Talky Tuesday: Navigating Language in a leaky boat, part 2

How certain terms that leaked out of academia have been misinterpreted by laypeople, making a giant mess of it.

Last week was the first installment of this article on words that have slipped out of academia when they shouldn’t have, with the end result being that people think they know what they mean, but they don’t. Last time, I looked at triggered, safe space, gender neutral, and latinx. Here are the rest.

Non-binary

Academically (and medically) this refers to someone who does not identify as either gender and, often, either sex as well. This is regardless of what bits they may have been born with — one, the other, or both. And their brains themselves may not click firmly into the male or female category.

As noted above, “non-binary” just means not limited to only two options.

And that’s totally normal and okay. If bisexual (which, yes, is absolutely a real thing) is the orientation version, then non-binary is the gender version. Sometimes, a non-binary person may feel like a boy. Sometimes like a girl. Sometimes like both at once, and sometimes neither.

And that’s pretty much it. It’s just one more option on the vast and varied menu of sex, gender, and sexual orientation,

Once upon a time, there were only two items on the menu — beef or fish — but they were served up by the biological sex of the patrons at the waiter’s discretion. Beef is for girls and fish is for boys.

Luckily, that menu has turned into a smorgasbord or an all-you-can-eat buffet, with a continuum of foodstuffs available to everyone — Beef, fish, chicken, tofu, pork, sashimi, salad… knock yourselves out. It’s all good, and none of it is tied down to rather useless definitions like biological sex.

Because there are more than two of those, after all. Surprise!

Pronouns

Although this is probably one of the more innocuous bits to slip out of academia to the point that someone listing their pronouns after their name in a Zoom chat window, the list of possible pronouns has gotten a bit out of hand, and this is what non-academic critics have latched onto.

Don’t get me started on all of the transphobia I’ve seen in the wild — even in the LGB community — especially the G part of it. I don’t know why it is, but I find the really queeny gay men of a certain age to be the most transphobic — which is very ironic, because this is the same group that seems to be the most into campy drag.

I think that, deep down, they have the same issues that insecure straight boys do when it comes to transgender people — that they’re going to meet them, fall for them, go home and find the wrong genitalia in the panties.

But that’s not how it works. The Crying Game was a fantasy, and no transgender person is ever going to take home a stranger without first thoroughly explaining to them what’s up — in a public place with a lot of people around.

This is doubly true if that transgender person hasn’t yet had bottom surgery, so that their genitalia and gender don’t currently match, because they know that one of the best ways to get killed is to spring surprise bits on a man in the heat of passion, whether that man is gay or straight.

Getting back to pronouns, though, to be honest, I’ve run across very few people who insist on the exotics, like zie/zim/zir, and mostly see the usual he, she, or they — but all of those odd spellings (some sources claim there are 78 neopronouns) came right out of academia, where they should have stayed.

Why? Because there’s really no logical connection between the words outside of the he/she/they and the genders or non-binary status they represent. But I have yet to run across anything explaining that certain pronouns are for transgender women and others are for transgender men, and another set are for non-binary people.

All of the transgender people I know use either the pronoun of their true gender or “they.”

Critical race theory

Whoever chose these words to describe this thing made one of the biggest fuck-ups in academic history, because what it really represents is a very good thing. But putting those three words together turned it into a lightning rod for criticism from conservatives and misunderstanding from moderates.

Progressives know what it really means, but their opinion on it never gets a lot of media attention.

The way that the right seems to read “critical race theory” is this: “Teach kids that everything white people have ever done is wrong,” but there could be nothing farther from the truth. Still, I can see how the combination of words could make people who don’t understand academia nervous.

One excellent description I’ve seen of what “critical race theory” is: “Teaching history as it really happened.”

This means teaching both the good and bad of what Europeans in general and white people specifically did — the Renaissance and Enlightenment generally managed to advance science, health, and education, and despite all of its flaws and faults as it was established and grew, America did turn into a place for immigrants to begin new lives to the point that we are probably one of the most culturally and racially mixed countries in the world — or at least we’re running neck-and-neck with Brazil.

But, while it’s okay to mention these things, here’s the other big important part of teaching history as it really happened. We have to include all of the people who were not white, Christian, land-owning males over the age of 21 — because that latter group is pretty much the one that is centered in most of those “Western History after 1500” courses that college freshmen have to take.

And… there’s another term that needs to have a gender-neutral version. How about just “frosh?” Or “paroled high schoolers who still don’t know quite how to act around adults.”

All along the way, as Europe moved into the Americas and all those new countries formed and developed, there were indigenous peoples, women, non-Christians, and yes, even LGBTQ+ people involved in that process.

We make the teaching of history stronger when we include everyone who took part in it, but more importantly — we engage the kids we’re teaching it to.

For example, what positive impact would it have on a girl in middle school to learn how many women were actually very influential soldiers and spies during the American Revolution, one of them being snipped out of history only because some man years later wrote a poem about Paul Revere instead of her — while Revere mostly got drunk in a pub and didn’t really do what he was alleged to have done, while Sybil Ludington did.

Or what about Alexander Hamilton? Casting him as a POC in the hit musical Hamilton! was not just a stunt so that Lin Manuel Miranda could play the part. Nope. Hamilton really was mixed-race, and all of his portraits through the years have probably been heavily whitewashed. Imagine a young Black boy learning that in middle school. Hell, he might even grow up to be president.

There are also indications that Hamilton may or may not have been gay, but this is entirely based on correspondence between him and John Laurens at the time, when men were much more likely to use flowery language and declare love for each other without it ever going past the platonic.

On the other hand, Baron Friedrich von Steuben probably was as gay as Christmas on Fire Island, and teaching that story likewise would inspire some young and closeted student to accept themselves.

And so on. So, rather than being a case of “teach kids that everything white people have ever done is wrong,” it’s more like “teach kids that white people did a lot of it but didn’t and couldn’t have done it alone.”

Then teach about the people who helped.

Yes, America became a world powerhouse and media titan mostly under the leadership of rich white men — but those men built their fortunes on subjugating everyone else — initially slaves, without whom the South would never have had an economy — and then immigrants, who were underpaid and exploited.

As for that “media titan” part, well, a huge part of our music was ultimately stolen from Black and Irish Americans, with jazz, rock, rap, and hip-hop being stolen from the former, and bluegrass and country being co-opted from the latter.

Ironically, punk and pop were probably the only two styles that did come from white people — the former from kids who couldn’t be arsed to really learn to play their instruments and sing and the latter from kids who really liked showtunes and the easy-listening, “safe” non-rock their parents listened to in the 1950’s.

So there are just a few of the terms that have leaked out of academia without their original context, only to be terribly misinterpreted by the media and regular people. Unfortunately, academics are constantly creating these terms and concepts, but they really need to stop — or at least stop up the leaks that let them ever escape from academic-only conferences and seminars, where they know what they’re talking about.

And, FFS, they need to translate the terms back into clear and simple English before they unleash them on rank-and-file professors, TAs, adjuncts, and students. .

Talky Tuesday: Navigating Language in a leaky boat, part 1

How certain terms that leaked out of academia have been misinterpreted by laypeople, making a giant mess of it.

There’s kind of an interesting problem going on in language nowadays, particularly in English speaking countries. But before I get into it specifically, I want you to try to think of any highly-jargoned language that has also managed to sneak out into common usage.

Probably the only common ones are those that people interact with regularly. For example, if you’ve ever gotten a loan or started a bank account, then you probably know APR. And if you got that loan to buy a car, then you probably paid very close attention to the EPA estimates for MPG on the make and model you chose.

If you’ve ever seriously tried to lose weight or bulk up at the gym, then you know BMI and what it stands for, as well as terms like keto, intermittent fasting, and leg day. And if you follow the news, then you probably know the meaning of terms like WaPo, the Squad, lame duck, recall, primary, and so on.

But, again, these are jargon terms that leak out because they affect a lot of people not in a particular profession, or at least become common in consumer-facing areas.

Let’s try some expressions from more specialized fields. Do ROI, CPM, ROS, total spend, sunk cost, Q score, persona, platforming, and soft launch mean anything to you?

What about POS display, header, end-cap, margin, up-sell, logistics chain, loss leader, and loss prevention team?

Table read, standards and practices, above the line, net points (aka “nyet points”), forced call, closed set, clearances, yellow draft, location, UPM, double up pay, show-runner.

Or these: Part A, Part B, supplemental plan, effective date, qualifying event, open enrollment, Part D penalty.

Unless you’ve worked in marketing, retail, TV production, or Medicare insurance, you probably won’t recognize many or any of these.

Okay, one more quiz. How many of these terms do you know the meaning of?

Triggered, gender neutral, non-binary, pronouns, safe space, critical race theory.

If you said you know the meaning of each of them but you haven’t been working in academia for at least a decade, then congratulations. Your understanding of each of these words is probably completely wrong.

That’s because none of them were created for muggles but, rather, were meant as terms to be kept within the field in order to teach the teachers how to be more aware and sensitive toward their students. Each one is very specifically defined and far too complicated and nuanced for the general public.

And yet… they leaked out, most likely via sloppy use of them in university settings, to be later parroted back to parents or blabbed to the media by students disgruntled over that “C” they got because they only showed up for four classes during the entire term.

Side note: So… if one can be disgruntled, can one ever be gruntled? I have the same question about the opposite of nonplused, actually.

But back to the subject… these academic terms leaked out into the wild, were plastered all over the media and completely misinterpreted. Let’s look at how they have been.

Triggered

Nowadays, people on both sides of the political spectrum misuse this word, whether it’s coming from the left to call out a Karen who has a meltdown at the slightest pushback on her white privilege or coming from the right when someone on the left has anything bad to say about any prominent Republican. Well, okay, one of them in particular.

However, this was not the intended use of the word. It very specifically refers to victims of PTSD, and the kind of language, event, or stimulus that will trigger a flashback to that traumatic episode.

For example, a veteran who was traumatized when they saw their best friends and squad members blown apart by an IED that they survived might be triggered to relive that event by loud noises, like a car backfiring, thunder, or fireworks, the smell of burnt gunpowder, or the sight of blood or the butcher counter in a grocery store.

A child who was sexually molested by a trusted family member might be triggered by smelling someone wearing the same cologne, or a certain sequence of words, or by being touched (even innocently) in a certain place, like someone taking their elbow to guide them.

A woman who was raped by some random stranger might be triggered by suddenly realizing that a man is walking behind her in the same direction on the sidewalk, or by any of a number of sounds and smells, or by other random jackasses on the street telling her to smile or commenting on how pretty she is.

And so on.

The point is that trauma imprints people — severely — and this damage hadn’t really been addressed until recently.

PTSD.

Post-traumatic shock syndrome. That’s the modern term, which also came out of academia, and while most people seem to associate it with veterans, it’s not limited to them. Survivors of rapes, sexual assault, assault in general, natural disasters, and so on, can all suffer from it.

Over its history, PTSD was called other things: shell shock, soldier’s heart, combat fatigue or war neurosis. Yeah, kind of obvious that none of those really apply to people who were traumatized outside of war zones.

Eventually, the definition was expanded by the American Psychiatric Association in the 1980s, at which point all the other sufferers were recognized, and the idea of a triggering event was defined.

But… a trigger does not refer to something trivial like a Karen melting down over her favorite Starbucks not having Pumpkin Spice everything ready to go at opening on October 1, nor does it apply to Young Debbie Democrat freaking out over the latest trolling tweet from the two stupidest Republican members of Congress — and you know who I mean.

Neither of those events is going to send Karen or Debbie into a panic attack that sends them fleeing the room. Neither one is going to make it difficult for them to breathe, or to trust anyone around them. In short, neither one is going to bring back a trauma that their privileged asses never experienced.

Which is why the term “triggered” should have been left in academia, where people know how to use it.

Safe space

Another term that has been misused and abused, the idea behind safe spaces originally referred to children on the spectrum, and how to teach them. In universities, it eventually expanded to on-campus rooms and professors’ offices where BIPOC and LGBTQ+ people were welcome to come and be free of abuse and bigotry — but the real function of those spaces was ideally to teach those students to go out into the world with no need for safe spaces.

Irony alert: This term is often bandied about by conservatives to imply that leftists are little weaklings, but I don’t recall the existence of safe spaces IRL among my leftist friends. Well, not officially mandated ones, anyway. We tend to create our own safe spaces, and then the Trumpeteers are too afraid to even approach, because there are so many more of us than them.

“Safe space” indicates a person or place with no value judgments of an individual, as well as respect for their needs — for example, special showings of movies for children on the spectrum with lowered volume and reduced stimulation are safe spaces.

So are straight LGBTQ+ allies who welcome people from those groups into their homes and lives without judgement, treating them just like everyone else.

Gender neutral

Academically, this is strictly aimed at removing gendered language in general, but without really drawing attention to it. It involves things like replacing terms like “waiter” and “waitress” with “server,” and so on, and writing textbooks using non-gendered pronouns, like they and them.

And yes, those pronouns have been singular since the 14th century, so fake language purists who don’t know what they’re talking about can just STFU.

However, in muggle minds, this gets conflated with gender neutral as a term for restrooms, and the less enlightened somehow twist this into “OMG — men in dresses going into the girls’ room to rape our daughters!”

I’m looking at you, J.K. Rowling.

This, of course, couldn’t be farther from the truth.

But settle your jets, transphobes. Gender neutral only refers to language, not restrooms, because humans are definitely not gender neutral. That’s part of the whole reason for people defining their pronouns in the first place — because we need to.

And in not choosing between either, “non-binary” is still a gender choice, so calling a non-binary person “gender neutral” is still showing them a lot of disrespect. “Non-binary” just means “not limited to two options.” It most certainly does not mean, “No options chosen.”

Latinx

Here’s a case where academia came up with a term that actually pissed off the community it was aimed at. Why? Simply because Latin (or Romance) languages — Spanish, French, Portuguese, Italian, and Romanian — are gendered. All of them have two linguistic genders except Romanian, which has three.

And then along comes “latinx,” which, unfortunately, comes from mostly privileged white academics, and Latinos have a problem with that. For one thing, it erases the genders in the Spanish and Portuguese languages, but really does it as a callback to colonialization.

Translation: White, western Europeans telling all the brown people in the Americas what they should call themselves.

And there are better ways to do this without angloparlantes creating an unpronounceable term into Spanish — latin-eks? Latinequis? Nah…

Latin@ is a kind of typographic possibility because it puts to “o” and “a” endings into one character but, again, how do you pronounce it? Latinao? Latinhão in Portuguese?

Hopefully never “Latinat.” And remember that “at” in Spanish is “a,” so we wind up back at the female term trying to encompass everyone, which is exactly the opposite of how grammatical genders in these languages work.

The most organic terms possible? Latine and latinos.

The former is a generally accepted gender-neutral ending for Spanish nouns. The latter is the plural and gender-neutral term that indicates there are a shitload of girls but at least one boy. Sexist as fuck? Oh, sure. But at least more respectful of the colonial overtones of all that other shit.

Although go for the gender-neutral Latista if you really have las pelotas for it. Él es un latista; ella es una latista.  

Pelotas — balls. And yes, those kinds of balls, and yet their gender is feminine. Go figure.

Not that “latinx” isn’t used by a number of Latinos in the U.S., but a lot of them are several generations removed from being immigrants, so the term doesn’t strike them the same way that it would someone who is first generation or an immigrant, or who lives in a Spanish-speaking country in the Americas.

But, again, as with pronouns — it’s up to the individual to decide what term they want to apply to themselves, and no one’s place to tell them what they can or can’t call themselves — and especially not the place of someone who does not belong to the group.

The closest my tall, white ass gets is the dash of Basque that slipped into my DNA at some point, but they’re no relation to any Latinos, and the “close” part is literally because the Basque homeland is jammed in between France and Spain.

Again, this got a bit long for one piece, so come back next week for the rest of these misunderstood words.

Talky Tuesday: English, do you speak it, MoFo?

Actually, the real question should be, “English, do you only speak it,” because that seems to be a huge problem with people for whom English is their first language. Particularly in America, they never bother to learn a second, and dog forbid that the average American would attempt a third.

At least Canadians have a cultural and political reason to also learn French, or at least be able to ask directions and order from menus in that language — but listen to a Canadian try to pronounce words in Spanish sometime if you want a laugh.

Oh — not all parts of America are immune to second languages, and if you live in a big melting pot city with a predominant non-Anglo cultural group, you are much more likely to be at least somewhat fluent in that language.

In Southern California, that means Spanish, which also means that I’ve heard Canadians ask for, with a straight face, “Some naa-chose and the fadge-eetas.”

Australians barely speak English, at least according to the Brits — and never mistake the latter for the former unless you want to get the look of death and have a strongly worded letter sent to the Daily Mail deriding the total lack of education of Americans. (I did that once, and I think I actually did it to Emma Thompson, whom I adore, at a charity event. Oops. Lame excuse: I was dating an Aussie at the time, and they did sound alike.)

Brits may know some words in other languages, but they make no pretense of even trying to pronounce them right. Or maybe they do, but they’re just stuck in the past.

There’s still a lot of debate over whether the way they pronounce “Don Quixote” — as “Daan Keyshot” instead of “Doan Key-ho-tay” — actually matches the way that people of Cervantes’ time would have said it.

Then again, that’s Castillian, and as most Hispanics in the Americas (except Argentina) would tell you that Spaniards can’t speak proper Spanish. Just like any American will tell you that Brits can’t speak (or spell) proper English, while the Canadians remain politely quiet because they’re stuck in a limbo between the two.

That is, they spell like Brits but sound (mostly) like Americans from the U.S. (Remember: Canadians — and Mexicans — are Americans, too.)

But this brings me back to the original question: Why is it, particularly in modern times, that most native English speakers do not know at least one other language, if not multiple languages?

On the one hand, maybe there’s no need, because English is the most spoken language in the world. However, it barely edges out Mandarin, and when it comes to native speakers, it falls to fourth place, after Mandarin, Spanish, and Hindi.

It’s all those other people who speak English as a second language that keep us in first place, but when it comes to total speakers, we’re only ahead by about 15 million out of over 1.1 billion for each of English and Mandarin.

Coming in behind Hindi is French, but the interesting thing here is that it has far more non-native speakers (203 million) than native speakers (only 77 million). This is largely due to colonial expansion, which brought the language to the Americas, Asia, and Africa.

I think a lot of people don’t realize this, but France looked to the south to colonize, and so left its fingerprints all over the second-largest continent. To this day, French and various native dialects are still the official languages in many African countries.

The influences in Canada and Louisiana are obvious, and it was the Vietnamese finally kicking out the French in 1954 that led to the involvement of the U.S. in its second-longest war.

Of course, dating back to after their Revolution, French became the language of diplomacy for one simple reason: The revolutionaries, who were actually quite conservative reactionaries, pulled a George Orwell and rewrote the dictionary with the idea that any word in the language could have exactly one meaning only.

Great for lawyers and diplomats. Shit for poets and artists.

But… once upon a time, educated people learned their own language and French. But there was more. Part of the curriculum included Greek and Latin, and this was the case in British schools until fairly recently and American schools until… I’m not sure, really, but I’m guessing sometime around or just after WW II.

However, it is still taught in some schools, surprisingly, particularly private Catholic schools, not surprisingly. Hey — they could always overturn part of Vatican II someday and go back to Mass in 100% Latin.

But go read Edgar Allan Poe, for example. He was just your average artistic drunk from Baltimore who died at forty — quite possibly the victim of a voter fraud scheme — but he frequently led off his stories with quotes from the original Latin, Greek, or French.

James A. Garfield, whose major claim to fame is as the second U.S. President to be assassinated, could write in Greek and Latin at the same time with both hands. I bet that party trick got all the ladies. Or not.

But the emphasis on Greek and Latin was so that people could read the classics — Homer, the Greek and Roman Playwrights, and the Roman histories — in the original, not to mention a lot of the New Testament in the language it was written in.

LOL — how many many people think it was written in English by King James? Nope. Hebrew and a little Aramaic for the O.T., and Greek for the N.T., mostly, although the Gospels were possibly based on an Aramaic source.

It was nearly 1,400 years later that the whole thing (as opposed to just various books) wound up being translated into English for the first time — well before the King James Version.

Meanwhile, once upon a time in America (and Britain and anywhere else with mostly native English speakers) learning a second and even third language was the norm, not the exception.

And for the rest of the world that must do business with this English-speaking cultural empire, it’s a requirement, really. That’s why you’ll wind up talking to so many call center operators with allegedly American names but that tell-tale hint of a beautiful Indian accent that makes English just sound so much nicer.

Call center dudes (and you’re mostly all dudes): Kudos! You speak my native language better than I do. Plus, if I actually bother to ask because I’m truly interested, you engage in wonderful conversations.

But as far as native English speakers, what changed, and why have Americans in particular become so averse to even taking the time to learn another language?

One big reason, probably, is that foreign languages, like the arts, have gradually been bled out of American education. I was probably among the last cohorts who got the options, so that for my entire secondary education, I was tracked into one of the big three.

I was lucky enough to be put into Spanish from the start. I had other friends who got stuck into German and French and didn’t make it past a year, and having tried to learn German and French later, I can see why.

The former has impossibly difficult declensions and the latter is impossible to understand because vowels and terminal consonants just get eaten and obscured.

I think I remember my older half-brother telling me that when he came into school, a decade before me, the choices also included things like Russian, Japanese, Greek, and Hebrew. Or something. But much more than Europe’s Top Three.

And yes, I’ve tried all four of those, and Hindi, and just… no. Russian grammar makes German look simple, Japanese has way too many writing systems, Greek… okay, I actually kind of almost made sense out of Greek. However, Hebrew. like Arabic, which build words by taking a stem, sticking it in the middle of prefixes and suffixes, and then dumping the vowels just didn’t work for me. Sorry, y’all!

But I got Spanish, so I ran with it through all the possible five years, then took a year of German after Spanish ran out in my senior year, and a semester of German in college and… dumped German, stuck with Spanish.

However, look at the subtext in all the above. I’ve dipped my toes into a metric fuckton of non-English languages, including ones not mentioned above: Norwegian, Italian, Gaelic, Hindi, Old English, Hawai’ian, Korean, and Sanskrit.

A lot of them have been way too difficult and easily abandoned, but here’s the point: I tried. And The English-speaking world does not, and the only conclusion I can come to is that it’s because of some sort of fear.

I could easily try to blame it on imperialism, colonization, and the inherited arrogance of the British upper class before WW II (“We’re wealthy and white, so we’re just better than you are”), but I don’t think that’s the cause in the long run, and not in the U.S.

However, I think that a lot of native English speakers are just afraid of words and grammar — especially ones that don’t belong to their language. That fear is kind of ridiculous if you think about it, though. Just look at English spelling. It makes no sense at all.

Or let me rephrase that: “Inglish speling maiks no sins at al.”

You probably understood that perfectly, and it’s what a language like Spanish does. If you know how to say a word in Spanish, you should be able to spell it. I say “should” because they silent H and the similarity of how B and V are pronounced does screw with native speakers, so I have seen written errors like “asta la vista” (instead of “hasta”) and spelling the word for cow as “baca” instead of “vaca.”

I’ll get to how English spelling got so messy while still being less of a mess than it was in a future post. But getting back to the concept of fear keeping English speakers from learning another language, I’ve had firsthand experience of this in my role as a playwright.

For the stage, I tend to write about historical subjects or real-life characters. Ironically, the only full-length play of mine based on an entirely made-up story is also the only one to ever almost make it to production only to be canceled at the last minute — twice.

The second time was because we had been scheduled to open two weeks after the COVID lockdown began in 2020. I’m convinced that the play is cursed.

But… writing about real people often involves other languages. For example, my play Bill & Joan, about that time in Mexico City in 1951 that William S. Burroughs shot and killed his wife at a cocktail party, is built on a flashback structure with the modern-day story taking place as he’s interrogated by two cops.

That would be two Mexico City cops, so there’s a lot of Spanish dialogue. Of course, I only used it when I wanted it to appear that the Burroughs character didn’t understand what they were saying but also knowing that there was a good chance that a lot of my audience might know exactly what they were saying.

In every developmental reading I had of the play over a long, long time, whenever a non-bilingual native English speaker hit one of those lines, there was no predicting what would come out of their mouth, but it was frequently at about the level of those Canadians ordering Mexican food.

Another play, Strange Fruit, deals with a bunch of characters throughout the 20th Century, and because of those people and locations, there are lines in Yiddish, Hebrew, Russian, French, Chinese, and probably a few others.

In these cases, it’s not quite as extensive, but I’d see the same result in readings — except with the Yiddish, for some reason, except that in modern America, even among the goyim, Yiddish expressions have become such a lingua franca of comedy that they don’t appear to be foreign.

Of course, I’m writing them in the Latin alphabet, not the original, so that makes a difference.

One writer/actor I worked with a lot (who is, sadly, no longer with us) was a very interesting case because, despite being of Hispanic origin, he didn’t speak a word of Spanish because he was of that generation who was raised by a generation of immigrants from Mexico who wanted their kids to blend in and succeed.

The Sleepy Lagoon Murder, the Zoot Suit Riots, and a lot of anti-Mexican racism at the time probably had a lot to do with his parents wanting the kids to seem as non-Hispanic as possible. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if they had tried to pass as Italian.

It was a long-running joke between us, in fact, that the tall, very white, Irish-Scandinavian dude spoke Spanish and he didn’t.

But it wasn’t even a matter of he never bothered to learn. He was never even allowed. And any time he was reading a script of mine that even had so much as a single non-English word in it, he wouldn’t even try to pronounce it or even approximate it.

Literal gibberish would come out of his mouth like his tongue had hit a speedbump that disengaged his brain.

And I think that’s how a lot of American English-only speakers react to a foreign language. It’s the old knee-jerk, “Oh, I can never learn that. It’s hard!”

But I can guarantee you this: With that mindset, you never would have learned English as a second language no matter what you started from. And how did you learn English in the first place?

Trial and error and being immersed in it, and it’s the same damn thing with any other language, no matter how young or old you are when you start.

For maybe your first five years of life, you only knew simple words and made a lot of mistakes and probably didn’t even know how to write or spell yet. But, over the thirteen years after that, you got pretty damn fluent. Hell, you were pretty damn fluent before you got out of grade school.

Judging by internet comments, however, a frightening majority of native English speakers never learned to spell. But, again, our language is not at all easy to spell.

That’s why I’m glad I learned it first. I would have given up if I’d tried to learn it second, no matter how young I was when I started.

What second language would you like to learn? Maybe it’s something from your background — what was spoken where one or more of your ancestors came from. Maybe it’s from a culture you admire — French cuisine, Japanese Manga, Korean cinema, Egyptian art, IKEA furniture…

But pick one and give it a try. There are plenty of online resources. And if the first one doesn’t stick, try another. And another. And another. And, who knows? Bottom line is that learning a new language is a lot easier than you think it is.

You just have to stop thinking that it’s not.

Talky Tuesday: Careful where you stick your ‘but’

Conjunction junction, what’s your function… this is a refrain many of us might know from Schoolhouse Rock, but the important conjunction here is “But.”

And is the conjunction that puts words together: “This and that.” Or is the one that allows both options: “This or that.”

Then there’s but, which pretty much excludes whatever comes after it.

You’re probably already jumping ahead to a common sort of phrase it appears in, but let’s hold back for a moment.

“I like pasta and sushi,” she said. So what’s the function of that sentence? Inclusion, pure and simple.

How about this one? “I’ll take pasta or sushi.” Both options are acceptable although, while it’s not clear whether the speaker is making the choice or only responding to the options given by someone else, there’s no judgement.

Finally, “I like pasta but not sushi.” This is basically a refusal, whoever was given the choices. The speaker reads a menu to make their own choice, picks pasta, done. Or… the speaker’s date asks what they want, and the reply is pasta, but not sushi — which could be a really big dismissal of what the date likes, intentional or not.

However, this conjunction gets a lot more troublesome in other contexts, as we’ll see in a moment. First, let’s look at the others.

“And” and “Or” are inclusive, always.

“Do you want to watch some BBC, and then Netflix?” Boom. Both. Done.

And “Or” isn’t as inclusive, but not dismissive. “Would you rather watch BBC or Netflix?”

“I don’t have a subscription to Netflix, so BBC?” (or vice versa) or even “I don’t like (BBC/Netflix), so the other?”

When we get to but, there’s a bit of a problem. Any invocation of “but” requires a condition to go with it. You cannot just say, “I like A, but not B.” Even though that B comes with a not, that “not” means nothing without a qualifier.

And when the construction that comes before “but” is in the form of “I’m not a (blank)…” then you really need to think long and hard about what the hell you’re saying.

As in things like, “I’m not racist, but…” Guarantee you that the next words out of your mouth are going to be 100% racist.

And stick any other –ist or –ic in there, and you’re done.

“I’m not homophobic, but I wish that gay men weren’t so swishy.”

“I’m not misogynistic, but why are women so pushy?”

“I’m not racist, but why don’t Mexicans speak English?”

And on and on and on.

Well, I hope you get the idea by now.

Any phrase that begins with “I’m not (X) but (Y) immediately tells the rest of us that you are absolutely X, and you absolutely believe that whatever bullshit you spew in Y is true.

Period, end of quote.

So, especially in these trying times, if you ever try to say, “I’m not X, but…” stop right there before you open your mouth, think about what you were going to say, then go ask a smarter friend to bail your ass out before you go full-on stupid.

And… happy almost end of (social) summer, and or happy surviving the really weird times we’re still going through right now.

Talky Tuesday: Words you might be using incorrectly

If you want to communicate effectively, and especially if you want to have credibility whether you’re speaking or writing, it’s important to use words correctly. Yet I hear certain words misused all the time, even by otherwise well-educated people.

Note that I’m not talking about often mangled phrases, like “for all intensive purposes” instead of the proper “for all intents and purposes,” or mixing up words like “affect” and “effect.” These are single words that are frequently used improperly.

Cliché

We probably all know that “cliché” means something that has been used in art or literature so often that it has become bland and predictable, and so should be avoided. Movies are full of them — the horror movie villain who isn’t really dead after they seem to have been killed, the henchmen who are terrible shots, the witty comment as the hero dispatches a goon.

We also get these in live theater, though. The so-called “11 o’clock number” comes from the world of Broadway musicals, when the shows used to start at 8:30. This was the “knock ‘em dead before the finale” show-stopper of a song that usually highlighted the vocal talents of the lead, manipulated emotions, and was catchy as hell. Think Memory from Cats, the titular Cabaret, or Rose’s Turn from Gypsy. Also note that nowadays, it’s more likely to be the 10 o’clock number.

Of course, in the latter case, the cliché isn’t so much a specific thing as it is a stylistic conceit.

In literature, clichés can refer to either hackneyed turns of phrase — “I need that like a hole in the head” — or plot elements that have been pounded to death. Young adult literature in particular, from Harry Potter to The Hunger Games via Twilight and Maze Runner abound with them, although, to be fair, they’re more forgivable in YA only because their audience may not have met them yet.

All that said, then, how does the word “cliché” itself get misused? Simple. It’s a noun, and never an adjective. So you’re safe if you say “that’s a cliché.” Not so much if you try to describe something as “that’s so cliché.” In that case, you want the word “clichéd.”

Comprise

This is a word that tends to get used backwards. Hint: If you follow it with a preposition and a list, then you’re using it wrong. Nothing is ever “comprised of” anything else. In that case, you’d be looking for “composed of.”

The “mp” combination in English is interesting because it is one of the ways in which the language has a lot in common with Spanish, and it comes from compound words that would otherwise create the consonant combination “np.” Hell, it even shows up in “compound!” A good Spanish example of this is the word “compartir,” which is very common in social media, because it means “to share.” The constituent words are “con” and “partir.” The former is a preposition that means “with.” The latter is a verb that means “to split.” So, when you share, you split something with someone else: con + partir, but that “np” isn’t liked, so we get “compartir.”

Now to get to the meaning of “comprise,” we have to go back to Middle English via Middle French, where the word “prise” meant to hold or grasp, so the combo basically means “to hold with.” Your preposition is in the phrase, so all you need to add are the nouns.

So… The U.S. comprises fifty states or the U.S. is composed of fifty states.

Further

This word is often confused and misused with “farther.” The two are very similar, but I’ll give you a simple way to remember the difference, making this a very short entry. “Further” is metaphorical, while “farther” is literal. The latter refers only to physical distance, while the former refers to abstract difference.

“Dallas is farther from Boston than Chicago.”

“He managed to walk farther than his brothers that day.”

“She ran farther in the competition than any other runner.”

Those are the literal versions. As for the abstract or figurative:

“He could extend the metaphor no further.”

“They wouldn’t accept any further questions.”

“Their research proved they had no further to go.”

The simple mnemonic to remember it by is this: To create physical distance, you have to go away, and farther has an “a” in it. Yeah, simple and cheesy, but it works.

Ironic

Sorry, but Alanis Morissette is just plain wrong no matter how popular her song was. Irony is not some weird coincidence that happens. For example, slamming the keyboard lid on your hand and breaking it right before your big piano recital is not ironic. Neither is someone saying something during that whole “speak now or forever hold your piece” moment at the wedding.

There are three forms of Irony. First is when what you say is the opposite of what you mean. For example, someone gives you rollerblades for your birthday but you have no legs. That part isn’t ironic, but if you open the gift and announce, “Oh boy, just what I wanted,” then you’re being ironic.

Situational irony is when the intended results of something turn out to be the opposite of what was expected. For example, a husband surprises his wife with an anniversary trip to Paris because she’s always talking about the city, but the real reason she’s seemed so obsessed is because she’s always hated the place, so he’s given her the worst gift ever.

The third form is dramatic irony, and if you’ve ever heard of O. Henry, particularly his short story The Gift of The Magi, then you know this one. A man sells his expensive watch to buy some combs for his wife’s hair. Meanwhile, she cuts off her hair and sells it to buy a fob for his watch. Bang! Double irony. This can also happen when the viewers or readers know something that the characters do not.

Less

If you’re a grammar nerd like me, then every time you see that “15 items or less” sign in the store, your butt probably clenches and you have to resist the urge to tell the blameless clerk why it’s wrong. The difference between “less” and “fewer” is really simple.

“Fewer” refers only to countable nouns, while “less” refers to uncountable nouns. And if that seems all super-grammar unintelligible, it’s not, because the words mean what they say. Countable nouns are objects that can actually be counted: one apple, two oranges, three ducks, etc. Uncountable nouns are those that can’t be counted: sugar, coffee, tea, etc.

Note, though, that uncountables can become countable when they are quantized: a cup of coffee, a tablespoon of sugar, a glass of tea, and so on.

But here’s the rule. If you can count them, then you want to say “fewer.” If you can’t, then it’s “less.” “I want fewer apples.” “I want less sugar.” But also note: “I need fewer pounds of sugar,” since pounds are countable.

I don’t have a great mnemonic for this one, although maybe remembering that the “F” in fewer is in “First,” a counting number, might do the trick. And the great compounder to this one is that the term “more” refers to both countable and uncountable nouns: More apples, more tea.

Yeah, I never said that English made any sense.

Whom

This one is not as hard as it might seem, and in order to get it right all you have to do is rephrase the sentence in your head. For example: “To ??? should I send the gift?” Make it not a question, and it becomes “I send the gift to him/her/them.” And the clue comes in the masculine and plural pronouns. They end in “m” and so does “whom,” so if the rephrase would use him or them, then the other way around would use “whom.”

Most of the time, you’ll use “whom” after a preposition, although not always. For example, a question involving verbs without prepositions gets tricky. If someone asked you which person you believed, would it be “who” or “whom?”

Turn it around and you get, “I believe them,” ergo, “Whom do you believe?” (The implied but omitted preposition is “in.”)

Of course, this also puts the lie to the lyrics of several songs. But no one ever said that lyricists have to be grammarians. Poets do get to slide a bit, after all, no matter the language they write in.

 

Talkie Tuesday: Nine English words people just made up

Languages evolve the same way as anything else: Growth and change. What becomes useful survives and what doesn’t dies. English is no different, although it’s a language that loves to grow via consumption — taking in bits of other languages or finding new uses for old words.

Sometimes the words are just made up by writers in their works — and sometimes, those words go on to become a part of the language.

The words below are listed in alphabetical order, but don’t go looking for Shakespeare’s name. While he’s often credit with creating hundreds of new English words, he really didn’t. Rather, he was really good at collecting them from what he heard, then using them in his plays to make the dialogue sound realistic — it was how the people were talking in the streets.

The problem happened when the first Oxford English Dictionary was created, and the entries had to include an attestation to first printed use. Well, at that time, guess who that often was? And so Shakespeare wound up being credited as the source of words that he, at best, curated.

That doesn’t diminish his genius one it, though. Now here are the words.

Blatant

Source: Edward Spenser’s poem, The Faerie Queene

This word first appears in the form of the Blatant Beast, who works for Envie and Detraction, two allegorical figures. Of them, the poem says:

Vnto themselues they gotten had

A monster, which the Blatant beast men call,

A dreadfull feend of gods and men ydrad.

While the original Blatant Beast represented the worst sort of slander that could be spread about a person, the word eventually lost its beastly origins and came to mean offensive or in your face — “a blatant disregard for the truth.”

Chortle
Source: Lewis Carroll’s poem, Jabberwocky

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe…

These lines open Carroll’s brilliant gibberish poem that is, nevertheless, somewhat understandable because the grammar and parts of speech follow English rules and rhythm perfectly even if the words don’t quite. In that opening line, it’s quite obvious that “brillig” refers to something about the place we’re at, and slithy toves are creatures (nouns) that do actions (verbs) in a particular place — the wabe.

While Carroll’s Alice books were more likely than not a satire of “modern” math written by a rather conservative mathematician, they nonetheless also reflected his fascination and extreme talent with words. Jabberwocky also uses familiar structure — traditional math — with nonsense expressions standing in for all the standard variables as a reflection of Carroll’s disdain for what was happening to math at the time.

As for “chortle,” it appears in this sentence, after the hero has slain the Jabberwock: “’O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’ he chortled in his joy.” Here, the word can be taken as a portmanteau of chuckle and snorted.

Cyberspace

Source: William Gibson’s short story Burning Chrome

This one took off and took on meaning fast, becoming deeply entrenched in our culture particularly after the rise of the internet. The short story was first published in the magazine OMNI in 1982.

The first instance in the book is here: “I knew every chip in Bobby’s simulator by heart; it looked like your workaday Ono-Sendai VII, the “Cyberspace Seven…”

The term didn’t really take off two years later, when he used it in his novel, Neuromancer, and it’s defined thusly: “The matrix has its roots in primitive arcade games… Cyberspace. A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation.”

Sounds like the internet, doesn’t it? Sort of, but in Gibson’s vision, it went a little bit farther. Think Ready Player One — VR that’s interactive to the point that your own mind is projected into it.

Neuromancer was not the first cyberpunk novel or even the first work in the genre, but Gibson was its most famous author, and he boosted the aesthetic into the zeitgeist.

Freelance

Source: Sir Walter Scott’s novel Ivanhoe

You’ll probably figure out the origin of this one as soon as I explain the premise of Scott’s 1819 novel. Set in England in the Middle Ages several centuries after the time of the Norman Conquest, it tells the story of one of the last remaining Anglo-Saxon noble families in the country.

The story is contemporaneous with Robin Hood, and the hero, Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe, is a knight. This is one of the first modern stories to popularize the whole idea of chivalry and jousting tournaments with the English-speaking world, and now you probably have guessed how the word “freelance”  came up in the work.

Since these knights jousted and fought with lances, a “freelance” was someone who held no allegiance to a king or prince but, rather, was available for hire.

Mondegreen

Source: Sylvia Wright’s magazine article The Death of Lady Mondegreen

This one is almost charming, but the word itself has taken on an entire life online. The term refers to terribly misheard song lyrics, with one of the most cited being people hearing Jimi Hendrix’s “Excuse me while I kiss the sky” as “Excuse me while I kiss this guy.”

In Wright’s case, it was her mother who had misread a poem to her when she was a girl. The poem was Percy’s Reliques, and the correct line was, “layd him on the green,” which came out of her mother’s mouth as “Lady Mondegreen.”

Needless to day, it wasn’t until years later that Wright figured out the error and wrote her article, ushering the word into common usage and a great source of memes.

Nerd

Source: Dr. Seuss’s book If I Ran the Zoo

While Seuss himself didn’t define this one, it popped up in college slang with its modern meaning a year later in 1951, and while Merriam-Webster seems to think that this argues against Seuss inventing it, it actually makes perfect sense.

Families were bigger then and babysitting was an ubiquitous occupation, so it’s quite plausible that a high school senior or college freshman picked it up from reading to a younger sibling or babysitting client and the word made its way from there.

Here’s its original appearance in the book:

And then, just to show them, I’ll sail to Ka-troo

And bring back an It-kutch, a Preep and a Proo,

A Nerkle, a Nerd, and a Seersucker, too!

Again, it’s not defined, although the word “seersucker” was and still is a well-known fabric with somewhat square and nerdy connotations, so that may have helped define it to those college kids who took off with it.

Pandemonium

Source: John Milton’s epic Paradise Lost

Milton was the author who went ahead and wrote the origin story for Dante’s Inferno (okay, Divine Comedy, but no one ever reads the other two parts), and here he tells the story of Satan, the war in Heaven, and all that yadda yadda.

To him, Pandemonium was the capital of Hell, and the word was derived pretty simply: from the Greek prefix pan-, meaning all, and demonium, referring to the realm of the demons. So the word simply meant “Place of all demons.”

Scaredy-cat

Source: Dorothy Parker’s short story The Waltz

It’s the “scaredy” part that she coined here, although it’s been firmly welded to the word cat, so that it never appears separately or in any other compound. You’ll never hear “scaredy-dog,” after all.

The modern definition is somebody who’s afraid of everything, but in the context of the story, it has the typical Dorothy Parker sarcastic bite to it. In the story, she’s a woman at a dance feeling sorry for another woman is currently dancing with a man she doesn’t want to.

But then Parker’s character realizes she’s probably going to be asked yes and doesn’t want to, visualizes all kinds of scenarios on how to get out of it, including referring to seeing him in hell first or having labor pains, but she concludes with, “Oh, yes, do let’s dance together — it’s so nice to meet a man who isn’t a scaredy-cat about catching my beri-beri…”

Ultimately, she realizes that she has no choice but to politely comply.

Yahoo

Source: Jonathan Swift’s satirical novel Gulliver’s Travels

Long before it was an internet company that’s pretty much since past its prime, “yahoo” was coined by Jonathan Swift as the name of a depraved and filthy group of creatures Lemuel Gulliver encounters in his travels.

They are obsessed with digging through filth and mud to find pretty stones, making them stand-ins for the author to mock the petty materialism and elitism of 18th century Britain. There’s also one wild theory that their appearance in the book was based on contemporary reports of the Sasquatch coming from Native Americans at the time, but that could be specious.

And there you have it. Nominated for the list but cut upon investigation: The allegation that Dorothy Plath coined “dreamscape,” when it’s fairly badly attested, along with claims that Alexandre Dumas fils created “feminist.” Not only did the word exist before he used it in 1872, but he used it in a pamphlet that was extraordinarily misogynistic, so no credit to him.

What are your favorite invented words? Let us know in the comments.

Contrarians

There is an interesting class of words in English called contronyms. They are defined as words that have two contradictory definitions. You might wonder how this happens. There seem to be three different reasons.

The first is that the words are homographs. If you remember your Latin, this comes from the words “homo” for same, and “graph,” which refers to writing, so homographs are words that are written the same, but that’s the only thing they have in common. Contrast this to homophones, meaning same sound but with different meanings. Additionally, the words should have different etymologies. That is, they did not come from the same source words.

A good homographic example of this is the word “cleave,” which can either mean to join together or to split apart. “The bride and groom cleaved onto each other until hard times cleaved them apart.” The former sense comes from the Old English word cleofian, with the same meaning. The latter comes from Old English clēofan, to separate, which actually is a different word despite looking so similar.

The second way contronyms happen is through a form of polysemy, which comes from the Greek for many (poly) signs (semy, the root of semiotics.) [That link is provided for the sake of showing sources, but unless you’re a linguist it will make your head explode trying to read it. —Ed.] The main point to remember is that contronyms can happen as language evolves and a word begins to be used in a different sense by different groups.

Frequently, this refers to technical jargon, although it doesn’t always create contronyms. A good example is the word “insult.” In the medical field, it refers to a physical injury and not nasty words Medically speaking, adding insult to injury would be completely redundant.

A modern example of a contronym created this way is the word “sick” — in one sense, it refers to something that’s not well off: “Javi is feeling very sick today.” In another sense, it means something that’s really excellent: “Javi busted out some sick rhymes to win that rap battle.”

Finally, contronyms can happen when two different versions of the language use words in a different sense. The classic example of this is the word “table” as used in meetings. In American English, when a bill is tabled, that means that it’s removed from discussion and either dropped or put on hold. In British English, when a bill is tabled, that means it’s brought up for debate.

A few fun examples

There are a lot of contronyms, not just in English, but in other languages. Spanish has its own autoantónimos, and some of them even match their English counterparts. For example, rent/alquilar refers to the act of either renting from someone or renting to someone; sanction/sancionar refers to imposing a penalty or officially allowing something.

They can be a lot of fun, so let’s look at a few from a very long list, used together in their opposite meanings, along with some alternate meanings the word might also have.

Bill: When it’s not on a duck, you can pay a bill with a twenty-dollar bill, so this word has your money covered coming and going.

Bolt: When a lightning bolt strikes nearby, you might be inclined to bolt the door fast and stay inside, or you may bolt in fear and run away.

Custom: Everybody had followed exactly the same custom for years: to custom order for the New Year so that everyone’s shoes were completely different.

Dust: After the detectives dusted for prints, I had to dust the furniture to get it all off.

Fast: After a brief fast, I wanted to run away fast, but alas I was held fast because my belt got stuck to the chair.

Garnish: He was a chef who loved to garnish the entrees with parsley and cherry tomatoes, but was very sad after his divorce when his ex got a judge to garnish his wages.

Give out: (a rare two-word contronym!) He gave out his business cards tirelessly until his energy gave out completely.

Left: By the time there was only one bottle of wine left, all of the guests left and walked to the left, disappointed.

Off: Bob the Burglar thought that the alarm was off until he broke inside and set it off.

Out: It wasn’t until all of the lights went out that they could see how many stars were out at night.

Oversight: The oversight committee thought that they had monitored everything, but they realized their big oversight too late to fix it.

Refrain: “I wish you would refrain from singing that,” the teacher demanded, but the students went on and sang the same refrain again and again.

Rock: Joe was always solid and immobile as a rock until someone started to play rock music, at which point he would rock back and forth uncontrollably.

Strike: During the general sports strike, the replacement archers managed to strike the targets every time. Meanwhile, the baseball batters weren’t so lucky, getting strike after strike.

Throw out: (another two-worder!) I’m just going to throw out this idea for everyone to consider, but we really need to throw out the trash.

Trim: Before we can trim the Christmas tree, we really need to trim some of these branches.

Weather: The house had weathered many a winter season until its walls became too weathered to stand any longer.

Wind up: (two-worder number three!) I don’t mean to wind you up, but after you wind up this jack-in-the-box, we really need to wind up the evening and go home.

Why?

Some of the most interesting and fun contronyms lend themselves to neat wordplay, some of which I indulged in above. Since one of the hallmarks of humor is the unexpected, throwing a pair of contronyms into a sentence can be a great tool for spicing up your writing. I would offer an apology for my puns but I think I can write a pretty good apology in support of the concept. And there’s another word with great Greek roots: Apo-, a prefix meaning, among other things, a response or defense; logo, which means word; and –ia, a suffix in Greek indicating either a female singular or neuter plural noun or adjective.

So… words in response to or defense of something. This may sound like a subtle difference, but it’s not. If I offer an apology for my puns, then I’d say something like, “I am really sorry that I’ve made those puns.” If I write an apology for puns, then it would be a long piece tracing their history, showing examples, and describing why they are a valid form of humor — the exact opposite of apologizing for them.

But I won’t apologize for puns. Especially not when a contronym also has other meanings, because that’s where we can get into triple word score on a single sentence.

I mean, I’m not trying to be mean, but I think that puns are a wicked mean form of humor, you know what I mean.

Photo: “Black Sheep Meets White Sheep” (cc) 2011 by Leon Riskin, used unchanged under Creative Commons license 2.0.

Talky Tuesday: El-Al

No, the title of this post does not refer to the Israeli Airline, although it does allude to that part of the world. It’s just that the suffix –el and the prefix al– are often, but not always, clues that words in English and Spanish came from either Hebrew or Arabic respectively.

Hebrew and Arabic both use roots with prefixes and suffixes to indicate things like gender, number, case, part of speech, and so on. In the case of Arabic, “al” is a prefix that means “the.” Interestingly enough, in Spanish, “al” is the combination form of the preposition “a”, which means “at” or “to”, and the masculine singular definite article “el”, which means “the.”

So the phrase “el hombre” in Spanish means “the man,” while “al hombre” indicates giving or moving something to or at the man. The article “el” in Spanish bears absolutely no connection to the Hebrew suffix “-el”, though.

Let’s look at Arabic first. From 711 CE to 1492 CE, much of Northern Africa and most of Spain was under Muslim rule. As a result, the Arabic language and culture left a huge influence on the country, even after the Reconquista.

There are a lot of Spanish words that came from Arabic because of this, of course, but here I’m only going to look at a few of the “al” words. I find these a bit amusing if only because if you use them in Spanish with the definite article, you’re redundant. “El Alhambra,” for example, would be the the Red Fortress.

  1. Alcalde: al-qadi, the judge; Spanish for mayor. The feminine form is la alcaldesa. Originally, they were sort of assistant judges, but eventually became more municipal officers until the word took on the modern sense it has now.
  2. Alfombra: al-ḥánbal, a ceremonial tapestry. In Spanish, it means carpet, and if you watch awards shows in Spanish language media, you’ll hear the phrase “la alfombra roja” all the time: the red carpet. Now, since a tapestry is normally something hung on a wall, I have to wonder whether turning them into carpets wasn’t a little FU response by the Spanish once they threw off Muslim rule — “We’re going to turn your pretty wall hangings into something we walk on.” Hey, it’s not impossible.
  3. Algodón: al-qúţun, probably flax. The word is Spanish for cotton but, despite the similarity in sounds, there is no known connection between the Arabic and English words.
  4. Alhambra: al-Ḥamrāʼ, the red fortress, which describes the building in Granada, Spain It really is an architectural wonder, and must have been an amazing place to be during its heyday.
  5. Almoháda: al-mujadda, a word which means the same in Arabic and Spanish, and something I’m sure that all of us appreciate a lot more right now, if only it means we can stay in shelter and follow or increasingly vivid dreams. Una almoháda is a pillow.

As for English words that came from Arabic, here are a select few:

  1. Alcohol: al-kuḥl, which originally referred to kohl powder, which was used as an eyeliner. It was via the distillation process that the Egyptians used to create kohl that the word alcohol eventually came about. but eventually to any distilled or rectified spirit.
  2. Algebra: al-jabr, the reunion of broken parts, which is kind of what algebra does with its equations. Specifically, this referred to reducing fractions to integers in calculations. –
  3. Alkaline: al qaliy, referring to calcined ashes, which were the original source of alkaline substances, which is the current source of an ineffective fad Or, at least, misidentified. While the diet can have positive benefits, it has nothing to do with altering alkalinity in the body. Rather, the diet focuses on fruits, nuts, legumes, and vegetables, which is healthy regardless.

But I do digress. Onward!

The Hebrew suffix –el, which means god, is appended to names to create an attributive phrase. A lot of these names were applied to archangels in Hebrew tradition, and I’m sure you’ll recognize some of the more famous ones, many of which are very common first names in the Western World.

Just remember that in the original, the emphasis would be on last syllable so that, for example, the name Michael would be pronounced Mika-EL. Also, the name of the country Israel itself is an example of one of these words, from yisra-el, meaning “god contends.”

Yisra is derived from the word “sarah,” meaning to contend, and Israel was the name given to Jacob after he wrestled — or contended — with an angel of god.

To derive the female versions of these names, general just add an “a” — Daniel, Daniela, etc.

  1. Ariel: ari-el, lion of god. The Angel of Nature, Ariel is depicted as either male or female, depending upon tradition. They protected and healed animals and plants, and punished those who injured nature. Ariel was also the chief of the choir of angels known as the Virtures.
  2. Azrael: azar-el, he who helps god. Although not explicitly stated as such in Jewish tradition, Azrael is one of the Islamic angels of death. He’s not necessarily a malevolent angel, more of a civil servant, although not to be confused with the completely fictional Aziraphale from the book and minseries Good Omens. Okay, not that the other angels aren’t completely fictional as well, but… oh, you know what I mean.
  3. Daniel: din-i-el, god is my judge. Daniel is an angel in the apocryphal Book of Enoch, but not elsewhere in the Bible. He is, however, the quite human star of the Book of Daniel, where he is most famous for surviving being thrown into the lion’s den — an incident that happened because he happened to be good at his job and incorruptible, and it made the other satraps jealous and angry, so they set him up.
  4. Gabriel: gever-el, god is my strong man. One of only two archangels named in the Bible, he appears three times: The first is in several mentions in the Book of Daniel as Gabriel arrives to explain one of Daniel’s visions to him and to announce the coming of the Messiah. In the New Testament, Gabriel shows up to both Zechariah, husband of Elizabeth, and Mary, wife of Joseph, to let the former know that his wife was going to give birth to John the Baptist, and the latter know that she was going to give birth to Jesus, good luck explaining that one to Joe, apparently.
  5. Michael: micha-el, who is like god? The other archangel mentioned in the Bible, and one that I have an affinity with even though I consider myself to be a Catholic atheist. That might sound weird, but the idea is that I appreciate the trappings and customs of the religion of my mother (except for the kiddie-diddling) while believing in none of it. For me, though, St. Michael, the archangel depicted slaying Satan, is above all a symbol for each of us defeating our own dark sides. Since the two are always depicted together, they are sort of a Catholic yin-yang.
  6. Nathaniel: netan-el, gift from god. There’s no Jewish tradition of any angels named Nathaniel, but that hasn’t stopped modern woo culture from plowing on ahead and creating their own. He does show up in the Bible, though, as Nathanael, one of the Apostles, but is only mentioned in the gospel of John and nowhere else.
  7. Uriel: uri-el, light of god. Not an official archangel, although he possibly hung out with cherubim guarding the east side of Eden wielding a flaming sword after Adam and Eve were kicked out.

And there’s just a short survey of words and names that came from Arabic and Hebrew into Spanish and English. There’s a long list of English words that came from Arabic but don’t start with “al,” as well as a bunch of English words that came from Hebrew but don’t end in “el.”

The point is that English really is a melting pot of a language that loves to absorb words from other languages and cultures, and don’t let any schmuck ever tell you otherwise — especially not as you read that previous sentence with words born from Latin, French, German, Saxon, Greek, and Yiddish in it. Capisce?

Talky Tuesday: Language is (still) a virus

The following is a repost from the end of March 2020, just eleven days after the lockdown started in Los Angeles. This was the view from the other side of the pandemic, before we knew anything.

I used this Burroughs quote as a post title a couple of years ago in an entirely different context, but the idea has taken on new relevance, as I’m sure the world can now agree.

This post’s title comes from a William S. Burroughs quote which reads in full as, “Language is a virus from outer space.”

What he meant by the first part is that words enter a host, infect it, and cause a change in it. Just as a virus hijacks a host’s cells in order to become little factories to make more virus to spread a disease, words hijack a host’s neurons in order to become little factories to make more words to spread ideas and belief systems.

As for the “outer space” part, I think that Burroughs was being metaphorical, with the idea being that any particular language can appear totally alien to any other. While, say, Mongolian and Diné may both come from humans on Earth, if a speaker of either encountered someone who only spoke the other, they might as well be from different planets because, for all intents and purposes, they are from different worlds, unable to communicate with words.

And the language we use can quite literally create and shape our perceptions of the world, as I discussed in my original Language is a virus post. One of the most striking examples I cited in that link was Guugu Yimithirr, an aboriginal language that has no words for relative direction. Instead, they refer to everything based upon where it is relative to actual cardinal directions.

In other words, if you ask someone who speaks this language where you should sit, they won’t say, “In the chair on your left.” Rather, they’ll say something like, “In the chair to the north.” Or south, or east, or west. And a speaker of the language will know what that means, whether they can see outside or not.

Quick — right now, if someone said “Point east,” could you do it without thinking?

And that is how languages can change thoughts and perceptions.

But, sometimes — honestly, far too often — language can change perceptions to create tribalism and hostility, and during this plague year, that has suddenly become a huge topic of debate over a simple change of one C word in a phrase.

I’m writing, of course, about “coronavirus” vs. “Chinese virus.” And the debate is this: Is the latter phrase racist, or just a statement of fact?

One reporter from a rather biased organization did try to start the “it’s not” narrative with the stupidest question ever asked: “Mr. President, do you consider the term ‘Chinese food’ to be racist because it is food that originated from China?”

There are just two problems with this one. The first is that what Americans call “Chinese food” did not, in fact, originate in China. It was the product of Chinese immigrants in America who, being mostly men, didn’t know how to cook, and didn’t have access to a lot of the ingredients from back home. So… they improvised and approximated, and “Chinese food” was created by Chinese immigrants starting in San Francisco in the 19th century.

Initially, it was cuisine meant only for Chinese immigrants because racist Americans wouldn’t touch it, but when Chinatowns had sprung up in other cities, it was New York’s version that finally lured in the hipster foodies of the day to try it, and they were hooked.

In short, “Chinese food” was a positive and voluntary contribution to American culture, and the designation here is merely descriptive, so not racist. “Chinese virus” is a blatant misclassification at best and a definite attempt at a slur at worst, with odds on the latter.

But we’ve seen this with diseases before.

When it comes to simple misidentification of place of origin, let’s look back to almost exactly a century ago, when the Spanish flu went pandemic. From 1918 to 1919, it hit every part of the world, infected 500 million people and killed 50 million.

A little perspective: At the time, the world’s population was only 1.8 billion, so this represents an infection rate of 28% and a mortality rate among the infected of 2.8%. If COVID-19 has similar statistics — and it seems to — then that means this pandemic will infect 2.1 billion people and kill 211 million.

By the way, while the 1918 pandemic was very fatal to children under 5 and adults over 65, it also hit one other demographic particularly hard: 20 to 40 year-olds.

So if you’re in that age range and think that COVID-19 won’t kill you, think again — particularly if you smoke or vape or have asthma, and don’t take the quarantine seriously. And remember: the rich and world leaders are not immune either — not now and not then.

The president of the United States, Woodrow Wilson, was infected in the 1918 H1N1 pandemic in 1919, and while he survived, this assault on his health probably led to the stroke he had late in that year, an incident that was covered up by his wife, with the help of the president’s doctor. The First Lady became de facto president for the remainder of his second term.

In modern times, the first world leader to test positive for coronavirus was Prince Albert II of Monaco, followed not long after by Prince Charles and Boris Johnson. Of course, I’m writing these words a bit ahead of when you’ll read them, so who knows what will have happened by then.

In medical circles, the name “Spanish Flu” has been abandoned, and that particular pandemic is now known as H1N1, which I’m sure looks really familiar to you, because this has been the standard nomenclature for flu viruses for a while: H#N#, sans location, animal, or occupation, more on which in a minute.

But first, let’s get to the reasons behind naming a disease after a place. The H1N1 Pandemic was a simple case of mistaken identity and also contingent upon that whole “Great War” stuff going on in Europe.

See, other countries had been hit by it first, but in the interests of the old dick-waving “Gotta appear strong before our enemies” toxic masculinity, all of them suppressed the news. It wasn’t until Spain started seeing it in their citizens and, because they were neutral, they announced outbreaks, that the world suddenly pointed fingers and said, “Ooh… this came from Spain. Hence, it’s the Spanish flu.”

Except, not. Ironically, it seems now that the Spanish flu originated in… China. Although that’s according to historians. Virologists, on the other hand, have linked it to an H1 strain later identified in pigs in Iowa in the U.S.

Either way, all of the countries involved in WW I, aka “The Great War,” kept mum about it.

So the name “Spanish flu” was a simple mistake. On the other hand, the names of other diseases actually are outright xenophobic or racist, and we only have to look as far  as syphilis to see why.

Basically, syphilis is an STI that was the most feared of its kind until… AIDS, because syphilis was not treatable or curable until penicillin was discovered in 1928 — although it was not produced on a mass scale until 1945, thanks to needs created by WW II, and facilitated by the War Production Board.

Hm. Sound familiar?

But the reason it became known as the French disease outside of France was that it began to spread after Charles VIII of France invaded Italy in 1494-95 to reclaim a kingdom he thought should be his. It was eventually so devastating that Charles had to take his troops home, and so it began to spread in France and across Europe.

Since it first showed up in French soldiers, it was quickly dubbed the French disease in Italy and England, although the French preferred to call it the Italian disease. In reality, it most likely originated in the New World, and was brought back to Europe by… Columbus and his Spanish soldiers, who then somehow managed to spread it to the French as they worked for them as mercenaries.

Hm. STI. A bunch of male soldiers. I wonder how that worked, exactly.

And I am totally destroying my future google search suggestions by researching all of this for you, my loyal readers, just so you know! Not to mention that I can’t wait to see what sort of ads I start getting on social media. “Confidential STI testing!” “Get penicillin without a prescription.” “These three weird tricks will cure the STI. Doctors hate them!”

But the naming of diseases all came to a head almost five years ago when the World Health Organization (WHO)  finally decided, “You know what? We shouldn’t name diseases after people, places, animals, occupations, or things anymore, because that just leads to all kinds of discrimination and offense, and who needs it?”

This directly resulted from the backlash against the naming of the last disease ever named for a place, despite the attempt to obfuscate that in its official terminology. Remember MERS, anyone?  No? That one came about in 2012, was first identified in Saudi Arabia, and was named Middle East respiratory syndrome.

Of course, it didn’t help when things were named swine flu or avian flu, either. A lot of pigs and birds died over those designations. So away went such terminology, especially because of the xenophobic and racist connotations of naming a disease after an entire country or people.

Of course, some antiquated folk don’t understand why it’s at the least racist and at the most dangerous to name diseases the old way, as evinced by the editorial tone of this article from a right-wing publication like The Federalist. But they actually kind of manage to prove the point that yes, such terminology is out of fashion, because the only 21st century example they can list is the aforementioned MERS.

The most recent one before that? Lyme disease, named for Lyme, Connecticut, and designated in… the mid-70s. Not exactly the least racist of times, although this disease was named for a pretty white-bread area.

The only other examples of diseases named for countries on their list: the aforementioned Spanish flu, Japanese encephalitis, named in 1871 (seriously, have you ever heard of that one?); and the German measles, identified in the 18th century, although more commonly known as rubella.

So, again — it’s a list that proves the exact opposite of what it set out to do, and calling coronavirus or COVID-19 the “Chinese virus” or “Chinese disease” is, in fact, racist as hell. And it won’t save a single life.

But calling it that will certainly endanger lives by causing hate crimes — because language is a virus, and when people are infected by malignant viruses, like hate speech, the results can be deadly.

Inoculate yourselves against them with education if possible. Quarantine yourselves against them through critical thinking otherwise. Most of all, through these trying times, stay safe — and stay home!

Image source: Coronavirus Disease 2019 Rotator Graphic for af.mil. (U.S. Air Force Graphic by Rosario “Charo” Gutierrez)

More misused words

It can be a chore sometimes trying to convince people that spelling and grammar are important. And FSM knows I can be a hypocrite in that I roll my eyes and say, “Oh, hell no” every time someone laments the inability of people nowadays to write or read in cursive.

Then again, I really don’t see the point of cursive, especially not when we can do most things by keyboard. Although the flip-side of that advantage is that it lends itself to text speak and emojis — which is fine in the context of messaging, where it works. But if you’re attempting anything more formal, and that includes arguing about shit in social media, then for the moment you still want to go for the good spelling and grammar.

Why? Because to do otherwise really undercuts your argument. If you have sloppy grammar or bad spelling, it tells us one of two things, depending upon your attitude about it.

First, if you misspell or misuse words and don’t care, or spell them like you hear them instead of like they are (e.g. caught in the wild: “riddens” instead of “riddance”) then it tells us that you are intellectually lazy, so that means we don’t have to bother listening to anything you have to say, because you haven’t bothered to research it, you’re only parroting what you’ve been told, thank you and good night.

And if you misspell or misuse words because you just can’t remember the difference between things like your and you’re, that tells me that you really can’t retain easily learned information, and probably are not the best choice for trusting with anything complicated.

Hint: At those times when I’ve been in charge of hiring, cull trick number one was to dump any résumé with an unforced error in either of these areas. Note that this doesn’t include typos. For example, if I see “the” where you clearly meant “they,” that gets a bit of a pass. But if you mix up (or make up) words or spell things wrong, then… b’bye.

That said, here are some more heinous abuses of the language that I’ve seen in the wild in just the last couple of weeks.

Raindeer instead of reindeer

I suppose this might make sense since these noble creatures are associated with Santa Claus and winter and a time when it might rain, except that reindeer and Santa are associated with the North Pole (or at least Finland and Lapland), so if they were being named because of the weather, they’d probably be snowdeer.

Not to mention that they’re more elk-like. But the whole idea of the “rein” in “reindeer” is that reins are things you put on animals to steer them.. The most famous example of reined animals are horses, although you can rein cattle. You don’t rein oxen, though, you yoke them, and they seem to figure it out from there.

Nobody puts Bambi in a yoke. Or reins. Or a corner. But as for those fabulous Lap cervidae with the fabulous antlers… better rein them in so that they can lead Santa’s sleigh.

A quick way to remember that “rain” is wrong — the last thing you’d want is reindeer raining down from the sky.

I won’t get into people mixing up “sleigh” vs. “slay” here now, though.

Adieu instead of ado

Most often seen in a phrase like “with no further adieu (sic)…”

This is an interesting example of ignorance trying to appear more intelligent, since there’s the appropriation of a French word there — adieu, for good-bye, which is a cognate of the Spanish adios, both of which literally mean “to god!” And if you take them in the context of when and where they originated, they were basically saying, “Hope to see you again, but if you die of plague before that, which is really likely old friend, may you go to heaven.”

Whoa. Heavy. So saying “Much go to god” makes no sense at all. Instead, we have the early middle English word (thanks Willy Shakes) a-do, which takes that old Romance pronoun “a,” meaning motion toward, and sticks it on that definitely English verb “do,” which is such a powerful auxiliary verb in the language that it steps in for most translations of direct questions in romance languages.

“¿Hablas español?” “Do you speak Spanish?”

“¿Quién lo hagas?” “Who did it?”

 “¿Sabes qué hora es?” “Do you know what time it is?”

I guess the only trick here is to think of the “a” in the negative as “nothing more to,” and then naturally sticking it on the verb to do, dropping the to. Or, in other words, why not the phrase “With nothing more to do” or “No more to do before…”

With no further ado…

Per say instead of per se

This one is simply an example of never having seen the word in print and pushing English onto it. Except, if you’ve ever studied any Romance language or Latin, this form makes sense, because the pronoun “se” will immediately hit your eye as a thing that’s used to create the passive tense, at least in Spanish.

You’ve probably seen “Se habla español,” and what it means is “Spanish is spoken here.” Well, at least in English translation. A more literal translation that is not as English friendly would be something like “it is spoken, Spanish.”

As for “per” it’s a well-used word in English, and you see it in prices all the time. “How much are the lemons?” “They’re $1.25 per pound.”

In other words, “per” in English means “for” or “for each.” Pretty much the same as it means in Latin or, shift it to “por,” in Spanish.

Put the two together and, in Latin, it makes total sense: per se, for itself. In Spanish, not so much, and “por se” is not a thing. But the important thing on top of that is that “say” is not a word in Spanish, Latin, French, Portuguese, or Romanian.

Which brings us right back to the original and only translation. Something noted with “per se” is by, of, for, or in itself. So… “I’m not saying that all Romans will know this expression per se, but I think a lot of them will…”

Complimented instead of complemented

This one is not as hard as it might seem. Compliment means to say something nice about someone. Complement means to go together. So here’s the reminder: In order for you to get a compliment, I have to do it. Well, someone has to, but the point of the mnemonic is that compliment has an I in it. Complement doesn’t.

As for “complement,” it all goes together, as in the word has one O, two E’s, and no other vowels. Or you can think of the word complete, and remember that when one thing complements another, it completes it.

When in their adjectival forms, complimentary and complementary, you can remember which is which in pretty much the same way. As for the other meaning of complimentary — something received for free, like a hotel’s complimentary buffet — remember the I because it’s a gift.

Breaking instead of braking

The trick here is in the vowels. Well, sort of. If you’re talking about a car — or an auto or any vehicle stopped by gripping the wheels or other things — then the only vowel is an “a.” Ergo, the word is braking. Hit the brakes. Brake to a stop. Brake the car. Or… brake the automobile, which starts with A.

Now, you’d think that the name for a light-weight jacket often made of synthetic materials should then be a “windbraker” becase it stops the wind, but it’s not. It’s a windbreaker. Now why is it called that? If it’s because it breaks wind, that would be a really neat trick for a jacket to pull off, not to mention either amusing or alarming, depending upon your sense of humor. (Personally, I’d find it hilarious.)

The real answer is that Windbreaker® is a registered trademark of the company John Rissman & Son, so in reality we should really use the alternate name windcheater. However, Windbreaker is going the way of Kleenex and Xerox, both trademarks that have basically become generic in common usage.

Or, in other words, a lot of people probably ask for a Kleenex instead of a tissue, or use the Xerox machine even if it’s a Canon or Brother, and we all google stuff even if we’re using Bing — but, really, why would anyone be? What we don’t see are companies releasing things like “Billy Johnson’s kleenex” or “FlurfingtonCo xerox machine,” because those would still violate the law.

Oops. Let me put the brakes on that digression. The other word, “break,” basically means to divide, shatter, ruin, wreck, interrupt, or make something useless or incomplete. Break-up, prison break, break dishes, break the mold, break a record, and so on.

It can also mean to suddenly start something — break into a sweat, break into a run, break out in song — or to prepare something for use — break in the car.

One use that simultaneously interrupts one thing and starts another is going to be the key to remembering this spelling, and that’s breakfast. If you’ve never really thought about it, that word may seem weird, but let’s break it down (see what I did there?) so that we get break and fast.

Fun fact: the word is exactly the same in Spanish: desayunar, to breakfast, combines the verb ayunar, to fast, with the prefix des-, which means to remove. The noun form is desayuno. And yes, in English it is entirely possible to say, “Let us breakfast this morning” and use the word as a verb.

Now where did fasting come into it the equation? Simple. You haven’t eaten anything since before you went to bed the night before, which should have been at least eight hours ago. So when you have your morning meal, you are interrupting, or breaking, that fast. At the same time, this meal is the start of your day. So you get two interpretations of break for the price of one. And since you do it by eating, there you go. This version of the word that sounds like braking has “ea” in it. And you can’t eat or break without them.

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