English is Bizarre, Part I

It all started with beamish.

Not the concept of beamish, though a lovely notion. That whispers of bright things and blazing smiles. No, not the idea, but the word itself.

I think beamish is a beautiful, if not somewhat dated, word. I can't imagine using it in everyday speech and not sound like a transplanted Romantic poet, or at the very least an over-zealous drama student.

But I have always held a secret love for words. I use trifecta and quandary in casual conversation. Ever since I began writing poems in the third grade, the thesaurus has been a constant source of both information and delight.

(For those wondering, my first ever poem was called The Black Cat, about a mysterious cat at a Halloween party. It was about four stanzas long, had a simple ABAB rhyme scheme, and Mrs. Hempstead let me read it aloud to the class.)

And since that time of elementary school poetry, every word I come across seems like a new discovery. Old words, standard words, obscure antonyms and ones just entering the lexicon. Each and every one unique in the tapestry that is the English language.

To me, there is a certain beauty in the numerous variations and choices language affords. Despite the simplicity of a concept, there may be an abundant array of words to express it. From formal speech to casual slang to archaic expressions, the one you choose invariably colors the meaning.

The words used to put a name to an idea as varied and colorful as peacock feathers.

I love the way language rolls off the tongue; the harsh stops or gentle rumblings of dialect. Whether I understand it or not, I love the music of speech, as well as the life to it.

For language is alive, as much as anything else can be. Constantly changing, constantly evolving, adapting to the time and place in which it lives.

And the pieces that make up the whole are the words, original meaning and origin obscured by the commonality of use. Each one a small mystery, one whose secrets we whisper to each other every day.

Linguistics is, in my opinion, a fascinating discipline. It is a science that is also somewhat of an art, for a certain creativity is necessary to study it. A particular understanding of humanity, for it is a science of both sounds and people. And ever since I began teaching English, the observations of outsides had made me examine the words of my mother tongue in ways I never had before. But nowadays, I find myself explaining the latin roots of centipede, and that the anglicization of French words is why foyer is not pronounced the way it is spelled.

For history, and its people, shape language. No matter the science, the categorization, there will always be something deeply human about it. Even if you've never studied syntax or phonology, when a nonsense word is said, we just inherently know that it is wrong.

Which brings me back to beamish.

Beamish entered into the lexicon of Modern English in the late 19th century. It originated in the poem Jabberwocky, written by Lewis Carroll. Although a nonsense word, it has since entered into everyday use. Categorized as an adjective, it means beaming with happiness, optimism, or anticipation.

I find it interesting that nonsense words, if they sound phonetically correct, can enter into the language. But what I find even more fascinating is the misconception that Carroll invented the word. He didn't.

In fact, he was three hundred years too late.

Upon further research, it seems that beamish was actually already a word, originating from the 15th century. Perhaps Carroll made it as a portmanteau, as with many other words from the poem, but he did not indeed coin it. Even though, in my opinion, he believed he had.

So in simple terms, that means a man in the late 19th century re-introduced the exact same word that had already been in existence, but gone out of use, three centuries later.

Frankly, that is mind-boggling.

So the niggling of interest took hold of me. I was intrigued by English, with its abundance of words, and more exceptions than actual rules. And what did this interest become? Research, of course!

I claim no authority on the matter. I'm just a girl with an internet connection and an insatiable thirst for useless knowledge. But I take this time to warn you, reader, turn away now if you don't want to hear my love letter to the English language.

For English has as varied a history as its people. And in the same vein, it adopts, conquers, and adapts just as much as the people who have carried it across the world.

So without further adieu, I bring you a post in three parts, entitled:

A Very Abridged and (Most Likely) Biased History of the English Language

A Poor Man's Treatise on the Mother Tongue

(A few things before we begin: I may introduce a few boring linguistic terms that probably sound like alien species or medieval religious texts. But do not fear, they are actual words used in the study of language. I will provide a glossary at the conclusion. Also, since I am a student of history, I will of course connect everything back to the social changes of the time. And probably lovingly so, with a few historical in-jokes along the way. That's just how I roll.)

Prologue: Just like the Bayeux, but I'm No Nun

in which I introduce a solid metaphor, or way too much purple prose

It's easiest, I believe, to think of the English language as a long tapestry. A brightly colored cloth miles long, spread out across a long space. The kind that is faded with age and painstakingly embroidered by hand. The cloth begins varied, and roughly, as all projects do, before taking a general shape. As time passes, different people come along. Each and every one adds another layer to the fabric, stitching their influence with delicate thread work. A new square of cloth is therefore laid down every few years, borrowing from the patches that came before it, but making an undeniably richer design.

So as the years roll along, English stretches and shapes from one century to the next. Long and winding, but ultimately connected. An unbroken experiment in people and linguistics, whose roots and branches we can see as we walk along it.

But every tapestry, no matter how impressive, must start with a single thread. And our tapestry of English is no exception.

Part I: Teutonic Musical Chairs

in which Scandinavia gets restless, and the only real losers are the Celts

Imagine, if you will, a tiny green island in the North Sea. It is a fertile land, with lots of resources and waterways. The weather can be miserable, unless you particularly love rain, but there are much worse places in the North Sea to be. So although a very small place, it is highly sought after. And now, at this point in time, open for the taking.

It is the 5th century, and the Eastern Roman Empire is collapsed. Roman settlements are no longer around, and though a Celtic people still live on the island, they are scattered and divided. The island is practically defenseless against an organized invasion.

These conditions of opportunity of expansion, something that in hindsight seems entirely appropriate, brought about the advent of the English people and language.

English is a borrowing language. One of great flexibility, and over the last 1500 years it has truly cornered the market on sharing and copying vocabulary. The entire history of the language is littered with diversity. And no where is this more evident than in its very roots.

There is not one, but several dialects we now group together and term Old English. They were brought over in the 5th century by the Anglo-Saxons who settled on that green island, in what is now England and Southern Scotland. Though we term them Anglo-Saxons, these settlers actually came from three different Germanic tribes: the Angles and Saxons from where modern day Germany is, and the Jutes from the Jutland Peninsula in modern Denmark.

These lovable Teutons formed powerful kingdoms in post-Roman Britain. An Anglo-Saxon Heptarchy, which is just as impressive as it sounds, four of which originated the distinct dialects of Old English.

First, there were the Anglian dialects of Mercian and Northumbrian. Then there was Kentish, derived from the Jutes. And lastly, and arguably the most important, was the Saxon dialect of West Saxon.

Why was West Saxon so important? Because it was the dialect of the Kingdom of Wessex, and Alfred the Great.

Alfred was one of the most important figures in Anglo-Saxon Britain, and definitely the only one who got the moniker of "the Great." He's also probably the only personage most people can name from that period of history, if one was so inclined to go around naming Anglo-Saxons. Unless, of course, they have a secret love for the monk Bede, or find Ethelred the Unready's name as hilarious as I do.

One has to wonder what he did to be forever branded as ill-prepared.

But with the influence of Alfred's reign, Late West Saxon came to dominate all of Britain by the end of the 9th century. It is also the language in which Beowulf, the oldest surviving text in English, was written.

Oldest surviving text...and the bane of my Junior year English class.

But the 9th century was not a peaceful time in Anglo-Saxon Britain. Alfred is known as a powerful king because he united the Anglo-Saxons in Southwest Britain. Not just for kicks, but out of necessity. He needed an army to combat the ever increasing Viking Invaders.

But invade they did, and the English language was forever changed by it.

At that time in history, Vikings were doing what they do best: invading the hell out of Northern Europe. Sure, they also traded, explored, and farmed, but that does not get the attention that their pillaging does. And starting in the 9th century, they turned their inaccurately-depicted horned helmets towards the burgeoning kingdoms of Britain.

Besides pillaging, Vikings also enjoyed industrious activities like animal husbandry.

With invasions by men with names like Cnut and Sweyn, the end result was Danelaw, a term used to describe the area in Northern and Eastern England where the Danes established Kingdoms.

But in the 9th century, being that both were Germanic languages, there was a mutual intelligibility between Old English and Old Norse. Meaning that the two languages were similar enough to be understood by each other. With such an easy understanding between two groups of people now sharing the same tiny island, both languages eventually changed. Therefore, Old Norse influenced many words in English that still survive today.

For example, the word law itself is an Old Norse word. As in, the word that is a basis for most of society. And remnants of the old relationship between Old Norse and Old English is evident in both Modern Danish and Modern English. In particular, both modern languages have the exact same words for sky and window, as well as the pronouns they, them, and their. (Which limits the sentences I can make in Danish, but a fun fact nonetheless.)

Danish: intelligible enough to be absolutely useless

So on the island of Briton, now like a siren song for conquering countries, Old English developed into a heavily influenced and constantly changing language. Malleable, but with a solid syntax and vocabulary.

And then the eleventh century came, bringing with it the biggest and most colorful addition to our tapestry yet. The Normans.

Next time: 1066, and all that.

Redesign

Trying out a new look for the blog. I do love the Whistler, but the colors started to seem a little harsh. I'm still tweaking with the banner, but it will stay this way for now. The new painting is by James Tissot, Young Women Looking at Japanese Objects.

Round Two

It's time for another installment of my favorite game, and I hope one of yours.

What the Hell is Happening in this Ad?

I have to credit a friend of mine for sending this to me. On my commute home from work, this popped up on my cell phone with the message : What the f*** is this an ad for?

I have to emphatically agree.

My immediate response was, of course, "take your walrus to school day."

But what the, indeed. One has to question how safe it is to be that close to a large walrus. And in what context this tiny child ended up so near to one. And furthermore, what sordid chain of events led to this situation at all.

I see that the boy and the large-flippered marine mammal are clearly sharing a tender moment. But for some reason, despite his beaming smile, I personally can't get over the massive head and tusks that are, alone, four times that child's entire body mass.

I think this ad is supposed to evoke positive emotions, but mine are, as usual, ones of general confusion. I would like to think it's an ad for an aquarium or zoo of some kind, but that is probably just wishful thinking. It's most likely for laundry detergent.

But more importantly, can anyone read the blurry kana? And yes or no, what do you think this ad is about?

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.

Starting New Traditions

If there is one phrase I would use to continually describe Japan, and its not "militant traditionalism" or "singing, brightly colored robot" it's bizarre absurdity.

And nothing is more bizarre than the advertisements and signage.

Engrish aside, the ads are the most misleading compositions or psychedelic mashups I've ever come upon. So much so, it's usually hard to tell what they're even advertising. (Yes, I immediately think of men in silver suits and human transmogrification when I say hair gel. It's a natural thought progression.)

Most of the time it leaves me figuratively scratching my head in confusion.

So because I want to inflict my own confusion upon the unfortunate readers of this blog, I'm creating a new series:

What the Hell is Happening in this Ad?

Our first piece today is a prime example. What's going on in this picture?

I have no idea. I can only read the "ka" in that sign, but there is clearly a hell of a backstory here.

I may not have the foggiest, but I will tell you what I love.

-The punk demon vampires that are clearly being easily driven out by the angry villagers (aka kids, a few housewives, and the odd salaryman)

-That said villagers use the power of well-placed signage to vanquish evil forces.

-Despite how "badass" the demons are, they have tattoos of sakura blossoms. (Plus, they're running screaming from children.)

-What's with the fenced in trees?

-The leader of this people's revolution appears to be a ramen chef.

Ignoring the piss-poor quality of my picture, I know what your thinking. Kate, you cold-hearted monster, this is clearly a children's drawing. How dare you poke fun?

To which I counter, I bet you ten dollars a full-grown Japanese adult drew this. It's just how they roll in Nippon.

The real question is, what do you think it is?

In other news, they played WPLJ 95.5 at the school I worked at this week. It was really disconcerting to hear ads for things in the tri-state area in the middle of Nagoya, Japan. It was surreal, like I was back in high school. Driving around in my old white Oldsmobile, flipping through the stations.

If only they played better music.

And Very Gladly Will I Drink Your Honour's Noble Health

I saw Alice in Wonderland this past weekend.

I generally avoid movies in Japan because they tend to be expensive and a bit of a hassle. The standard price is close to twenty dollars per ticket unless you want to see a showing after 8 PM. Which I don't particularly mind, and at times prefer, but the drawback is that there usually only one or two movies playing after 8. So if you don't catch it by 9, you won't be seeing a movie that night.

The land of midnight movies it is not.

And if you do manage to get a showing after 8, though the tickets are cheaper, you have to pick your seat as you buy your ticket. Because of this practice of assigned seats, they don't let people into the movie until 10 minutes before.

But where, you say, is the problem in that? Well, if you want a decent seat not in the very back or the very front, you have to come quite a bit early to reserve said seat. But since you can't go into the theater, that leaves you way too much time with nowhere to sit. Hence the problem.

And watching movies in English with Japanese subtitles is a very odd experience. It's true that things are lost in translation, and humor is probably one of the biggest causalities.

I went to see Sherlock Holmes a few months ago. Not the best of films, but enjoyable and funny in a pulpy sort of way. Yet it was unnerving at times to watch in a theater full of non-English speakers, for there were parts that had my friends and I laughing like maniacs as the rest of the theater remained silent. As in, did not even crack a smile.

It's weird to be the only one in the room who understands the humor. It makes you question if maybe your the one who misunderstood.

I remember going to the theater in Italy a few years ago and laughing at the inefficiencies of the the Italian theater. The Japanese system is nothing if not efficient. As well as annoying. And overpriced. And unnecessarily complicated.

So needless to say, with this lovely combination of factors, I reserve movie viewing for movies I deem worthy of both my time and effort. I believe I have seen exactly 4 movies since I arrived in Japan a year and three months ago. A pitiful number, to be honest.

But despite all this working against her, Alice made the cut. And how could it not? Despite a few poor films in the last few years (Planet of the Apes and Sweeny Todd, I'm looking at you), a still inextinguishable love for Tim Burton will take me out to see his films every time. He's like the weird kid who sat in the back of the class and wouldn't talk to anyone but drew cool cartoons on his desk and in every corner of his notebook that were dark and twisted but in a whimsical way. How can you not like that kid?

That, and my utter love for the source material, got me there. I've already dedicated a post to Lewis Carroll, and I have an unhealthy fascination with his nonsense poetry. Nonsense verse is beautiful, as we all know semantics is highly overrated. And the poems littered throughout the narrative are what make it truly special.

So did I fall in love with it? No, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I thought it was visually stunning, and true to the nature and tone of the the story. There were cute homages to the original work, things only someone as geeky as me might have picked up, which I appreciated. I would have liked a more gripping plot, but at the same time something about that seems dishonest to the nonsense and tepid philosophy which the original is all about.

And if you want to put Alice in armor and have her fight the Jabberwocky? Believe me, you will get no complaints from me.

If nothing else, it renewed my interest in how much the story has become such a part of our cultural identity. Few are not familiar with the characters, and many phrases, words, and even theories are drawn from the story. Not bad for a children's book.

For example, sticking solely to cinematic adaptions, Alice in Wonderland has been adapted directly to film 44 times, while about 50 other titles either refashion or draw inspiration from the tale. They span the entire history of film, with the first one being a silent film from 1903 directed by Cecil Hepworth and Percy Stow. It is 8 minutes and 19 seconds in length, and only one copy of the original still exists.

Alice in film has been around almost as long as film has.

I'm not so much a purist that I dislike anything that deviates, but there are times I want to see Carroll done truly right. So to fulfill that need, I didn't need to look any further than this clip from a 1998 BBC production. It was a weird and trippy version that I didn't completely love, but one of the highlights of the film is a weird sequence in which the poem Haddock's Eyes is related by the White Knight to Alice.

If not just a how-to guide from Ian Holm on how to do a dramatic reading correctly, it is presented with the melancholy dreaminess and touch of deeper meaning with which I think every Lewis Carroll poem should be enjoyed.