In case we forget …

In case we forget …

http://www.npr.org/2016/05/17/478337140/obama-guidelines-to-protect-transgender-students-is-life-changing

This morning’s broadcast of Morning Edition on NPR included an interview with Debi Jackson, mother of an eight year old transgender daughter, Avery.

When Avery was four, Jackson recalls, she turned to her mother and said, “Mom, you think I’m a boy, but inside I’m a girl.”

It’s as simple and as complicated as that.

On one hand, there’s really no way to miss the point; Avery knew she was a girl at the age of four.  With whatever grace the universe gives to the best parents, Avery’s got it and assisted her transition at the age of four.

On the other hand, we live in a messy and occasionally mean spirited world in which universal messages go untended.  The Jacksons’ school district could not adapt, and so Avery has been home schooled.

She belongs to a Girl Scout Troop, and those friends are aware that she is transgender.  The recent public furor over who gets to use what bathroom made Avery uneasy about going to Scout meeting.  Her mother described Avery’s distress.  “Everyone knows.  And if they know this law might pass, they might go ahead and tell me I have to go into the boys’ bathroom.  And I won’t do that.”

OK, that broke my heart.  What kind of country are we that puts an eight year old girl in the position of standing up for identity and principle at the cost of friendship and community?  Avery is eight years old with a sense of self and degree of courage that few of us can muster at any point.

She is also insightful way beyond her years.  When she learned of the Executive Order establishing guidelines by which school system are to respect the gender of transgender children, Avery’s response was extraordinary.  It’s reported that she whispered, “That’s life changing, Mom.  I could actually go to a real school.”

.Just in case we lose sight of children such as Avery as angry rhetoric gets ugly, let’s remember that it’s really quite simple:  It is the business of government to go to any lengths to protect the rights of its citizens; all children are our children.

 

 

Can We Survive The Trump Candidacy?

Can We Survive The Trump Candidacy?

I am disappointed, of course, that the state of public affairs has devolved to virtual chaos, although, as one who raised a fist in protest at the end of the 1960’s, I once longed for the cleansing of the nation that would follow the fires in the streets.  Not much cleansing in the next decades, as most will recall, in part because my generation fell into self-congratulatory hedonism followed by cheerful acclimation to conspicuous consumption.

We failed and failed quickly.  Many of us were genuine in our support of the extension of Civil Rights and equally sincere in our opposition to the war in Vietnam, and yet, when we lost sight of one of the great maxims in the modern military lexicon (You can’t win a war in Afghanistan), we didn’t march.  When we entered Iraq, we didn’t march.  When the Voting Rights Act was overturned, we didn’t march.  When ordinary people lost retirement pensions and homes, when Wall Street firms  and banks gave out bonus checks subsidized by taxpayers, when Standard and Poors  and Moody’s continued to do business, when none of the hedge fund billionaires were held accountable for the looting of the nation, we didn’t march.

We watched on tv.  We listened to NPR.  We shook our heads.

So, why wallow in indignation now?  Is the candidacy of Donald Trump a more egregious blot upon the national  escutcheon than any of the earlier low points?

He’s a bully, sure; but we’ve seen our share of those.  He’s a political dunce, ignorant of the most basic elements of statecraft.  He’s arrogant, willfully ignoring the conventions of discourse.  But, why does this arrogant dunce raise my hackles as others have not?

Some of my distress undoubtedly comes in having Trump force fed to me on an hourly basis; he is quite literally on every channel from dawn to dark.  In addition, there are issues of style and language that offend me; it seems self-evident to me that a candidate who boasts he has “the best words” clearly does not.Do his shabby, gold-plated gaucheries offend my aesthetic sensibility?  They do.  The piled Trump steaks, for example, appear to argue that meat is both totem and currency.  Donald Trump delights in flaunting his wealth, pointing to the things he has built (has had built) as examples of achievement; at best, Trump’s architectural legacy is grotesque.

To make things worse, Trump is a philistine.  Not only does a philistine hold all things aesthetic, intellectual, or philosophical in contempt, he radiates smug pleasure in dismissing the accomplishments and ideas of his betters.  In leveling architectural landmarks in his own city, Trump purposefully destroyed works of art that he had promised to the Metropolitan Museum.  Perhaps I see him as vandal as much as philistine.  Looting and pillaging his way as a real estate developer, he has taken his profit at the expense of others.

But, none of these mild objections are at the heart of my distress.

Trump has not taken center stage; he has been awarded it.  The media could have given him the space accorded to other celebrities whose only grip on celebrity is in being odd enough to provoke momentary titillation.  Trump was not wrong in boasting that his presence assured the networks of consistently high ratings; his boorish domination of experienced, genuinely astute men who had given their lives top public service was bizarre, outrageous, unexpected, and compelling.  The first time.  Of course the candidates were slow to understand that neutrality and civility allowed Trump to have his way with them, almost casually dismissing each with pejorative terms not heard since the raucous battles of the Nineteenth Century.  “Lyin” Ted Cruz and “Little” Marco Rubio must have felt themselves on the playground rather than in political debate..

I deplore the lack of civility with which the Trump candidacy has progressed; the greater injury, however, has been the unleashing of the ugliest of impulses in a nation quickly falling into tribal rigidity.  Time Magazine described the intensity with which hate-mongers and racists have promoted the Trump candidacy in an article, “The Billionaire and the Bigot”.  Describing Trump’s appeal to racists as nuanced, Time suggests that bigots hear their own strong prejudices in Trump’s confident scorn for those he sees as not welcome in making America great again.  There are no accidental overtures in the Trump candidacy.  For example, he chose to deliver his New York State fulminations in the very small community of Patchogue, Long Island, a community widely known for the 2008 murder of Marcelo Lucero, an Ecuadorian dry cleaning worker.  The seven teens accused of his murder described what they called, “beaner hopping,” a regular practice of looking for Hispanics to beat.

There is no subtlety  in Trump’s turning the nation’s attention to Patchogue at that point in his campaign’ even the thickest of bigots would be hard pressed to miss the point.

Trump’s candidacy is unfortunate; he is a narcissist, a philistine, a vandal, and thoroughly unqualified for the position he seeks.  His candidacy is a  reckless act of egomaniacal puffery and vitriolic conceit.  All of which would be more than enough enough to cause me to weep, but it is the gleeful mean spirit with which his acolytes preach tribal retribution that saddens me most profoundly.

We are no strangers to meanness of spirit, and other nasty episodes have resolved themselves at some cost, but this moment may signal the sorts of fissures that cause societies to break apart.

 

I’m Like… uh …

I’m Like… uh …

My daughter recently had occasion to correct an administrator at a highly regarded independent school.  In a letter, that functionary referred to my daughter as an alumnus whereas she is, of course, an alumna.  The worse mistake would have been to refer to an individual graduate as an alumni, an error found almost universally.  Her willingness to step into the fray allows me to bring up today’s minor kerfuffle, the egregious use of the word like instead of the word as in comparing action or state of being.

I begin with the certainty that relatively few people hear the difference, care about the difference, or want to talk about the difference between the two words.  Once again, however, I am more than willing to lob another uninvited broadside into an uncaring universe.

I had the good fortune to come of age as a grammarian battle raged over the use of like in a commercial jingle.  The jingle was catchy and easy to sing –

“Winston tastes good (clap clap) like a cigarette should.”

One’s first thought may be that the proposition that the taste of any particular cigarette is what should be considered good is difficult to argue.  Questions of taste aside,to grammarians at mid-century, the use of the word like was offensive; they felt the proper locution ought to have been –

“Winston (sic) tastes good as a cigarette should (taste).”

If they were correct, as I contend they were, the difference between the two words must be found in the part of speech that each represents.  I am aware, by the way, that discussions of parts of speech rarely take place in ordinary discourse.  I stand accused of snobbery in raising issues of this sort, but the best sorts of discussions depend upon thoughtful awareness of nuance and shades of meaning, as in this consideration of words appropriate to specific circumstances.  David Foster Wallace, the most astute and brutally confrontational student of contemporary language, referred to himself (and those who share his outrage) as SNOOTS.  As he suggests, “A SNOOT can be loosely defined as somebody who knows what dysphemism means and doesn’t mind letting you know it.”  That loose definition will suffice for the nonce; a treatise on SNOOTs will soon appear on a site near you. In an attempt to escape SNOOTISM, I’ll present this definition of a dysphemism.  In most cases, it is an  expression (figurative expression) that carries a negative connotation, often used to discount people.   “She’s a bitch” “He’s a prick” “You’re a pig”.

But for now, attention is on like and as.  The casual checker of grammatical correctness (i.e. normal person / not a SNOOT) may land on the first site presented, usually that hosted by the ubiquitous “Grammar Girl” from  which source the reader will learn that like is more properly employed as a preposition and as as a conjunction, a circumstance the Grammar Girl had not acknowledged until raging grammar battles have emerged.

As a SNOOT, I have to add to those who will listen that like can be used as a verb (I like lemurs/ I’d like a haircut, please), as a noun (I’d never seen the like of that beast.), and as a preposition or (rarely) as a conjunction.

So, what’s the problem?  Well, like as a preposition can mean typical, as in, “That’s not like you,” or such as as in, “My dog loves snacks like chips.”  In most sentences, the preposition can mean similar to, or in the manner of.   “I have an uncle just like that. ”

No problems there.

But … despite the protestations of the universe of casual speakers and writers, and recognizing that, yes, sustained contemporary usage does force modification and evolution of language, still…

Like is usually NOT a conjunction.  It does not join two independent clauses.

As actually CAN BE a conjunction.  It can and often does connect two independent clauses.

So what, you ask.  is the difference?

Let’s look at the infamous dilemma with regard to cigarettes:

“Winston tastes good like a cigarette should” is incorrect in, oh, so many ways.  I’m not even going to worry about the use of the singular Winston, a fairly common first name, leading to conjecture that this writer will not explore. On the most significant level, the statement uses like as if it were a conjunction.

Look at the statement: “Winston Tastes Like A Cigarette”.  An unnecessary proposal, but it works  because the statement is essentially stating that Winston has the taste of a  cigarette, which is a NOUN.”  One could easily sell fruit by saying, “This chewing gum tastes like an orange.”  There’s no room for confusion if we remember that gum has no sense of taste; no implied verb arrives with the statement.

You look like a pig.  Uncomplimentary but not an incorrect composition, if the speaker means to compare appearances rather than the pig’s manner of looking at things.

You act like a pig.  Also a grim assessment, but flawed in its structure.  And yet…

Interestingly, the evocation of piggishness is something of a special case; almost all of the comparisons have become too familiar to avoid.  Even a SNOOT would have a tough time saying, “You act as a pig”.

So, things being as they are, (not things being like they are) most SNOOTS will writhe quietly when this particular grammatical injury arrives, recognizing that some battles may not win us many friends, and friendship is clearly more comforting in one’s declining years than grammatical precision.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Am Too Much Of A Snoot!

I Am Too Much Of A Snoot!

Throughout the course of a long career as a teacher of English at a variety of independent schools, I curmudgeoned (sic)  my way through countless fruitless corrections of contemporary misusage of what I called “English as spoken by the company of educated men and women”.

The very notion of such a company struck my audiences as both unlikely and unfortunate.  Had such an evenly accomplished group of speakers and writers existed (and why would it?) , they argued, surely it would have had better things to do than to cavil about the distinction between words such as alumnus and alumni, say, or like and as – words that obviously mean the same thing in any reasonable conversation.

The sharper of my linguistically slovenly adversaries would point to my own weakness for whimsical constructions, such as the playful repurposing of a noun, “curmudgeon” into a verb, as above.  “Ah,” I’d retort, “but I can toy with language BECAUSE I know the rules,” essentially playing the “Don’t Try This Until You Join the Company of Educated Men and Woman” card.

I have softened over the years.  Some.  I do understand that language has to evolve to meet the needs of contemporary speakers.  Grotesqueries of construction still sting, but I can get through most ordinary exchanges with little injury.

However, like the compulsive who must check locks and burners, I seem to be unable to ignore the steady, droning, inclusion of the word ‘of’ where no ‘of’ is needed.  I hear it everywhere and from every quarter.

“He is too good of an athlete to miss that shot.”

“He was not that great of a writer.”

“It’s not that big of a city.”

Too long of a trip, too much of a bother, too scary of a movie, too belittling of a comment, too rancid of a smell, too futile of an effort, too complicated of an explanation… to infinity and beyond.

In the cranky nether regions of my understanding, the word ‘of’ is a truly exceptional preposition, carrying more than a dozen meanings.  

A block north of here – distance

The sow died of measles – causation, indicating result

A box of chocolates – containing or carrying

Songs of Norway – origination, derivation

Made entirely of cotton – composition

From the two of us – comprising a group

Cheated of my chance to succeed – separated from, distanced from

People of your persuasion – identity, association

Graduation brings a moment of celebration – purpose, setting aside

I’ll see you at quarter of eleven – until, before

He grew to a height of six feet – specificity

Chauncey had a love of baseball – direction, attachment

The pen of my aunt – possession

The fruits of my labor – production, origination

He gave his word of honor – possessive identity

Nice of you to come  – identifying personal quality

 

Not bad for a small word.  

Or, as far too many would observe, “Not that bad of a range for that small of a word.

Less is usually more, and in this case, genuinely better.

In closing, however, I must observe the one great exception to my caviling exasperation with the omnipresent ‘of’.

In learning of his sister’s untimely death by drowning, Laertes replies, “Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, and therefore I will forbid my tears.”

It’s a curious locution, slightly distancing, and the more effective in its awkwardness.  So, unless a writer or speaker has the extraordinarily nuanced command of  language as Shakespeare had, restraint in tossing ‘of’ around willy nilly remains valuable.

The keen observer will have noted the use of the word ‘as” rather than the word ‘like’ in the previous sentence, but more of that anon.