Write Right

     Do viruses affect the English language? Or is there a linguistic climate change? I wonder, because it seems to me that several goofy errors and misuses began to turn up in American conversation a few years ago, and now they are rampant. 
     All of a sudden, no one can write January 2 or June 3 in an ad or poster or PowerPoint slide. They add the unnecessary ordinal and make it January 2nd or June 3rd. It adds no information, and it looks clunky. So why is it ubiquitous? Perhaps it came in holding hands with the ampersand. The little blighter "&" has multiplied all over the place, like an invasive species taking over the habitat of the correct and perfectly serviceable "and." The Associated Press Stylebook allows an ampersand if it's part of a company name, like Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, but nowhere else. Poster makers and newsletter writers, take note. Please. 
     It must be about the five-year anniversary of the beginning of the language mutation. See what's wrong with a "something-year anniversary"? Check out that root word "anni-." It means "year." The "-versary" part means "return," or, we could say, "observance." So a "five-year anniversary" is a "five-year year-observance." Dumb. Redundant. All you need is the ordinal, spelled out, please, if the number is less than ten. When the ninth anniversary gives way to the 10th anniversary, use those little ordinal endings all you want. Some publications used to spell out through the "-teenths." I don't care. Just keep the ordinal endings away from the dates.
     Hey, did you notice the careful placement of quotation marks above? They are very happy when used correctly, but they will twist things up if you try to use them for emphasis. Watch for signs that advertise "vegetarian" burgers or "real" cheese or "fun" carnival. Or even "sausage" on a stick (for all you Terry Pratchett fans out there.) Tossed in like this, they nudge us in the ribs and say, "Not really." It can get so embarrassing, you want to die, literally. Ah, a clever introduction of a new fungus. Guess what? Literally literally means literally, as in "really, truly happened." So if your head explodes literally, there are brains on the wall. The literal outbreak is literally non-partisan, as Joe Biden famously misuses it for emphasis, but so does Sean Hannity. It must be stamped out before nothing makes any sense!
     Now, that was an exclamation. It has an exclamation point after it. The exclamation point belongs there because the sentence expresses emphatic emotion. Desperation, even. It probably doesn't belong with comments on cute puppies or new haircuts. And even if you think your group's picnic is going to be the best ever, a long string of exclamation points won't make it so. List all the nifty activities, and give me a chance to say, "Golly, that sounds like fun." Please don't try to force me to be impressed. That would be great. Thanks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The News That's Unfit

"We're hearing the frantic 9-1-1 calls from when a five-year-old fell from a nine-foot diving board..." Oh, no, we're not, I shouted, and slammed the radio off. I couldn't move fast enough, though, to avoid the horrible image and the anger it inspired. It made me remember another case from decades ago. Here in Orlando, a man came home to find both his wife and their little grandson floating dead in their backyard pool. Apparently the boy had fallen in, and the woman had tried to rescue him, but both drowned. Neighbors were there trying to help when he called emergency services. "Are they breathing?" the operator asked, and the man cried out to the neighbors, "Are they breathing?" and sobbed. I heard this on the radio. It felt obscene to me to hear this man's anguish. 
The radio reporters added to the story by knocking on the doors of neighbors to ask how they felt about the death of the lady next door and the grandson. I wondered, did they think we could not imagine what such an event would feel like unless we heard it from the people next door? Did we need some guidance as to how we should react? That felt obscene to me too. I was telling friends at church about the whole debacle when someone else walked up to the group. She hadn't heard the news story. I gave her a quick report of what that poor man found at his home, and she gasped. That was a normal, human reaction, and she didn't need any 9-1-1 recordings or interviews with neighbors to elicit it. 
"How do you feel?" has become the reporter's standard question, it seems. Most of the time, like at sporting events, it's lame, but when it comes at a time of tragedy, it's vile. If I'd been one of the neighbors asked to comment, if I could get words out, I believe I would have said something like "How the bleep do you think it feels?" and then slammed the door with more than my usual vigor. Then I'd start to demand that 9-1-1 calls be made private, at least to the extent that they could not be played on the news without the permission of the caller. 
Both of these elements of "news-gathering" seem to me like running up and lifting the veil of a grieving widow in order to snap a photo for FaceBook. Some things are none of our business.

I Me Me iPhone

     When my friend took a picture of me at a party and offered to send it to my phone, I had to tell her my phone didn’t do pictures. Or much of anything else. Others at the party whipped out their phones and held them up. Look! Icons! GPS! Datebooks! Angry Birds! Flip it, scroll it, explore the mysteries of the universe! I didn’t bring my poor little Nokia out. It would have been humiliated.

     I used its microscopic bowling game a couple of times, but the eyestrain was too much. It helped me summon a tow truck once or twice, and allowed me to tell the folks at home when I was running late, but mostly it sat in the bottom of my purse, totting up calls from an Air Force recruiter who had apparently been given my number by mistake, or duplicity, for a potential recruit. It sat there so long, letting the upgrades pass it by, it reverted to a tin can on a string.

     The next day our youngest son, who has suffered two years of condescension and scorn at college over his steam-powered phone, reported that his sad little device was starting to shut off at inopportune moments, and the back wouldn’t stay on properly. Off to the Apple store we went. At first I thought I wouldn’t be allowed in, lacking tattoos, piercings and spiky colored hair, but I guess the son was cool enough for admission. And so was the old lady’s credit card. The salesman we wound up with was an old guy with a hearing aid, so I felt better. Actually, I could have used a hearing aid myself. Or maybe ear plugs. Golly, it was loud in there, with all the discussion of bits and bytes and megawhatsis buzzing about in a space with the acoustics of a bunker. We’d—make that “I’d”—already pretty much decided on the iPhone 4, seeing as how the 4s that’s already poised for phasing out costs twice as much. And I’m pretty sure I wasn’t cut out to be on the cutting edge of technological advancement. I’m too cheap. I mean, frugal.

     So we took home the futuristic-looking, clean, white boxes with the fabulous phones nestled inside, placed in the extra-nifty drawstring Apple bag next to the old phones, which were now paperweights. Or missiles, in case of need. Son began immediately to add apps and things. I took many tries to spell my sign-in name correctly. My fingers aren’t fat! They’re not! I had to ask the youngun for help a couple of times and try to keep my voice from quavering. Remembering the price tag kept me from flinging the phone across the room. 

     I finally got to the point of playing Words with Friends, the shameless rip-off of Scrabble that’s about my speed. I’m playing a game each with one son, one daughter, one son-in-law and one newspaper columnist. Major game-player friend hasn’t responded to the game I sent her, even though she’s the one who took my picture at the party. I am now wasting vast amounts of time on the iPhone and being looked at askance by one husband. Don’t let him fool you, though. He’s holding out for the iPhone 5.

Don't Fear the Blue Pencil

   My friend Susan asked me months ago whether I would like to read the manuscript of a novel written by a college friend who wanted reactions and comments. It was an action/adventure/mystery story set in Florida, and it came in a box. There's something old-fashioned and rather romantic about a four-inch stack of typing paper covered with double-spaced writing. Okay, it was printer paper, but it made me think of the clacking of an old Remington typewriter, over which the writer smokes and sweats. A few penciled notes showed where he had had a better idea after the however-many rewrites it had taken to make the story presentable.  A couple of other readers had been there before me and written a note or two.

     I sharpened my pencil, stretched my arms like Art Carney on The Honeymooners, and dug in. I usually warn people when they ask me to look at a piece of writing that I will be picky and strict. That’s the way I was taught in journalism school by the last of the crusty old newspapermen, who expected us to know exactly where the commas go and how to match a subject and verb. Scarcely a paper got past them without a flock of marks. When I did the copy-editing for a church newsletter, one writer would tell me “Here, work your magic.” She liked seeing her work improved, and she saw that the changes made it better. Others, though, were offended when I changed jargon to plain English or cut out the rows of exclamation points. It’s hard to be edited; it’s like surgery. But when the editor knows what he’s doing, the writing gets better.

     In Ken Pelham’s Brigands Key (That’s the book. Go read it. After you finish reading this, of course.) I found some ways to make the writing more effective. I found a plot element that needed fixing—a character dropped a significant little item, but a bit later somehow had it on her. Another character described the city of Osnabruck, Germany, as lying close to the French border. I double-checked it on a map, but I knew that Osnabruck was in northern Germany, far from France. In an exhibition of God’s sense of humor, He had placed Ken’s manuscript in the hands of someone—me—who had a great-grandfather who came from… Osnabruck. I’ve been there and met my cousins, descendants of the brother who stayed behind to run Hehmann’s Gasthaus while my great-grandfather sailed to a new life in New York.

     Anyway, Ken was smart and professional and made the changes. Then the book was published. He had a book-signing at the downtown Orlando library, and, afterward, Susan had a party for him. There I got to see my name in his acknowledgments, and he signed a book for me. I looked so happy, my friend Christine took phone photos. It was almost as thrilling as having a book published myself.

  

And Then I Wrote...

     Years ago, I won an honorable mention in a song-writing contest. My entry was called “Down So Low,” an account of being spiritually lost, but rescued by Jesus. I always pictured it being sung in an R and B style, with girls in the background echoing “down so low” in a high-pitched tone. I never found anybody to put it to music. One friend tried, but he did a sort of country/folk tune. I think we disappointed each other, but we didn’t really talk about it, and the song vanished into the ether.

     And then I wrote something called “Come On Home,” which invites the lost and lonesome to return to the haven of the church. Another friend found a tune in the hymnal that fit the words, and got someone to sing it in church. She said she’d never seen me look so happy. That song faded into the mist. More recently, a talented young friend used a poem/song of mine as the text for a composing class assignment. She got an A+. I handed it around church, but it never made it into the rotation.

     A month or so ago, I took a crack at translating a psalm into modern language.

Psalm 117

Better praise Him, you nations.
Better praise Him, all people.
His love is great,
and He never fails,
so praise Him, everyone.

    It doesn’t seem to have inspired the worship leader I showed it to. Yet I am undaunted. Well, I am a little daunted, but I still keep thinking against all evidence that I have something to offer. My model is the young Isaac Watts, who complained so much about lousy translations of psalms being sung in the late 17th and early 18th centuries, his father told him, “Okay, kid, write something better.” Or words to that effect. He wrote about 600 hymns, including Joy to the World, Join All the Glorious Names, Jesus Shall Reign, Come We That Love the Lord and other hits that still grace the hymnals.

     Yeah. I’m not in that league, but I still think some of my stuff is better than the awkward strings of unrelated worshipy-sounding terms that too often pass for “praise” music in the church today. Now that I’ve offended a bunch of musicians, I shall toss out my latest effort, scribbled in the margins of a book. See what you think.

The Sun Came Up

You held me like a baby, led me like a lamb,

placed me on a path I couldn’t see.

You fed me bits of manna, words of sweetest truth;

it tasted real to me.

The light began to dawn, it drove away the shadows;

colors glowed where all had once been grey.

I saw the empty tomb, a place that might have held me,

but I was free.

The sun came up that day.

The sun came up; the light was Jesus.

He took my hand; He leads me every day.

The sun came up; the light was Jesus.

He took my hand; He leads me every day.

Me and Mona

     When I wear my Mona Lisa pin, people comment on it, and I tell them my Mona Lisa story. It’s a silly plastic oval, and the colors are wrong, but when I saw it in a catalog, I had to have it, because me and Mona, we go way back. To the Louvre. Almost 40 years ago.

     It struck me over and over in Europe how different it is to see the great paintings “in person” as opposed to in reproductions. No printing ever quite captures the reality. You can’t really see Mona Lisa any more, though. Somebody slashed the painting with a knife, and now there’s a thick layer of glass between her and the hoi polloi. People get hustled past in mobs, too, so if you get a 30-second look, you’re among the elite. When I met her, though, it was pre-glass, cold November in Paris, not tourist season. I approached her all by myself. 

      Paul Johnson, in his Art: A New History, says the painting is “inconsistent” between the hands and face. Maybe. In her Story of Painting, Sister Wendy calls it “dazzlingly poetic” with a “secret wistfulness.” I’m with her. I stared at that mysterious face for a long time. Leonardo caught her right at the point of changing expression. In fact, I was pretty sure that if I looked away and swung my head back quickly enough, I would catch her lips moving. (I tried to keep it subtle so the guards wouldn’t cart me away.) A real person was in there, and I got to know her a little. I finally had to nudge myself away to see the Rembrandts and other marvels, but it’s Mona Lisa that’s stayed with me all these years.

     Out in the rest of Paris, it was chilly and drizzling, but people still sat at the sidewalk café tables, shielded by sheets of plastic or portable glass walls. Clomping past them along the Champs Elysees, I saw a man at his dinner and wine, obviously people-watching. He was very well-dressed, but then everyone was in Paris, except perhaps for street people and American tourists. I wore boots, bell-bottom jeans and a nylon parka that belonged to one of my brothers. The man was so handsome and poised and Parisian-gorgeous, my own cloddishness struck me with irony, to put it mildly. When I drew even with him, I summoned my grade-school ballet lessons and curtseyed. He threw back his head and laughed. That made another connection that hasn’t gone away. I don’t know that I would have performed thus in any other city, but Paris does that sort of thing to you. Especially when you’re tight with Mona Lisa. 

A King, a King, and a King

    So, on the one hand, we have the charming King Samir Shabazz of the New Black Panther Party proclaiming his abiding hatred for white people: “I hate the oppression of white people, I hate the murder and the rape and the torture and the taking away of our names, our culture, our God, our music and damn, I hate this cracker for everything he has done to us.” He tells us we should be glad he and his pals aren’t hanging white folks—“yet.” Thanks, your majesty. I’m sure your activities will make life better for everyone.

     On the other hand, after a demonstration of sign-waving by a cadre of five guys in sheets, people in Reidsville, NC, received invitations to a rally. “Free Admition (sic)-White People Only. No alcohol, drugs, fighting, glass bottles or weapons. Free on site camping-all major motels in area. Souvenirs. Vendors. Food and beverages for Sale. Cross lighting at dusk-a white unity event. Live country band. Security provided by LWK.” Souvenirs? Like, a hood with your name embroidered on it?

     Over the last couple of decades, the KKK became more and more a joke. While they used to hold tremendous power in the South and the Midwest (Really; look it up.), they became an anachronism that most people scorned. At the moment, the NBPP and the KKK may be equals in number and lunacy. I do wonder, though, whether the refusal of the current Justice Department to prosecute the Panthers for little things like voter intimidation might inspire more “white rage.” We had a dozen or so armed-compound, ready-for-the-race-war loons arrested recently near Orlando. Law enforcement has done pretty well at taking out the white crackpots. Not so well on the black crackpots. Oh, Mr. Holder, doesn’t equality mean, you know, holding everyone to the same standard? Just a thought.

     But, meanwhile, out here in everyday life, where people are earning a living, keeping their brains in gear, and not searing their souls to ashes, life is a whole lot better in the race department than it was when I was a kid. A couple weeks ago, I was on my way into an Olive Garden for lunch with the church ladies. On his way out was a tall black man dressed sharply in dark trousers, a vest, white dress shirt and dark tie. He held by the hand a little boy dressed exactly the same. The sight stopped me in my tracks. I put my hand on my chest like the old-fashioned old lady I somehow became without noticing, and I uttered something like “This is so cute, I can hardly stand it.” The proud dad smiled.

     So what’s the big deal? In my younger days, that charming man and his charming son would not have been allowed into Olive Garden. If they could buy food there, it would be through the “colored window.” As a girl, I watched TV news reports of the lunch counter sit-ins. Brave, principled, self-controlled young black people walked into drugstores and sat down at the soda fountain/lunch counter. (Is there such a thing any more?) White clerks quickly set up “lunch counter closed” signs. Sometimes, white yahoos screamed at the sitters from behind, squeezed ketchup onto their heads and dropped cigarette ashes into their hair. Nevertheless, they kept the faith, kept calm and kept coming back. And guess what: they won. Jim Crow laws are gone.

     Another restaurant scene left me happy, relieved and hopeful. In walked two women, one black, one white, together. They were dressed like office workers. After they sat down, the waitress came to take their orders. Pardon my stereotyping, but she looked the part of a redneck—bleached blonde pony tail pulled tight, the face rather pinched looking. A generation ago, women like her screamed at school buses. On this day, she took a black woman’s order without a ripple and brought her the food she asked for. To this one-time observer of “white” and “colored” water fountains, the scene was momentous, precisely because it had become ordinary. The Klan couldn’t prevent it, and the Panthers can’t take any credit for it. Thank Martin Luther King, Jr., and all sorts of people of good will who listened when called to uphold the principles of our founding. And thank the God who endows all with inalienable rights. That is the way.