
Yes, “nothing if not” is another double-negative – but this one INTENDS to cancel both negatives, probably to emphasize the positive. Nice, huh? Leave it to Shakespeare. Which is perhaps something to keep in mind: the phrase was good for Iago – such phrases always sound so eloquent the first time – but for the rest of us, now 400 years later and with 1,290,000 site-hits and counting, “nothing if not” is nothing if not as spent as a firecracker on the 5th of July.
“At The End of the Day” (2 1/2 leaf blowers)
I hear this phrase said all the time, in many different contexts: business, between friends, on TV, and even my old linguistics professor, who said it so many times during class, I started to make notches on my notepad. But frankly, my dears, to paraphrase Rhett Butler, I just can’t get worked up about this. However, this attitude clearly sets me outside of the new group of conscientious objectors:
Cindy Adams, a gossip columnist for the New York Post, went ballistic in last Sunday’s (October 15, 2006) paper, suddenly waking up to what she considered the nauseating popularity and ubiquity of “at the end of the day.” Not the Les Miz song (“At the end of the day you’re another day older”) which stayed in my head til the end of the day, after I read Adams’s article; but the “at the end of the day” that means, “finally,” or “in the end,” as in Adams’s own examples: “At the end of the day, all you have is your family;” or “At the end of the day, it’s between you and your Maker.”
Well, we all have our verbal pet peeves and Cindy is certainly not alone with that one, even if she is a bit late in catching on to it: Google sites criticizing the phrase’s over-use go back at least 2 years. Columnist James Clark, writing for The (Johannesburg, South Africa) Star in 2004, said that in a newspaper survey readers voted “at the end of the day” as the Numero Uno, most irritating cliché.
My husband thought that the phrase was mostly used in business contexts, right up there (or down there) with “bottom line.” So I googled “bottom line” and “end of the day” in the same search box and it turned up 1,570, 000 hits. So, yes, Bob – good hunch.
Media Bistro, a site targeted to people in the media industry, had a piece in their August 15, 2006 posting, titled: At The End Of The Day, Study In Hot Pursuit Of Popular Press Clichés Reveals Low-Hanging Fruit. The article reported “a whopping 10,000 news sources, including the Wall Street Journal, Reuters and the Associated Press; in an analysis by Factiva of clichés used by the press, by far the most commonly used is ‘at the end of the day.’”
Apparently responding to the same Factiva analysis, on August 17, 2006, Philadelphia Inquirer staff writer Jane M. Von Bergen wrote:
I get excited when people sound as if they are about to emit wisdom. That “end of the day” phrase tunes me up in anticipation of a “Tuesdays With Morrie” -- level insight, something meaningful, something important … Mostly, though, I'm disappointed … In fact, the more banal the thought, the more likely it is to be preceded with “at the end of the day.” You know what I think? I think ‘at the end of the day’ has come to the end of its day.
Okay, okay, so it’s a little over-used. It STILL doesn’t bother me as much as “with he and myself.” (4 leaf blowers)
“A Slight Quiver of the Upper Lip” (0 leaf blowers – it’s a family favorite)
“A slight quiver of the upper lip,” so integral to classic hackneyed romance novels, is a phrase I grew up using and hearing at home – not often, but often enough. It was a type of code used to describe the feeling just after something you wanted (especially, to eat) was suddenly snatched from your grasp. Mom and Dad loved telling the story behind this family classic, and here’s how I remember it:
In 1966, my globe-trotting parents were on a tiny boat on the Amazon tributary’s Araguaya River. The tour guide’s first mate was James, a 28-year-old, lean and rugged, British soldier-of-fortune-type, whose ad-hoc responsibility at the (literal) end of the day was to produce from the tiny, generator-run machine the precious ice cubes for the evening’s libations. These ice cubes, symbols of civilization out there in the steamy jungle, were doled out like gold doubloons.
But one evening, just as the last ice cube was going from Dad’s hand to his glass of scotch, something happened and the ice cube bounced off the rim of the glass, then slipped, skittered and slid – plop – into the muddy river. For a moment, no one spoke. James looked at my father’s face (somewhere between crestfallen and shocked) and, perhaps seeking to relieve the gravity of the moment, piped up, “I say, David! A slight quiver of the upper lip?”
Now there are few things (besides one or two ice cubes) that could make Dad’s warm scotch taste good – and a fine and well-timed cliché, with just the right hint of irony and levity, was one of them.
“Irregardless” (4 leaf blowers)
(Q) One reader, Bev from Virginia, writes, “My pet peeve is the use of the word ‘irregardless.’ I hear it daily. It drives me nuts. I'm counting on you to set people straight.”
(A) Well, Bev, a lot of people agree with you: when I googled that one little word, up sprang hundreds of sites, many with page-long articles about how offensive and illogical “irregardless” is; how it is nonstandard and “humorous” English to be avoided in formal writing; and that we should blame some western Indiana dialect for first using it back in 1912, probably meshing “irrespective” (meaning, without regard to something) and “regardless,” (meaning, in spite of something). “Regardless” is the correct word.
Some individual sites claim that “irregardless” is not a word, while others say that given how long the word has been around, and how often it is still used in speech and print, that sadly, yes, it IS a word – albeit a second- or even third-class verbal citizen among the better informed.
What makes “irregardless” wrong is that it’s a double negative: the prefix “ir” means “not” and the suffix “less” means “without.” So if “ir” and “less” cancel each other out, what you have is “regard,” which is roughly the opposite of what you meant to say. English, in general, doesn’t do double negatives the way they do in, say, Spanish or French; in those languages you MUST use a double-negative to be correct:
Where we say, “I don’t have anything,” a Spaniard says, “No tengo nada” and a Parisian says, “Je n’ai rien,” which are both literally, “I don’t have nothing.” Not only does this sound uneducated in English, English speakers would reason that if you don’t have “nothing,” then you must have “something.” However, a Yale professor pointed out that we still use dictionary-sanctioned, redundant words like “debone” and “unravel” without any problem.
Linguistically speaking, what may make “IRregardless” so tempting to use is that the syllable stress of that word falls on “IR,” emphasizing the “not” aspect, while in “reGARdless,” the stress falls on the fairly meaningless, “GAR.”
Regardless of such temptations, better go with the standard word until further notice.
Recommended sites re “irregardless” (in addtion to American Heritage and Merriam-Webster Dictionaries, and Wikipedia):
- British etymologist and writer Michael Quinion’s World Wide Words (I once wrote him and he actually responded):
http://www.worldwidewords.org/qa/qa-irr1.htm
- Get It Write
http://www.getitwriteonline.com/archive/081002.htm
- Plus, the amusingly named, The Irregardless Café, in Raleigh, NC, which has been serving down-home food and disregarding illogical verbal constructions since 1975.
http://www.irregardless.com/cafe.html
“Nothing If Not” (3 leaf blowers)
A particularly faithful reader, my editor and husband, Bob, finds the phrase, “nothing if not,” meaning, “above all” or, simply, “very” -- as in “Bjork is nothing if not quirky” -- to be extremely over-used in writing these days (though, thankfully, people tend not to say it, which spared it a 4-star rating). “Nothing if not” is an old phrase, first coined c. 1600 in Shakespeare’s “Othello:” "I am nothing if not critical," Iago says in Scene 1. As for its over-use, Google listed no less that 1,290,000 different sites for the phrase, among them:
“If The Brown Bunny feels weirdly indulgent, it’s nothing if not a fiercely personal film …”www.deep-focus.com/flicker/brownbun.html
“Guatemala is nothing if not colorful! Here even the ever so mundane American school bus comes dressed like a Las Vegas showgirl … http://www.transportguatemala.com/chicken.htm
“Faulkner was nothing if not confused, and here, alas, the confusion damages the work. Where was that inner editor?
www.amazon.ca/ Light-August-William-Faulkner/dp/1561005886
But what none of this answers to Bob’s satisfaction is why? Are people using that phrase because it’s Shakespeare? (Doubtful.) Why waste one’s breath on the three words, “nothing if not,” if you can easily say the same thing without them? And what, really, does “nothing if not” mean?
Let’s take the sentence, “I am nothing if not perplexed.” Likewise, if I am not perplexed, I am nothing. But if I AM perplexed, then I am NOT nothing -- so I must be SOMEthing. So, in other words, “I am perplexed.”
Yes, “nothing if not” is another double-negative – but this one INTENDS to cancel both negatives, probably to emphasize the positive. Nice, huh? Leave it to Shakespeare. Which is perhaps something to keep in mind: the phrase was good for Iago – such phrases always sound so eloquent the first time – but for the rest of us, now 400 years later and with 1,290,000 site-hits and counting, “nothing if not” is nothing if not as spent as a firecracker on the 5th of July.
“At The End of the Day” (2 1/2 leaf blowers)
I hear this phrase said all the time, in many different contexts: business, between friends, on TV, and even my old linguistics professor, who said it so many times during class, I started to make notches on my notepad. But frankly, my dears, to paraphrase Rhett Butler, I just can’t get worked up about this. However, this attitude clearly sets me outside of the new group of conscientious objectors:
Cindy Adams, a gossip columnist for the New York Post, went ballistic in last Sunday’s (October 15, 2006) paper, suddenly waking up to what she considered the nauseating popularity and ubiquity of “at the end of the day.” Not the Les Miz song (“At the end of the day you’re another day older”) which stayed in my head til the end of the day, after I read Adams’s article; but the “at the end of the day” that means, “finally,” or “in the end,” as in Adams’s own examples: “At the end of the day, all you have is your family;” or “At the end of the day, it’s between you and your Maker.”
Well, we all have our verbal pet peeves and Cindy is certainly not alone with that one, even if she is a bit late in catching on to it: Google sites criticizing the phrase’s over-use go back at least 2 years. Columnist James Clark, writing for The (Johannesburg, South Africa) Star in 2004, said that in a newspaper survey readers voted “at the end of the day” as the Numero Uno, most irritating cliché.
My husband thought that the phrase was mostly used in business contexts, right up there (or down there) with “bottom line.” So I googled “bottom line” and “end of the day” in the same search box and it turned up 1,570, 000 hits. So, yes, Bob – good hunch.
Media Bistro, a site targeted to people in the media industry, had a piece in their August 15, 2006 posting, titled: At The End Of The Day, Study In Hot Pursuit Of Popular Press Clichés Reveals Low-Hanging Fruit. The article reported “a whopping 10,000 news sources, including the Wall Street Journal, Reuters and the Associated Press; in an analysis by Factiva of clichés used by the press, by far the most commonly used is ‘at the end of the day.’”
Apparently responding to the same Factiva analysis, on August 17, 2006, Philadelphia Inquirer staff writer Jane M. Von Bergen wrote:
I get excited when people sound as if they are about to emit wisdom. That “end of the day” phrase tunes me up in anticipation of a “Tuesdays With Morrie” -- level insight, something meaningful, something important … Mostly, though, I'm disappointed … In fact, the more banal the thought, the more likely it is to be preceded with “at the end of the day.” You know what I think? I think ‘at the end of the day’ has come to the end of its day.
Okay, okay, so it’s a little over-used. It STILL doesn’t bother me as much as “with he and myself.” (4 leaf blowers)
“A Slight Quiver of the Upper Lip” (0 leaf blowers – it’s a family favorite)
“A slight quiver of the upper lip,” so integral to classic hackneyed romance novels, is a phrase I grew up using and hearing at home – not often, but often enough. It was a type of code used to describe the feeling just after something you wanted (especially, to eat) was suddenly snatched from your grasp. Mom and Dad loved telling the story behind this family classic, and here’s how I remember it:
In 1966, my globe-trotting parents were on a tiny boat on the Amazon tributary’s Araguaya River. The tour guide’s first mate was James, a 28-year-old, lean and rugged, British soldier-of-fortune-type, whose ad-hoc responsibility at the (literal) end of the day was to produce from the tiny, generator-run machine the precious ice cubes for the evening’s libations. These ice cubes, symbols of civilization out there in the steamy jungle, were doled out like gold doubloons.
But one evening, just as the last ice cube was going from Dad’s hand to his glass of scotch, something happened and the ice cube bounced off the rim of the glass, then slipped, skittered and slid – plop – into the muddy river. For a moment, no one spoke. James looked at my father’s face (somewhere between crestfallen and shocked) and, perhaps seeking to relieve the gravity of the moment, piped up, “I say, David! A slight quiver of the upper lip?”
Now there are few things (besides one or two ice cubes) that could make Dad’s warm scotch taste good – and a fine and well-timed cliché, with just the right hint of irony and levity, was one of them.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Accent on America
Last week I talked about The Queen’s English, and received a bunch of interesting responses. One reader, Liz from Maryland, had this to say: “Actually, English spoken by the Royals/upper crust is beautiful to hear, don't you think? So remote, so refined, so....inbred.” Yes, Liz, I agree!
This week, I wanted to talk about accents in the U.S. Personally, I love the twangs, drawls, flat sounds, long sounds, double-vowels sounds and other regional variations that can mark our origins more precisely than any last name. There are a zillion American accents, one for every region and sometimes regions within regions. On the other hand, a lot of people speak a sort of general American English, with maybe a hint of an accent from their hometown. Maybe general American English could be called TV American -- it’s pretty much the same. Still – it’s the differences, the accents, that bring out the color in people and places and so here’s to them!
I spent two weeks every summer of my first 22 years making the annual pilgrimage from suburban Chicago to Enid, Oklahoma to visit my grandmother and a wide assortment of relatives and family friends. And I still warm to the sound of a good, southwestern, “Howdy!” “Hi Y’all!” and “How are yewwww?!” -- though living in NY makes hearing those sounds extremely rare. (Of course, I still get to hear the Queens English --- that is, Queens, New Yawwk!)
Anyway, during those annual trips south, I loved hearing the slow Oklahoma drawl – though I would have felt strange speaking that way myself. As a young teen hanging out at the Enid Tastee (the "Ta-i-Y-stee") Freeze drive-in (drahv-iyen) with my popular older cousins and their friends, my northern accent made me different, and helped explain (at least to me) the difference in our worlds: my world was Lake Michigan and bike-riding to town and friends' houses; my accent was short vowels and quickly-spoken syllables. In Enid, life was American Graffiti with a cowboy accent, cars of cheerleaders and their hunky boyfriends cruisin' on the Van Buren strip. I used to wonder, if I ever lived in Enid, how soon I'd be dropping y'alls and yer alls, and saying reaaaal slowww, “Y’all come over to MAH how-se!” Would I -- could I -- really do that?
Certainly, an accent marks you as from a certain place. So if you change your accent, you also paste over your past – and maybe that’s the point: Didn’t Cary Grant and Sean Connery come from working class families? You’d never know it by their movies.
Many people’s accents change naturally, as their lives and places they call home change. But a radical change of accent – is that the verbal equivalent of plastic surgery? Does an accent make a person, and does a new accent re-make them? I think so. What would Bugs Bunny and Porky Pig be like if they spoke like James Bond or a CNN TV correspondent?
Now let’s take a look at another accent, one that comes from …
MERLIN – that’s Maryland to the rest of us
“Merlin” is the local pronunciation of that smallish state on the mid-Atlantic coast. Now, this state, which Lord Baltimore called “Terra Mariae” in 1630, may once have been called “Mary Land;” we non-natives call it MARE-i-lnd; but the natives apparently call it “Merlin.”
The Merlin dialect is particularly strong in the triangle around the Chesapeake Bay, which, according to http://wilk4.com/humor/humorm221.htm “is bounded roughly by a line commencing at Towson's Toyota, then westward to Frederick Mall, thence following the western border of the cable TV franchise and the string of McDonalds along Route 50 to the Bay.”
Enthusiastic and informative Language Lady reader Liz, from Maryland’s Chesapeake Triangle, shares these tidbits on the local tongue:
BALMER
Maryland’s capital city, spelled Baltimore, is pronounced “Balmer.” As in the Balmer O’s, or Baltimore Orioles. There are two Balmers: Balmer City and Balmer County (also pronounced, “Canny.”) Balmer City is the locale for HAIRSPRAY – the movie/Broadway hit’s writer/director is John Waters, a native Balmerian, hon. The locals speak Balmerese. And you can’t speak Balmerese without this word:
HON
Hon is short for "Honey" and is added at the end of a sentence. A 7-11 cashier says, "Yer fly's open, hon.” or “Here's yer change, hon". (This is followed by deep, gutteral smoker's cough or laugh.) "Let's cheer fer de O's hon.”
DOWNY SHORE
“Downy shore” means "down to the shore.” The shore, or beach, is almost always Ocean (or, “Ay-shun”) City. So, “Let’s go to the beach” is, "Let's go downy shore, hon.”
NAPPLIS
Annapolis, home to the U.S. Naval Academy, is pronounced "Napplis," as in, "Gonna go see my doc in Napplis, hon."
WARSHTON
That’s the place, also called, “Washnin,” where the President lives.
Liz from Maryland is also one of the few people I know who has actually been to Bourbonnais, Illinois, a small city named after a 19th century French fur trader. Here’s what Liz had to say about her trip to my home state:
We're not going to discuss Illinois accents (Oh, really, Liz??)...We spent some time with my son’s baseball team in Bourbonnais,Ill. What fools we were at the hotel front desk to ask, "Is there a grocery store in Bourbonnais (pronounced as French word, Bur-Bohn-NAY)?" "YOU MEAN BER-BONUS? YEAH, THERE'S A WAL-MAAAART TWO MILES SOUTH". " BE CAYREFUL DRIVING INTO CHICAAAAAAHHHHHGO.”
"BER-BONUS." I think that sounds like a sexually transmitted disease.
Thanks, Liz! I’ll remember that next time I’m in Bourbonnais.
Actually, people from Illinois absolutely cringe when someone pronounces the “s” on the end of our state name. Never mind that we mangle the French pronunciation on the way to the “s” (Elll-en-OY, instead of “Illin-WAH”); but c’est la vie – or is it cest-lavvy?
(For a list of familiar French place names in the U.S., check out http://freespace.virgin.net/john.cletheroe/usa_can/places/french.htm
and see why the French shrug their Gallic shoulders when it comes to Americans speaking French.)
AM I BOVVERED? (or, More Accents on England)
Meanwhile, Diana, an expat from England who lives in New York, sent me a link to the British comedian Catherine Tate.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=409893&in_page_id=1770>
Catherine has a repertoire of characters she has invented and one of them is surly, 16-year-old Lauren, whose catch phrase, “Am I bovvered?” has caught on big time among the Brits. “Bovva” is cockney, or Estuary English (see The Queen’s English 10/8/06) for “bother,” and Catherine’s phrase is, according to the link, the new “Whatever!” or more broadly, the embodiment of “couldn't-care-less adolescence.” So the big news is that “bovver” is being considered for the next edition of the Oxford English Dictionary (OED).
Now, I know the OED is trying to keep up with current language trends and all. “Bovver” just might have some staying power in UK-speak, and might be appropriate for such an entry, especially due to the growth of “Estree English” in the past two decades (see my blog: 10/8/06). But that reminded me of the OED’s inclusion of “muggle” into the 2003 OED edition, and I’ve always felt the editors got a little too caught up in the whole Harry Potter Hysteria to include that word. I mean, I love the stories and all, but I have never heard a single soul of any age use “muggle” outside of Harry Potter.
J.K. Rowling’s “muggle,” means someone without magical powers; the OED editors, however, claim that the word has taken on an extended use to mean, “any person lacking a particular skill, or is seen as somehow inferior,” to merit the entry. (See: http://news.bbc.co.uk/cbbcnews/hi/uk/newsid_2882000/2882895.stm)
Can anyone vouch for that? I’d love to know if I’m wrong.
Likewise, my prediction for “bovver,” in the U.S. Surely, “bovver” will not make it into the OED American-English edition, as Cockney Cool has not made it here at all – and it may not get any farther than the backstage of some struggling English punk band playing a 2 a.m. gig in Queens, New Yawwk. But that’s just my opinion, hon.
This week, I wanted to talk about accents in the U.S. Personally, I love the twangs, drawls, flat sounds, long sounds, double-vowels sounds and other regional variations that can mark our origins more precisely than any last name. There are a zillion American accents, one for every region and sometimes regions within regions. On the other hand, a lot of people speak a sort of general American English, with maybe a hint of an accent from their hometown. Maybe general American English could be called TV American -- it’s pretty much the same. Still – it’s the differences, the accents, that bring out the color in people and places and so here’s to them!
I spent two weeks every summer of my first 22 years making the annual pilgrimage from suburban Chicago to Enid, Oklahoma to visit my grandmother and a wide assortment of relatives and family friends. And I still warm to the sound of a good, southwestern, “Howdy!” “Hi Y’all!” and “How are yewwww?!” -- though living in NY makes hearing those sounds extremely rare. (Of course, I still get to hear the Queens English --- that is, Queens, New Yawwk!)
Anyway, during those annual trips south, I loved hearing the slow Oklahoma drawl – though I would have felt strange speaking that way myself. As a young teen hanging out at the Enid Tastee (the "Ta-i-Y-stee") Freeze drive-in (drahv-iyen) with my popular older cousins and their friends, my northern accent made me different, and helped explain (at least to me) the difference in our worlds: my world was Lake Michigan and bike-riding to town and friends' houses; my accent was short vowels and quickly-spoken syllables. In Enid, life was American Graffiti with a cowboy accent, cars of cheerleaders and their hunky boyfriends cruisin' on the Van Buren strip. I used to wonder, if I ever lived in Enid, how soon I'd be dropping y'alls and yer alls, and saying reaaaal slowww, “Y’all come over to MAH how-se!” Would I -- could I -- really do that?
Certainly, an accent marks you as from a certain place. So if you change your accent, you also paste over your past – and maybe that’s the point: Didn’t Cary Grant and Sean Connery come from working class families? You’d never know it by their movies.
Many people’s accents change naturally, as their lives and places they call home change. But a radical change of accent – is that the verbal equivalent of plastic surgery? Does an accent make a person, and does a new accent re-make them? I think so. What would Bugs Bunny and Porky Pig be like if they spoke like James Bond or a CNN TV correspondent?
Now let’s take a look at another accent, one that comes from …
MERLIN – that’s Maryland to the rest of us
“Merlin” is the local pronunciation of that smallish state on the mid-Atlantic coast. Now, this state, which Lord Baltimore called “Terra Mariae” in 1630, may once have been called “Mary Land;” we non-natives call it MARE-i-lnd; but the natives apparently call it “Merlin.”
The Merlin dialect is particularly strong in the triangle around the Chesapeake Bay, which, according to http://wilk4.com/humor/humorm221.htm “is bounded roughly by a line commencing at Towson's Toyota, then westward to Frederick Mall, thence following the western border of the cable TV franchise and the string of McDonalds along Route 50 to the Bay.”
Enthusiastic and informative Language Lady reader Liz, from Maryland’s Chesapeake Triangle, shares these tidbits on the local tongue:
BALMER
Maryland’s capital city, spelled Baltimore, is pronounced “Balmer.” As in the Balmer O’s, or Baltimore Orioles. There are two Balmers: Balmer City and Balmer County (also pronounced, “Canny.”) Balmer City is the locale for HAIRSPRAY – the movie/Broadway hit’s writer/director is John Waters, a native Balmerian, hon. The locals speak Balmerese. And you can’t speak Balmerese without this word:
HON
Hon is short for "Honey" and is added at the end of a sentence. A 7-11 cashier says, "Yer fly's open, hon.” or “Here's yer change, hon". (This is followed by deep, gutteral smoker's cough or laugh.) "Let's cheer fer de O's hon.”
DOWNY SHORE
“Downy shore” means "down to the shore.” The shore, or beach, is almost always Ocean (or, “Ay-shun”) City. So, “Let’s go to the beach” is, "Let's go downy shore, hon.”
NAPPLIS
Annapolis, home to the U.S. Naval Academy, is pronounced "Napplis," as in, "Gonna go see my doc in Napplis, hon."
WARSHTON
That’s the place, also called, “Washnin,” where the President lives.
Liz from Maryland is also one of the few people I know who has actually been to Bourbonnais, Illinois, a small city named after a 19th century French fur trader. Here’s what Liz had to say about her trip to my home state:
We're not going to discuss Illinois accents (Oh, really, Liz??)...We spent some time with my son’s baseball team in Bourbonnais,Ill. What fools we were at the hotel front desk to ask, "Is there a grocery store in Bourbonnais (pronounced as French word, Bur-Bohn-NAY)?" "YOU MEAN BER-BONUS? YEAH, THERE'S A WAL-MAAAART TWO MILES SOUTH". " BE CAYREFUL DRIVING INTO CHICAAAAAAHHHHHGO.”
"BER-BONUS." I think that sounds like a sexually transmitted disease.
Thanks, Liz! I’ll remember that next time I’m in Bourbonnais.
Actually, people from Illinois absolutely cringe when someone pronounces the “s” on the end of our state name. Never mind that we mangle the French pronunciation on the way to the “s” (Elll-en-OY, instead of “Illin-WAH”); but c’est la vie – or is it cest-lavvy?
(For a list of familiar French place names in the U.S., check out http://freespace.virgin.net/john.cletheroe/usa_can/places/french.htm
and see why the French shrug their Gallic shoulders when it comes to Americans speaking French.)
AM I BOVVERED? (or, More Accents on England)
Meanwhile, Diana, an expat from England who lives in New York, sent me a link to the British comedian Catherine Tate.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=409893&in_page_id=1770>
Catherine has a repertoire of characters she has invented and one of them is surly, 16-year-old Lauren, whose catch phrase, “Am I bovvered?” has caught on big time among the Brits. “Bovva” is cockney, or Estuary English (see The Queen’s English 10/8/06) for “bother,” and Catherine’s phrase is, according to the link, the new “Whatever!” or more broadly, the embodiment of “couldn't-care-less adolescence.” So the big news is that “bovver” is being considered for the next edition of the Oxford English Dictionary (OED).
Now, I know the OED is trying to keep up with current language trends and all. “Bovver” just might have some staying power in UK-speak, and might be appropriate for such an entry, especially due to the growth of “Estree English” in the past two decades (see my blog: 10/8/06). But that reminded me of the OED’s inclusion of “muggle” into the 2003 OED edition, and I’ve always felt the editors got a little too caught up in the whole Harry Potter Hysteria to include that word. I mean, I love the stories and all, but I have never heard a single soul of any age use “muggle” outside of Harry Potter.
J.K. Rowling’s “muggle,” means someone without magical powers; the OED editors, however, claim that the word has taken on an extended use to mean, “any person lacking a particular skill, or is seen as somehow inferior,” to merit the entry. (See: http://news.bbc.co.uk/cbbcnews/hi/uk/newsid_2882000/2882895.stm)
Can anyone vouch for that? I’d love to know if I’m wrong.
Likewise, my prediction for “bovver,” in the U.S. Surely, “bovver” will not make it into the OED American-English edition, as Cockney Cool has not made it here at all – and it may not get any farther than the backstage of some struggling English punk band playing a 2 a.m. gig in Queens, New Yawwk. But that’s just my opinion, hon.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Comments on Comments: Let’s Nuke Nu-kyuh-ler
All that talk about accents in my last posting (The Queen’s English, 10/8/06) stirred up some thoughts – not just from my chair but from others’ as well:
Danny from California said that English aristocrats weren’t the only ones putting the common touch in their English, by noting that our own President Bush may be doing the same thing every time he says, “nu-kyuh-ler,” instead of “nu-klee-ar.” But in that particular case, Danny also noted, it’s “more like the ignorant in high places taking pride in their ignorance – a classic southern phenomenon.”
Actually, Danny, the mispronouncing of “nuclear” is not, alas, just a southern (or southwestern) thing, since Gerald Ford from Michigan supposedly had trouble with the blasted word too! It’s not an accent problem, so much as just general inattention to syllables – and it’s the inattention to that detail that drives people nuts.
According to The Big Book Of Beastly Mispronunciations: The Complete Opinionated Guide For The Careful Speaker, author Charles Harrington Elster says that out of the 100 most often mispronounced words, the mangling of “nuclear” is the one that causes the most vehement reaction among listeners who have no patience for those users – particularly mis-users like Presidents of the United States both past and present who continually, and seemingly, stubbornly fail to say it right. Elster quotes lexicographer R.W. Burchfield (editor of the four-volume Oxford English Dictionary) who points out, “the spectacular blunder of pronouncing [nuclear] as if it were spelled nuc-u-lar” is the result of a tempting misassociation with the many words ending in-ular (circular, particular, cellular, secular, molecular, jocular, avuncular, etc.).”
The switching of sounds in a word has a long history in English: Think of “aks” for “ask,” “purdy” for “pretty,” or the classic childhood “pasketti” for “spaghetti.” In language circles, this is called “metathesis” (pron.: me TAA thah sis – see if you can work that into your next cocktail conversation …). (Our word, for example, “butterfly” is possibly a metathesis for the original, “flutter-by.”)
But metathesis or not, there’s just no excuse for mispronouncing such a fear-inspiring word when you’re President of the United States. Former laughingstock Vice Prez Dan Quayle is probably at home wondering what the big deal was about his not being able to spell “potato.” Next to nu-kyu-ler, that’s small potatoes indeed, and here’s why:
If a President of the United States can’t be bothered to hear and articulate the difference between “spectacular” and “nuclear,” then what’s his finger doing on the button anyway?
Danny from California said that English aristocrats weren’t the only ones putting the common touch in their English, by noting that our own President Bush may be doing the same thing every time he says, “nu-kyuh-ler,” instead of “nu-klee-ar.” But in that particular case, Danny also noted, it’s “more like the ignorant in high places taking pride in their ignorance – a classic southern phenomenon.”
Actually, Danny, the mispronouncing of “nuclear” is not, alas, just a southern (or southwestern) thing, since Gerald Ford from Michigan supposedly had trouble with the blasted word too! It’s not an accent problem, so much as just general inattention to syllables – and it’s the inattention to that detail that drives people nuts.
According to The Big Book Of Beastly Mispronunciations: The Complete Opinionated Guide For The Careful Speaker, author Charles Harrington Elster says that out of the 100 most often mispronounced words, the mangling of “nuclear” is the one that causes the most vehement reaction among listeners who have no patience for those users – particularly mis-users like Presidents of the United States both past and present who continually, and seemingly, stubbornly fail to say it right. Elster quotes lexicographer R.W. Burchfield (editor of the four-volume Oxford English Dictionary) who points out, “the spectacular blunder of pronouncing [nuclear] as if it were spelled nuc-u-lar” is the result of a tempting misassociation with the many words ending in-ular (circular, particular, cellular, secular, molecular, jocular, avuncular, etc.).”
The switching of sounds in a word has a long history in English: Think of “aks” for “ask,” “purdy” for “pretty,” or the classic childhood “pasketti” for “spaghetti.” In language circles, this is called “metathesis” (pron.: me TAA thah sis – see if you can work that into your next cocktail conversation …). (Our word, for example, “butterfly” is possibly a metathesis for the original, “flutter-by.”)
But metathesis or not, there’s just no excuse for mispronouncing such a fear-inspiring word when you’re President of the United States. Former laughingstock Vice Prez Dan Quayle is probably at home wondering what the big deal was about his not being able to spell “potato.” Next to nu-kyu-ler, that’s small potatoes indeed, and here’s why:
If a President of the United States can’t be bothered to hear and articulate the difference between “spectacular” and “nuclear,” then what’s his finger doing on the button anyway?
Sunday, October 08, 2006
The Queen’s English
As I sat on the subway yesterday evening, the woman asking me which stop took her to Soho had a definite accent -- a little Mick Jagger, a little Merchant-Ivory -- and I asked if she were from England (as opposed to Australia or South Africa). Turns out she was from Yorkshire, where the movie, “The Full Monty,” as well as the children’s book/movie, “The Secret Garden” take place. I told her I was about to go see “The Queen,” and she said over the years she’d seen the Queen several times herself. I said that I really just meant the movie, “The Queen” – we laughed and then joked about how funny it would be to see Her Royal Highness sitting and signing autographs in the lobby of the Angelika Theater.
Now cut back to London, 1997, “The Queen’s” starting point, when newly elected Prime Minister Tony Blair is about to meet Queen Elizabeth. On the way up Buckingham Palace’s winding stairs, a staff person spouts off the protocol for being In Presence (that’s what it’s called when you’re with the Queen); and when the man tells Tony to call the queen “ma’am,” he emphasizes: “’ma’am’ that rhymes with ‘ham,’ and not ‘mahm’ that rhymes with ‘fahm’” (or farm). Apparently, minding his P’s and Q’s was not enough – the P.M. had to watch his “A’s” as well!
But that was just the kind of thing I wanted to hear: I had headed off to see this movie last night not only because I’d read the good reviews and usually enjoy period and historical movies -- and actually remember something of the time portrayed (the week after Princess Diana’s death); but an even more compelling reason to go was that I wanted to listen to the English accents. Specifically, I wanted to hear any evidence of a type of “down market” pronunciation that has reportedly been seeping into the speech habits of upper class English people for the past 20 or so years. (Confusing the “a” in “ham” or “farm” is not part of that phenomenon though -- maybe it just grates on the Queen’s nerves.)
Called Estuary English after the Thames estuary region in London and southeast England where this variety of English began, it was documented in 1984 by linguist David Rosemarne and his been the subject of much interest and debate ever since. My own research into this topic was inspired by a comment sent in by Icedink (see Language Lady, "Myself Misuse," 9/24/06). These particular pronunciation variations, found increasingly in and around London are partly adapted from Cockney and supposedly add a dash of working class/I’m-one-with-the-people sort of cache – the kind of thing that aristocrats might do to sound cool, or maybe just less remote, and politicians might do to better fit in with their constituents.
Still, the Queen’s problem in the movie was that she did not connect with her people through public displays of emotion, much less any subtle speech affectations to sound like them; in fact, trying to effect a more common accent would have been the last thing on the mind of Helen Mirren’s Queen Elizabeth (and probably on the real one’s too). As for Michael Sheen’s Tony Blair, who definitely wanted to connect with the people -- and succeeded -- he nonetheless seemed to stick to his Oxford-honed English as he delivered his speeches to the mourning masses. And his upper class accent also supported him in his oh-so carefully chosen words each time he tried to persuade the Queen to leave Balmoral and come to London.
Yet my grand mission of detecting the down-market sounds of Estuary (pronounced "estree" according to Icedink) English in those upper class protagonists was ultimately flawed from the get-go: the attempt failed to take into account that I really don’t have any trained ear for the subtleties I was listening for. Okay, I listen to British-narrated books on tape. But other than that, I’m an American surrounded by Americans. What was I thinking?
If The Queen or the Prime Minister were Estuary English-dropping any t’s (making “butter” sound like “buh-err”) or turning “l’s” into “w’s,” (making “milk” sound like “mewk” and “will you” sound like “w-i-w you”), I didn’t catch them. Except I did think I once heard Tony say, “peo-puw” instead of “peo-pul” (people) – but I also kept forgetting to listen while I got caught up in the show.
However, if you plan to see the movie, perhaps you can do a better job than I did, and then let me know – especially re Tony and his staff. Also Cherie Blair, Tony’s wife, was portrayed as a strong anti-monarchist – did she use Estuary English at all? Again, I forgot to listen.
Still, I did notice other things, like:
Wow! Helen Mirren really captured The Queen as I imagine her. I remember hearing The Real Queen give her belated Princess Diana condolence speech – and remember now how high her voice sounded, and that I hadn’t expected it to sound that way. It was like her words were going through a sieve, morphing into shrill little bubbles en route from her mouth to the air. Helen Mirren captured that sound – which I think was probably due to nerves, because otherwise in the movie, the Queen didn’t sound so tinny. (Overly proper, stiff, etc. – but not tinny.)
The other thing that I remembered about seeing The Real Queen give that condolence speech was that she looked JUST LIKE our former housekeeper, Dorothy, who lived with us almost forever. Dorothy had the exact same hair-do as the Queen, the same pale complexion, full cheeks, and short stature. As I stared at the TV that day, I had a Separated At Birth moment, where it looked like Dorothy, not the Queen, was addressing the world. But how different Dorothy seemed with that accent! And how different the Queen would have seemed if she had spoken like a woman who grew up in McHenry, Illinois!
Which brings up the next Posting:
Do accents make people or vice-versa?
Think about it: whose accent would you want to have? Would that change you? Stayed tuned.
Now cut back to London, 1997, “The Queen’s” starting point, when newly elected Prime Minister Tony Blair is about to meet Queen Elizabeth. On the way up Buckingham Palace’s winding stairs, a staff person spouts off the protocol for being In Presence (that’s what it’s called when you’re with the Queen); and when the man tells Tony to call the queen “ma’am,” he emphasizes: “’ma’am’ that rhymes with ‘ham,’ and not ‘mahm’ that rhymes with ‘fahm’” (or farm). Apparently, minding his P’s and Q’s was not enough – the P.M. had to watch his “A’s” as well!
But that was just the kind of thing I wanted to hear: I had headed off to see this movie last night not only because I’d read the good reviews and usually enjoy period and historical movies -- and actually remember something of the time portrayed (the week after Princess Diana’s death); but an even more compelling reason to go was that I wanted to listen to the English accents. Specifically, I wanted to hear any evidence of a type of “down market” pronunciation that has reportedly been seeping into the speech habits of upper class English people for the past 20 or so years. (Confusing the “a” in “ham” or “farm” is not part of that phenomenon though -- maybe it just grates on the Queen’s nerves.)
Called Estuary English after the Thames estuary region in London and southeast England where this variety of English began, it was documented in 1984 by linguist David Rosemarne and his been the subject of much interest and debate ever since. My own research into this topic was inspired by a comment sent in by Icedink (see Language Lady, "Myself Misuse," 9/24/06). These particular pronunciation variations, found increasingly in and around London are partly adapted from Cockney and supposedly add a dash of working class/I’m-one-with-the-people sort of cache – the kind of thing that aristocrats might do to sound cool, or maybe just less remote, and politicians might do to better fit in with their constituents.
Still, the Queen’s problem in the movie was that she did not connect with her people through public displays of emotion, much less any subtle speech affectations to sound like them; in fact, trying to effect a more common accent would have been the last thing on the mind of Helen Mirren’s Queen Elizabeth (and probably on the real one’s too). As for Michael Sheen’s Tony Blair, who definitely wanted to connect with the people -- and succeeded -- he nonetheless seemed to stick to his Oxford-honed English as he delivered his speeches to the mourning masses. And his upper class accent also supported him in his oh-so carefully chosen words each time he tried to persuade the Queen to leave Balmoral and come to London.
Yet my grand mission of detecting the down-market sounds of Estuary (pronounced "estree" according to Icedink) English in those upper class protagonists was ultimately flawed from the get-go: the attempt failed to take into account that I really don’t have any trained ear for the subtleties I was listening for. Okay, I listen to British-narrated books on tape. But other than that, I’m an American surrounded by Americans. What was I thinking?
If The Queen or the Prime Minister were Estuary English-dropping any t’s (making “butter” sound like “buh-err”) or turning “l’s” into “w’s,” (making “milk” sound like “mewk” and “will you” sound like “w-i-w you”), I didn’t catch them. Except I did think I once heard Tony say, “peo-puw” instead of “peo-pul” (people) – but I also kept forgetting to listen while I got caught up in the show.
However, if you plan to see the movie, perhaps you can do a better job than I did, and then let me know – especially re Tony and his staff. Also Cherie Blair, Tony’s wife, was portrayed as a strong anti-monarchist – did she use Estuary English at all? Again, I forgot to listen.
Still, I did notice other things, like:
Wow! Helen Mirren really captured The Queen as I imagine her. I remember hearing The Real Queen give her belated Princess Diana condolence speech – and remember now how high her voice sounded, and that I hadn’t expected it to sound that way. It was like her words were going through a sieve, morphing into shrill little bubbles en route from her mouth to the air. Helen Mirren captured that sound – which I think was probably due to nerves, because otherwise in the movie, the Queen didn’t sound so tinny. (Overly proper, stiff, etc. – but not tinny.)
The other thing that I remembered about seeing The Real Queen give that condolence speech was that she looked JUST LIKE our former housekeeper, Dorothy, who lived with us almost forever. Dorothy had the exact same hair-do as the Queen, the same pale complexion, full cheeks, and short stature. As I stared at the TV that day, I had a Separated At Birth moment, where it looked like Dorothy, not the Queen, was addressing the world. But how different Dorothy seemed with that accent! And how different the Queen would have seemed if she had spoken like a woman who grew up in McHenry, Illinois!
Which brings up the next Posting:
Do accents make people or vice-versa?
Think about it: whose accent would you want to have? Would that change you? Stayed tuned.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Double-Izzers
What, you may wonder, is a double-izzer? For one, it’s a term made up by Paul (though he may not be the only one to have thought of it, he’s the only one I know who uses it), a recent acquaintance who requested this posting, and who brought the whole matter to my attention.
But what IS a double-izzer you ask.
Well, before I tell you, try saying the word again without looking at the spelling and you may just guess: the thing IS, IS we say often these two same words together, sometimes pausing (and using a comma) and sometimes just running them together (sans comma), without even realizing how it sounds.
Have you ever heard, or said yourself, “The thing is, is that …” or “What the problem is is that …” For more double-izzer options, you can substitute “thing” or “problem” with “point” or “reason.”
Paul googled and printed out a Linguist blog from January 1992, a Disc entitled, “Is, is” – so this is not a new issue. Different bloggers on that early Internet file pointed to studies dating to the 1970’s, and to hearing/using the construction as far back as the 1950’s. Paul himself said he currently notices double-izzers all the time, particularly on TV interviews with politicians … which brings to mind the most famous (or infamous) double-izzer of them all:
The one from Bill Clinton’s 1998 impeachment trial when he said, “It depends on what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is.” Of course, that context and usage is entirely different from the run-of-the-mill doubler-izzers but it’s still up there for sheer originality and quest for precision.
So the question is: Is this “is, is” construction “correct?” That depends on the meaning of the word, “correct.” One of the university linguists from January 1992 refers to a 1989 paper whose author, David Tuggy, says that “is, is” is (hey—a triple izzer!) an example of an ungrammatical construction becoming technically grammatical: that by making “What the problem is” the subject, and the double “is” the verb, the sentence is technically all right. (I think that’s the gist of it). But whether or not it’s a GOOD sentence is another question.
I think the problem is that using double-izzers is along the lines of adding “um” and “uh” to give you more time to think. Consider: “The problem is, (count: one, two) is that …” It could even be related to the “like-you know” stalling-for-time structure: “The problem is like, you know, that I …”
Paul and others would probably be less bothered by clean, orderly, and clear-thinking single-izzers as in, “The answer is that (for example) you don’t have to say, ‘WHAT the answer is, is;’ you can simply delete the “what” and de-glom the initial “is” and instead just head right for the point.
The thing is, is that that’s sometimes easier said than done.
But what IS a double-izzer you ask.
Well, before I tell you, try saying the word again without looking at the spelling and you may just guess: the thing IS, IS we say often these two same words together, sometimes pausing (and using a comma) and sometimes just running them together (sans comma), without even realizing how it sounds.
Have you ever heard, or said yourself, “The thing is, is that …” or “What the problem is is that …” For more double-izzer options, you can substitute “thing” or “problem” with “point” or “reason.”
Paul googled and printed out a Linguist blog from January 1992, a Disc entitled, “Is, is” – so this is not a new issue. Different bloggers on that early Internet file pointed to studies dating to the 1970’s, and to hearing/using the construction as far back as the 1950’s. Paul himself said he currently notices double-izzers all the time, particularly on TV interviews with politicians … which brings to mind the most famous (or infamous) double-izzer of them all:
The one from Bill Clinton’s 1998 impeachment trial when he said, “It depends on what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is.” Of course, that context and usage is entirely different from the run-of-the-mill doubler-izzers but it’s still up there for sheer originality and quest for precision.
So the question is: Is this “is, is” construction “correct?” That depends on the meaning of the word, “correct.” One of the university linguists from January 1992 refers to a 1989 paper whose author, David Tuggy, says that “is, is” is (hey—a triple izzer!) an example of an ungrammatical construction becoming technically grammatical: that by making “What the problem is” the subject, and the double “is” the verb, the sentence is technically all right. (I think that’s the gist of it). But whether or not it’s a GOOD sentence is another question.
I think the problem is that using double-izzers is along the lines of adding “um” and “uh” to give you more time to think. Consider: “The problem is, (count: one, two) is that …” It could even be related to the “like-you know” stalling-for-time structure: “The problem is like, you know, that I …”
Paul and others would probably be less bothered by clean, orderly, and clear-thinking single-izzers as in, “The answer is that (for example) you don’t have to say, ‘WHAT the answer is, is;’ you can simply delete the “what” and de-glom the initial “is” and instead just head right for the point.
The thing is, is that that’s sometimes easier said than done.
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