I often tell people I had no idea why I decided to major in English, beyond the fact I was good at it in high school.
I lie.
I was good at a lot of things in high school...pretty much anything that didn't involve numbers, in fact, I distrusted mathematics for the same reason most people trust it: in math, there's no room for argument. Something's either right or it's wrong, and despite the practise of many math teachers to award marks for "partially" right answers, if you don't know how to get the completely right answer, nothing you can say or do will derive it for you.
The same holds true in the hard sciences (the degree of "hardness" proportional to their basis in pure mathematics). There's a right formula and a great many wrong ones for any application, and if you apply an incorrect formula, it's possible nothing will happen; it's also possible you'll blow yourself to smithereens.
It's been my experience that life doesn't work that way, and I'm immediately and intensely suspicious of people who feel that there is a single "right" answer to most any problem. How do people in the real world work to solve problems?
With words.
I've always been fascinated with words. It's true that words are slippery little buggers--but it's also true that most problems you get into using words can be solved with more words. Try that with numbers.
I buried myself in words when I was a kid, all but abstaining from comic books and television and other, perhaps more visual, media. My love of language is one of the few constants I can trace back to early childhood. Almost since I can remember, I've liked to play with words.
So does my mom. She was born into a French-Canadian family and had to learn English, which she's done, impeccably. In fact, she's lost most if not all of her once-native tongue.
But she's come out with some weird words over the years. Serengated for serrated springs to mind. Or thermomistat. Or sirp, that stuff you put on pancakes.
"Mom," I said once, "what do you call a distinguished gentleman?"
"Sir."
"And if something's not down, it's..."
"Up".
"Put them together?"
"Sir-up."
"And what do you put on pancakes?"
"Sirp".
I misprounounced impala for years. Also decor (out of my mouth, the former had two syllables and the latter sounded like "decker", as in "double-decker sandwich".) The first time I came across the word for male prostitute, I pronounced it "giggle-o", provoking giggles. And of course there was that time I was in the doughnut shop with Dad and I read out the sign I saw in my three-year-old's piping clear voice: "Open 24 whores!"
So I guess I shouldn't be so upset when I hear other people mangling the language. But I can't help being puzzled: why do so many people pronounce sherbet "sherbert"? Just this morning I heard a newscaster on 680 News say "nuke-you-lar" several times...and she wasn't trying to impersonate Dubya. (I'm pretty sure this is the same newscaster who said "sim-you-all-tane-ee-us-ly" twice last week.)
In an onging effort to avoid such malapropisms and embarrassments, I continually delve into etymology and the history of language. I could spend several lifetimes at this: English is such a weird, weird tongue. I've collected questions about it for years, from minds that think like mine.
For instance, everyone knows you drive on a parkway and park in a driveway, but why does your nose run and your feet smell? How is it we recite at a play and play at a recital? When you send something by car, it's called a shipment, but send it by ship and it's cargo. What's with that?
How can something burn up while it's burning down? Why is a fat chance and a slim chance the same thing? If runners run and singers sing, how come hammers don't ham and grocers don't groce? One goose, two geese; one moose, two...
Why is it called a "building" even after it's built? Why is a lion "the king of the jungle" when lions don't even live in the jungle? Why do we say "after dark" when we mean "after light"? By "after dark", of course, we mean "after nightfall"...but it's not night that falls. If anything, it rises: it's the sun that seems to fall.
Why do we call them aboriginals when ab- means not, as in "abnormal"? Why does the word sanction have two meanings..."to allow" and "to disallow"? Has anyone ever been ept, gusted or gruntled? And if the prefix in- means "not" as in inanimate and ineffable, than something that's invaluable shouldn't be valuable at all, should it?
Why do people say "I could care less" when they mean they couldn't care less? Why is it, when two airplanes nearly hit each other, it's called a near miss? You are, aren't you? Why not I am, am'nt I?
Yup, English is odd. Did you know you can spell fish g-h-o-t-i?
You can. "Gh" as in enough,
"o" as in women
and "ti" as in nation.
Canada adds its own unique phrases to the language. I grew up hearing words like pogey (unemployment insurance, what the Brits call being 'on the dole'); wobbly-pop (alcohol, especially beer), a two-four for a case of 24 wobbly-pops...drink enough two-fours and you'll get some serious Molson muscle (potbelly). Then there's double-double (a coffee with two sugars and two creams); serviette (French (and Canadian English) for "napkin"; housecoat (bathrobe); homo milk (homogenized...what 'Merkuns call "whole milk")...and I never had the slightest clue these terms were all but unknown just two hours to my south. It's weird, you know: in Canada we're forever bemoaning the Americanization of our culture, but from eh to zed our language proves there's still some culture left in us. We ask for the bill in restaurants--why Americans ask for the check is beyond me (and we'd spell in c-h-e-q-u-e in any event). Many Americans of my acquaintance have never heard "he's S.O.L.", which is a pretty common phrase up here meaning "he's shit out of luck". Some Americans say "pop" and some say "soda", but I've never heard a Canadian say soda unless it was preceded with cream or club.
Language is a source of endless diversion for me. I take great delight reading things like
A tutor who tooted the flute
Tried to tutor two tooters to toot.
Said the two to the tooter,
"Is it harder to toot or
To tutor two tooters to toot?"
or
"A canner, exceedingly canny
One morning remarked to his granny,
"A canner can can
Anything that he can,
But a canner can't can a can, can he?"
or again
She offered her honour
He honoured her offer
He was on her and off her the rest of the night.
On that note, I'll adjourn. Night, all. And again, happy 2008.
4 comments:
You said, "...but it's also true that most problems you get into using words can be solved with more words. Try that with numbers."
I know a few accountants who think differently. What do ya mean numbers can't be fun?
Very entertaining.
Ask an American where the "hydro is" so you can plug in your whatever, and they'll look at you like you have two heads.....
Also, how come the past tense of feed is fed? How is it that weed is a noun and a verb, but the past tense of weed is weeded? How come you weed and feed your lawn today, but you didn't wed and fed it last week? You weeded and fed it, try saying that without tripping over your tongue.
That last once came up this past fall, "What did you do this weekend? Oh I wed and uh.. oh.. umm.. I fertilized the lawn"
Russell, a good point re: numbers. Although in these days of Enron and Conrad Black, it's getting harder to solve "number problems" with more numbers.
Catelli--I could give you an answer to your "weed and feed" question (it has to do with weak and strong verbs, and where each word came from, linguistically) but knowing the answers to these things destroys all the fun. Speaking of fun, was it fun fertilizing the lawn? Whenever I try that, I'm afraid I'll get caught...but that kind of adds to the thrill, y'know?
Your right, I'd rather remain dumb. I'd rather bitch, and you're the first one to have an answer. There's comfort in my ignorance.
As to fertilizing, at 2am its a real quiet neighborhood. Me and the dog have the grass all to ourselves!
And on that note I think I'll grab a magazine and head to the....
bed.
'Night!
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