The vagaries of English…
Guetapens. Spelling this French-derived word that means ambush or trap made Snigdha Nandipati the winner of the Scripps National Spelling Bee. My beef: Each year thousands of kids win or lose spelling bee events with words that are NOT English. While it’s true that America is a melting pot and English is the most wanton and promiscuous of the world’s languages, the Scripps organizers should be ashamed of themselves, along with the organizers of every other spelling contest that try to trip up young spellers with foreign words.
Regular readers of this blog know I’m a believer in diversity. Spanish is fast becoming the second language of the U.S. Conservatives wring their hands while progressives welcome it. I speak it fluently…like a Colombian. Not just any Colombian, but one from the interior, but not from the coffee country of Medellin, Manizales, or Quindio. I speak Bogatano, for better or worse. I dwell on this only to emphasize that every language is a vibrant creature and very much a product of Darwinian evolution as it molds to the regional, climatological, and, yes, political differences. English is no exception. There are enough vagaries in good old English to keep all organizers of spelling bees happy.
English is both the worst and best of all languages. I have seen non-native speakers of English having difficulty with the language, even the British, who speak a dialect (more on this later). Linking spelling to pronunciation is often a conundrum for ESL speakers. The typical chain I use as an example—rough, tough, cough, through, though, weigh—is but one among many that one can conjure up. (There is also some doubt whether our high school and college graduates can read and write in English. In fact, many ESLs do better than native speakers. But let’s not digress.)
While English has none of the complexities of gender like Spanish or case like German (Russian is one of the worst offenders, with even a Russian Orthodox or ecclesiastical case), it superficially has a simplified verb system (again, Spanish and Russian are bad offenders, each in their own special way). I say superficially because many verbs are irregular. (Spanish and other romance languages and even Russian tend to have very few irregular verbs, probably because the tenses and gender differences are so devilishly difficult, including special subjunctive forms).
English is also the best of all languages. Did I mention its wanton and promiscuous nature? It will go into another language and ravish words and phrases, kidnapping them like Vikings of old kidnapping Irish maidens. We all know laissez faire and hors-d’oeuvres from the French and mañana and siesta from the Spanish. The French, bless their xenophobic souls, have established a national academy to preserve the purity of their language, because English is so wanton and promiscuous that it insidiously back-creeps into other languages as well, making bastard children everywhere, but especially in business and science contexts. I once had a French mathematician insist that le weekend, now used by all Francophiles (but probably not in the halls of l’Académie—do you think I care if I have the correct accent?), was an English word stolen from French.
There is no logic to the English language’s promiscuous behavior either. There are perfectly good Anglo-Saxon words for putz and schmuck, for example—for both their most common meanings and their grosser meanings. In fact, English often has many words for the same concept—the many words for pig, for example—so it gets sloppy with meanings—in the sixties, pig was also our affectionate name for cop, usually when he was wielding a nightstick and throwing tear gas grenades. Gestalt and Schadenfreude, stolen from the German, might seem a bit more esoteric, but when you hear them on reruns of Charlie Sheen’s Two and A Half Men, as the putzes discuss schmucks, you know they’ve made the big time.
As a writer who speaks Spanish and can read in a few other languages if you twist my arm and I have Excedrin handy, I have to be careful. I often have to ask myself whether a foreign word I want to use can be considered a part of the English language (this assumes I recognize it as foreign). In other words, will my reader recognize it? Or, should my reader recognize it? There are words that are just esoteric, of course—Dean Koontz impresses me as one author who continually sends me to the dictionary only to find that the word he is using really exists. There are made-up words that can drive any reader nuts (from Carroll to Joyce, authors seem to take great joy in this). Funny, though, English just sucks up the made-up words as well. Joyce’s word quark is an example, but we often use jabberwocky to mean someone who’s a motor-mouth (not Carroll’s original meaning, to be sure).
The dialect of English spoken by most Brits can be both fun and bothersome. They use bonnet for a car hood and not for a hat, at least not for those worn by Fergie’s kids at the royal wedding. Gas is gas or flatulence except when it’s petrol. Forthwith and fortnight trip nicely from the tongue (the first is even popular with our silver-tongued lawyers). As physicists, we used to play with a unit of speed called furlongs-per-fortnights. All in good fun. There is no doubt that English today is American English, no matter how badly spoken. You can acquire the British dialect and/or accents if you spend some time in London, but watch out for the Cockney. Don’t try to learn English in Glasgow or Dublin, either. Those Celtic words and names—all called Gaelic—will soon start creeping insidiously into your speech, even in those stodgy universities.
Of course, other languages have contributed to English. Or, should I say, other languages have been invaded and pillaged by English? There are all the “English” terms for food, for example, where good old English tends just to steal names when perfectly good English terms exist. Borscht, for example, should be called cabbage soup. Goulash should be called lamb paprika. Cognac should just be called brandy (yeah, I know, there is snooty difference associated to the place of origin—give me a break!). Wiener schnitzel should be called Viennese veal. Etc, etc. Apparently, part of our bonne vie epicurean experience is associated with a fancy foreign name.
As a writer, I probably tend to over-emphasize foreign names reflecting my fascination with different countries and cultures, as well as the mixed ethnicities found here in the U.S. Detective Rolando “Rollie” Castilblanco is a New York City boy through and through, but he has a Puerto Rican origin. In The Midas Bomb I even dwell on the history of his name. His partner, Dao-Ming Chen, is from Long Island, just outside New York City, but she proudly explains her Chinese name to the Mexican cartel leader in Angels Need Not Apply (she’s stalling for time, thinking her life is in danger—it is). These two detectives, as American as they come, still recognize their ethnic origins, as do most of us. We are proud of our country as a melting pot, but we are also justifiably proud of our origins. One presidential campaign was even built around it—remember that other governor from Massachusetts who rode around in the tank?
So, what’s the bottom line? No spelling bee organizers need use foreign words in English, even if they’re accepted as part of the English language. I’m sorry, but guetapens is just too esoteric, even if the dictionary says it’s a recognized bastardization from the French—its providence is too recent. They should choose words that are truly English. And they shouldn’t use British or Australian dialect either. They should stick to good, esoteric American words. Just pick up the dictionary, people. Let’s make all those foreigners who win the spelling bees spell real English words!
In libris libertas….
[Note: You can download the eBooks The Midas Bomb and Angels Need Not Apply from Amazon for $7.69 and $4.99 respectively—action and adventure for the thriller junkie—a guetapens for the mind.]
