In Hartford, Hereford, and Hampshire, Hurricanes Hardly Happen

There are certain days where my life feels like this scene in My Fair Lady. Or more precisely, the part preceding it, which leads to Higgins slumped over his desk and Colonel Pickering with a newspaper over his head.

I find myself doing ridiculous things while teaching English pronunciation, like over exaggerated facial and mouth movements, or clanging and tapping along in a rhythm. My students giggle as I show them where to place their tongue when saying "really", or while trying to impress on them how exactly to pronounce comfortable naturally. (It turns into com-for-ta-ble, each syllable highly pronounced. And I think the Japanese r/l pronunciation already has an infamy all its own.)

But despite how tough I am on correcting pronunciation, the root of the problem is really English itself.

Today, I was teaching one of my private lessons. It's a 12 year old girl, and bless her, does she try hard. The material is quite difficult at times, and she clearly tries as much as she can to understand. And while she generally gets the concept, her pronunciation of the words is very poor. I am probably the first English teacher she's had who actually speaks English as their first language, so I am not entirely surprised by this.

But because of that fact, I do a bit of phonics and pronunciation practice with her every week. Supplemental stuff; I go through the bevy of phonics sheets my school has just lying around, and grab one to use each time we meet.

This week, I came upon one that, at first, seemed all right. A writing practice, with each corresponding letter of the alphabet paired with a word to go along with it. It started with apple and bat, and went on to monkey and rabbit. Everything seemed kosher, and then I hit the last page, where I came upon y. And what word did they give this poor girl?

Yacht.

I mean, come on. What about yellow or yard. Something that is phonetically possible for a child learning English to sound out? No, we go for yacht, which is derived from a 16th century Dutch word and is pronounced not at all the way it's spelled.

She glanced up at me with a terrified look when she came upon it. As if learning English one on one with me wasn't scary enough. So I sighed, took the newspaper off my head, and pronounced yacht for her.

Each day I spend here, I am more glad I was born an English speaker. Not only is it the modern lingua franca, but I see how hard people work to learn it. For many people, advancement in the world is entirely dependent on a language that breaks the rules as much as it adheres to them.

But that's because English is a mongrel language, with roots and words derived from numerous different sources. As English speakers were conquered, and then subsequently went on to conquer, the language became a hodge-podge of dialects, vocabulary, and syntax.

Which is actual fantastic and amazing, but a bitch to learn. I give massive credit to my students who work so hard at learning my language, and especially for the few who truly succeed at it.

And their hard work, as well as extremely insightful questions, has actually spawned a pet project of mine. The last month I have been researching not only the history of the English language, but where each and every inconsistency in grammar or pronunciation comes from. It is half done out of pure intellectual curiosity, and half out of necessity, because there have been times I have no good answer for perfectly logical questions about my mother tongue.

(My research has been compiled into an ever increasing in length document that may make its appearance here soon. Avoid it if you are not as excited by linguistics as I am).

But I never would have given English a second thought if it weren't for the fantastically perceptive questions made by people still learning it. Things we have come to accept as part of the tapestry of language, but in fact makes little sense in the context of the language as a whole.

And pronunciation is just one of those things. And while it is interesting to study, I feel for the people trying to learn it. The adults who come across chalet with a quirk of confusion, or the little girl terrified of yacht.

So I continue to do my silly mouth exercises, and try to explain the Anglicization of French words. All the while I just want to heave over my desk and throw that newspaper over my head in frustration.

Too bad my lessons don't also end in a jaunty song and dance number.

(And if you don't feel as bad for people learning English as I do, I challenge you to see how well your own pronunciation fares. It's a poem called The Chaos written in 1922 by Gerard Nolst Trenite. It must be read aloud, and points out the inconsistencies in spelling and pronunciation in English. I did ok, but had to read it quite slowly. See how you do.)

Reason 5,431 to Love Japan

Last week, I gave into one of my sporadic tendencies to be a hermit and decided to spend the night in. My days off the last few weeks, though fun and fantastic, have been been entirely too busy for the secret recluse hiding inside me. The perfect remedy, in my mind, was a Saturday night to myself.

It was a warm night, as it has been getting progressively warmer, and my balcony door was open to let the breeze in. (I refuse, even as of this moment, to use my air conditioner yet. It's a stubborn exercise in self-denial, but I know that once it goes on, I won't ever turn it off. And my electricity bill will end up suffering, because this country doesn't believe in insulation.) I was lying on my bed beside the open balcony, and despite the bad TV I was watching, I still managed to hear it. The sound of drums and flutes, of chanting and traditional music.

Intrigued, I clicked off the computer and went out onto my balcony. And what was I greeted by, but this:

A full-blown traditional procession right below my apartment.

If you can tolerate my impromptu, shaky camerawork, you notice that float strung high with lanterns. Inside the float there were seated mechanical shamisen players whose heads clicked back and forth like figurines on an antique cuckoo clock. Adult men in happi coats guided the float, and when it reached the end of the block, grunted and shifted the entire structure one hundred and eighty degrees. Men, women, children in yukata then pulled the entire construction down my street with giant ropes as the music from the float spurred them on.

On a normal day, my street is nothing exceptional to look at. A bicycle repair shop and takoyaki stand line along the street with an Italian restaurant, various cafes, and the side entrance of a university. It's downright unremarkable. But as I stood on my balcony for twenty minutes, watching the harmonic procession, I finally found something beautiful in it as I was wrapped up in the ceremony of it all.

And it's moments like that when I truly love living in Japan. When I take a night in, and happen to witness a surprise Summer festival. The loveliness of custom floating by the bright lights of convenience stores and restaurants.

Though of course Summer festival means, of course, Summer, and we are about two days into rainy season and I already hate it. The air feels sticky all the time, and the rain is just a constant mist. Despite showering just before I left for work, I came home itching just to wash the air off me. I'm counting the days till the end of June. Which is when we have just humidity without the precipitation accompaniment.

I predict I break down tomorrow and put on my air conditioner. But as for now, I'll sit by my open balcony door over my ordinary street as the misty breeze keeps me somewhat cool.