Number 93
My face had been falling off (in several senses of the phrase) so a couple of weeks ago I decided it was time to replace my long-depleted supply of Mary Kay facial cleansing, toning, and moisturizing products, and give up the caustic abrasives I'd been using. I chose a dealer I'd read about in the newspaper who sends all her profits to an orphanage or girls' school in India. I tracked her down and placed my order, and we scheduled the drop-off at Starbucks. After a false contact (the first strange lady who came in bearing a parcel was not the Mary Kay lady), I got my stuff and chatted a bit with my exuberant new dealer.
Shortly after introductions, she asked suddenly, apropos of nothing, "Don't you think if the United States has an official language we ought to have two, English and Spanish?"
Hmm. Well, no. I don't think we need an official language, we have enough laws to worry about now, and why introduce this forked-tongued, Canadian-style fight? Could secession be far behind? Were an "official" language necessary, I'd pick just one, and that one would be English. It's historic in this nation, it's important, and people all over the world learn it for purposes of business. In past centuries, every cultivated European (and American) learned French, which was the "language of diplomacy", that is, the language used in international parley ("parley" comes from French, of course). I do think it would be a good idea to reintroduce the study of foreign languages as a degree requirement in colleges, and to encourage the study in public schools. Note I say "foreign" languages. There is no such thing as a true "international" language (like Esperanto), although English is one that's used internationally.
Now there are lots of Spanish-speaking people in the USA, but what if the growing population of Muslim immigrants overtakes them in numbers? Will we have to make Arabic another "official" language? Why not Japanese? They're doing well; they bought Goodrich, for example, in Akron, Ohio, home of my birth, Tire Town, Rubber Capital of the World, Rubber City. Or pick any country that's making financial inroads into this country, and let's kowtow to it by adding its language to the official list. The big-hearted Mary Kay lady could see the logic of not offending non-Hispanic groups by making Spanish as an official language, although she didn't see the logic of preserving our English-based culture.
There's a reason we have the expression "mother tongue". Our native language is not just a means for communicating by road signs and legal documents. English carries a heavy weight of history, it informs us through its inconsistent spelling and multiplicity of synonyms. The fact is, English is perfect for the United States, and not just because the originators of this nation spoke English. English has been fed by many sources, just as this country is made up of immigrants from all over. It started in England from Anglo-Saxon (Old English and German), with a bit of Celtic; early Roman invasion brought Latinate or Romance (Roman) language into the mix; more Germanic words came with Norse invasion; the Normans invaded with French, and thus more Romance words mixed with the natives; and eventual British exploration and conquest brought in words from other languages. (For example, "kowtow", in the preceding paragraph, came from Chinese.) English is a rich language, capable of many nuances because of its complex evolution. It always changes, as does the United States. Maybe people who are eager to introduce other "official" languages don't know enough about English.
My face is much better now, by the way.
The weather is getting colder and a few leaves have fallen: it is fall, and it is autumn. Autumn comes from Latin through French. "Fall" is English and simply refers to the falling of leaves. This is the only season for which we have two names. Winter, summer, and spring have Anglo-Saxon roots. Somehow the English didn't adopt French words for these seasons. Why did they do so for autumn?
Bryan Yeaton, host of The Weather Notebook, wondered the same thing, and he says: "Both autumn and fall were in use when English colonists set sail for the New World. Autumn won out in England, but in North America we still call it fall, like the Elizabethans did."
Perhaps the English used French words for the other seasons too, but they didn't catch on.
Of course we use autumn in the US also, especially when the meter calls for it as in the song: "The autumn leaves fall past my window . . . " You couldn't very well sing, "The fa-a-a-l-l-l leaves fall past my window . . . "
By the way, we don't capitalize the seasons, although it may seem logical to do so, as for months and days of the week. But no.
One of my French students wore a T-shirt with an American flag on the front and a paragraph on the back explaining the significance of the stars and stripes, using the word "canton" for the block in the corner with the stars. Apparently a French-speaking person was translating into English (and as Ellen R. told me years ago, professionally, one only translates into one's native language).
A definition of canton, in heraldry, from Dict.org says: "A division of a shield occupying one third part of the chief, usually on the dexter side, formed by a perpendicular line from the top of the shield, meeting a horizontal line from the side." More generally, a canton is a sector or division. It wasn't the best translation, and reminds even us native speakers to beware of careless use of the thesaurus.
(Regarding "expiry," which I mentioned in PO 91, Ellen also informed me that the word is found on Canadian credit cards. I think "Tina's Groove," the cartoon where I read the word, is by a Canadian cartoonist.)
I also discovered that the keyboard of the computer of my French students is not like the keyboard of my computer. Some of the letter keys are in different positions. I think this is a hindrance to English-French inter-secretariality and something must be done about it.
Jewelweed is a wild plant whose sap is used to relieve poison ivy. Years ago a friend showed it to me in the woods, because she was very susceptible to poison ivy and jewelweed was her best relief. I just learned from Fred that it's also called touch-me-not, because its seed pods explode when lightly touched. Another name (it has several) is impatiens, meaning impatient. This is the time to look for this plant. The ripe pods burst open easily; the green ones take more pressure, or may not pop at all.
Perhaps the name jewelweed arose from the beautiful gold flowers, or because as a medicinal plant it was as valuable as jewels. The name touch-me-not refers to the defensive action of the exploding seed pods, but in fact it's not defensive, it's the way this annual reseeds itself when animals or birds or humans brush its leaves. It ought to be called touch-me.
The Bible says God gave Adam the job of naming the plants and animals and so on (Genesis 2), so obviously people from earliest times understood the power of naming ~ The Word ~ "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God" (John 1:1). I don't begin to understand what that means, but imagine a people who would think that, and write it down! They could have said, "In the beginning was light" or even dark, but no, it was the Word. Whoa.
When I was a teenager I was upset because my father dismissed as "weeds" some flowers I thought were pretty, but someone else said, "What's wrong with a weed?" But that's another conversation.
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