I spent a good number of my growing-up years on a farm. My uncle raised chickens, milked cows, and grew corn, oats and wheat. I grew intransitively; my uncle grew transitively.
This subject came to mind when I was writing my post about gift as a verb. I had found a list of “Words you don’t need to use,” and gift (presumably as a verb) was among them*, which was what had led me there. Not in the list but in the comments was this: “I hate it profoundly when ‘grow’ is used as a transitive verb!”
My first thought was of my uncles and my cousins and my grandfather out in the fields not growing corn, oats and wheat. But I quickly realized that the profound hatred was likely directed at a more modern transitive use of grow. The growing my farm-employed family was synonymous with raise, cultivate, nurture. (The OED’s first record of this use is from 1774.) The profound hatred was likely reserved for the transitive use synonymous with expand, as now often heard in corporate jargon-friendly situations, such as “We must grow the business.” (Oh so modern. The OED’s first record the sense of “To cause to increase, to enlarge” is from 1481, though interestingly the OED labels this use as obsolete. So it’s not modern after all. It’s archaic.)
In some word-watching quarters, the transitizing of verbs (as in this case, grow intransitive being grown into grow transitive) seems to attract as much ire as the verbing nouns (hmm—is verb as a verb transitive, intransitive, or both?). But here again, conventions and preferences and everyday usage shift over time.
It is a matter of, shall we say, growing the language.
*Other words not included in “Words you don’t need to use” are utilize (which I defend as the right word in the right usage), and impact as a verb, which I cheer. Words appropriately not included in “Words you don’t need to use” are flange, carburetor, chartreuse, Brobdingnagian and plotz—and just about every other word anyone has spoken, because, as with utilize, it’s a matter of using the right word at the right time. The only words you truly need to use, as both your mom and mine told us, are please and thank you.
On this glorious eve, I’m going to play the Ghost of Christmas Past to the Scrooges who would penuriously deny us the gift of gifting.
I’m talking about the the Scroogely denial of English’s gifted ability to bestow life to nouns, creating verbs in the process. Gift-noun begats gift-verb begats whining from the persnickitorial language Scrooges, who have real misgiftings about such conversion.
Do these people challenge the word gifted as applied, for instance, to prodigies? Should those endowed with special abilities instead be givended? Or something? Should the relay-baton present be regifted or regave? In each case, I believe I’ll stick with the former.
The American Heritage Book of English Usage notes:
Unfortunately, the use of gift as a verb in Modern English is tainted by its association with the language of advertising and publicity (as in Gift her with this copper warming plate).
Fair enough, particularly when commercialism has tainted the strings-attached noun gift so often that the phrase “free gift” is an almost required redundancy. But the real tragedy of the above example is the possibility of someone thinking a copper warming plate might be a romantic gift.
The language Scrooges are a bit more pointed than American Heritage. For example: “Using gift as a verb is a sign of stupidity, laziness, and verbal sloppiness.” And denying its use as a verb is a sign of not just persnickitorial intolerance but also of denying a basic writing principle: The right word is the right word. Certainly, using the lightning-rod gift when give is the right word is frown-upon-able. “Don’t gift in! I’ll gift you a call later!” But there are instances when gift, with its almost legal nuance, can be a more precise and powerful word than its suggested synonyms. Consider:
Smith will gift the deed to the university. Formal, with implications of recorded transactions and tax benefits.
Smith will give the deed to the university. “Here ya are. Don’t need it anymore.”
Smith will bestow the deed to (upon?) the university. With puffed-up chest and “Pomp and Circumstance” playing in the background.
Smith will bequeathe the deed to the university. Hinting of magnanimity, but without quite the formality of the first instance.
Smith will donate the deed to the university. Comments similar to that of bequeathe.
Smith will make a gift of the deed to the university. Only if Smith is trying to compensate for failing the writing course that instructed students to avoid passive, wordy and, yes, verbally sloppy phrasings.
And so this Ghost of Christmas Past turns back a page or two to quote not Dickens but Henry Fielding in Tom Jones, A Foundling (Book 1, Chapter 5): “As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers can be supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to lend them my assistance; but this is a favour rarely to be expected in the course of my work. Indeed, I shall seldom or never so indulge him, unless in such instances as this, where nothing but the inspiration with which we writers are gifted, can possibly enable any one to make the discovery.”
Sure, there are plenty of ways to abuse gift. But sometimes, like the noun at Christmas, it’s best to accept it with grace and gratitude.
I continue with my recent name dalliance today, and in doing so, I present an “old” joke. The joke itself is not old (I wrote the damn thing and it appears in my Everything You Know About English Is Wrong—name sound familiar?), but the misconceptions involved in the joke indeed have a bit of dust on them. Actually, I’m pretending to make a point about word histories while hoping that one of the major media companies will see the following as a charming conglomeration of historical characters providing the stuff of an animated movie or at the very least a graphic novel). With such intent in mind, I gather a cast of characters into the promised joke:
An inventor, a Philadelphia entrepreneur, a doctor, and a Civil War general walk into a bar.
The barkeep says, “What can I get you gentlemen?”
“I’d like some of me,” says the Philadelphia entrepreneur.
The general nods. “One of me, as well. Two if you know where I might find me.”
“Good idea,” agrees the doctor. “And since I’ll be accompanying the good general, I’d like to purchase a couple of me, as well.”
The bartender says, “What the hell are you guys talking about?”
“Oh, never mind,” huffs the entrepreneur. “Just give me some rotgut whiskey.”
The general says, “Know where I can find a prostitute?”
“And do you sell prophylactics here?” says the doctor.
The bartender is appalled. “We don’t have any of those things here, gentlemen!”
“None at all?” the inventor says finally. He angrily spits out, “Me!”
The bartender is agitated by now. “Just who do you guys think you are, anyway?”
Says the entrepreneur: “I’m Philadelphia distiller E.C. Booz.”
The military man stiffly says, “I am Union General Joseph Hooker.”
Says the doctor, “Dr. Condom here.”
When the bartender insists that no me’s are available at his establishment, the inventor snaps again, “Oh me!”
The bartender looks at the inventor. “’Me!’? Don’t tell me . . . you’re the inventor of the Valveless Water Waste Preventer.”
“Thomas Crapper at your service!”
That little tale is as fictional as the etymologies involving the characters’ names. Supposedly, these mostly real persons lent their names to the items they were seeking in the bar. However, we knew of booze long before the coincidentally (and perhaps fortuitously intentionally) named whiskey distiller E.C. Booz sold hooch in the cabin-shaped bottles of the early and mid 1800s. There’s no evidence of a Dr. Condom, though the device is often said to be named after said 17th- or 18th-Century physician. Prostitutes were called hookers before the army of loose-moraled General Hooker was accompanied by concubine camp followers, and the word crap was in use before Mr. Crapper developed a patent for a toilet flushing device in 1882.
Now, my first draft of this story was quite a bit bawdier, but I bowdlerized it to make it more suitable for a family audience, employing the process that was indeed named after a real person, Thomas Bowdler, famous for his editing Shakespeare into G-rated productions in The Family Shakespeare in 1818 (“To G or to PG—that is the question”). Yes, a number of words result from surnames of persons both real and otherwise.
Keep this rule in mind: If the person’s name makes you snicker, it’s unlikely that the name was the source of our present word. If the supposed source person’s name is boring, the etymology is more likely to be correct: Mr. Bowdler (bowdlerize); the Speverend Rooner—er, the Reverend William Spooner (spoonerism, from around the turn of the 20th Century); the fictional Mrs. Malaprop (malapropism from an 1830 play); Union General Ambrose Everett Burnside (burnsides, and later sideburns in a delightful syllable swap, from the 1800s); Nicolas Chauvin (chauvinism, from the mid 1800s); Thomas Derrick (derrick, because his name became associated with his tool, the gallows); Capt. Charles Cunningham Boycott (self-explanatory, from around 1880); Capt. Charles Lynch (self-explanatory, from the early 1800s)*; Louis Pasteur (pasteurize, late 1800s); Massachusetts governor Elbridge Gerry (gerrymander, early 1800s); James Thomas Brudenell (the Earl of Cardigan, who likely was not wearing a sweater while he led the legendary Charge of the Light Brigade, but still got one named after his stomping grounds).
Two challenges to the “boring” rule, however, are the shepherd hero of a 16th-Century poem who gave us the name of something the Civil War general sought to prevent with the device of the good doctor (the poem being “Syphilis, sive morbus Gallicus”), and the real-life Mrs. Amelia Bloomer, who advocated use of one of the garments the Civil War general would seek to invade—the bloomer dress, or bloomers.
* If you want your name to become an active word in the English Language, it apparently helps if you change your first name to “Capt. Charles.”
The 11/23/08 installment of the Frazz comic strip begins with this exchange (at least in some papers it does; it is a Sunday intro panel that papers can eliminate for space):
Young female student (looking at open books): “There’s only one word that rhymes with ‘rhyme,’ that’s spelled like ‘rhyme.’”
Frazz: “A sage observation, Rosemary.”
I admire the delicate touch employed by cartoonist Jeff Mallett. Here he didn’t need to flap the word thyme at us like a semaphore flag; in fact, he didn’t use the word at all. But we know it anyway.
And everything we know about English is wrong. Have I established that yet?
Let me allow you to digest the fact that another word spelled like rhyme also rhymes with rhyme. And once digested, that fact will be chyme. In two literal senses. Chyme, you see, is the intermediate substance that results when your stomach’s gastric juices partially digests food, including herbs, leading to partial sage, rosemary and . . . thyme.
With Black Friday looming, I today offer unhumble suggestions for your holiday shopping list. (It’s a commercial, dammit! I admit it! And I’m not kidding about the headline.)
I’ve just received the good news that Writer’s Digest Books will publish my Unfortunate English in paperback in Fall of 2009. The hardcover remains available, and I humbly suggest it for the word lovers on your Christmas list. And other lists, as well. The subtitle of the book is “The Gloomy Truth Behind the Words You Use,” which is so appropriate for the upcoming festive season, don’t you agree? Classy cloth binding, nicely creepy illustrations, and the same snarky sense of humor you’ve come to expect in this blog (for better or worse).
Other vaguely humble suggestions for my books that are possibly enjoyable by people other than my mom (see the headline):
Write Tight: Say Exactly What You Mean With Precision and Power
> ”These days, most creative-writing courses teach self-indulgence. Write Tight counsels discipline. It is worth more than a university education. Its advice is gold.” — Dean Koontz, #1 New York Times bestselling author
> ”If you read Write Tight, and if you apply its lessons, you will be a better writer.” — Lawrence Block, Mystery Writers of America Grand Master > ”Write Tight is a supremely valuable ‘must-have’ for aspiring writers in all fields.” — Midwest Book Review
Everything You Know About English Is Wrong > ”If you love language and the unvarnished truth, you’ll love Everything You Know About English Is Wrong. You’ll have fun because his lively, comedic, skeptical voice will speak to you from the pages of his word-bethumped book.” — Richard Lederer, author of Anguished English and other popular word books > ”The book provides a good counterpoint to Lynne Truss’s anxiety-inducing Eats, Shoots & Leaves and will be enjoyed by everyone who can’t quite admit to being amused by William Safire because they can’t get past his politics. In other words, Brohaugh is funner.” — FeatureBook.com
The Grill of Victory: Hot Competition on the Barbecue Circuit > ”It’s not about words, but it uses them.” — Bill Brohaugh, author of The Grill of Victory” > ”Thank you, William Brohaugh. Thank you for writing this book. Barbecue is the better for it.” — Doug Mosley in The National Barbecue News > ”A must read for aspiring pit masters and great for armchair cooks, too.” — Steven Raichlen, author of The Barbecue Bible > ”The blend of travel, social and culinary history is exceptional and fun in this highly recommended pick.” — Midwest Book Review
Rachel Maddow on Friday night (11/21/08) gave some unintended linguistic truth to her regular “Ms. Information” segment title with coverage of a project called The Atlas of True Names. Said atlas labels countries, regions and cities not with their current names but with what the names supposedly mean. Much of the atlas’s labelings are true; many of them are misinformed. For instance, Maddow swallowed whole the atlas’s claim about the origin of Yucatan:
Apparently Spanish explorers asked, “What’s the name of this region?” And the local Mayans responded by saying, “Yuk ak atan,” which means, “I don’t understand.” And so the Spanish named the place Yucatan. They named the place “I Don’t Understand”! If ever there were a more perfect summary of colonialism, I do not know of it.
Well, Rachel still does not know of it. On hearing this claim, my etymological Spidey-sense began tingling, because the tale has bullshitternet notymology written (and mapped) all over it. It sounded like a number of nonsense derivations I mock in Everything You Know About English Is Wrong. Everything you know about cartography is wrong, too.
There are a number of theories of how Yucatan took its name, and Language Log, quick to the fore, discusses them and other fallacies and misinterpretations perpetrated by The Atlas of True Names. The Yuca-yarn is very much in the spirit of other canards as the kangaroo taking its name from, again, natives responding “I don’t understand” to a naming question. The logical fallacy is that such explanations imply that the one and only time explorers heard “I don’t understand” as a response was when asking one specific question. How were all the other questions answered?
I’m fascinated by one “I don’t know” etymological response that likely is kinda-sorta true, however. At Language Log, Benjamin Zimmer writes:
Similarly, the story that the name of the Alaskan town of Nome comes from a phrase meaning “I don’t know” (ki-no-me) goes back to 1905 at least. A 1901 letter by George Davidson (recently noted here by Jon Weinberg) provides another popular theory, that the map notation ? Name was misread as C. Nome (for Cape Nome). (The Nome Convention and Visitor Bureau accepts this derivation.)
Some native Alaskan likely did not say “I don’t know,” but some cartographer likely did admit he/she didn’t know by writing “? Name.” Either way, all dunnos lead to Nome.
All the following is said because I cherish words, and the wonderful freedom to use them:
In a previous post, I wrote about the familial heirs to the name “Maverick,” one of the surnames that have led to now-common English eponyms—that is, words resulting from proper names. Modern-day Mavericks (the ones legally named, in upper-case letters) have chafed against McCain/Palin stealing an important part of the Mavericks’ proud family history for political purposes.
Even though the Mavericks aren’t “the mainstream media,” Sarah Palin probably considers their vocal disdain as suppression of Palin’s own freedom of speech. Their opinions, you see, apparently violate her First Amendment rights.
“If [the media] convince enough voters that that is negative campaigning, for me to call Barack Obama out on his associations,” Palin told host Chris Plante, “then I don’t know what the future of our country would be in terms of First Amendment rights and our ability to ask questions without fear of attacks by the mainstream media.”
Gov. Palin obviously has not read the Bill of Rights, you betcha.
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
Questioning is not abridgement. Opinions are not abridgement. Dictionaries aren’t scarce (nor is the text of the Constitution inaccessible).
So, please, Gov. Palin, do not consider my questioning your negative campaigning against the Constitution as eroding the First Amendment; instead view it as my celebrating it, exercising it, wallowing joyfully in the freedom of it. There are nations where the government can coerce the press to shut up. America is not one of them. Perhaps you can look such facts up on Wikipedia.
Though I wish I could say that Gov. Palin was correct in her self-characterization as maverick, at least in the context of her interpretations of the Constitution, such interpretations seem to be very much following the branded-cattle path established by the Cheney-Bush Orwellian disregard for our most important treasure (quick example, “Wiretapping Is Freedom”).
Thus, because of the McCain/Palin abuse of the word maverick and because of Palin’s desire to continue the Bush Administration’s degradation of the Constitution, I would be pleased if the word lovers and freedom lovers who visit this space go to the polls Nov. 4, and substitute the eponym maverick with a stronger eponym—the one taken from Capt. Charles Cunningham Boycott—and captain-charles their candidacy.
The Republicans’ attempt to make the case that Barack Obama is hoity-toity and they’re hoi polloi has fallen under the sheer weight of the stunning numbers
That’s Maureen Dowd. Hoi polloi from the Greek literally means “the many.” Hoity-toity, a duplicative (think flimflam, dillydally, etc.) means, to put it informally, “all uppity and stuff.” And Dowd gets them both right.
Hoi polloi is often misused to mean the phrase’s very opposite—”the elite”—likely because of comparison or confusion with the similar-sounding hoity-toity. In an odd way, hoity-toity has experienced a similar reversal, though in the opposite direction. Hoity-toity, meaning “putting on airs” in a mocking sense, results from the verb hoit, which means, roughly, “to act the hoyden”—to be rude and boorish. Which is an accusation that the hoity-toity might be prone to assign to the hoi polloi.
(And if you persnickitors are going to grouse that “the hoi polloi” is redundant, bring it on. I’m ready for you.)
Let’s pause in our verbal travels—let us sojourn—to examine a line from a David Brooks editorial:
They say we are products of our environments, but Obama, the sojourner, seems to go through various situations without being overly touched by them.
Despite their similarity (and common origin), sojourn and journey are not synonymous. A sojourn is a pause in a journey, a temporary stay. A sojourner is a visitor, a temporary lodger. Is Brooks using the word sojourner correctly here? I tend to think so, though I can’t say for certain, as the context could allow either interpretation of the word. Brooks likely means that Obama pauses to visit each situation, though “go through” tends to imply otherwise.
Either way, the word gave me pause and an excuse to linger over another interesting word, so to invite a brief stay by you, my fellow sojourner.
I’ve recently encountered a bit of confusion about the word personality—a subject of jealous interest of mine since I myself have no personality.
One bit of confusion I found at wilderdom.com, a site about something, though I’m not sure what:
Personality comes from the Greek word “persona”, meaning “mask”
The word ‘personality’ derives from the Latin word ‘persona’ which means ‘mask’. The study of personality can be understood as the study of ‘masks’ that people wear. These are the personas that people project and display, but also includes the inner parts of psychological experience which we collectively call our ‘self’.
Greek, Latin, Babylonian—hell, just toss out any ancient language origin. How about “Etruscan,” while we’re at it?
Turns out that yes, the origin described in nonboldfaced type is correct. The word persona is Latin. But now there’s a seed of doubt. Just as it isn’t Greek, perhaps it also doesn’t mean “mask.” Could that be true? Let’s ask some language experts: Kathlyn and Gay Hendricks, who say—
The English word ‘personality’ comes from two Latin words, per and sona, “through sound.” The Romans knew that the personality comes through in the tone of voice and other vocal aspects.
Well, that sounds good and all, but the word actually comes from one Latin word—persona—meaning, yes, “mask.” Think Dramatis Personae—the theatrical cast of characters. And, no, persona likely didn’t itself result from a “sounds-like” origin, as it probably came from Etruscan (gasp!)—the word phersu, also meaning “mask.”
Still, I’m very forgiving of language experts Kathlyn and Gay Hendricks, because they are actually body language experts, and they brought up the personality factor in analyzing the decipherable body language of one Sarah Palin. (At least her body language is decipherable, as her verbal language is hardly that.)
So I leave you with Kathlyn and Gay to analyze some bodyspeak from a current “personality” (read: mask-wearer) in this interesting article.
—name sound familiar?), but the misconceptions involved in the joke indeed have a bit of dust on them. Actually, I’m pretending to make a point about word histories while hoping that one of the major media companies will see the following as a charming conglomeration of historical characters providing the stuff of an animated movie or at the very least a graphic novel). With such intent in mind, I gather a cast of characters into the promised joke: 
I’ve just received the good news that Writer’s Digest Books will publish my 
