Clarke's Third Law

Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic ~ Arthur C. Clarke

When I was a little girl, I used to explore my grandparent's basement.

It was a treasure trove to a child with an overactive imagination, and everything in it was ripe for discovery. My grandfather's workbench was a high tech mystery. Mechanical odds and ends warring with pieces of old radios and televisions, surrounded by tools that I knew none of their purposes. There were black and white family photos filling an entire antique suitcase. The frames whispered of undiscovered family stories, the players mere shadows in sepia tones. Odd geometric paintings my mother painted in high school that I used to puzzle over, trying to decipher the meaning. And then there was, to me, the pinnacle of the collection: my grandfather's National Geographics.

He had been collecting them since the late 60's. Lined up in a bookcase, a chronological archive of the last 30 years of scientific achievement and discovery. I used to browse them, and I remember the day I found the December 1969 issue.

Man Walks on Another World proclaimed the title. I sat there on the basement floor, unaware of the cold tile and the dim light, and poured over the old magazine. Interspersed between retro ads, I read the details of the first lunar landing, written when they were still fresh, exciting, and new. I marveled at the photos of the astronauts, the lander, the things they collected. I carefully read the transcript of the entire mission, the words that first traveled back from the surface of the moon.

And in the back of the issue, still untouched almost 30 years later, was an old 45. I found a record player, and listened to the bumps and beeps that emitted from the small record. Eyes closed and mouth open, huge retro earphones encasing my small head, I listened in awed silence to the recordings picked up from the first lunar landing. I was sitting down in a cramped basement, but surrounded by the the infinite sounds of space.

From very early on, I have been fascinated with the idea of space and space travel. Influenced, no doubt, by a father with a penchant for science fiction, I dreamed of space exploration. I was enamored by the idea of it; living and working in space, seeking out dangerous and unknown locations, exploring the very limits of what we already know. An adolescent fascination that grew into a mature love of the same subject matter.

I believe its my wanderlust that had fuelled my continued interest in space and planets. Or perhaps it was my childish fascination with the infinite of space that grew into a love for travel. But whatever the case, interest in space is, I believe, a natural consequence of a desire to travel.

Compared to even a mere 300 years ago, our world is small and constantly shrinking. The result of civilization and advanced technology. Categorization of the world means the limiting of uncharted territories and unexplored plains.

But in space travel, we can rediscover that excitement. When we do finally make our way into space (and I have no illusions of it being anytime soon) it will be as explorers. Like men who boarded billowing ships to sail to distant parts unknown 400 years ago. But we will replace the endless sea with the vaccuum of space.

Perhaps this is the child in me speaking again. An idealistic viewpoint at best. We are hardly anywhere near the technology for light speed travel, a necesity for realistic space travel, and our nearest star systems are light years away. Internal stability would also be necessary for organized space exploration, and there are too many problems on our own planet to worry about looking to others.

But perhaps that's the very reason why we should. With most news devoted to the usual round of economic troubles, political dissonance, and impending disasters, there was a story that flew under the radar a few weeks ago that brought out that little girl again. The one who used to watch Star Trek on her father's knee, and hide away in her grandparent's basement listening to recordings of space.

A mere twenty light years away, astrophysicists have discovered the first habitable planet outside our solar system.

Orbiting a nearby red dwarf star called Gliese 581, researchers at the University of California, Santa Cruz and the Carnegie Institute of Washington have discovered the planet Gliese 581g, nicknamed Zarmina. A rocky planet about 4 to 5 times the size of earth, it orbits within the "habitable zone" around the star. In other words, a place where there is liquid water, temperatures friendly to life, and enough gravity to hold onto an atmosphere.

Not that life there is identical to Earth. Gliese 581g is tidally locked with its star. This means that, not unlike our moon, during its 37 day orbit one side of the planet would always face the sun, while the other side would be locked in darkness. Neither is ideal, but there would be a terminator zone; an area of eternal twilight where night and day meet.

There, bathed in the reddish gold of dusk, would be the ideal conditions for life to thrive. Atmosphere enough to keep water liquid, gravity not too heavy, and a temperature we would neither freeze nor boil in.

But the ifs, whats, and hows pales in comparison to the significance of such a discovery. Definitive proof that planets that can support life, at least as we define it, exist elsewhere in the galaxy. And since there is one practically in our intergalactic backyard, it must mean that such a thing is fairly common.

And that is the seed of excitement, the core of the inspiration such an idea can produce. Since then, I have seen an outpouring from people about this new planet. An article in which a physicist proposed developing a type of engine that could get us there in about 6 years. People imagining colonies and human life aboard this planet. Every day people postulating and dreaming once again of space, and our future as an infinitesimal part of the awe-inspiring whole.

I am part of a time, and a generation, that looks to the next hour instead of the future. We live in the day to day. We save, selfishly worrying only about our own immediate future and comfort, and not what can lay beyond. Concerned only about the self, we are blinded to what we can achieve as a whole.

And something about that is a colossal shame. I can't imagine what it must have been like to be a child in 1969, and feel like all of space and time was out there before me. To steal from an eminent writer, that is such stuff as dreams are made on.

Steve Vogt, the UC Santa Cruz astrophysicist who discovered the planet, gave an interview to the website io9. In it, he talked of the amazing odds against a planet like Gliese 581g even existing. I believe it also sums up why it is so awe-inpsiring:

It's hard to make this obvious in a soundbite but the universe is a vast place and most of it is totally unavailable for life as we know it. There are two things in the universe you can't get around: Temperature and gravity. So if you are in interstellar space you're at 2.7 degrees kelvin. Your atoms are hardly vibrating and you're not going to be alive. Life as we know it can't survive. So you have to be near a star. That's good, but stars have gravity and you can fall into them. Your only hope is to be near a star but not falling into it – you need an orbit. And that's magical.

And that is magical. Not only in its very existence, but also in what it can inspire in a generation that no longer thinks of space.

Hopefully it's enough for us to once again look to the stars, and dream of a future out there amongst them.

Steve Vogt's Interview with io9

No Dawn, No Day, I'm Always in this Twilight

Despite the many asides into the inner working of my mind and frequent boring intellectual pursuits, this blog is from time to time a travelogue. And I fear it's been far too long since I have done any travelogue-ing.

But I recently spent two weeks back in America. And as great as it was to be on home soil, visit friends and family, and subsequently gain ten pounds from all the eating I did, I made a short stop on my way there I feel the need to mention.

I spent a quick day and a half in Taipei. From my short time there, I come to realize most people visit Taiwan for the beautiful natural attractions. But despite being stuck in the city, I actually loved the Republic of China's capital.

Taipei is the type of Asian city I love. The ones that are strewn throughout Southeast Asia, vibrant with color, palm leaves, and buildings just a touch run-down. There is an unpinned feeling in the very air of these places. A dirty, gritty quality just below the surface that makes the place seem more bustling with life than most.
Japan is bustling, no doubt, but it's a sterile bustling. High-tech, modern, shallow - nothing is allowed to age. Places are constantly torn down to make way for boxy, utilitarian buildings. Barring the traditional areas set aside for such things, the cities of Japan are clean, sleek, modern, and boring.
But Taipei is old, and far from perfect. Retro buildings with art-deco arches that were new 50 years ago, but since then have gone to seed. Now they are worn, but full of character. Walking along the streets in the twilight, I found myself drawn to the street vendors, the scent of their food strong and the smoke from their carts thick enough to be atmospheric. I couldn't help peeking down and along each dirty backstreet alley. My eyes raised towards older buildings in violent teal and salmon pinks, overgrown with both plants and laundry. The signs of constant life, forever moving along, but leaving a marked trail in its wake.
And that, to me, is what makes places like Taipei special. Nothing matches, but everything fits together. Each and every street, building, neon sign sits for years, gaining both cracks and personality. The small dents and bits of rust that proves a city is truly alive.

I was by myself, but never felt alone. The city itself was my company.

English is Bizarre, Part II

Welcome back. You'll be hearing enough from me in a second, so let's get started, shall we?

Where we left off last time: Britain was being invaded (again), the Celts were being persecuted (again), the Vikings were causing trouble (again), and a whole lot of linguistic gymnastics occurred.

Part 2: Normandy Comes to Call

in which William earns his Moniker, or why we still hate the French

Oh, the Normans. Their influence on what England is today is unquestionable, and frankly, astounding. Music, architecture, law, property rights, military practices: name a discipline, and you'll find the Norman hand in it. They even brought us the Plantagenets, probably my favorite screwed up royal dynasty. (A category with stiff competition, for sure. But thanks to Eleanor, John, two Richards, and all three Edwards, their history reads like a particularly frothy soap opera.)

Or a 1968 Academy Award winning Film

But with all these advancements beginning in the 11th century, one of their greatest contributions was the radical change in the English language.

William the Conqueror, as his name implies, conquered England in 1066, a feat which has not been achieved since. Of course the Spanish and French have tried multiple times, as did the Germans, but William's campaign was the last successful one. Not bad for a man whose title before conquering a country was William the Bastard.

I like to think it's because he's such a dashing rouge and not because of illegitimacy.

That in itself is amazing, as is the fact that William united all of England under a single ruler and dynasty whose decedents still rule today. No one had done that prior to that point in time. We went from the Romans and the Celts squabbling in the 2nd and 3rd century, to the heptarchy of the 8th and 9th, rounding out with the Anglo-Saxons and Danes fighting a tug-of-war over the crown of England in the 10th.

But sailing across from the ducal of Normandy with a tenuous claim as Edward the Confessor's heir, the Norman-French William conquered both the warring factions of the Anglo-Saxons and the Danes. Laying a massive slap down at the Battle of Hastings and killing Harold II, he took the crown and united the country by force into a single kingdom. Scandinavian influence was banished from English politics indefinitely. Thus, England as we know it was born.

Harold, after he met William. He's the one with all the arrows in his head.

We also saw the biggest evolution of English since the advent of the language. For after the Norman Conquest, Old English developed into Middle English.

A simple statement, but take a moment to think of what that really means. The whole language evolved into something completely different. It was not something so simple as archaic words versus modern ones. Like reading a Regency Novel today and needing a dictionary at your side to find out what entailment means.

No, English became a whole new language. A large portion of the vocabulary, spelling, and usage completely altered.

And how could it not?

England now had a French speaking monarchy, aristocracy, and clerical hierarchy. One of the first orders of business was to remove all those who were English-born from every peerage and position of power. No one who ruled spoke English as their native tongue, and business was conducted in French. So of course English would adapt significantly along with the ruling class.

In 1080, this dictionary would not have been necessary.

Borrowing heavily from Norman-French vocabulary and spelling, the people of Britain anglicized numerous French words. English kept the same syntax of a Germanic language, but the vocabulary, the heart and soul of language, altered. In essence, the whole landscape of the language changed, based upon the class differences between those who spoke Old English and those who spoke Norman French.

I think this point is best illustrated with a simple example: our words for meats. If you speak English, you know we have different words for the animal when it's alive, and when it is served to us. A pig is served as pork, chicken as poultry, cow as beef, and sheep as mutton. We know this, but have never bothered to question why. In fact, we take for granted that very few other languages do this. This anomaly comes directly from Norman England.

The people slaughtering the animals, the farmhands and cooks handling the meat, called it by the old English names. Swīn (swine), cū (cow), cīcen (chicken), scǣp (sheep), etc. But when it arrived on the table of the French speaking hierarchy, no doubt lovingly prepared, they called it by the old French words: porc, boef, pouletrie, moton. They never saw it as an animal, but only as meat on their plates.

Thus, the Modern English words for animals are derived from Germanic roots, and the culinary term for the meat itself derives from Middle French.

Which is absolutely rocking.

Meat: both delicious and informative.

But English words do not have a basis merely in Germanic languages and French. Anyone can tell you that many words have a large basis in Latin. The various flourishes and embroideries on the section of our textile that is Middle English. Many words with Latin roots entered our lexicon during this time.

Why? The influence lies, as with most things in the Middle Ages, with the church.

Not exactly a time of widespread learning in Europe, the monks who did keep up scholarly practices did so in Latin, the lingua franca of the time. Since this was the case, when monks in England wrote in their own vernacular, what did they do when they did not have an English word for the term they were trying to describe? They fell back on the only other language they were used to writing in: Latin. That is why so many new words from that time were derived from Latin.

"We shall call this insect centipede, because hundred feet is simply ridiculous."

Therefore Latin, and to a certain extent Greek, became connected with education and learning. This connection never faded, and intellectual elitism continued the practice well past the middle ages. In fact, it is why it still continues today. It is the reason so many English words, especially those that are technical or scientific, are constructed based on Latin and Greek roots. And why biology class can be like a Latin lesson at times.

So there we were in the Late Middle Ages, writing in Latin and mixing in French. But as this time in history drew to a close, we saw the last great section added to our project.

In 1450, Modern English began.

Next time: Shakespeare, Gutenberg, Johnson, and a whole slew of people you might remember from history class.

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.)