Pedant Are we ‘pedants’? Those of us who are interested in (and care about) words and language—does our enthusiasm for language (especially correct language) make us pedants? I ask the question because most dictionaries seem to think that a ‘pendant’ is not a nice thing to be. The Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English defines a pedant as: ‘someone who pays too much attention to rules or to small unimportant details, especially someone who criticizes other people in an extremely annoying way.’ Doesn’t sound at all nice, does it? And we certainly don’t want to be annoying. In fact, the boot is on entirely the other foot—we are annoyed when English is not treated with the respect it deserves. The Cambridge Dictionary is equally rude, saying a pedant is: ‘a person who is too interested in formal rules and small details that are not important.’ Not important? But surely the so-called ‘small rules’ of the English language are important? The Collins Dictionary is equally unkind to pedants: ‘If you say that someone is a pedant, you mean that they are too concerned with unimportant details or traditional rules, in connection with academic subjects.’ Well, we don’t think of English as an ‘academic subject’ but rather the most important tool in our daily communication. It matters. Therefore, getting it right matters. (Or is that being pedantic?) A reader has drawn my attention to an article called ‘Pedant’s Progress’ by Joseph Epstein in the October issue of Commentary magazine. In that article Epstein admits to being (in fact, is proud of being) a pedant. His years as a writer and editor have made him especially aware of the functions (and dysfunctions) of language. However, he says he is very careful when it comes to exercising his pedantry. He writes: ‘My pedantry is of the shy kind. I would never correct someone in person for his misusage.’ But that doesn’t stop him (just as it doesn’t stop us) from being irritated by the sign that says ’12 items or less’ when it should be ’12 items for fewer.’ And when the pilot comes over the speakers in the plane to tell us that we will land ‘momentarily’ I have to stop myself from being alarmed—‘momentarily’ doesn’t mean ‘in a moment’ it means ‘for a moment.’ (Is the pilot telling me he’s going to do a ‘touch and go’ landing?) But I suppose I stand with Epstein in thinking that friendship is more important than pedantry—so I will not correct the friend who says ‘disinterested’ when they clearly intend ‘uninterested’. (‘Disinterested’ means ‘impartial’—like a judge at a trial—not lacking interest.) Someone once suggested I should wear a small silver ‘P’ as a badge on my lapel letting people know that I am a pedant. I did not warm to the idea. How about you? Will you proudly call yourself a pedant (while employing your pedantry either silently or tactfully)?
Ghost gun As if America doesn’t have enough difficulty with gun crimes and mass shootings, they are also struggling with these things called ‘ghost guns.’ We’ve heard of ‘ghost writers’ (who write books for famous people) and when we were kids we might have played ‘ghosties’ with our pushbikes (when we sent the bike rolling down the hill with no one in the saddle)—but what is a ‘ghost gun’? It turns out that it is a gun that has no serial number, and (hence) has never been registered—because it has been assembled by someone in their home from component parts. The Oxford English Dictionary says ‘ghost gun’ entered the English language in 2001, and offers this definition: ‘A firearm that is not registered or trackable; esp. one that has been assembled or manufactured by the owner, particularly using 3D printing.’ The giant American dictionary, the Merriam-Webster, says that look-ups on its website for ‘ghost gun’ have spiked recently as the US Supreme Court is considering a challenge to the Biden administration’s rules about the sale of ‘ghost gun’ components. The New York Times says that ‘ghost guns’ fuelled a surge in crime after the onset of the coronavirus pandemic—particularly in California. The newspaper adds that ‘company, Polymer80, was for a time the country’s largest manufacturer and online seller of the components used to assemble the untraceable homemade weapons known as “ghost guns.”’ This is one of those stories that make us shake our heads and mutter ‘only in America.’ The Second Amendment to the United States Constitution is about the ‘right to keep and bear arms.’ It dates from 1791 and says that ‘A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.’ In other words, it dates back to a time before there was a standing army (or a permanent police force). The notion in 1791 seemed to be that if there was a threat to the nation the US government should be able to call up citizens to the defence force—citizens who already had their own weapons. And there are some people who believe that even in this day and age citizens need to be well armed just in case their own government becomes repressive, and they need to rebel (and fight off government forces). It is a mindset that (I think) is peculiar to America—it certainly strikes Aussies as odd. But that mindset is the reason why gun control is almost impossible in US, and the reason why there are such strange things as ‘ghost guns.’
Dictionary Day It is unforgivable for Ozwords I know—missing this year’s Dictionary Day! But miss it, we did. So now we need to make good on that omission and remind you of World Dictionary Day. The day is American in origin and the date is October 16 ever year—chosen to mark the birthday on Noah Webster—the great American lexicographer. He was born on 16 October 1758. The first edition of his great dictionary was published in 1806—and then he kept revising and improving it in subsequent editions for the next 27 years. All those American dictionaries that bear his name—all the many Webster’s dictionaries—are the descendants of his pioneering effort. Because of when and where he lived Noah Webster knew personally the great founders of the United States: George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson and the rest. His gripping story is told (very well) in Noah Webster: The Life and Times of an American Patriot (1998) by Harlow Giles Unger. But, of course, dictionary making didn’t begin with Webster. The whole story of the birth and growth of dictionaries is told in Chasing the Sun: Dictionary-Makers and the Dictionaries They Made (1996) by Jonathan Green. It tells a great story, and Green tells it well (Green is himself a first class lexicographer, specialising in dictionaries of slang). Dr Samuel Johnson’s dictionary of 1755 was not the first English dictionary, but it was first great one. The story is told in a bright little book called Dr Johnson’s Dictionary: The Extraordinary Story of the Book that Defined the World(2005) by Henry Hitchens. The Everest of dictionaries—the one that towers over the rest—is the Oxford English Dictionary. The genius behind the Oxford as we know it today was James Murray. His story is brilliantly told by his granddaughter K. M. Elizabeth Murray in her book Caught in the Web of Words(1977) while the whole story of that remarkable (and never-ending) book is told by Simon Winchester in The Meaning of Everything: The Story of the Oxford English Dictionary (2003). So, there you are, our belated tribute to world Dictionary Day! (And you may think of this, if you like, as a little reading list to keep you occupied for the next few months—jot down the titles, and take your list with you next time you visit your local library!)
Moral clarity A reader (Amber) writes: ‘I saw the expression “moral clarity” in a headline in The Australian newspaper—what does (or should) “moral clarity” mean?’ I think this is a good question. It is certainly the case the Paul Kelly (among other distinguished journalists) has accused the Albanese government of lacking ‘moral clarity’ in its stand on Israel’s existential fight to survive. The expression ‘moral clarity’ refers to language—it is the language used that has, or lacks, ‘moral clarity.’ So, let’s take a look at that language. Clarity on any subject (but, perhaps, especially on moral issues) is always found in plain words—ordinary language—and lost in jargon. With my background in what is called “ordinary language” philosophy— I insist that “clarity” means short words and short sentences. If you can’t put your idea into short words, you are not clear in your own thinking. So, in moral language short words such as ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ are clear— a long, five syllable word such as “unacceptable” is jargon. Saying you won’t accept something, is not saying it is morally wrong. ‘Unacceptable’ contains no moral statement at all. It is diplomatic language, that is deliberately soft, and vague and unclear. The clarity has been lost in the move from plain words—ordinary language—into the jargon of diplomacy. Anti-Semitism is not “unacceptable”—it is “wrong” (that is the expression that is morally clear). Clarity also comes from short sentences—and is lost in longer sentences full of cautions, subordinate clauses and qualifications. If you cannot say it in short words in short sentences, then you are failing to be clear. And it seems to me that the Anthony Albanese, Penny Wong, Tony Burke and other leading members of the government are deliberately avoiding plain, clear, short words—contained in plain, clear, short sentences. So Tony Burke says that terrorist sympathisers will be ‘at risk’ of losing their visas. Not that they will lose them—just that they will be ‘at risk’ of losing them. Even though those two words are nice and short, they are still weasel words rather than clear words. They are the sound of a government a hedging its bets. A reader told me that in Germany they no longer use the anti-Semitism—regarding as too soft, and not clear enough. Instead they use the expression ‘Jew hatred.’ That is moral clarity. That is making a clear statement in plain language. And that is the sort of moral clarity that the world needs right now.
Money talk Here’s the email I got from a reader, Ian: ‘Hi Kel, I am curious about the origin of the slang for our money. Can you help?’ And then he had a list of familiar words, with puzzling backgrounds. So, let’s go through them.
Quid—a ‘quid’ in the old money was one pound (this became two dollars when decimal currency was introduced). The Oxford says of the word ‘quid’ (for pound) ‘origin uncertain’ but then goes on to suggest it may come from a Latin source word—quid. The exact meaning depended on the context in which it was used, but could be summarised by meaning ‘a something’—a ‘what.’ Originally the word ‘quid’ (in English money talk) meant a sovereign—which had a nominal value of one pound sterling (it contained 0.2354 troy ounces of pure gold).
Buck—is the American slang word for one dollar. The dictionaries are (once again) uncertain where this comes from. However, some people are prepared to make a guess—saying it may trace its origins to the American colonial period when deerskins (buckskins) were commonly traded for goods.
Dina— (pronounced ‘deena’) was the nickname for a shilling in my youth (that’s ten cents in post-decimal currency). ‘Dina’ first became a name for a coin in various Middle Eastern and Mediterranean countries. Its names traces back to the Roman coin the ‘denarius’, which was an ancient silver coin, to the value of ten smaller coins—hence the ‘den’ (‘ten’) in the name.
Bob—another nickname for a shilling. This was used from at least 1789 for a shilling and, once again, the experts are uncertain as to its origin. However, they do have a guess. There was an old French coin (back in the 14th century) called a bobe and they are guessing this was the source of the name of the English (and subsequently Australian) coin.
Greenback—the US dollar started to be called the ‘greenback’ during and after the Civil War (the name is recorded from 1862) because of the colour of the printed note.
And, Ian adds, there are other colour words for money. So let’s check out a few of them. One of the most widely recognized revolves around the fifty-dollar note, known as a ‘pineapple.’ This stems from the yellowish hue of the note. Then there’s the red-coloured twenty-dollar note, it goes by multiple monikers including ‘redback’ and ‘lobster.’ It has also sometimes been called a ‘brick’ for the same reason—being the colour and the shape (although not the size or weight!) of a house brick. The ten-dollar note has been called a ‘blue swimmer,’ from the blue swimmer crab. And the greyish hue of the $100 note has seen it (at least sometimes) called a ‘grey nurse’ (from the grey nurse sharks that frequent Sydney harbour). I’m sure there are more—but that’s enough to be going on with.
Pronunciation It’s a question I have been asked repeatedly—why is the pronunciation of English words so unpredictable? Why doesn’t the spelling indicate the pronunciation? For instance, a viewer (Jennifer) wrote to Peta Credlin about this puzzle, pointing out that in the words ‘bomb’, ‘tomb’, and ‘comb’ the letter group ‘o-m-b’ is pronounced in three different ways. You could make the same point about the letter group ‘o-u-g-h’ which is pronounced differently in such words as ‘rough’, ‘through’, ‘plough’, ‘thorough’, and ‘though’. In his book Mother Tongue (1990) Bill Bryson says: ‘The one thing that is certain about English pronunciation is that there is almost nothing certain about it. No other language has more words spelled the same way but pronounced differently.’ If you lived in Finland things would be different—in Finnish every letter is always pronounced with the same sound. So, why is English different? The answer has to do with numbers. Our alphabet (the Latin alphabet) has only 26 letters, but English has at least 52 different sounds (possibly more). That means every letter (and letter group) has to multi-task—has to represent more than one sound; in fact, has to represent multiple sounds. If we had more letters this could be different. The Cyrillic alphabet (used in Russia and Slavonic countries) has 33 letters—seven more than us. The Japanese alphabet has 46 letters, Hindi has around 50, and the Khmer language has 74 different letters. But we are stuck with a measly 26. It would also be different if English had fewer different sounds. Finnish has only 29 letters—the 26 of the Latin alphabet plus three more they have borrowed from Swedish. But they have far fewer sounds. Their lexicon is drawn almost entirely from Scandinavian source words—so there is a limited number of sounds. English, however, has words coming from many different sources. There’s the core body of Germanic words we inherit from Old English; then there’s the thousands of French sourced words that William the Conqueror and his French speaking nobles introduced; plus a huge number of words drawn from Latin; and English has continued to borrow words from every language it has encountered. The result is a large range of different sounds in our words—and only 26 letters to convey those sounds. Our 6-year-old grandson is just now learning to read. And he is discovering that there are many English words that you can’t ‘sound out.’ We tell him: you just have to learn them—English is like that. And now you know why—it’s all to do with numbers: too few letters and too many sounds.
Czar In the US presidential election Kamala Harris has often been called ‘the border czar’—and the Merriam-Webster people tell me this has resulted in ‘czar’ spiking in look-ups on their website. Historically, ‘czar’ was the title given to the autocrat or emperor of Russia. It was first used this way in Russian in the 1400s and it appeared (with this meaning) in English from the 1500s. It is, strictly speaking, not a Russian word. Or perhaps a better way to put that, is that it is a Russian corruption of a non-Russian word. The Oxford explains that the Slavonic word ‘czar’ ultimately represents the Latin word ‘Caesar’, but it came into Russia through the medium of a Germanic language in which the word had the general sense of ‘emperor’. In fact, ‘czar’ is (in effect) the Russian form of the German word ‘Kaiser’—the name given to the supreme rule of Germany. Both ‘Kaiser’ and ‘Czar’ started as words that tried to give later rulers all the glory of the great Caesars of the Roman Empire. That’s the origin of ‘czar’—but the word has wider uses, especially in American English. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary says this secondary meaning of ‘czar’ is: ‘one having great power or absolute authority, especially a person to whom great authority is delegated.’ In the dictionary they give the example of a man who was the powerful head of a major Hollywood studio being called a ‘movie czar.’ I think this usage is distinctively American—you are much less likely to find it in either British or Australian English. And it is in this sense that Kamala Harris was called the ‘border czar.’ Just over three and a half years ago, when Joe Biden became US President he gave his Vice President (Kalama Harris) the responsibility of stopping illegal immigrants crossing over the border with Mexico into the southern United States. That was her job. And he gave her complete authority over all the federal government bodies involved in border protection. Her job made it her responsibility to co-ordinate those efforts and reduce the number of illegal immigrants crossing that border. However, if the published figures are to be believed, the opposite happened—and millions of illegals flooded in. The result is that Harris supporters have recently denied that she was ever appointed as the ‘border czar’ so the failure is not hers. That’s the debate. And it all revolves around this extended (American) usage of the word, or title, ‘czar’.
Mate From the News Corp website comes this report: A retail worker has been left ‘completely puzzled’ after a customer told her not to use a classic Aussie word ‘mate’ on the job. The worker was serving a customer when she was pulled up for using the word ‘mate’ after the customer claimed the term was ‘unprofessional’. That’s the report—and it ends with the question: when did the word ‘mate’ become unprofessional? That customer was wrong, and was undermining a great word that belongs at the heart of the Australian lexicon. Of course ‘mate’ was not coined here, but it has been used here in a distinctively Aussie way since the convict era (in fact, it was convicts who brought it here). The Australian National Dictionary calls it a ‘specific and extended use’ of the British word. The great John O’Grady (author of They’re a Weird Mob) explained that ‘mate’ can be used loosely as a general form of address for acquaintances and strangers. As in: g’day mate, righto mate, what can I do for you mate? And so on. It is perfect Aussie English, it belongs in the workplace, and it is certainly not unprofessional. ‘Mate’ is so important in Australian culture that it featured strongly in the works of Henry Lawson. One of his collections of short stories is called Joe Wilson’s Mates. And what Lawson wrote about has often been called ‘mateship.’ ‘Mate’ embodies in a single syllable the Australian characteristics of tolerance, friendship and informality. The reason you can use it as a universal greeting when your memory fails is the special position it holds in our language. It is a relational word that respects no barriers—and says our expectation is that we’ll get along and treat each other okay. That makes it a warm greeting even as you struggle to remember the name or place the face. ‘Mate’ does this without falling into the trap of meaningless American gush. Even a person you have not seen for years is still a mate when you bump into each other again – because relaxed acceptance of each other is the key component in the Australian notion of community. In Jon Cleary’s 1952 novel The Sundowners (it sold 3 million copies and was made into a movie) the concept of ‘mateship’ was used as the Aussie understanding of marriage. If your spouse is also your ‘mate’ (not in the breeding sense, but in the Aussie sense) then you will have a marathon marriage that goes the distance. What do you think? Are we in danger of losing the word ‘mate’? And of losing this important part of Aussie culture?
Brat I keep running into ‘brat’ as the trendiest word of the moment. The hyper-hip online Urban Dictionary seems to define it in negative terms. According to the Urban Dictionary being a ‘brat’ means being ‘submissive.’ That doesn’t sound like a good thing, does it? Here’s what their definition says (and, yes, this is supposed to be a English sentence)—‘brat’ means ‘A submissive that likes to push their dom’s buttons on purpose hoping that they’ll punish them.’ Clearly that is a definition that itself requires a bit of defining. Apparently a ‘dom’ is a ‘dominant’ partner, and ‘punish’ in that definition means ‘to have sex.’ But it still sounds as though (for Gen Z and other infants) this is a good thing to be, since the word is now ubiquitous. Dictionary.com. takes a totally different line from the Urban Dictionary and says that: ‘In modern pop culture, the word brat refers to someone who is confidently rebellious, unapologetically bold, and playfully defiant. This new definition celebrates individuality and a carefree attitude, often with a hint of sass and a love for fun. Being labelled “a brat” or “bratty” in this context is more of a compliment, recognizing a person’s ability to challenge norms and express themselves freely without concern for conventional expectations.’ So for them a ‘brat’ is not submissive but bold and defiant. Perhaps that’s why we find the latest hip bits of slang so confusing—even the people using them are not settled on what they mean. Of course, there is real word ‘brat’ that has been part of English since around 1513, originally just meaning ‘a child.’ Although the great Dr Johnson in his monumental dictionary said it was a ‘contemptuous’ name for a child. And in more recent memory ‘brat’ has come to mean ‘a child who behaves badly.’ And then the Collins Dictionary adds that a ‘brat pack’ is ‘a group of young people especially actors or writers, who are popular or successful at the moment.’ It seems to people of my generation an odd word to use—how do you get from an annoying, irritating, badly behaved child to mean popular or successful? The cognitive leap there seems enormous. Dictionary.com offers this explanation: ‘Historically, brat carried negative connotations, describing children who were unruly or spoiled. However, as societal views on self-expression and nonconformity shifted, the term began to acquire a more positive spin, especially within music and fashion circles.’ And according to the Merriam-Webster you don’t have to be a child to be a ‘brat’—just immature.
Subjective / Objective A reader (Tony) has asked me to unpack the meaning of these two labels: ‘subjective’ and ‘objective’—so, here goes. These two words have a range of meanings (or applications). The first is all about ‘point of view’—the point from which something is looked at. If you look at things ‘subjectively’ then you are looking from your point of view, from where you stand, and how they look to you—based on your preconceptions as well as what you can observe. That’s why the Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English can define ‘subjective’ in these words: ‘a statement, report, attitude etc that is subjective is influenced by personal opinion and can therefore be unfair.’ Clearly ‘objective’ is the opposite. An ‘objective’ point of view is seeing a situation the way it really is—the way it would appear to any observer who happened to be present. If what you say is ‘objective’ it is, in a sense, outside yourself—more than just the product of your mind. Mind you, ‘objective’ can also mean the target you aim at—the ‘object’ you are working towards. (This is why the English language can be so confusing.) But the range of meanings doesn’t stop there. ‘Subjective’ and ‘objective’ are also grammatical terms. A verb, as you know, is an action word. Many verbs consist of carrying an action from one to another. Such verbs (called ‘transitive’ verbs) say that someone (or something) did something. So ‘Tom kicked the ball’ is that kind of thing. The action is kicking, and it ‘travels’ from Tom to the ball. In that simple example ‘Tom’ is in the ‘subjective’ (also called the ‘nominative’) case, while ‘ball’ is in the ‘objective’ (or ‘accusative’) case. So a word is in the ‘subjective’ case if it is the subject of a verb, while a word is in the ‘objective’ case if it is the object of a verb. I’m just stopping for a moment to take a close look at you. Hmmm… I think your eyes are starting to glaze over. The next time you have an argument in the kitchen over whether to have the chicken or the pork tonight I doubt you’ll spend much time wondering about whether your sentences have nouns in the subjective case or the objective case. (In fact, you might just object to the pork, and subjectively prefer the chicken.) But I hope I’ve managed to cover those two words and answer whatever questions were in Tony’s mind. And if you lose the argument over the pork versus the chicken—don’t blame me, blame Tony.
Inflection point When US President Joe Biden gave his final address to the General Assembly of the United Nations he used the expression ‘inflection point.’ He said: ‘I truly believe we’re in another inflection point in human history.’ Now, I had come across ‘tipping point’ before, but not ‘inflection point’. A ‘tipping point’ is where a series of events has built up to the point where change cannot be stopped. A series of things happen that are pushing in the same direction, and then a moment is reached when the weight ‘tips the balance’ as it were, and so the ‘tipping point’ is reached and a major change happens. That much I understand. But I find ‘inflection point’ a bit more obscure. It seems to come from mathematics, from differential calculus and differential geometry. You might be able to cast your mind back to your school days, and those graphs we had to plot in maths classes. I think that’s what is meant here. And at a certain point the curve on the graph changes. The massive Merriam-Webster Third International Unabridged Dictionary offers a slightly cumbersome definition of an ‘inflection point’—which they say is, ‘a point on a curve that separates an arc concave upward from one concave downward and vice versa.’ Surely this can be put more simply by saying that the ‘inflection point’ is where the curve switches from doing down to going up (or the turn might be the other way—from going up to going down). We can (sort of) picture that. This means an ‘inflection point’ is the moment when significant change occurs, or may occur. The Merriam-Webster people add that the original meaning was far more technical. It came into use at the beginning at the 17th century in (as we have seen) mathematics. If you go to Wikipedia and type in ‘inflection point’ you will get all the high-level mathematics you could ever want! And what about Joe Biden? Is he right? Is this moment an ‘inflection point’? Joe said that ‘our task is to make sure that the forces holding us together are stronger than those that are pulling us apart.’ Mind you, I think it’s Joe’s own left-wing, highly divisive, ‘identity politics’ that is pulling us apart. Still, he has a point (an inflection point?) And it is time to choose fellowship and community over racism and division. Agreed?
Pumpkin spice A reader has asked me to explain an American expression that puzzles her: ‘pumpkin spice.’ And I understand her bewilderment—after all, pumpkins aren’t noticeably ‘spicy.’ Roast pumpkin has a wonderful, slightly sweet nutty flavour—but there is nothing to suggest that it’s some kind of spice, so—whence this term? Well, a bit of digging reveals that ‘pumpkin spice’ consists of a mixture of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and cloves—a mixture that is typically used to spice pumpkin pie. Ah, that’s where the pumpkin comes in! It’s not providing the spice; it’s the thing being spiced! Pumpkin pie is part of the tradition of Thanksgiving Day dinner in many American homes. By the way, our son-in-law makes pumpkin pie, and I can testify that it is a really nice nibble. In fact, more than just a nibble—I’ll have another piece please. This expression (and this mix of ingredients) giving us ‘pumpkin spice’ has been around since at least 1931. But the spice mixture is leaving the pumpkin pie behind and taking on a new life of its own. It is now being used to flavour a whole lot of food items. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary people say that ‘cereal, donuts, coffee, biscuits, and so, so, so, so, so more’ are being served up with ‘pumpkin spice.’ (By the by, that list comes from the Merriam-Webster people themselves—including the five ‘so’ exclamations. Clearly they are fans.) The latest addition to the list of consumables being given the ‘pumpkin spice’ treatment is (I am told) latte. Now, I’m not a big fan of flavoured coffee. If you want your coffee to taste of vanilla or caramel by all means go for it—but I’m pretty happy drinking coffee that tastes like coffee. However, I understand that not everyone agrees with me—and now ‘pumpkin spice’ latte is an option (at least in America). One other snippet of information you might like—you don’t need to whip up your own mixture of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and cloves (and hope you get the proportions right). ‘Pumpkin spice’ now comes in pre-mixed packets in America—and has done since the 1930s. And if you are making pumpkin pie, you don’t need to use a lot of it: a recipe in a 1937 periodical published by the (American) Brotherhood of Railroad Trainmen, for example, calls for ¾ of a teaspoon of the tasty, aromatic stuff for one pie. So, for the reader who asked—that’s what ‘pumpkin spice’ is.
Black hole I don’t often do the language of science in these columns, but recently a particularly large ‘black hole’ has been discovered, and I’ve been asked about the expression. The Oxford English Dictionary explains that ‘black hole’ means: ‘A region of space within which the gravitational field is so strong that no matter or radiation can escape, except perhaps by quantum-mechanical tunnelling (also known as ‘Hawking radiation’), and which is thought to be due to a very dense, compact mass inside the region.’ Then the good old Oxford adds a useful explanatory note: ‘Black holes are thought to be formed when a massive star exhausts its nuclear fuel and collapses under its own gravity. If the star is massive enough it will collapse and produce a singularity. Before this stage is reached, within a certain radius (the event horizon) light itself becomes trapped and the object becomes invisible.’ Already we have two other scientific expressions that need explaining. First, ‘Hawking radiation’ we are told is ‘the process by which particle–antiparticle pairs form spontaneously in the vicinity of a black hole, usually recombining but sometimes with one of the particles being absorbed by the black hole while the other is radiated away, causing the hole to lose mass over time.’ No, I don’t understand a word of it either. Which is why I so rarely write about the language of science. Can we do any better with a ‘singularity’? For this the Oxford offers a deceptively simple definition: ‘A region in space-time at which matter is infinitely dense.’ I was reading that definition to a colleague, who commented ‘sounds like my brother-in-law—infinitely dense.’ The term ‘black hole’ dates back to 1964, when it made its first appearance in a science journal. Around 30 years after that date I was chatting to a scientist friend who startled me by saying ‘about half of all scientists believe there are black holes—the rest are not yet persuaded.’ You see what happens? We read these expressions, they become part of the language and of popular understanding (sort of) and then we discovered that not all scientists are convinced. That surprised me. After all, by 1979 the Disney company had made a movie called Black Hole. Hey! We’d seen one! So they had to exist! I guess science doesn’t work like that. This new discovery is a ‘supermassive black hole’ 7.5 billion light years from Earth. Research suggests it spans 23 million light years in length, making it impressively big—the largest yet discovered. I should add that sometimes this scientific term is borrowed and used figuratively—a project that keeps losing money might be called a ‘financial black hole.’ As for the real thing—when one forms in my backyard, then I’ll worry about it.
New slang I’ve often made the point that slang is the fastest changing part of any language. New slang words are invented (and dropped) faster than the real working bits in any other part of the English language. I’m following on here from Nikki Gemmel’s recent column in The Weekend Australian about slang. Yesterday I discussed rhyming slang, today the non-rhyming kind. Nikki reports on the bloke who can’t hold his grog as being a ‘Cadbury’ (all it takes is a glass and half). And she says that one of her readers sent a list of these clever and inventive bits of Aussie slang—some of them still fairly new. A lazy worker can be called a number of things: a ‘Harvey Norman’ (three years with no interest); a ‘wheelbarrow’ (doesn’t work unless pushed); ‘cordless’ (charges all night and only works for two hours); ‘bushranger’ (holds everyone else up); or ‘Perth’ (three hours behind everyone else). That last one is new to me, and I think it’s great. Nikki did miss a couple of other favourites. Someone whose brain never quite gets into top gear (or who has kangaroos in his top paddock) can be called a ‘morphine’ (a slow working dope), or a ‘Milo’ (there are two types of flavouring powder you can add to milk, either ‘Milo’ or ‘Quick’ and if someone is not quick, then they must be…). One of Nikki’s new favourites, she tells us, is ‘sittervising.’ You’re supposed to be supervising your kids in the playground, but instead of hovering you are just sitting watching. (Mind you, with many young parents today they’re not even watching—they are on their smart phones constantly!) Then there are the endless new inventions pouring out of Gen Z—such as ‘rizz’ for someone with charisma, GOAT for ‘Greatest of All Time’, and ‘fit check’ for the act of reviewing one’s outfit (am I dressed right? will I impress?). Then there’s ‘Skibidi’ pronounced like ‘skippity’ which (I am told) has no inherent meaning. It can be used as a wacky adjective to mean cool, bad or dumb, depending on the context, according to the hyper-hip online Urban Dictionary. It can also be used as a way to start a joking conversation in reference to absurd slang culture. In fact, with some of these supposedly new ‘slang words’ from either Gen Z or Gen Alpha I sometimes suspect we are being pranked. It often looks to me like a huge joke being played on the older folk. And the big laugh comes when one of the oldies try to use these supposedly new hip words. Don’t try it. Very uncool!
Rhyming slang I’m always on the lookout for language topics that bob up in the pages of our newspapers, and recently I noticed Nikki Gemmell (writing in The Weekend Australia) raising some good points about slang. She began by taking a squiz at rhyming slang (by the way, ‘squiz’ is an Australian coinage—a combination of ‘squint’ and ‘quiz’, meaning a quizzical look). Her starting point was TV host Larry Emdur becoming part of the language. When he accepted his Gold Logie he revealed that his children are chuffed that his name has officially become a bit of Australian rhyming slang. Well, ‘officially’ is pushing it a bit too far—there is no such thing as ‘official’ rhyming slang. But, in the normal (unofficial) way he seems to have got there. If you are on a ‘Larry’ that means you are on a ‘bender’ (‘Larry Emdur’ = ‘bender’). That’s how rhyming slang is meant to work—the rhyming word is dropped, and only the first (non-rhyming) word is spoken. It doesn’t always happen—but it is how this stuff is supposed to work. If something is not working and is a complete mess you might say ‘That’s a real Barry’—meaning a real shocker (‘Barry Crocker’ = ‘shocker’). In this way Larry Emdur and Barry Crocker are among that small select group of Aussies whose names are part of the language. Also in there are ‘Doing a Harold’—doing a bolt. This comes from former prime minister Harold Holt. Not only from the rhyme between ‘Holt’ and ‘bolt’ but also from his disappearance while spearfishing off Cheviot Beach (Victoria) in 1967. But most names on this distinguished list are there simply for the sound of their surname. Which is why you call undies your Reggie’s (‘Reg Grundy’ = ‘undy’). Nikki Gemmel says there’s also a Rosemary Follet (wallet)—although this is one I hadn’t encountered before. And much older names also score a place. Having a ‘captain’ is having a look (‘Captain Cook’ = ‘look’). Then there’s Adrian Quist—a great Australian tennis player of an earlier generation. If you are ‘Adrian’ then you must be… you can work out the rhyming word for yourself. Nikki says that your finger is your ‘Mal Meninga.’ Sadly, she makes the mistake of thinking that ‘Buckley’s chance’ comes from an escaped convict who (miraculously) survived years in the bush. Totally wrong. We know this because the dates don’t fit the appearance of the expression in our language. It actually comes from the name of an old (late 1800s) Melbourne department store: Buckley and Nun. When Larry came out with his statement at the Logies I was interviewed by (and quoted by) The Daily Telegraph. The point that I made is the rhyming slang is still alive and well, and still being invented and re-invented here in Australia (the most colourful branch of English in the world).
First nations I think I’ve spoken about his before, but I need to get back to it now. A viewer wrote to Peta Credlin asking me to discuss this—so I will. We need to begin with the basic background. The term 'First Nations' was coined by Indian chiefs in Ontario, Canada, in 1980. It seems to have been adopted by Aboriginal activists in Australia around 1995. It is what I call an 'aggrandisement' expression—trying to make stone age tribal life in Australia before 1788 sound far grander than it ever was. You know that little voice inside your head that says: ‘Such things should never be said out loud?’ You know that voice? Well, I don’t have one! So, I’m going to say out loud what common sense is shouting at us, but no one else is game to mutter. Before 1788 there were no ‘nations’ here—there were stone-age, hunter-gather, nomadic tribes. They hadn’t discovered metal working, they hadn’t invented the wheel, they had no written language. They were not ‘nations’ in any sense of the word. Calling them ‘nations’ is absurd, over-the-top, vastly embellished aggrandisement. The other part of the expression is also troublesome. The word ‘First’ is used in order to belittle everyone else. It is a claim of priority, of superiority. It is used to imply that everyone else is second best, or second rate. Can you imagine one Australian saying to another: ‘My family migrated here in the 1950s, your family only arrived in the 1980s—so, I’m First, and you’re not!’ That would be absurd, wouldn’t it? But that is exactly what Aboriginal Australians who claim to be ‘First Nations’ are actually saying. When your ancestors lived here is irrelevant to the life you live today. The truth is that Australia is like a three-legged stool—it is built on these three things: (1) Indigenous heritage; (2) British foundation; and (3) Migrant character. That analysis comes from Tony Abbot—and it is spot on. No one is ‘first’ or ‘second’ or ‘third’—everyone is Australian. It’s your character and your contribution that matters, not who your great-grandparents were. But there’s a further problem. Under its entry about this term, the Oxford English Dictionary (most unusually) has a political note: ‘Usage of this term is often associated with an acknowledgement of Indigenous sovereignty and recognition of Indigenous rights (esp. land rights) in post-colonial contexts.’ In other words, the expression ‘First Nations’ is a highly political term. Using the expression ‘First Nations’ amounts to endorsing a particular political ideology. And yet it is used repeatedly by people who (in their ignorance) don’t understand this, or seem to have never thought through the implications of dividing Australians into ‘First’ class and lower classes, based entirely on a person’s family tree. Now, have I missed something here? Is there another way of looking at this? I am happy for you to drop me a line and put me right, if I’ve got this wrong.
Are rivers persons? I have recently come across the worst case of language vandalism I’ve encountered for many years. Namely, the claim that ‘rivers’ are ‘persons.’ According to a recent report in some countries rivers are bring granted ‘legal personhood.’ This report says that in New Zealand, the Whanganui River has been granted ‘legal personhood’, as has Canada’s Magpie River. In India, both the Ganges and Yamuna Rivers are classified as a ‘living person.’ Here in Australia (again, according to this report) the Yarra River holds the legal status of a ‘living entity.’ The report quotes a ‘water law and policy expert’ named Erin O’Donnell who says, ‘The “living entity” is a formal acknowledgement in law that the river and its lands are alive, which is profound.’ It strikes me as being profoundly stupid! Inanimate things (rocks, dirt, water) are not ‘alive’ in any sense of that word in the English language. The Oxford says ‘alive’ can only apply to a human being, or an animal, or a plant.’ But the article quotes O’Donnell as saying this ‘living entity’ classification for the Yarra is ‘like recognising that animals are alive and sentient for the purposes of animal welfare...’ She insists that just as we acknowledge animals as having needs, and feelings, ‘So we’re acknowledging the same thing with the river.’ Well, Erin O’Donell may be acknowledging that—but most Australians are not. Common sense is not. And any proper use of the English language does not. O’Donell says the Yarra River ‘is a living being with whom we are in a relationship.’ Is it just me? Or does that claim strike you as being utterly unhinged? Apparently this ‘living entity’ label was given to the Yarra River in a 2017 act of the Victorian parliament called the ‘Yarra River Protection (Wilip-Gin Birrarung Murron) Act 2017’. (This is also the first act of an Australian parliament to be co-titled in an Aboriginal language.) The Cambridge Dictionary says that the word ‘river’ means ‘a natural flow of water’ while the word ‘person’ means ‘a man, woman or child.’ The Oxford English Dictionary says the same—a person is ‘an individual human being, a man, woman, or child.’ If we are showing respect to words we would never say that a ‘natural flow of water’ is a man, woman or child.’ At least the Victorian legislation doesn’t pretend that the Yarra River is a ‘person’, it just says ‘entity’ (that is ‘something that exists’). Although Erin O’Donnell is reading a huge amount into that, and claiming this means it is a ‘living being.’ It’s time to go to the barricades, and fight to the finish, to protect the language. Words have real meaning in the real world—and that truth and reality must be defended. Or Maybe I should play the same game? And call ‘language’ a ‘living being’? Should I claim the English language is a ‘person’? No! I don’t want to walk that far down Stupid Street!
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